The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  Saul: "Jesus fucking Christ on a hooker! OK, Bettina - call Ron and see if he's available to come in and do this properly. Right now. You girls put on some clothes and stay around, OK?"

  Jake exits, gets in his car and drives home at furious speed with his head swarming with quandary and frustration. What the fuck is going on? Is it all to do with that fucking dream the other night? Is it? Once indoors, he slams the front door shut, runs into the kitchen, opens the cupboard under the sink and reaches down to pull out the half empty bottle of JD that he'd hidden there a long, long time ago. He grabs a glass from the shelf, blows the dust off from the bottle and pours himself a stiff one. Stiff one? Oh, that's funny! He leans back against the breakfast bar fuming with frustration and confusion. Why?

  Normally he's got a hard on like a French loaf made of stone at the merest sniff of pussy. But not today. Angrily he pours himself another huge shot, belts it back and wipes the fake stubble off from his cheeks. Now he can't stop scratching the sore thing that has started to protrude further from his lower back. It's maddening. Suddenly, the little worm that could more than likely explain his on-camera impotence slithers boldly into his forebrain:

  "You're bored. Why? OK, I'll tell you - it's because there's no chase involved in this kind of sex. No hunt or pursuance. It's all too available, too compliant. They're there because of the money, nothing else. And the fake tits? Oh, how sick of them we are! No. What ‘The Snake’ needs right now are women that are unsuspecting, not ready to be taken. Young flesh. Someone that you can subjugate and bend to your will. Do you understand? YES! I will do it. I'm going out now and I'll find a girl and have her how I want to. WAIT! What is this shit? You don't believe this! You're a nice guy who gets paid to fuck women in front of a camera. It's not personal. Why are you thinking like this? Shut up! No, YOU shut up!"

  He punches himself in the face, hard. It hurts, but it doesn't help. How could it? The balance of power has suddenly shifted for poor Jake.

  Next thing he knows he's back on the Serrania Ridge Trail jogging trail with no memory of how he got there. Some instinct would appear to be driving him. Jake feels excited, liberated and somehow reunited with some long distant aspect of himself. He stops to catch his breath in the dappled sunlight and bends to pick up from the ground a fallen branch from one of the nearby trees. Why? He doesn't know, but it feels good in his hands as he hefts it for its strength. He rips off any leaves still remaining and gives it a preliminary twirl. It will do.

  He moves back into the shadows cast by the tree line waiting for the moment that instinct tells him will shortly arrive. He slows his breath, brushes the circling flies away from his face. He's anticipating something or someone. Then, lo and be-fucking-hold, down the track towards him jog the two sweat-stained girls that he'd seen up here before. The ones that smiled at him as he passed and gave him ‘The Look’. As they draw abreast, he steps out from the shade and smites them massively on the head one by one in quick succession with his improvised club. They fall pole-axed to the ground, bleeding profusely. Some of their perfect white teeth scatter into the dust.

  Checking that he isn't observed, he rapidly strips their meagre clothing from their lifeless bodies, lowers his sweat pants and kneels in front of them. For a brief moment a sliver of guilt enters his brain and the better part of him rises up to look down upon his bestial self engaged in this dreadful act with horror. But it is rapidly extinguished in the fiery heat of the moment. He takes them both one by one without pity or remorse, quickly and violently, until he is satisfied. Having thrown their bodies into the ditch at the side of the track, he then raises his head and shouts:

  "Fuck you, Saul Dagget, and all the rest of you that slither in your silicon cess pits. THIS is what it's all about! They're fresh flesh and they're tasty! Take one, get one free!"

  He feels - on top of it all. The protrusion at the base of his spine can no longer be hidden and grows bigger by the day. He does not care. Things are moving forward now; he has a brand new career to service. He has no idea why this is happening, but quite frankly he doesn't give a damn. Tomorrow's just another day and life IS good! So much to do, so little time.

  Six weeks later the Los Angeles Times carries an article on its front page just below the results of the Dodger's game:

  ‘Hunting The Beast!

  The search for the killer now known as 'The Beast Of Beverly Hills' has caused one of the biggest dragnets for a suspect in the department's history and has put cops on extended hours. Police from the border to San Bernadino County are on high alert every day. It will surely make the history books, as this is one of the most brutal series of killings in Los Angeles' infamous and troubled criminal past. This depraved criminal targets innocent young girls as they jog or exercise in the more exclusive areas of the Hollywood hills. To date there have been six mutilated female bodies recovered and identified, but police fear that there may be more to come unless this LA Ripper is caught and brought to swift justice. The Los Angeles police department is currently following up new leads.’

  Jake sends an email to the letters page of the newspaper on the day before the endgame:

  "Why, Hallelujah, praise the Lord and pass the sick bucket! You stupid dumb fucks! Don't you get it? I'm giving myself to you next time. On a platter and with a club in my hand and a dead girl at my feet. I want you to capture me. I demand that you kill me magnificently so we can end this. Oh, it'll be such a monumental YouTube moment believe me! And ever after I'll be famous for something more than just having a huge dick and great hair. Fuck you all, I'm tweeting my next little escapade to @jakethesnake as soon as I'm ready. So Mr Policeman, you'll know exactly where to make your reputation. Ready, steady - GO!"

  Jake found one. There's always one. Some dumb little creature that thinks that she's invincible and that the bad stuff always happens to someone else. She made her way along the well-trodden jogging path once more despite the warnings. The next thing she knew she was naked and bleeding, coated with dried semen and attached in agony by a nail gun to the lower part of the first ‘L’ of the Hollywood sign. Below her Jake is dancing in a disjointed way with his lovely stained club in his hand. He too wears no clothes now. He's ready for the sweeping helicopter searchlights and the voice from above. And here they come right on cue:

  "Stay exactly where you are. Drop your weapon, get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head. NOW!"

  Jake, or what little human part of him remains here, swivels his head to and fro in panic and terrible confusion. He retains his grip on the bloodied branch that he called a club. In self-defence, he raises it high above his shoulder as if to strike yet again, as if he can ward off these troublesome intruders. Spittle splays from his mouth and nostrils, sweat shines strong upon his torso and the flies begin to gather above him as they sense his impending death. He paws at the ground, his brand new tail thrashes from side to side and now he's got another hard-on. The splayed and impaled girl behind him pinned to the letter ‘L’ can barely raise her soiled head, but she can sob like she's auditioning for Saint Peter. Aah, poor baby. So sad.

  "I repeat - lower your weapon or we will open fire," shouts the mechanical voice.

  Jake makes no answer. And then he runs forward, club held high and screams:

  "BETHLEHEM - HERE I COME!"

  And for an instant, just as they opened fire, the marksmen in the Bell 206 Jetranger saw the rippling shift from human being to magnificent and rampant beast in their gun sights. A momentary sighting of a legendary and deadly creature, with the upper torso of a man and the lower body of an animal spinning like a scarlet top in the fatal hail of bullets.

  ***

  As of today's date a well-known movie director has optioned the film rights to the strange story of ’Jake The Snake’. But keep that on the QT, okay?

  P Is For Púca

  If Wishes Were Horses

  Nerine Dorman

  My mother always said the best thing a gal could do after a messy breakup was c
lean house. I just never imagined Paul and I could’ve amassed so much shit in only a decade. Only a decade. There it was again: that dull, thudding pain. Ten years of my life, gone in the blink of an eye; as fast as it had taken that stupid gash at his office to open her pastrami curtains for my husband. Soon to be ex-husband. Ex. The syllable had a nice, final sound to it, kinda like axe.

  So I wasn’t exactly gentle the way I stashed his things into black bin bags—the kind that had the smelly stuff that was supposed to deter flies I just knew would cling to his clothing despite several washes. Paul hadn’t even bothered packing his shaving kit when he left. Only his beloved laptop, iPad, camera equipment and a change or two of clothes. Oh, and his Indiana Jones hat, as he liked to call that dreadful thing.

  But I wanted him out. Every last bit of him. Except for the books. I’d enjoy holding onto all those glossy nature books—especially the ones he’d picked up at the deceased auctions. They were worth a pretty penny and I’d keep them just because I knew he’d squirm. Sod the bloody prenuptial agreement. I needed some compensation for my pain.

  Midday I paused in my labours, and the music player had somehow clicked through to the fourth movement of Shostakovich’s eleventh—a pounding march that almost revved me into the fighting spirit again. I’d already by-mistake-on-purpose broken an antique inkwell Paul’s dad had given him and my finger still bled where a fragment of glass had pierced the skin.

  That’s when I found my old violin, which I hadn’t played in years, and what I fondly referred to as my Box of Many Things. Actually, make that the Box of Precious Things. Some people kept printers’ trays. I kept a box. Only I hadn’t seen it in almost a decade because Paul had hated the thing—silly, a child’s fancy. Those were just some of the words he’d used to label it, but I’d refused to part with the object and had packed it deep in one of the built-in cupboards. My grandmother—long since dead—had gone back to Ireland to visit the old country, and she’d brought the box as a gift to me. So what if it held me hostage, as Paul was apt to say. He wasn’t here now to make me feel like a child for holding onto these things.

  The box had been carved from oak with looping knot-work, as well as a highly stylised green man design on the lid. All my childhood treasures were contained: the tooth with the hole in it that the tooth fairy never took; sea-tumbled glass in shades of blue and green; a twig from a pine tree at my primary school, polished by worried fingers; pieces of crystal; a starling’s skull; and beads and bits of broken jewellery and fragments of ceramics...all worthless unless you knew the story attached to each.

  And I opened it now to catalogue my secrets. That’s when I brushed a finger over the bone carving I hadn’t seen since forever. I left a smear of red on the object and took it out to wipe off the blood—a small horse carved in exquisite detail. I don’t know if my gran had placed it there for me on purpose or whether she’d intended it for another family member. I’d always wanted a horse but my parents would never even let me go for lessons lest these ‘encourage’ my fixation. A dozen memories came crowding in, all related to this little carving. There’d been a time when my mother had wanted to burn it because it was supposedly evil, according to her church.

  But into the box it’d had gone, along with a number of other priceless childhood mementos, such as the small greenstone hei-tiki Uncle Harry brought back from New Zealand and the cat-shaped netsuke a friend had given me for my sixteenth birthday. For luck.

  The bone horse had been my favourite, however. I’d kept it on my windowsill for a long time and used to make up stories about the horse I’d one day own—a beautiful stallion with a midnight coat sleek as velvet, sea foam for a mane and star-fire in his eyes.

  Funny how dreams of stallions had mutated into just being grateful my geriatric VW Golf limped from one service to the next.

  * * *

  Geoffrey came round at half-past five to collect Paul’s things. The bastard hadn’t even had the spine to come himself. He had to send his best mate. So there went a quarter of a bottle of Dutch courage all for nought. I’d entertained half a dozen scenarios that varied between me being the supreme ice queen who made Paul cower beneath my imperious gaze to the raging harpy who’d have him running with his tail between his legs. Hell, part of me wanted to seduce the dumb fuck so I could lord it over the bitch who’d lured him to her bed. Who’s the big girl now?

  Instead it was Geoffrey—small, mousy Geoffrey who couldn’t say boo to a ghost and I think it was his apologetic attitude and the gleam of pity in his eyes as we carried the bags to his Land Rover that undid me.

  “What does she have that I don’t?” I wailed onto his shirt as I left gin-scented snot trails mingled with my tears.

  Geoffrey, being the go-between, didn’t have words for me and simply patted my back—as if that would somehow make things better—and mumbled incoherent platitudes.

  I was only too glad when he drove off without looking back. He’d probably be the first to tell his best mate I was coming apart at the seams. I’d unloaded more than just Paul’s things, but I’d wrung out most of my sorrow so that I was twisted and empty, a used dishcloth discarded on the floor. So I did the only sensible thing an alcoholic-in-training would do. There was the small, unfinished matter of a half-empty bottle of Van Loveren Railroad Red from dinner the other night.

  One thing I could say about the house that Paul’s money bought us was that it was a fucking nice house. There was no way in hell I was letting go of this when it came down to signing the divorce papers. He’d inherited a plot near Noordhoek beach from an aged aunt and he’d put up a nice little Cape Cod-style cottage with a big, wraparound deck. The garden was mostly indigenous milkwoods and no matter how much he bitched about the fishy-smelling flowers and the dark stains left by the fruit, the species’ protected status meant he couldn’t chop the bloody trees down.

  I just laughed and laughed. I loved the trees. I could pretend I lived in a magic forest where the olive thrush, little white-eyes and Cape robins were my only visitors, little fairies who flitted from branch to branch warbling their secret songs. Now I loved the trees more than anything because they made it appear that the rest of the world didn’t exist. My home was clasped in dark green bower and when I listened carefully I could just hear the thunder of the surf on Noordhoek beach. Like fuck I’d move out and let him shag the silly snit in my bed.

  The wine was tart on my tongue, and held a hint of bitter rot that ignited the simmering rage at the unfairness of it all. Shivers wracked my body when I considered what lay ahead: me alone in this empty house. No more warm body to share my bed. He went home to her. And I didn’t even know where. He had smiles and kisses for her. Not me.

  Did he tell her he loved her when he fucked her?

  The sun went down early in winter, and it grew dark here beneath the milkwoods, the air possessed of a bone-deep chill that leached all the warmth from my flesh. Perhaps they—friends, strangers, anyone—should find me here in a week’s time, frozen in my chair with a strange, joyful glitter in my dead eyes. Just like Heathcliff.

  That’s when I noticed the carving of the little horse. I didn’t remember moving it from the box but the past day had been so full of dislocation. By now, with all the red wine in my system on top of the gin, I might’ve done anything since I uncorked the bottle. Except run naked down the road screaming.

  I laughed at the ridiculousness of that thought.

  I haven’t done that. Yet.

  Random.

  If wishes were horses...

  The carving fit in my palm, each dainty leg so fragile, so easy to snap. I had no idea who’d created this tiny figure or how long ago, but judging by the yellowness of the bone it could be well over a hundred years old. I should keep it safe. And I needn’t hide it in a box anymore. I gave it pride of place on the mantelpiece where Paul’s old Brownie cameras used to stand (I might’ve slightly damaged them while packing, just so you know).

  It could be a trick of the shadows but it
did look like the little horse was about to prance off the shelf like a circus pony. Then a wave of nausea washed over me and I took myself straight to bed. Better the oblivion of sleep than face the enormity of the quiet which was about to swallow me whole and compress me to no more than a smudge of mould on the walls.

  * * *

  I don’t know what woke me, but I sprawled in my empty bed with the covers twisted about my legs. My skin was damp and felt hot to the touch though the air inside the room was frigid, and I could see my breath mist before my face. The nausea still churned in my stomach, so I stumbled to the bathroom but couldn’t puke.

  Instead I cradled my head on my forearms, which I rested on the toilet. Gross, I know, but I felt too shit to care about hygiene issues while I waited for the sickness to pass. That’d be the last time I go to bed on most of a bottle of wine and no dinner. No matter how much self-pity filled my paddling pool.

  Maybe you’re pregnant, an evil voice whispered.

  Hah! I’d actually have had to have sex the past few months for that to happen.

  I heard it then: the crack of a twig and a soft snort; I was instantly alert while fear hammered a spike through my gut. There’d been break-ins last month. Burglars had held the couple living two houses down at knife point while they ransacked their home for valuables.

  Keep calm. Just keep calm—my new mantra as I stalked over to the window. Must at least be sure it’s not a cat or the neighbour’s dog before I got the security company responding to a false alarm. I parted the curtain ever so slowly and peeked.

  But it was no cat, dog or even human intruder just beyond the deck. Enough light filtered through from the moon and the orange streetlights to illuminate the arch of a neck and the restless flick of ears. A tail swished.

  A motherfucking horse. In my front yard standing next to my Golf.