by Tim Marquitz
He pawed at her, and as he did, she wanted to fight, she did, but her body would no longer respond to her commands. Slowly, as he ripped at her dress, she felt her mind and body shut down, logging off for good.
#
He stood back, watching DeMayo enjoy himself. The man was a pig, but He could look past that. He felt Pendergast wanting to join, but He forced the man to stay still. It was better to watch, to observe.
When DeMayo had satisfied himself, the two bodyguards took turns with the woman. By the time all three finished, He could barely recognize her. And to think he’d inhabited that body just an hour ago. A weak moan escaped her lips, surprising Him with a small sign of life.
The two guards moved in once again, pulling Mora knives from their coat pockets, and went to work. The first wrapped his gloved hand around the woman’s throat until her chest fell flat for the final time. He stared, transfixed, as they took the knives and peeled the skin from her body. They were slow, meticulous, almost performing the job with loving care.
He allowed Pendergast to move now, removing a key from his pocket and unlocking the door to the meat-packing plant. Outside, DeMayo stood watch as one of the guards dragged the skin inside and tossed it into a feed bin. The other brought a ragged piece of exposed flesh, lifting it high and impaling it on a meat hook. The woman’s body hung suspended, a vulgar display of a side of beef.
They took no time to relish the moment, but quietly exited the building, changed into fresh suits, and drove back to The Blue Room. Nobody spoke. The three other men had satiated their inner desires, and He simply basked in this new role, this position of utmost power. For once, He could do anything he wished, without fear of consequence. He possessed the man who ruled Kansas City. It was a beautiful thing.
Yet His mind forced Him to remember the boy as they pulled into the back alley once again. The boy must be dealt with. Could He kill him? His instincts told Him His soul was not currently part of the boy, but what if it was? And it hit Him. He would transfer His soul back to the boy. Begin anew. He would endow this young boy with the knowledge and power He had gained over the past 100 years. Imagine the impossible goals He could accomplish with another 90 years! He felt himself grow giddy at the thought, and if the other three men gave Pendergast a confused look as the man’s body shivered with glee, He didn’t notice.
The Blue Room had closed for the night, but the boy was still there, mopping up spilled gin and cigar ash under the tables. DeMayo walked by and whispered something into the boy’s ear, but He didn’t catch what was said. He steered Pendergast in the same direction, stopping in front of the boy and lifting his chin up to look Pendergast in the face.
He concentrated His soul into the man’s mouth and nose, ready to re-inhabit His own, mush fresher, body. He opened Pendergast’s lips and exhaled.
And nothing happened.
How could this be? The boy was Himself! He should have an open invitation to enter His own body. Yet an invisible wall blocked Him from exiting Pendergast. The boy continued to stare up at Him, his eyes blank, no emotion whatsoever on his face. In that moment, He hated the boy. Pure, unadulterated hate. His earlier doubts returned with a vengeance. He recalled His original body, just a few weeks ago, smoldering into nothing but a pile of ash on the floor of a pawn shop. He couldn’t enter His own body because His own body was dead. This boy was both Himself and not Himself. Something had taken control after He had allowed His original flesh to perish.
Yet that was okay. He could still do many marvelous things with Pendergast, a man who was no stranger to power. Perhaps this would be for the best. He allowed His hate to abate a little, for it still scared him to think what might happen if He harmed the boy. It would be best to let him live his life out until the end, let him grow old with age, as He had done once before.
Their job complete, He left The Blue Room with the three other men and drove home.
#
The boy watched the men go, allowing his anger to grow as they left. He couldn’t let his emotions show in their presence, for he feared them a great deal. They were powerful men. But in his mind, they were also garbage. Men like them were the reason his parents had been murdered last year in New Orleans. They were the reason he had to work for almost no money and the occasional leftover scraps from The Blue Room’s kitchen, the reason he slept every night on the back steps of the Monroe Hotel one block over.
He knew they had killed the woman. DeMayo hadn’t cleaned his hands well enough, and he had seen small smears of blood on the back of the man’s right hand. The boy had little to look forward to in life, but music was the one thing he loved. Even in the middle of wiping vomit out of dirty toilets, just hearing the lovely melodies pouring from the stage inspired him to go on, to make something of his life. The woman tonight sang beautifully, her voice sweeter to his ears than the angels. And they’d taken her, discarded her like they did their nasty cigars.
Standing alone amidst a sea of tables, his rage continued to boil. He vowed that one day, he would make them pay. All of them. But especially Pendergast, for he was the root of the entire mess.
#
THE KANSAS CITY TIMES
April 12, 1933
“BOSS” PENDERGAST MURDERED
By Wilson Pipkin | The Times
Tom “Boss” Pendergast was found murdered last night outside his room at the Monroe Hotel. Detectives say Pendergast was found in the hallway on the 10th floor, with multiple knife-inflicted wounds. No suspects have currently been identified…
Coughs and Sneezes
James K Isaac
Stale light ushered in a cacophony of hacks, coughs and belting rain from the outside. For nearly a week Ro Wine had been curtained into his dark, smoky office-cum-lab, happy in his experiments and solitude. Daylight only served to irritate already strained eyes, grating the headache-vein which knotted somewhere deep in his skull. The smog of chemicals quickly billowed back over the light streaks, which disappeared completely when the front door clicked shut. Bother. Worse than the light, this surely heralded a visitor. Double bother.
Liquids rolling within red-glowing orbs of glass reflected off the shaven head and square-jaw of a man of size and strength. His arms bulged from a leather jerkin oddly set with patches and seams. Inside-out. Now that is interesting, thought Ro. It hinted at things faerie, hinted at the potential for some excitement and maybe even a chance to acquire things of fascination.
Under an assault of mixed spices, both sweet and foul, the broad-shouldered silhouette of Ro's guest spoke. "Bit dark in here, ain’t it? Stinks and all that." Despite his imposing countenance Ro's guest jittered and fumbled with his hands. Both middle fingers were bound in bandages stained dark. A trade of finger-nails perhaps? Sorcery?
Suddenly, baby laughter tinkled through the smoke, almost causing the man to jump out of his skin. Ro had to smile; so interesting for such a big fellow to be anxious.
"Thick with witchery round here it is. Makes me nervous," the big man said, exposing a mouth of stumpy brown teeth. Patches of raw-pink gum suggested a few had recently been pulled.
Theatrically waving his arms, Ro Wine stepped through the smoke. A stick-insect of a man, what with his wild blue eyes and shocks of red hair he fancied himself akin to a mischievous trickster-Fae-thing. Relishing how his appearance caused the big visitor to step back, Ro gave a little spin, waved a hand in gentlemanly showmanship and then, almost pressing cheek-to-cheek against his guest, took a deep sniff. "Oh, I don't know. You have the reek of magic too. I sense the sizzle of ritual about you"
Shaking his head with purpose, the big man stepped back against a wall. "Not me, Mr Wine, sir. I'm haunted by a banshee. She prowls the Cockroach's Castle, infects the human folk, wastes them away with a dancing, coughing sickness. And she calls my name as she does, sir. 'Tommy Brown, Tommy Brown, you owe me your blood,' she says. But I daren't face such devilry. I'm a god-fearing man, and all that."
Tommy Brown did indeed bear all the trinkets of one
so haunted, one hoping for the protection of myths and old-wives tales. This explained why he wore his jerkin inside-out. But more so, of why his wrists and neck dripped with iron bangles and chain. No crucifix or prayer-beads though; truly not a man who believed newer gods could help.
"So, why come to me, Tommy Brown?" Like the way a botanist might first consider a rare plant, Ro examined Tommy. How Tommy's small brown eyes, now accustomed to the gloom, twitched to take in the details of the lab. Bundles and wreathes of herbs, bookcases groaning under leather bound tomes which sweated the dust of ancients, vials full of liquids bright and effervescent, or glue-thick and still.
"I hear rumors. People come to me, see. I'm the local guvnor." Tommy paused a second as if waiting for a reaction. His lop-sided smirk didn't go unnoticed. "Rookery fellows say they seen you with the gnomes, stumbling out from opium dens and gin-shops. They say you're a shaman, or magus, Mr Wine, sir. That you know about…faerie things." At that, Tommy clutched a fistful of the iron hanging from his neck. "I thought, perhaps, you could help me…"
"A magus, eh? I like that. But it's not true. I consider myself a superstitious student of superstition. What with the rise of industry, the ancient woodland is in decline and the faerie are forced to live amongst our cities. Consider my interests in them a hobby, an effort at preservation. As for my own habits, I rarely dull my mind with the poppy. Old woodland swamps teemed with life and tales. The opium dens are city swamps, Mr Brown, where all secrets eventually burble up dirty and exposed. I have already heard of this wasting, dancing sickness."
"Is evil, it is. The banshee has claws and fangs, tore many a man's throat out or sneezed others into their graves. Even striking down the young ones." An afterthought, the big man mimed the sign of a cross on his chest. "God bless their souls." From his belt he fisted over a pouch bulging with something that clinked. "I gathered up purest gold, and all that, for your troubles, sir."
"The chance to observe things up close would be payment enough. But there is the element of danger. Perhaps I should indulge my pockets a tad, even if it is vulgar." But Ro quickly snatched his hand away after his fingertips stroked the pouch's felt. "You try to trick me?"
Tommy's eyebrows nearly crawled over the crown of his bald head. What mock-indignation! "Never, sir. Not me."
"Shush, now. I smell copper and brass, broken teeth and bruises. Acquired by force, Mr Brown? I much prefer silver. It contains so much more potential that gold. Can you help me, in that regard?"
A wave of relief brought down those high-tide eyebrows. "I will arrange a collection. The old Roach's Castle has thousands of trinket piles stashed under earth and in corners. I know them all."
The gentle coo of baby laughter grew into a gargle, twisting into something louder, more disconcerting. Darkness suddenly pulsed, folding then unfolding around Tommy. Faces rolled and puffed in the smoke and smiled at him, whispering tongues of jabbering nonsense. Snatching a cleaver from under his jerkin, Tommy waved it around, slashing uselessly. "Devil take you all!"
"Calm down, Mr Brown. It is only the Sylph spirits teasing. My lab assistants, if you will. The ladies must like you."
However, unlike Tommy, Ro fully understood the Sylphs and their beyond-the-ether whispers. 'Deceiver. Deceiver. Bad magic.'
A tingle of excitement beckoned Ro to action. He could feel the flush over his face, the tremble in his veins. What a good reason to leave the lab! He was thankful for this disturbance after all. "I shall have a look for you, Mr Brown, and see what I can come up with. Wait for me back in the rookery, I'll get a cab once I have prepared."
#
With a tip of his top hat, and a half-crown dropped into the coachman's palm, Ro turned away from the carriage and snorting horses and passed into St Giles and the narrows of the Cockroaches' Nest. Tall and spindly with tufts of red hair poking from under his hat, Ro drew glances from the locals. He always drew glances. His green and blue-check, wool and silk, frock coat almost begged for attention. His long strides bounced with assurance. It didn't matter how many stares he got, from commoners to Lords, most were ignorant in their superstitions, powerless to shape their fate. But not Ro.
Ro came prepared. A dandy green-silk scarf wrapped a wreath of primrose tightly around his neck, all tucked under the ruffles of a high collar. A thick belt strapped a brace of pistols, loaded with garlic and mustard rubbed silver bullets, under his brown cloak. In one of his boots hid a cold iron stiletto. Boots which quickly muddied in the rain-churned-and-sodden muck. Ro screwed his face in disgust. At least the rain had desisted for the time being.
An almost tangible stink sawed into his sinuses. And Tommy had the cheek to say Ro's lab stunk! All the foul of London seemed to congeal into this rotten cul-de-sac. Buildings leaned like opium-drunks, creating tunnels and ramps of a maze both vertical and horizontal. A hell-pocket of the city's grimiest lint, only unfortunates or those brought down by drink and oppression dwelled within. Everywhere shook with the splutter of sickness, or was splashed by the emptying of slop buckets from windows. Tucked into corners, or spread out in full view, corpses rotted.
Only one thing for it, thought Ro. How else to ward off the smell, sickness and bad spirits but a puff of tobacco? So Ro pulled down his scarf and took out his favorite cure-all; a pipe, and stuffed the bowl with bitter brown leaves. Ducking under a line of filthy flapping sheets, skipping to avoid a packed-up grate which burped a puddle of slop, Ro lit his silver-ringed pipe and engulfed a thick, warming cloud. Assured of his new ward, he set to look for Tommy in the crowded narrows. He didn't have to look for long.
He soon found himself in an enclosed square, a place where the alleys ran wider, where the odd motley-fool or pipe player entertained an open-wound of humanity. "There's the weird sod," shouted Tommy Brown, sitting on a window ledge and sloshing back a bottle of what was probably gin. "Funny looking, ain’t he?" Mr Brown seemed in his element, cock-sure and loud, looking even bigger next to the half-staved weasel faced men accompanying him. Well, he was the, so-called, 'local guvnor.' Uncouth braggart.
"See there, that's where the banshee came from. Used to run a witchery before her devilry caught up with her" said Tommy, pointing over to a little wooden building, its walls covered with a cloth which may had once been bright but had now dulled into a frayed and tattered brown. As if on guard, a collection of gnomes tended stalls around it. A pink-haze hovered over the place carrying an acrid smolder.
The hairs on Ro's neck bristled as the scent hooked into him, a chill-scent hinting at death and bad things. Shivers ran across his arms, his skin tightened into Goosebumps.
"We tried to burn it down. Thought it might stop the banshee's sickness. But it was too damp to burn, what with the recent rain. So we gutted the insides, smashed up her wicked symbols, melted them down or sold them to the gnomes."
"What would make someone go banshee? It doesn’t happen without cause," said Ro. Tommy’s pupils flickered.
"That's why you're here, ain’t it? To get rid of her, not ask me questions, and all that. These are the streets she roams at night. If you can't do it, just piss off." With the rising anger in his voice Tommy made a facade of confidence. Ro had seen his kind before. No true fire lit Tommy's eyes, just the frightened glare of a rabbit in bear-skin.
"Anyway, I got to go. I got important things to do. You come find me if you need anything," Tommy said. "Come on mates, you can all rub your pennies together and get the first round."
Ro watched Tommy depart through the crowds, watched how the locals parted, men patted his back and some of the girls winked or hustled with their skirts. Strange how such a man, awkward in his skin, could garner such admiration. Too much swagger not enough grace. A showman, but a bad actor. In the Cockroach's Nest, with its low-cunning, fast fingers and brutality, a man like Tommy should have been eaten alive.
Puffing on his pipe, Ro walked over to the empty shell of the banshee's shop, nodded to the gnome traders mingling around. Their stalls were piled with their work wit
h little vinegar-smelling bowls dotted all around. Ro marveled at how the gnomes twisted cloth into petal shapes, creating intricate flowers of reds and blues, flowers of all kinds. Some gnomes crafted feathers with stunning speed, weaving brightly plumed birds. Ingenious, beautiful sculptures of nature.
"Would you like a bunch of flowers, sir? For a sweetheart perhaps? No matter what the factories do to the lakes and forests these will never wilt," said a grey-bearded gnome with wire-frame glasses.
"I'd much prefer a little information." Ro crouched down to get to eye level, a gesture less liable to antagonize the more militant Faerie folk.
"I can smell the garlic and mustard about you. Mr Wine, is it? My brother once shared your pipe. Words for coin it is. Put it in vinegar, better to be safe what with all the sickness about."
With a plop and a clink Ro's silver coin settled at the bottom of a bowl. "I just want to know how Tommy Brown got to be the local, as he says, guvnor."
Old grey-beard smiled, shared a few coy glances with some of his gnome workers. "Aye, that's a good question. Until a few weeks ago he even begged my lads for pennies. But one day he appears reeking of magic, all bulked up. All the humans from around here looked at him with new eyes."
"What of his dealings with the owner of the shop behind you?"
"It belongs to a pretty, wee elfin lass by the name of Lily. Sad what happened. Such a nice girl. We all get twisted by the smog and dirt of the city, as I'm sure you know, Mr Wine. But she got twisted too much. Wailing banshee she is now, every night clawing from the mud and haunting outside the shop just here. I tell you, Tommy Brown done something to her."
"She wants vengeance that much is certain."
"Many a father tried to save his little one from her, but she's viscous. Knives and black powder don't take her down. Even took one of my apprentices who forgot to put on his charms."
Flipping another coin into a vinegar bowl, Ro said. "Thank you. I'll take some flowers after all. Not a bunch, but knit me a wreath of primrose, if you please."
