by Jack Wallen
I snuggled in and dared Cronenberg’s film to bring it.
Halfway through the bringing of it, I found myself drifting off into a slow spiral of sleep.
***
No nightmare landscape unfolded within the dream world. Instead, I appeared in a room of black—walls, ceiling, and floor. The room offered no means of entry or exit; it was nothing more than a cube, wherein I was trapped. Instead of allowing panic to grip my heart, I did the one thing that never failed to bring me comfort.
I sang.
“Here’s a curious rose growing in the desert and close by a snake has shed its skin. Bondage to convention is for zealots; sum me up or pin me down, my thorns still sting.”
As the melody rose and fell, the color of the walls shifted from black to white. The farther I reached into the melody, the more confused the color scheme became. Until one wall was black, the next white. I stood to face a corner, seeing half the world as empty of color and the other half filled. I stared on at a profound yin and yang, completely out of spiritual context.
I switched songs.
“We’re all stitched and glued together, we still drip from stormy weather. And no one here is traveling light, we just keep our bags out of sight.”
My voice fell silent, as I stared on at the black and white walls. A message could be discerned in the deviation of color. This was my story; the black and white of me—darkness and light.
I took a deep breath and whispered, “I am Grog.”
In response to my proclamation, an unfamiliar voice responded. “You are the sum total of many things.”
There was a strange familiarity to the deep voice. “Who are you?” I dared ask.
“Fate.”
“My fate?”
“I am the Alpha and the Omega.”
I waved my hands in the air. “Enough with the cryptic bullshit. I’ve spent the better part of a year facing down riddles I hope to never deal with again. So either answer my questions without the Tolkien-ese, or I’m going to sing my way out of this dream.”
“I can only answer the question according to what is in your heart.”
The laugh that escaped my mouth was completely reflexive. Instead of offering up some dangerously snarky comment, I returned to song.
“Silence!” The Darth Vader-esque voice demanded.
I complied.
“I brought you here to give you a gift.”
“You have my attention.”
Before another word was spoken by woman or Fate, a beautiful white dog trotted across the room to me, stopped at my feet, and stared up at me with familiar eyes.
“What is this?” I asked … the room.
“A dog,” the voice answered, full-on snark.
“I know it’s a … why am I getting a dog in a dream? That has to signify something, right?”
“You will find this resplendent creature to be your guide and your guard. Although it will only exist within the realm of your dreams, it will always be ready to assist you when you are in need.”
I nodded. “So I have my very own dream-time Lassie?”
The voice chuckled before saying, “Something like that, yes.”
I bent down and offered up, in my best doggie-speak voice, “Who’s a good boy?”
The dog lapped at my face. I pulled back enough to glance into its eyes once again. There was an overwhelming familiarity to the gaze—but I couldn’t quite place it. A spiritual awareness alighted behind the dog’s irises, couple with a masterful level of chill.
“I think I’ll call you Fonzie.”
The Fonz nodded and barked in agreement.
I returned my attention to the gifting spirit. “Whoever you are, thank you.”
“I already told you…”
“Yeah yeah, you said you were Fate. But what if I said I didn’t believe in fate?”
A brief silence ensued, “What if I told you it didn’t matter whether you believed or not?”
“Well played, Fate. Well played.” I scratched Fonzie behind both his ears. “So this dog is going to protect my spirit self?”
“To the fullest extent of his abilities. Trust me when I say, his abilities are exceptional.”
“I’ve never had a guard dog before, Fonz. You up to the task?”
Another bark.
“Grog,” Fate called my name. I ignored the voice, focusing all of my attention on Fonzie.
“Grog,” Fate again called, this time his voice sounding distant.
“Grog!”
When my eyes opened, Drew’s face greeted me. “You okay, luv?”
“Yeah, sorry. I must have dozed off.”
Drew chuckled. “I’d say. You were barking in your sleep.”
“What? No way. Grog does not bark in her sleep.”
Drew laughed. “But she does talk in the third person now?”
“Why yes, actually, Grog does.”
The horror marathon fizzled out—mostly because, at one point or another, everyone had drifted into the realm of slumber. We finally had to confess our lameness and head off to our respective bedrooms.
For whatever reason—some brotherly need to protect—Drew followed me into my bedroom and tucked me in.
“I could get used to this, Drew.” I patted the empty side of the bed. “I know this is going to sound like I’ve regressed back into pigtails and pinafores, but would you mind hanging out until I was asleep?”
“Of course,” Drew said softly and took a seat, next to me, on the bed. “Shall I sing you a lullaby?”
“Only if you can pull off a mean Robert Smith.”
“I’d more likely nail Johnette Napolitano.”
“I’m good with either.”
Drew laughed and gave it his best shot. His Cure did lean slightly Blonde, which made for the most delightful sendoff to the land of dreams and wonder.
EIGHTEEN
Farewell to arms that held a child. Farewell to legs for running wild.
Farewell to loins that pleased a wife. The struggle’s over, farewell to strife.
The next morning began as if everything was business as usual. Drew and coffee; Dizzy and bacon; Bella and flirtation; me and…
What?
Family?
Watching the love and kindness around the table, I could only conclude that this gathering of strange angels was a part of my family.
Drew spotted me staring. “What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours, Grog?”
“Honestly? I have no idea what I’d do without you freaks.”
“Hey,” Bella began. “Who are you calling … no never mind. Guilty as charged.”
“Thermos is full.” Drew spun to face us. “You know what that means.”
“It means you never give us time to finish our breakfast. It’s a good thing you failed to deliver Full English … again.” Bella huffed out of the kitchen, only to immediately return and blow Drew a kiss. When she made her second exit, I caught sight of the man blushing.
I swallowed a spoonful of yogurt, all the while refusing to take my eyes from Drew; the longer I stared, the redder his cheeks burned.
“What?”
“You love it and you know it,” I teased.
“Can’t say I hate it.” Drew patted his thermos. “Limo leaves in five minutes.”
“As if. The day we can afford to hire a limo…” My mind drifted to Al’s and Tony’s words about the album. Maybe that time isn’t too far off, girl.
We piled into the car and Drew bumped the gas, getting us up to speed immediately.
“What’s your big hurry?”
Drew patted my thigh. “Time is money, my dear. Time is motherfuckin’ money. We have to make every second of the day count. I hope your voice is up to the task. We’ll probably bust through three tracks today.”
As much as I loved the new music, I wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming marathon singing sessions.
Drew pulled the car up in front of the studio and we piled out. Inside the control room, Tony wa
s already seated and ready for work. I made a beeline to the other side of the glass and immediately started warming up. Dizzy followed me and had his camera trained on my face. The smallest part of me wanted to shoo the device away but remembered the last time that happened, things weren’t so friendly.
And so I let the kid film to his heart’s content.
Bella busied herself taking notes and whispering to her colleague.
“You ready?” Tony’s voice boomed over the monitors.
“I was born ready,” I replied, feeling the strangest sense of déjà vu. I stole a quick glance to Dizzy and whispered, “If you still have the Spectral, have it on me at all times. If you see anything out of the ordinary, pull me out immediately.”
Dizzy offered up a nod. The kid was, at the moment, one ball of nervous tics, unsure what he’d do if he did see some fascinating oddity. The young man offered me a thumbs-up. I wasn’t sure how to interpret that particular gesture. Did he understand my meaning? Was the image in the camera giving off tell-tale signs of my own particular madness?
I had no time to dive deep into those particular enigmas. The track for the first song filled my monitors, cueing me in to do my thing.
I did … and it was glorious. My soul had replenished itself with light and life. That positive energy made all the difference in the world with my voice. A quick glance into the control room, and Drew offered a combination nod and smile before tossing a devil horn salute/head bang combo to make every metal maniac proud. As I sang, there was no disjointed sensation, no suspicion my mind and body were about to be commandeered by another spirit. It was me and only me. This was the last ounce of proof I needed that my dead twin sister was gone.
“How many versions of the truth demand faith without proof and murder unity before it bears its fruit?”
Everything came together in a perfect rock and roll storm. I completely lost myself in the melody and words and, before I knew it, the studio was gone.
“Ballocks!” I spun around, taking in the unholy hell I’d only just escaped. I’d hoped to never see this wretched realm again.
Even with the familiarity, there was something decidedly changed about the macabre sky—the brush strokes used by the sinister painter held a completely different pattern and palette.
I spun around, hoping to wake from this nightmare. “Seriously? I just bloody escaped this place. Give me a fucking break, why don’t you. It’s like some goddamn writer has decided I’m not worthy of a win and just—”
A wave of white noise washed over my back. For some unlikely reason, I knew the sound belonged to Thessia.
“No,” I whispered, my voice laced with fear and sorrow. “I’m so sorry, Thess. I didn’t mean—”
Again the static rose and fell.
I hesitated; I couldn’t help myself. I wanted so badly to spin on my heels to see my dear friend made whole and ready to leave this land of misfit demons. When I turned, disappointment struck me in the heart. Thessia’s incorporeal body floated, inches from the ground. She smiled at me, held her hands my way.
“I want to hug you.”
Ghost Thessia nodded.
“Why did you bring me back here? I need to move on.”
Thessia opened her mouth to speak. A wave of pure white noise spilled out.
“I can’t understand you, Thessia.”
She pointed to the ground behind me. When I glanced down, a shard of broken mirror bounced a crimson beam of sunlight into my eye. Before Thessia could confuse me further, I scooped up the glass and gazed at my reflection. From behind, Thessia unleashed another wash of static; the sound startled me until the mirror caught Thessia’s reflection. She nodded and spoke again—only this time, from within the image in the shattered glass, I could understand her perfectly.
“You have been chosen, Grog.”
My breath caught; my heart raced. There was no reality, that I could think of, which completed that thought with something I’d actually want to hear.
“Thessia, no. I can’t—”
“The die has been cast, my dear. There is no going back now.”
“From what, Thess?” I turned to face the spirit, only to be immediately reminded that I could only understand her voice through the looking glass.
“You have been granted a most rare gift, Grog. Fate has bestowed upon you the title of Tuner. There are only two of you. Your importance to the universal balance is undeniable.”
I backed up, so I could get a closer look at Thessia’s face—from within the mirror, of course. “What is a Tuner, Thess?”
“You are now capable of communicating with the spirit realms. You will no longer have to travel to and from The Dark Seduction to speak with me … and many others.”
“Wait a minute, Thessia, I don’t want this. I could barely handle my last trip here. I wouldn’t have survived had it not been for you and Al. I’m not strong enough for—”
Thessia lifted a finger to her lips. “Shhhhh. You are considerably stronger than you give yourself credit for. Besides, you’ll have plenty of time to hone your skills and strengths.”
“What does that mean?”
The spirit fell into a momentary silence as her transparent form faded in and out of cohesion. When she finally returned to zero, her face was painted in an even graver pallor. “There is a war coming, Grog—an Armageddon.”
“When?”
“That, I do not know.”
“How?”
“Heaven and Hell will collide.”
A single sentence filled me with a cataclysmic dread. “And what have I got to do with that? It’s not like I can stop such a thing.”
“Not alone, you cannot. But when the time arrives, you will have help. Until then, you must be aware and listen.”
“To what?”
“Everything.”
A great wind rose into a blackened funnel cloud. The sound of a train wreck pummeled my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut against the onslaught of gale-force wind and Man O’ War decibels.
Within the butterfly blink of an eyelash, I was back in the studio, wailing before my mic, as if I hadn’t skipped a beat. “This is our decline and fall, when will love conquer all? You’re conditioned not to second guess, but what if this life is all there is? It’s easy to order human sacrifice, when you’re only one bullet away from paradise.”
The song came to a close and, after a beat of silence, everyone went crazy. Drew shot out of the control room and wrapped me in a bear of a hug.
“That was bloody brilliant, Grog. I’ve never heard you sing with such—fuck, I don’t know—strength and passion. Jesus, you were on fire.”
How could I know if what had happened was nothing more than me getting absolutely lost within the music? How could I have vanished from this plane of existence, interacted with Thessia, and returned without anyone noticing?
In a flash of desperation, I turned to Dizzy. “Can I see the playback of that take on the Spectral?”
Dizzy spun the camera around, cued up the recording, and hit play. To my shock, the video hinted at nothing otherworldly—it was simply me singing. The second I reached the vanishing point, I remained.
With a single nod, I opted to set the whole ordeal aside as a moment of transcendental passage from one plane of existence to another—not a return visit to Spook Town. I was perfectly okay with that decision. Should an occasion arise which would require that I commune with the dead and departed, I’ll just have to hope this whole fantasy was, in truth, real. Until then, I had to push the meeting with Thessia aside and finish an album—one track at a time.
“I fucking love this next tune,” Tony announced over the monitors.
At the mere mention of “tune,” I was back to square one with my subconscious. Existing with this secret was going to be hell. Even so, in that moment, all I could do was fight through it until One Bullet From Paradise was finished. Then, if necessary, I could have a full metal breakdown—straitjacket and all.
“You okay, luv?”
I looked up to see Drew’s kind eyes attempting to dig deeply into my emotional wells. I offered a nod and, without a word, wrapped my arms around the man and wept. I wasn’t certain the tears were from an overflow of love or loss.
And then Drew whispered four words in my ear. I knew, without a single ounce of doubt, from whence the weeping stemmed.
“I miss him too.”
We stood there, the two of us, in the middle of the recording studio, locked in an embrace that not one living being could prevent. Drew and I shared a secret memory and a promise that, for the love of Al Fletcher, Die So Fluid would continue on.
Nothing would stop us now. Not critics, not labels, not dead twin sisters.
About the Author
Jack Wallen is a seeker of truth and a writer of words. Although he resides in the unlikely city of Louisville, Kentucky, he likes to think of himself more as an interplanetary soul … or so he tells the reflection in the mirror. He’s also the author of:
I Zombie I
My Zombie My
Die Zombie Die
Lie Zombie Lie
Cry Zombie Cry
Fry Zombie Fry
Buy Zombie Buy
Zombie Radio
Zombie Radio 2
Zombie Radio 3: Radio Chaos
T-Minus Zero
The Last Casket
Teenage Wasteland
Kiss & Hell
Punk Ass Punk
Suicide Station
Frankenstein Theory
Hell’s Muse
The Nails of Calvary
The Dark Seduction
Screampark
Klockwerk Kabaret
Tick Tock Girl
Shero
Shero II: Zombie A GoGo
Shero III: Death by Cosplay
A Blade Away
Gothica
Endgame
Control
Published by Devil Dog Press
A Tale of Two Reapers
