Transmatic

by Chris Kelso

  TRANSMATIC

  BY CHRIS KELSO

  "As a part-time hitman/ exterminator, Ignius Ellis's dream is to buy a candy-apple red Nova Supreme. In the process of trying to earn enough cash to make his dream come true he gets sucked into the rough world of Visitacion Valley, SF. When the tenants in his apartment complex reveal their various extracurricular activities this take an even more bizarre twist and Ellis soon becomes acquainted with the nightmarish Slave State dimension..."

  For Darren Rae & Rachel Dickie

  (Thanks for all the support)

  TRANSMATIC is published in the US and A by

  MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright Chris Kelso for words and music 2014. Cover art and design by the elusive and Grim Reverend Steven Rage 2014. Stage direction by Steven Scott Nelson and inappropriate fondling of said Author and Staff by The Spun Monkey. Slicen and dicen by FucknPunch, The Chronically Unemployed Child-Care Clown, and Chris Kelso. Advance Reading, Proofing and sage wisdom from the one and onliest Monica Roncancio. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his disjointed multiple personality disorders have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this dark tale may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of The Reverend, Chris Kelso, The Great and Powerful Oz and the Hand that turns the Big Wheel, except where permitted by law or whatever the hell you think you can get away with. But if you do please be advised that you will incur the righteous disdain of The Reverend. And that is no bueno, primo. characters in this vicious tome are fictitious. Duh. Obviously. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, demons, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.

  Thisshit right here is a MorbidbookS blunt. You dig?

  Morbidbooks Is A Grotesque Bizarro Ballet Where The Most Profane Things Occur. An Impious And Perverse Dwelling Of Dark Revulsion. A Cozy Cottage Where Torture Porn And Brutal Bible Tales Are Devised. A Quiet Place To Relax And Spin Tales Of Depravity And Wickedness. A Halfway House For The Disturbed Where Rules No Longer Apply. A Safe Haven For Deviant Serial Killers To Hatch Their Wretched Schemes. Bring Your Pets.

  The Tasty Ones Are Always Welcome.

  https://www.morbidbooks.wordpress.com

  ACCLAIM –

  'Chris Kelso is a writer of almost intimidating intelligence, wit, and imagination. On every page there is evidence of a great mind at work. Just when you're wondering if there are actually still writers out there who still feel and live their ideas out on the page, I come across a writer like Kelso, and suddenly the future feels a lot more optimistic. One calls to mind Burroughs, and Trocchi's more verbose offerings - whilst remaining uniquely himself, in a writer as young as he is, is a very encouraging sign: one of maturity that belies his youth. I look forward to reading more from him in the near future.'

  - Andrew Raymond Drennan, author of The immaculate Heart

  “Chris Kelso sets his photonic crystal gun on KILL and takes no prisoners. My favorite era of science fiction was the 60s “New Wave” when the British magazine NEW WORLDS took front and centre, and there’s a bit of NEW WORLDS here, kind of like Jerry Cornelius using the cut-up method in a bungalow in Glasgow, with a splash of Warren Ellis added for extra flavour. Kelso has a compelling voice. Somewhere Papa Burroughs is smiling.”

  -L.L. Soares, author of LIFE RAGE and IN SICKNESS

  - ‘Chris Kelso is an important satirist, I think it’s safe to say.’

  - Anna Tambour, author of Crandolin

  - ' Come into the dusty deserted publishing house where mummified editors sit over moth-eaten manuscripts of books that were never written...anyone who enjoys the work of my late friend William Burroughs will feel welcome here with Chris Kelso.'

  - Graham Masterton

  - ‘Chris Kelso’s prose swaggers like blues and jitters like bebop. Dig.’

  - Nate Southard, author of Down and Just Like Hell.

  - ‘Sparky, modern, avant-garde but accessible, Chris Kelso's book is reminiscent of the most successful literary experimentation of the 60s and 70s, the sort of work that was published in the later New Worlds, but it's also thoroughly contemporary, intimately engaged with modern life as it is right now. Kelso steams with talent and dark wit and his blend of anarchy with precision is refreshing, inspiring and utterly entertaining . . .'

  - Rhys Hughes, author of Mister Gum

  - 'This emerging journeyman of the macabre has wormed his way into my grey-matter and continues to seep noxious ichor. I feel like I must devour him. Every little bit of him.'

  - Adam Lowe

  "Chris Kelso's writing is like a punch to the gut that forces your face against the page. The way his gritty prose carries his imagination is like a bar fight between Bradbury and Bukowski, with the reader coming out on top. The worlds he drags us into are so damn ugly that you have to admire their beauty."

  - Chris Boyle of BizarroCast

  - ‘Whether he’s writing about a fictionalized William Burroughs, Time Detectives, or Aliens Chris Kelso aims at the interstices or the Interzones because he understands that these are the people and spaces that define modern life – Kelso is also always funny and twisted.’

  - Douglas Lain

  - ‘Choke down a handful of magic mushrooms and hop inside a rocket ship trip to futuristic settings filled with pop culture, strange creatures and all manner of sexual deviance. ‘

  - Richard Thomas, author of Transubstantiate

  - ‘Guaranteed to uplift the heart of today’s most discerningly jaded nihilist“

  - Tom Bradley

  - ‘Chris Kelso is the one your mother warned you about. He is a sick, sick man - bereft of cure and heaped with symptom. His words will taint you irrevocably. Your eyes will want to gargle after reading just one of his stories.’

  - Steve Vernon, author of Nothing To Lose

  These days it takes all your energy just to get by in the present tense.

  - You poor old man, that poor old man – says the gossiping wind. When every last person is finally forgotten there will still be the heavy sediments of what we left behind in the streets of hell and in its gutters.

  The architect’s signature…

  PART ONE

  ONE

  Ellis & Sur

  IGNIUS ELLIS WAS A NUISANCE – most people in the East Quadrant certainly thought he was a nuisance. He had come to Visitacion Valley, San Francisco, to get away from Scotland, where (of course) everyone thought him a frightful nuisance.

  - What about her? – Ellis asked, eying a gawky brunette bent over with a bag ready to pick up a dog shit, her buttocks about to burst out from between the tight fabric of a sarong. Sur craned his neck to the 5o’clock position to see who he was talking about.

  - Who? Marie Sadlowidz? Shit man, she’s a plucked chicken! Married for ten fuckin years…

  - Bummer.

  - Yeah, bummer.

  - Hey, she’s cute…

  Sur craned to 9 0’clock.

  - Yeah she’s a shape in a drape alright.

  - What about her?

  Sur craned to 2 o’clock.

  - Henrietta Twaddle, varicose alley chick, handsome bitch but best to steer clear.

  - What about her?

  Sur went to crane to 6:30 but stopped at 5 o’clock.

  - Hey, we ain’t quall huntin’ here you crazy creep!

  Ellis kept looking out the window. He was bored.

  - This weather’s a bastard eh?

  - Would you give it a rest??

  - I’m just gassing with ye mate!

  - Shit man, you’re
so square you’re practically a circle.

  They watched their hit travel into a café called the RED ONION.

  - He looks like a fuckin nutter – Ellis opined.

  - Never mind if he looks like a fuckin nutter or not hepcat, just focus your attention on blowin his fuckin brains out and quite currin’ like a damn barn-owl!

  - I know…and I will focus…. but look at the state of his hair, look, he’s got one of those cornrose hairstyles like a dodgy soul singer or somethin!

  - Yeah, I see it, I see it…

  - Look at his fuckin mental facial hair!

  Sur turned in his seat to make serious eye contact with Ellis.

  - Listen, you’re new, so maybe you’re not completely familiar with the house rules, but this is focus time ok? Just dummy-up, ya dig? Time to wise-up and do the job you’re being paid to do, ok?

  - Ok…I’m just sayin, it’ll be a kick wasting this mental looking cunt.

  - Focus your audio…

  Sur was around 30 stone, a psychopathic eater, and had a flulike malaise about him at all times which Ellis later found out to be syphilis. He spoke like a hippie but didn’t subscribe, Ellis noted that Sur had the ozone stink of a schizophrenic.

  - What’s he like, our hit?

  - A little off the cob, but generally he knows his groceries.

  - Why are we killing him again?

  - Beats me man.

  - He looks pretty built.

  - Built? He’s built and everything plus! We gotta stay stealthy or we’ll get our asses handed to us.

  - So when do we make a move?

  - Shit man, there’s plenty of time, ya dig?

  - Sure, sure…

  Ellis noticed other things about his partner - that his face seemed crushed by the mute hunger of lust, that he looked straight from the tallest dung heap in hell…

  He was also a hired hit man and a deadly sonofabitch. Sur burst into life.

  - Ok, let’s go, remember, keep your head above the Mason Dixie Line.

  - Sure…

  Sur and Ellis rushed out either side of the car and headed towards the RED ONION. Ellis had no qualms with what this job entailed, but he couldn’t help notice that the hit was really built – his shoulders were hunched with muscle and his neck was a pillar about 10 inches thick. Sur went into the RED ONION and signalled to Ellis to stay where he was. After a few minutes there was commotion coming from the café and then the crack of a gunshot sent a flock of birds nesting on the roof of the building high into the firmament. People began flooding out of the Red Onion, including the heavy-built hit. Without thinking twice Ellis ran back to Sur’s car and started up the engine setting off after him.

  Dave Brubeck was on the radio….

  He finally caught up to the hit who was bolting past the pharmacy in San Pablo. Ellis mounted the pavement and put his foot down on the accelerator until the hit’s heels were scuffing the licence plate. For a moment Ellis was worried that ploughing him down might damage the front of Sur’s old lead sled. There wasn’t enough time to worry about stuff like that though, he had to be bold. Mailboxes exploded and rectangular envelopes scattered over the streets in a ticker-tape-parade. Ellis crunched the ball of his heel into the accelerator and watched as the muscle-bound hit disappeared under the bonnet. A hyphen of blood spattered against the windshield. Ellis smiled victoriously. There were two subsequent bumps where both left-hand side wheels went over the body - his smile began a Cheshire grin. It was like hitting a deer. Ellis drove to the bottom of Paris Avenue and pulled over. He got out, looked down the street and saw a busted fire-hydrant sending a geyser of water into the air. The trail of destruction was immensely satisfying. He looked at the bloody bundle lumped in the middle of the road – the hit was dead. Sur appeared on the hill puffing and panting. People were looking on gawk-eyed but no-one had the guts to call the cops or reprimand Ellis for murdering the hit.

  He enjoyed having that kind of power over people.

  TWO

  JUST BEFORE THE PLANET UNSTUCK from its Velcro and all the animals screamed and howled in confused despair, Ignius Ellis watched himself gasp at the future memory of dying in the mirror – unshakable shame passing through him in a final, fatal sweep all the while his head rests limp on its axle…

  - I heard there’s a re-development project going through congress to turn the 20 acres of this neighbourhood, including this apartment complex, into retail space. D’you think there’s truth in that Mr landlord?

  The landlord fidgeted and absent-mindedly cupped his left breast beneath his dressing gown.

  - Mr Ellis, this part of town is a cesspit. The air stinks of metal, the rape gangs are out terrorising the streets EVERY-SINGLE-NIGHT, and there’s no work for an honest American within 200 miles of Visitacion Valley. Do you really think it matters what they do with this place? It’ll be piling shit on top of shit, stepping on one turd to replace it with another…

  - I actually quite like it…

  - And what do you do Mr Ellis? – The old landlord asked between intermittent strokes of his mangy cat’s hide. His hardstone face grimaced.

  - I’m in pesticide.

  - Ah, an exterminator?

  - Yes, well, no, mainly pesticides, not insecticides…

  The landlord looked puzzled. Ellis brought out his card and handed it to the old man who instantly put it in the pocket of his dressing gown. His eyes glinted like agate.

  - There’s a difference – Ellis guaranteed.

  - Yes, well, we have a small silverfish infestation in the building. If you were able to take a look I’d be most grateful.

  Ellis gave a pained expression.

  - Ach, see I’d love to, LOVE to, but that really falls under insecticide work. I don’t deal with beasties, just rats and cats and, well, that’s about it really. Maybe the occasional tiny spider in a bathtub….

  - I see, well in that case rent is half a yard a week. No women, no animals, no backseat bingo with any cheap tricks, ya dig?

  - Sure, and thanks again. I’m a bit of a chatterbox but I won’t cause any harm, you have my word on that.

  - Don’t let the valley murder you Mr Ellis.

  Ellis took the key from the old man and stuck it into the lock of apartment 4.11. He heard the chain from next door undo. A young African American stuck his head round into the hall.

  - You the new tenant?

  - I sure am – Ellis forwarded his hand for a shake. The neighbour met him halfway and came out into the corridor.

  - I’m Mike Ryko.

  - Ignius Ellis, pleasure…

  - Say, that’s a funky accent man, you Irish?

  - Scots, I’m amazed someone actually understands me!

  - Scots, well she-i-i-t, that’s as good as Irish huh?

  - I suppose so…

  - Man I love those Irish.

  Ellis smiled, unsure what to say next.

  - So, have you been in this building long Mike?

  - Oh yeah. I inherited it from my grandma; she passed away 2 years ago. Sweet digs, as long as you don’t mind old fussy drawers Layman. That nigger drinks blood and shits money.

  - The landlord? Aye, I met him.

  - That cat is Dixie fried!

  - Dixie Fried?

  - He’s on so many meds for old age ailments he ain’t really with it.

  Ellis hadn’t seen the inside of his apartment since the removal guys cleared out the old tenant’s furniture. He tried to seem keen on Ryko’s efforts at conversation.

  - Don’t forget little La across the hall. You gotta meet her.

  Ellis looked to the door that ran parallel with his own.

  - Who’s La?

  - A sweet little thing, total addict though. She lives there alone as far as I can tell. Don’t know how she pays the rent.

  - Is she a prozzie?

  - Don’t think so. She’s taking part in this revolutionary new technique of rehab, but it’s really just an old fascist model on therapy. See, they break down her pers
onality until she’s totally dependent on her support officer, then they build and culture a new personality for her which won’t get lost to drugs. Poor girl is a ghost, but she’s real sweet…

  - I’ll keep an eye out….

  - Then there’s Mrs Kowalski. She lives in a timber shack on the roof.

  - Is that allowed?

  - Seems to be. Layman kind of leaves her alone, lets her use the washroom and the laundry-room whenever she wants. I’ve always thought that was kind of strange. We all live in big rectangular blocks forged from steel panels, you know, asbestos provides the building with its structural integrity and shit - but she lives in this completely separate construct made of plywood and old road-signs. She’s got some son who’s a rich jeweller, maybe that has something to do with it?

  - Well, it’s been good meeting you Mike.

  ****

  The vertical conapt apartments reached to the sky like stretched out angels falling into the swirling vortex of hell. Better to be in heaven or hell than stuck in between.

  La was in Ellis’s flat. He only met her that morning. She seemed to have been irrevocably traumatised by drug abuse, or maybe it was the therapy. La was a small boned girl, no more than 17, with hair the colour of sun-burnt brick. Ellis thought she was an innocent enough looking kid who probably still thought women gave birth through their naval.

  - Care for a drink? – Ellis asked her. She looked fragile and tiny sitting on his carpet-less floor.

  - I’m allergic to alcohol.

  - Ah, ok, no problem.

  - Unless…unless you pour me a drink…if you pour me a drink, I’ll drink it.

  - Ok, but aren’t you allergic?

  - Yes.

  - Well, what kind of reaction will you have to drinking it?

  - I don’t know. But if you pour me some wine I will drink it.

  Ellis put some wine in a tumbler and forwarded it to her. We’re all on our way out tonight one way or another, he told himself. She held the tumbler between her legs, cupped in her hands, without touching a drop. La seemed burdened by an indentured servitude, Ellis found this arousing but was instantly ashamed of those feelings.