Monster Vice

by George P. Saunders

  “You snort coke, PCP and dead cat,” I say.

  “I guess that’s the bottom line, yes,” Father Gastroni says, but then he holds up his hand. “Now I know that sounds strange.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, no, I know how that sounds. But for me, it’s more like a kind of spiritual transubstantiation which comforts me. I feel that while Portia’s flesh has dissolved from this world, has been transformed from flesh to ash, that to assimilate her in my body … well, I believe there’s a kind of spiritual symbiosis there which is unique.”

  “Very unique,” I croak. I kinda want to run and get Jennifer and move to Bali right about now.

  “You’re not just patronizing me, Dick, are you?” Gastroni grins.

  “What? No. It’s just … well, like you said. It’s … you really … is that really your cat’s ashes?”

  “Grade A Portia.” and Gastroni snorts again. He winces, shakes his head, and screams out once again: “Oh, yeah, Jesus!”

  He opens his eyes, smiles at me.

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  “No. No. I mean … well.”

  “You think that because I utilize my cat’s ashes to get high on a nightly basis, you think I’m nuts. Buzzo. One can minus a six-pack. Admit it.”

  “Father –“

  “Admit it. Say it. You think I’m insane.”

  “I’m really not one to judge –“

  “Say it, Dick,” Father Gastroni says softly.

  “Alright. It sounds pretty fucking weird. What happens once your cat’s ashes run out? She’s still gone? She’s still…” My god, I was entertaining what sounded like a rational discussion about the nuances of snorting a cat’s decomposed and roasted remains with industrial narcotics.

  “Thank you for your honesty. Yes, it sounds pretty, as you say, fucking weird. I’ll give you that. As to your other question, Portia’s ashes will always survive to one degree or another – even through various devolutions of ashen integrity. The old theory on the indestructibility of matter, and all.”

  I really, reaalllly don’t want to ask what that means. But –

  “Uh … what does that mean?”

  “Well, once I have chemicalized myself with Portia’s essence, naturally, the body from a digestive standpoint, must purge itself of waste. Fecal matter, specifically, the contents of which most certainly contain some residue of Portia, since my bloodstream has absorbed her and dispersed it accordingly. You still with me?”

  “Oh, yes. Very much so.”

  “So, with every bowel movement, I take that residue, and in turn have it cremated. Those ashes of that residue can then be recycled.”

  I look at the jar filled with black powder.

  “So … you not only snort your cat … you snort your own ashen shit – a composite of both shit and cat ash?”

  “Well. Yes. But before you think I’m completely wigged out, let me explain further.”

  “I’d prefer you spare me the details.”

  “But as a forensic professional, I think you’ll find this interesting.”

  “No, really. I have no dream to know more. Please.”

  I really do believe I would have politely gotten up and left the house in the next few seconds, had it not been for the timely return of Jennifer, with Father Ivory and Colonel Kellog right behind her.

  Kellog looks to Father Gastroni, and then to me.

  “We just received word from Dracula.”

  “Yes?” Gastroni says.

  “He found the Grand Master.”

  “Where?”

  “The old Santa Monica Airport.”

  Gastroni sighs, then looks to me.

  “So. It begins. Nice night for it, right?”

  I’m not sure nice is the word I would have chosen.

  Fucked up, perhaps … but nice?

  Nah.

  “One thing more,” Kellog says.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Dracula says that the Grand Master knows we’re coming. And he has a message for you, Officer Pitts.”

  “Yeah? Tell me the message.”

  Kellog looks down at a piece of paper.

  “The Grand Master is going to make you his personal blood-bitch.” Kellog offers a shrug. “Rough translation, according to Dracula.”

  Kellog looks up at me. It is Jennifer who asks the question of innocence, as she regards me curiously.

  “Does that mean you’re gonna be his girlfriend, Dick?”

  No one says anything, no one chuckles … and I am grateful for the silence.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Looks like you’re very much on the Grand Master’s radar,” Father Gastroni says to me, as we walk down a long hall.

  “How does Dracula know so much about what the Grand Master is doing?”

  “I told you, he and Samantha have this talent of tapping into the vampire collective. It’s a technique very much like Remote Viewing. Or something akin to it.”

  “Remote Viewing. Never heard of it.”

  “Remote viewing was actually experimented with and utilized by the Defense Intelligence Agency back in the 70s, 80s, and 90s. It was essentially psychics working with the government to utilize their clairvoyant powers by throwing their conscious eye into any part of the world, and then report back anything of any worth.”

  I nod, interested. “This is news to me. It sounds kind of fringe and fascinating.”

  “Eventually, it was abandoned as a full-worthy practice for espionage and other things dealing with spying. Not enough empirical evidence to convince anyone that the psychics were accurate enough of the time. Lack of funding soon gave way to lack of interest in pursuing the technique for purposes linked to national defense.”

  “But Dracula and Samantha can do this, with pretty much reliable accuracy,” I say.

  “They can, because vampires are truly psychic,” Gastroni replies.[5] “Not like human beings where psychic capability is willy-nilly at best.”

  We turn a corner, and then enter a large room, filled with an array of weaponry that would challenge anything that Monster Vice could offer in its armory.

  I am suddenly aware again that Jennifer is holding my hand, and I marvel how accustomed I am to enjoying a kind of mystical bond with my new child-friend.

  “Wow,” Jennifer whispers and I wow-tend to agree.

  Facing us were four open cabinets, easily ten feet tall, nearly touching the ceiling of this particular chamber. Hanging within was every conceivable piece of firepower known to modern gunnery. Then there was the one cabinet, occupying the center of the room with custom-designed cross and long bows, of varying length, width and breath. Arrows hung neatly near the bows, all metal tipped.

  “What’s your flavor, Officer Pitts?”

  “Beg your pardon?” I stare dully at Father Gastroni.

  Gastroni smiles, and nods to Kellog, who steps forward, and points to the first cabinet, filled with what appears to be semi-automatic rifles. He reaches for one which I recognize immediately to be a M16A2 – the standard service rifle for both the United States Army and Marine Corps.

  “I call this my nipple-twister,” Colonel Kellog smiles. “Caliber, 5.56 millimeter, gas-operated action, with rotating bolt. Rate of fire between 750 and 900 rounds per minute. Nice muzzle velocity, feed system of 20 or 30 round detachable box magazines and an effective range of 600 yards.”

  I am, in a kind of esoteric sense, concerned that Colonel Kellog might just well ejaculate right there on the spot, what with the way he holds the ‘nipple twister’ and how he is now petting the muzzle with clear love and affection. He suddenly tosses it to me. I catch it without even a flinch. I must admit – holding the damned thing is downright comforting as images of the Grand Master subjugating me into blood-bitchery invades my pummeled imagination.

  “Good balance,” I say.

  “Can I hold it, Dick?” Jennifer asks.

  “Over my dead body, sweetheart.”

  C
olonel Kellog then wanders over to the cabinet filled with an array of hand-pistols. He reaches for the closest weapon, weighing it professionally.

  “I’m sure you recognize this little darling, Officer Pitts. And you look like a Beretta kinda guy.”

  I give back the M16, and take the pistol he now offers and nod.

  “M9 9 millimeter Beretta. Replaced the M1911A1 pistol in .45 caliber. Semiautomatic, double-action. Length, roughly 8.54 inches, barrel length, 4.92 inches, if memory serves, and a magazine capacity of 15 rounds. Am I forgetting something?”

  “Muzzle velocity,” Colonel Kellog grins, clearly enjoying my articulate expertise.

  “1200 feet. Let’s not forget the convenient redundant automatic safety feature to help prevent unintentional discharges.”

  “I’m impressed,” Father Gastroni says. “You know your weapons, Dick.”

  With my free hand, I reach into my shoulder holster and pull out my own M9. “Never leave home without it. I’m also partial to the .357 Magnum.”

  “Yes, agreed,” Colonel Kellog nods approvingly.

  Father Gastroni casually lifts up a Kalashnikov semi-automatic rifle, and I can tell he is well-versed in its intended application.

  “A man of the cloth bearing instruments of death?” I needle Gastroni, just for the fuck-all fun of it.

  “My sheep must be protected, mate,” Gastroni replies, without losing a beat.

  “You can see we’re well armed,” Colonel Kellog says. “I prefer the BERSA Thunder 380.” He reaches for a small, handsome pistol, holding it up to the light. “Introduced in the late 1990s by an Argentinean firearms manufacturer, the 380 is light, and has a reputation for reliability that pretty much meets or outmatches the Beretta.”

  And on and on. Jennifer and I continue to be “toured” of the arsenal. Need a silencer? Look no further. Scorpion police-specials, with very convenient interfacing features to the Glock 26 and the Kahr K9, replete with elastomer wipes. Don’t like Scorpions? Fine, the Spider thread mounting silencers are equally fun-filled and eliminates the muzzle flash signature and bothersome first round pop.

  There was, quite simply, just a ton of good shit in this room. RPGs, 40 mm and M79 grenade launchers, NVPG140 night vision binoculars, and high explosive (HE) smoke, flare and CS gas grenades. I reach for one of these.

  “What good are poppers against vampires?”

  “Detonation of those puppies produces Holy Water vapor,” Colonel Kellog says. “And laced with just a touch of garlic powder. Just so the bastards go down screaming.”

  There is something that scares me about Colonel Kellog, and it’s not the kilt … though that is goddamned scary unto itself. He reminds me distantly of Hanson in terms of his sheer delight for vampire torture and extermination.

  Colonel Kellog now stands in front of the center cabinet.

  “And last, we have our stake-arrow munitions,” Kellog says, and when he says this, he says it with clear ecstasy in his voice. “The perfect weapons for the Vampire Problem.[6]

  Jennifer releases my hand and wanders back over to the hand-pistol cabinet. I glance at her. “Don’t touch those, Jennifer. They’re dangerous.”

  “I know, Dick,” she says to me softly. “I’m little, not dumb.”

  Well, fuck me gently with a chain saw, excuse me.

  Colonel Kellog, Father Gastroni and Father Ivory form a semi-circle around the cabinet.

  “These were personally blessed by His Holiness,” Gastroni says in whispered awe. “As a matter of fact, every bullet, every round, every arrow is blessed.”

  “The Pope?” I say, surprised beyond measure. “You have access to the Vatican?”

  “The Vatican funds this entire operation, mate,” Father Gastroni says. “They have worked with Dracula now for almost two years. They provide the money, and Dracula deals with the military defense contractors.”

  “Dracula cuts deals with the military?”

  “He’s had several lifetimes of negotiating experience, Dick,” Gastroni says. “And he’s had decades in developing and nurturing relationships with top people in the Department of Defense, and various other entities specializing in national defense and civil law enforcement.”

  “I’ll be damned,” I whisper, marveling at Dracula’s vast resources and resourcefulness in general.

  Father Gastroni now turns to me.

  “I recommend we arm up and prepare ourselves for departure. Dick, you’re welcome to anything in this room.”

  I glance at the RPG. I reach for it, and sling it over my shoulder. I then grab a few of the .44 Holy Water grenades. “Thanks. This should do me.”

  “Father, if you don’t mind, as we may have a long night ahead of us, I should probably off-load now,” Colonel Kellog says.

  “Right, mate. Good thinking.”

  “I’ll see you in my bedroom, say in five minutes?”

  “Yes. I’ll pick up the grease, and we’ll get down to it.”

  Colonel Kellog nods to me, then turns, and exits the gun chamber.

  “Father Ivory, could you see if we have any more of that KY Jelly in the kitchen?” Father Gastroni says.

  “Yes, I’ll check now, Father.”

  “Bring it to me in front of the colonel’s room.”

  “Yes, father,” the young priest says, and exits the armory.

  Now … I again feel little chills of confusion pitter-pattering up and down my spine. I’m hearing that there is going to be some presumed activity in the colonel’s bedroom that includes something called ‘off-loading’ and KY Jelly, and last, but not least, Father Gastroni’s participation in such activity. I suddenly crave more scotch.

  “Father … I don’t mean to pry,” I start out slowly, “but –“

  “Walk with me, Dick.”

  I turn, and Jennifer still seems fascinated with the weapons, though heeding my behest to her not to touch anything.

  “Jennifer, let’s go,” I say.

  “I’ll be right there, Dick.”

  Father Gastroni leads me gently by the arm. “She’ll catch up to us, mate. Seems like a very resilient little lass.”

  So I allow myself to be guided by the coke-snorting padre, out of the room, and into the hallway.

  “You’re curious as to what ‘off-loading’ means. And how the whole KY thing is pertinent thereto,” Father Gastroni says.

  “A tad curious, maybe,” I say, trying to sound casual, but still having a case of the willies … almost terrified as to what the explanation might be.

  “You see, Dick, both Colonel Kellog and myself have been bit.”

  I stop, and regard Father Gastroni in shock.

  “Bit? You?”

  “Yes, Dick. Like you, too, I believe.”

  I say nothing.

  “Dracula told us you were infected. Like you, the Colonel and myself must also go through the daily regimen incumbent to the Tungsten mandate.”

  “I’ll be dog-gone,” is all I can say.

  “So, that being said, we must induce ejaculation.”

  “I’m with you so far. I’m a little fuzzy on your needing KY Jelly and meeting Colonel Kellog at his bedroom. That part eludes me.”

  Father Gastroni nods, as if he were about to give some bit of trivial accounting information to a secretary or some other lowly functionary. “It’s really very simple, though I warn you … it is unorthodox.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Colonel Kellog’s encounter with the vampire that assaulted him was traumatic beyond what he could rationally come to grips with. The vampire was an actor who was performing in one of the local theater’s production of Macbeth. The actor had been bitten a few hours before, and had pounced on Colonel Kellog not far from where he worked, at a recruiting station for the Marine Corps in downtown Los Angeles.”

  “Ooo-kay. I’m still with you. I was pounced outside of a grocery store.”

  “And I was taken just a block away from my church in Palm Desert,” Father Gastroni says. “Bad
luck, mate, right?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “The attack on Colonel Kellog produced in him a fantasy-need to wear a kilt – a reminder, perhaps, that the vampire who fanged him was part of something Scotland – the play Macbeth – and that if he wore something particular to the Scottish peoples in general … then perhaps he would always be protected from future vampire attacks.”

  “That’s nuts,” I say.

  “Yes, it’s odd. I look at it as more of a post-traumatic superstition-induced phobia. Whatever, he wears a kilt, it makes him feel better, and that’s that.”

  “I’m waiting for the KY part,” I say, shuddering.

  “Inclusive with that piece of post-traumatic sartorial fetish, Colonel Kellog discovered that he suddenly had an inexplicable case of self-hatred. That hatred was also transferred to women.”

  “Why women?”

  “Don’t know, mate. Neither does he. Perhaps it has something to do with his sense of self-loathing. Perhaps he feels so violated, so filthy after exposure to the vampire attack – anything associated with self, or another human being vis a vis a traditional love/sex relationship became an anathema to him. Anyway, that’s what the therapist who we obtained for Colonel Kellog suggested. Sounds reasonable.”

  “Okay. He hates himself, hates women, and hates Scots, except for the kilts,” I say, check-marking off the very weird points of Colonel Kellog’s affliction.

  “Because of his self-hatred, he maintains that he simply can’t touch himself in any kind of self-auto erotic sense. In other words –“

  “He can’t jerk off,” I adduce quickly and am proud of myself that I translated Father Gastroni’s verbage so rapidly.

  “Right, mate. He is unable to masturbate. And since he hates women, the problem is two-fold. If he were homosexual, that might have even been helpful, but thus is not the case.”

  “Uh … but back to you … and the Ky?” I press.

  “So, keeping all this in mind, Colonel Kellog, in order to survive the bite-factor, as you know, must still utilize the Tungsten Maneuver every 24 hours. As you know, you miss your deadline and it’s Changeover time.”

  “Right, get it.”

  Father Ivory approaches Father Gastroni, holding a bottle of olive oil.