The Teratologist

by Edward Lee

  “I think you’ll find Mr. Farringworth a most interesting interview subject.”

  “You ain’t kidding.”

  “Finish your drink, then I’ll take you to your rooms. I think you’ll find them adequate.”

  “I’m sure we will,” Bryant said. “And I agree, Mr. Farringworth is a very interesting man.”

  Westmore was staring into more distraction. Unconsciously, he put his hand on the knob to the French doors, attempted to open them, then remembered they were locked. “Your grounds must be crawling with security and alarm sensors. Why are the doors locked?”

  Michaels maintained the trace smile. “A common sense precaution. There are many valuables in this house, Mr. Westmore.”

  Sure, but… Westmore didn’t finish the thought. The vibes were bugging him again. Outside, beyond the extensive garden, he could see the cul-de-sac in front of the next wing of the mansion. A panel van drove by, with the letters DAYE PHARMACEUTICALS, LTD along the side.

  Bryant saw it too. “I don’t remember anything in the profile about Mr. Farringworth owning a drug company.”

  “He doesn’t own it. He merely has an esoteric interest in one.”

  “Esoteric?” Bryant shot him a puzzled look. “You mean financial.”

  “I mean esoteric.”

  But Westmore wasn’t listening. Instead his fingers were touching the window, not glass but something composite. “These windows are Lexan, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, they are, Mr. Westmore. Appearance is important, especially to a man such as Mr. Farringworth, but security is equally important. Every window in the mansion is Lexan—it was very expensive. And you’re correct, the mansion as well as the grounds are extensively alarmed. Every door is secured by an electronic lock system. We don’t want anybody getting in.”

  Or out, Westmore thought.

  (IV)

  Fadden was not familiar with such anomalies but if he had been?

  The genetic disorders were multifarious: entropy of the digits, supernumerary thumb, and, above all, unilateral hemihypertropy with congenital asymmetry, not to mention acute hyperpituitaryism. The woman on the bed’s name was Carol, though her name was as useless as her life. She was twenty-nine years old but she had the face of a ten-year-old, and the basic body growth of one. Basic body growth. That was it. The hemihypertrophy had caused half of her four-foot six frame to grow faster than the other half. Right leg and arm were twice the girth of the left, and several inches longer. Her thumbs were as large as bratwursts, while her remaining fingers had stopped growing when she was five. Even at almost thirty, though, she looked like a little monster child.

  Fadden cursed himself, humping the woman/child so hard he was nearly bending her ruined body in half. He didn’t want to do this.

  He couldn’t help it.

  Pieces of reason sliced through his mindless lust. Fadden was a priest as well as the spiritual counselor for the White House Chaplain Unit. In a sense—a diocesan one—he was quite famous, having provided psychological counseling and spiritual guidance for three presidents and innumerable high-echelon executive personnel. He’d been celibate for his entire life, a faithful steward of God.

  Now that same steward was frenetically copulating with a grievously defected invalid. And he couldn’t get enough. He’d come three times already, and was going again, shuddering as Carol’s sausage-sized thumb roved in his rectum. Fadden didn’t remember how he’d gotten here, and after they’d forced him to swallow the pink pill, he didn’t care. His lust raged and would not abate. Every conscious minute—or second—made him aware of this most grueling of sins. But he couldn’t stop. If he kept it up at this rate, he’d have a heart attack—in fact, part of him wanted to have a heart attack. If felt as though death was the only thing that could turn off the lust and arousal.

  Another of Carol’s anomalies was called transverse vaginal septism. She had, essentially, two vaginal canals packed into the confines of one. Fadden’s cock traded from one canal to the other, with frequency. Evidently, they’d given the woman one of those pills too, because, in spite of this heinous abuse, she couldn’t get enough, and if she were able to talk, that’s what she’d be crying out for: more.

  Fadden gave her more.

  For quite a while.

  A moment before his crisis, he was able to withdraw, then jumped up, slipped his penis into her mouth, and came. His heart skipped beats, his exhaustion crushed him, and his sperm seemed to slide out of his cock like a warm worm. Carol gulped the worm down greedily, bucking as she masturbated with the shit-smudged thumb.

  God Almighty, what is wrong with me? He could scarcely move, so instead he lay back, his crotch to the girl’s face, gasping. Give me strength. If God couldn’t give it to him, who could? He knew he’d need it from somewhere. Fadden was spent, drained, wrecked by fatigue…yet still erect, desires still raging. It was only a minute ago that he’d ejaculated, and now he wanted to go again. He needed to go again.

  Forgive me, God. I can’t help it. Forgive me…

  The giant thumb bridged his cock, while her tiny fingers tickled his testicles. Soon the testicles were in her mouth, being sucked.

  Fadden felt mindless, buried in sin, in evil. That’s what was going on here, surely. Why were they doing this to him? What other explanation could there be?

  He let the queer little girl mouth give succor to his balls for a time more, while he just stared off. Across the room was another bed, where a Hasidic rabbi groaned, sodomizing some bent-up thing that appeared to be female. Her limbs seemed…bowed, and she panted like a dog as the rabbi plungered her rectum…

  Good God…

  Mounted on the ceiling, he could see, cameras focused down, catching every angle of the demented festivities taking place on the beds. What where they doing here?

  And who were they?

  Fadden couldn’t contemplate these reasonable questions for much longer. His lust was burning him down now. He forced his previously celibate cock down to her tonsils, sighed, then slid down and was in her vagina again—or one of the vaginas.

  He would fuck Carol four more times tonight, and then die of a massive myocardial infarction. A digital film of his sexual foray would hit the internet and major network news affiliations within twenty-four hours.

  His body would never be found.

  (V)

  Westmore woke at about three a.m. Sat bolt upright, sweating. This had been happening with some frequency of late—forty now, and no life but his work, and “downing” a few after work, or “Let’s go have a few beers.” A “few” would always be eight or ten. He knew he was at least a borderline drunk but never consciously admitted that. All photographers drank—all good ones, at any rate. That was his excuse. But the booze always screwed up his sleep.

  When he’d jerked awake, he’d been terrified: some creepy impression that someone else was in the room. In fact he even thought he’d seen a shape standing there in the particulate darkness, looking down at him in bed. He’d nearly cried out, snapping on the light.

  No one was there, of course, but did he hear a mutter just as he’d turned on the light? He thought he’d heard someone say, distinctly: “Shit. I hate light.”

  He felt imbecilic at once. It was those Johnny Walker Blues he’d slugged down earlier—strong stuff. I’m gonna quit drinking, he resolved, rubbing his eyes.

  The room looked like the presidential suite at the Four Seasons. Hot tub, home theater, inlaid paneled walls, four-poster bed. The plush Kashmiri carpet probably cost more than Westmore’s puissant condo. Like downstairs, two French doors faced east; they led to a balcony, overlooking the garden, and a sedate moon shone through the door’s multiple square panes. A cigarette on the balcony sounded great but when he tested the door’s knobs, they were locked. He touched the panes. Lexan.

  Stop being paranoid, he thought. Now, if the bedroom’s door was locked, he might have a right to be paranoid, but the door clicked open when he tried it. He felt weird and hung over
. Hair of the dog was always the worst excuse, but the Johnny Blue was good scotch. He’d thrown his clothes over the teal récamier couch against a wall decorated by what appeared to be an original Rothko. The abstract painting reminded him of a long lost love—a girl he’d loved more than anything but never told—which only soured his mood further. Failure was everywhere he looked. Despair was everywhere, to the extent that he felt at home in it. He hurriedly pulled his clothes back on, grabbed his cigarettes, and left the room.

  Yeah, I’ll quit drinking some day… Just not today.

  The main upstairs hall stood morgue-silent and dark. From the railing, which stretched before the guest rooms, he looked across the atrium-like foyer and remembered more detail of the mansion’s layout. Another hallway could be seen just across the way, and he presumed there were more guest rooms there too—or perhaps Farringworth’s bedroom. Had it really been Farrington himself that they’d seen earlier in the same hallway, naked, weeping? Something about angels, Westmore remembered. Then all that whacked out talk about conceptions of perfection, and God. What a kook…

  He took the sweeping steps down quietly as he could. His headache stalked him. Downstairs, only a few lights were on, in the main foyer. He slipped back into the parlor where they’d first met Farringworth and was immediately at the armoire. Bottles clinked as he withdrew the Johnny Blue. He poured himself two fingers, then hunted for whatever that thing was that Bryant said wasn’t really an ashtray.

  A clock ticked somewhere deeper in the house. He was looking out the Lexan panels of the French doors, into the garden. Thinking, thinking.

  What was this place? What was Farringworth really all about? And that British guy? The first drink went fast, yet left him keenly focused. Why doesn’t he want pictures? Why would he even consent to an interview? He never had in the past. And what about that—

  A car motor started outside, lights popped on. Another one of those panel vans drove out of the cul-de-sac: DAYE PHARMACEUTICALS, LTD.

  What’s with that shit? What’s with drug company vans driving around this ritzy joint at three in the morning?

  The van’s red taillights faded, then winked out. The silence now seemed to amplify; Westmore could hear things beyond it: house noises, the a/c whispering. The clock—wherever it was—sounded louder, its tick more crisp. Then he stiffened. Had he heard a moan? A voice? From somewhere—deep, deep in the house. A door clicked opened and closed. Footsteps. Then nothing.

  The vibes were raging.

  Bad vibes.

  Westmore smoked in the dark, had another scotch. The booze and cigarettes were wearing him out. Life was wearing him out. Wear me out some more, he pleaded. Just fuckin’ take me. Wear me out till there’s nothing left…

  He was getting drunk again. Was it God he was pleading to, the God he claimed to believe in? God doesn’t do shit for me, but…why should He? I don’t deserve it. But what about Bryant? What about that kook Farringworth and that fruitcake Michaels? Did God have different conceptions of different people? He must. Everyone truly wasn’t the same, and no culture was the same. There were too many variables. Therefore one god could not save all. God must have many faces, Westmore considered, the scotch heating his insides.

  Let’s have one more drink, just you and me, okay, God?

  Tipsiness urged him to walk more carefully back to the armoire, but not carefully enough because—

  Smack!

  —he’d forgotten than he’d left the armoire’s teakwood door hanging open, and he walked right into it, forehead to edge. Pain seemed to bite him like a lunging animal. He had time to think, What a drunken asshole, then brought his hands to his head and collapsed.

  He blacked in and out. Blood from the gash leaked into his eyes; now the pain was like a piton driven into his forehead. He lay there for a moment, head beating. Was he seriously hurt? Wasn’t that how William Holden had died? Hit his head drunk, then bled to death because the alcohol thinned his blood. Fuck, Westmore managed to think. At least his was on par. When he tried to lean up, the pain slammed him back down, like a foot to his chest.

  Squinting, dizzy, he saw a shadow before him. Must be the shadow of the armoire door, he thought. But it wasn’t.

  The shadow leaned over.

  “Michaels?” he murmured. It must be Michaels.

  “No,” the shadow said. A man’s voice but…strange. The voice seemed echoic and dark yet radiant at the same time—an impossible description. The shadow was…

  What the fuck is he doing? Mugging me?

  The shadow’s hand was on his shirt. It withdrew his pack of cigarettes and lighter.

  A snap, a brief flame. The shadow was standing upright again, looking around; Westmore could tell where the person was looking by the lit end of the cigarette.

  Smoke creamed before its face, and the strange voice resounded again: “How would I know that your birth mother walked out of the hospital the day you were born? How would I know you almost got run down by Mrs. Korella, in her VW bug, on Stonybrook drive, the day after Kennedy was shot, and you shit your pants? How would I know you used to lust after women in church when you were an acolyte?” A pause, and the impression of a smile. “Gotta admit, some of those chicks were hot—but it’s still lust, and lust is selfish. It’s a piss-ant sin.”

  Westmore’s voice groaned like old wood. “Who are you?”

  “My name is a cabalistic secret. I can’t tell you. My name is a word that you are not capable of calculating.”

  Westmore dragged himself up to sit slumped at the long table. The man stood at the other end; moonlight lit half of his face like foxfire. Westmore shook his head to try and clear his vision.

  “Your name is…what?”

  “I’m an angel. That’s all you need to know.”

  Westmore slumped further. Great. Have another drink, Westmore.

  “You don’t believe me?” The cigarette tip brightened momentarily, then more smoke floated. “How else would I know those things? Remember the guy you wanted to kill in the Army, behind the Bravo Company barracks? He called you a pussy, so you fought him. You wanted to kill him, Westmore. And you were gonna kill him, too, weren’t you? Remember?”

  Westmore felt sick. He did remember.

  “But you didn’t do it. Why didn’t you?”

  Westmore stared as much at the shadow as he did into the past. “I changed my mind.”

  “Wrong. Wanna know why you didn’t?”

  “Why?”

  “Because of me. I was the whisper in your ear. I was your good judgment.”

  “Really?” Westmore chuckled under his breath. I’m hallucinating, fine. I understand now. I can understand that. Yet he challenged the mirage. “Why would you do that? Why would you whisper that in my ear?”

  “Because you don’t need murder on your track-record of sin. You’re in deep enough shit already, I can tell you that, asshole.”

  “Great language for an angel,” the photographer retorted.

  “Hey, God doesn’t give a shit about that. It’s all about what’s here”—the angel touched his head—“and here”—the angel touched his heart—“and how you use that out there.” The angel pointed to the window.

  Another drag on the cigarette. Westmore squinted more details; his eyes were acclimating. The “angel” wore dark jeans and a black t-shirt that read, in white block letters: ZZLSEN. He had long straight hair, like someone in a metal band, a handsome, rugged face.

  “You’re not an angel, you’re just some fuckin’ guy.”

  The figure nodded, and then sipped Westmore’s scotch.

  “And, besides,” the photographer added, “angels don’t drink scotch or smoke Marlboros.”

  “Why not? I indulge every hundred years or so—I think I’ve earned it.”

  ”But I thought the body is a temple of the lord.”

  “It is, asshole—to you. But I’m immune. I’m a higher being.” Another sip, and he put the glass down. “Johnny Blue’s no big deal. Next one, pou
r some Macallan.” The angel took a step closer, face out of the moonlight. “Listen, and listen good. This is how we do things. You don’t understand, but listen anyway. I’m from an offshoot order of the Seraphim—I’m called a Caliginaut. Angels from my order willingly descend from the rapture. We’re, like, God’s recon crew, his commandos. We condition ourselves to darkness. We’re…special angels.”

  “Where are your wings? Angels have wings.”

  “We cut them off ourselves, by the decree of our order. It’s a sacrifice, Westmore. We have to do it ourselves, it’s gnarly.” The angel stepped closer to the French doors, turned, and peeled his t-shirt up. “My attentor joints. See?”

  Westmore saw, almost wincing. Two flesh-covered stumps protruded from a y-shaped ridge on his back. “You amputate your own wings is what you’re telling me?”

  “Yeah. We use a tool called a Skttaz, like a giant pair of bolt cutters, man. It’s hardcore.”

  Westmore felt winded; he dabbed at the gash on his head with a handkerchief. He pushed past the pain, though, and played along with the illusion. “What kind of a God would expect such a thing? What kind of a God would be appeased by an act like that?”

  “He’s not appeased. He doesn’t want us to do it but we do it anyway, because there’s nothing else we CAN do. It’s a gesture. It’s the only way we can acknowledge our unworthiness in His eyes.”

  Unworthiness, Westmore thought.

  The angel was leaning over, right in front of Westmore now. “Still don’t believe me, huh? There’s so little faith anymore. Remember when that kid Nathan beat you up for stealing his army men? Remember when you and Dougie made the crippled kid cry? You stole his book bag. Fourth grade, Summerset Elementary School. How could I know that?”

  “It’s easy,” Westmore countered. “You’re a hallucination, born of my mind. I drank too much and now I’m seeing things.”