The Sodomite Trilogy Part 3:
ACQUARO
a white trash fantasy
by
Trevor R. Fairbanks
cover art by Paul Chatem
2014
Raw Youth Press #33
La Canada, California
U.S.A.
for Christie
“Yet in the blood of men there is a tide, an old seacurrent rather, that is somehow akin to twilight, which brings him rumors of beauty from however far away, as driftwood is found at sea from islands not yet discovered: and this spring-tide or current that visits the blood of man comes from the fabulous quarter of his lineage, from the legendary, the old; it takes him out of the woodlands, out to the hills, he listens to ancient song.”
--Lord Dunsany
“The Book of Wonder”
“The more crap you believe, the better off you
are.”
--Charles Bukowski
Prologue
Hector stood at the edge of the wash, just listening to the waters flow. It had been a hot year in the Lost City, and even though there had been yet another drought the wash was still full. However, the water was anything but life giving. It was murky and ankle high, crusted over with soap scum and other strange chemicals. But it still ran, like an untarnished element, trying to escape from its awful fate in the city.
He liked to come here and be alone, especially in the morning when most of the people in the city were still sleeping off their hang overs. Right now, he was running his thumb over the pewter horse, tracing the details with his finger. This was the last time, he promised himself, and thought about what he was here to do. He looked down at it. The pewter glimmered in the morning sunlight and the eye seemed to be staring at him, full of a still life. At least, he always supposed it was pewter, but it really could have been anything. Hector was no metalsmith and this metal was weird. It was warm, even on the coldest of days. And he could feel it pulse sometimes, especially when it was in his pocket, like it was in a cage and wanted to get out. Sometimes, late at night, he could see the eyes glowing in the darkness as they looked at him.
When he walked around the room the eyes never left him.
This little horse had been with him for a long time. It was there all through the turmoil with his band and the troubles with his father. It had been there when he had started doing porn and was the only thing left when all the girls vanished for greener pastures. It was the only thing he had, and it was a tie to a life he no longer wanted to lead.
Hector looked into those little ruby eyes one last time. He could almost hear the creature’s heartbeat, thudding against his palm. When he shut his eyes, he could still hear the thing snorting in his head. It had been a friend.
Then he told himself that the dream was over. She was gone, and with her everything that he ever wanted. The band was broken up, it was done. He never wanted to play drums again. His career as a fuck machine was finished. His penis hurt, and his heart ached.
He was only twenty-five years old and already washed up. The future felt like a dark cloud on the wrong side of town, coming to get him and take him away.
Hector wanted to go away. He wanted to go far away. The little horse would not be able to help him again. With a sigh he cocked his arm back and hurled the tiny piece as far as he could. In the distance there was a splash and just like that, the Quicksilver Stallion was gone forever. It would run with the river one last time, flowing out into whatever ocean would accept it.
The morning was silent except for the bubbling from the wash. The sunlight was purple, becoming yellow with slow exertions. Behind him the van was waiting on the tarmac. From now on it would be his home.
Because his apartment was gone, and the Lost City was making him sick. He was not coming back here, of that he was certain. All Hector really wanted was to be alone.
Only today there was someone else.
Red eyes stared at him from the gloom. They were small, standing as high as a child, and hiding behind a bush. It seemed to him that they glowed the same hue as the metal horse did on some nights, a peaceful scarlet if there could be such a thing. The color of tarnished rubies.
Hector took a step closer and the creature emerged from the shadows that were its home. A timid whine echoed in the nothing.
“Hello?”
But the beast did not answer. It was the size of a medium sized dog, but instead of a dog it was almost completely hairless. This was a creature of the desert winds and built for survival in the harshest environments.
Fangs dripped past its black lips, and its legs were long and thin, as if made for running. But its mouth was closed, and it was not running. It just sat there, staring up at him and waiting.
Hector stopped and looked deep into those eyes. The creature looked back and inhaled the cool morning air, trying to get the man’s scent. Between them something clicked. Of course, he knew what it was. Anyone living this close to Mexico would have recognized it. This was the infamous chupacabra. The goat-sucker of world renown. This was an animal that feasted on fresh blood.
But Hector felt no fear, and he did not want a picture to sell to some tabloid. Instead he pulled the small pen knife from his pocket and held it up carefully to show the beast he meant no harm. The tiny monstrosity looked at him with curiosity, cocking its head to one side like a dog. Hector smiled at him, then opened one of his fingers.
A droplet of ruby red gore flickered in the day star light. Now the creature was very interested and approached him, wagging its small tail like a happy puppy. Hector got down on one knee and held his hand out. After a time, the creature came closer, then softly licked his hand. Hector smiled and reached out to pet it. Scant bristly hair on the back of its neck scratched his hand like jagged sand paper. It drank, but only a few licks. Not enough to be satiated, but enough to earn trust.
The thing looked at him and its tongue happily wagged out of its mouth. And just like that they were friends forever. There was a sense between them. Neither one of them belonged here. Neither one of them wanted to stay here. There was another world out there, one that they were desperate to find.
“Come on,” he said, opening the driver side door of the van. “You can come with me.”
The chupacabra scrabbled and hopped into the passenger side seat as if it had just called shotgun. Hector got behind the wheel and started the old van up. It roared to life and the chupacabra whined along with the engine. He switched on the eight-track and let seventies acid rock flow through the speakers. He leaned back and took a deep breath.
“Good bye,” he whispered to the city.
The city was not listening.
The Newcomer
“What would I tell her, if I could tell her anything? Well, I wish that I could tell her that I had never met her. Really, that’s what I’d say. You know, something poetic. Only I suppose it’s a little too late for that. My perversions have returned to haunt me like ghosts in the morning. I am a prisoner of my own body. The physical chains will never set me free.”
No response from the chupacabra. Hector found himself talking to the little blood sucker often. Oddly enough, he made for a good traveling companion. Every time any words flashed in Hector’s mind he whispered them to his partner, and the Chupacabra proved to be the perfect listener. The thing did not speak.
In his loneliness, Hector had found this strange friendship and was grateful for it. He had never been much of a dog person. No one in his family was. Now he could see the attraction. It was nice to have something love him unconditionally, even if that something was a creature of myth.
The headlights strafed across a road sign. “NOW ENTERING VARMINT RANCH” it said. “POPULATION: 29.”
That was odd, Hector thought. It must have been a misprin
t. How could there be a town with only 29 people? It made no sense.
But then he started to wonder as things started to click. The town was seemingly empty. The lights were on, but no one was home. He passed by a string of houses, all of them dark except one. Then found himself on the main strip. There were businesses here, the typical stuff. A grocery store, a laundromat, a place that sold women’s shoes, etc. But no shoppers. No people. Nothing.
It was late at night, he figured. Everyone must have been in bed asleep like all good people in small towns. Which was where he should be, he thought.
Hector had been driving all day and he was exhausted. Even the chupacabra had curled up in the passenger side seat, sound asleep, snoring softly, and dreaming of fresh goat blood. The bed in the back of the van was starting to look very inviting.
“But I’m going to stop here for a minute first,” he said, pulling the van into the lot of the liquor store. Luckily it was still open. As the van turned off the chupacabra sat up, instantly awake. It sniffed the air, trying to find a scent of something. Blood, most likely. Hector look into those little scarlet eyes and decided that he needed some time alone. They both did. “So, go find some road kill or something.” He slid the door open and the Mexican vampire hopped out, scrabbling off into the night on those sharp claws. He would be back, Hector knew. They were the best of friends now. Invisible bonds kept them together that were tighter than any leash.
Grateful to be free, the chupacabra took to the shadows, were his kind belonged. Hector wanted to follow only another perversion was calling to him. One as dire, and certainly as depressing, as the
chupacabra’s.
He wondered where he was. He knew he had left California behind miles ago. Out here the air felt like the desert, warm against his skin but with that edge of biting cold that only true emptiness brings. Blood could already be found in the air, and the chupacabra’s unerring nose brought him right to it. A large squirrel lay at the edge of the highway, even though there were no trees. It had been killed by a wayward motorist. Possibly it was a pet that had escaped its slavery.
Anyway, the body was still fresh, even if it was cold. The chupacabra drank greedily, burying his entire snout in the carcass, then licked at the exposed bones. Hector watched for a minute and wondered if he had made a mistake in finding this new friend. But then he realized he was bigger than the chupacabra. He could take it in a fight if it came down to it. Besides, the liquor store beckoned, and he wanted some flesh of his own.
It was quiet. The Asian kid working behind the counter did not even look up as he entered, so engrossed with whatever book he was reading. He was safely sealed behind bullet-proof glass and did not say Hi! when he came in. Hector didn’t bother to say Hi! either, just headed towards the magazine rack. All his dreams were centered right there, and he chose a few good ones.
The kid did not even look up when he made his purchase. He said nothing as Hector handed over a credit card. “Hey, could I get a bag?” Hector asked as the kid swiped the card.
The kid did so, shoveling everything into a brown paper bag but never taking his eyes off that book. Hector caught a glimpse of it through the bullet- proof glass. It was a text book, something about science. He must have been a student at a college somewhere.
Good for you, Hector thought. Do anything to get out of this damn one-horse town, even become a rocket scientist.
The store bell chimed then faded off as Hector walked out. Under his right arm he had the paper bag that he clutched tightly. Inside were rolled magazines and a pack of cigarettes. The beer he carried in his free hand. He was across the parking lot before anyone could see him, ducking into the van as if he was trying to hide something. He was. Himself.
The van looked out of place in this concrete nightmare. It belonged in the national forests on a small camp ground, not here. The van was run down, crafted in an age before this, an age of motor homes and open highways before the Internet came along and destroyed everything. And maybe the van should have been junked a long time ago, any self-respecting family knew that. But it could get Hector from point A to point B without any hassle. It was also the only home he had.
Hector slid open the side door. He had not bothered to lock it. His liquor store runs were always brief, quick and to the point. He got what he needed and left. There was no time for anyone to break in and even if they did, he had nothing to steal. Unless someone happened to be in the market for a seriously used drum set, empty beer cans, or a modest collection of stroke books.
The chupacabra was still gone. Good. Between the two of them the van had become a total mess. Spent bags of potato chips lay everywhere, casting up half devoured remains from their slick silver mouths. And the van smelled of stale blood and lost innocence.
Wasted beer cans and bottles were the only true decor, sprawled everywhere in a hideous approximation of modern art. The tiny sink next to the toilet was clogged, and dirty water splashed whenever he took a turn too hard. There was a small microwave oven, covered in multi-colored stains until it matched the ugly throw cushions that had been thrown on the floor. There were so many browns and reds, everything inside was like a psychedelic nightmare.
Then there was the drum set, which probably should have been hocked for beer money long ago. Pieces of it were everywhere. Broken sticks. Cracked cymbals that had no stands. The actual kit itself was stacked behind the bed, where it slowly gathered dust even on the road. When he started driving he could hear the belt on the snare rattle. Hector liked that sound, even if it annoyed the chupacabra. It reminded him of where he had come from and, hopefully, where he was going.
The knee-high refrigerator was only used for beer, and the little latch that kept it closed while the van was in motion had snapped off. Hector did not have the know-how to fix it but that was okay. He was a white trash kid. He liked his beer warm.
Of course, the van had not always belonged to him. No way could a struggling drummer afford to buy a van like this, even one so old. Originally it had belonged to his father and he had turned the cabin into a size-able, if miniature, living quarters. There was a bed and a table. A sink and a toilet. A refrigerator and a microwave. All the comforts of home. A man could live here if he only learned how to adapt.
Now his father was dead, and Hector was learning to adapt. He locked the door and made sure to pull the drapes shut. The last thing he needed was someone sneaking up on him. Night was a dangerous time to seek out privacy in a van like this. It had tinted windows but when the lights were on he could easily have been seen from outside.
But who was he trying to hide from? This was a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. 29 people lived here. It was not even a good truck stop. Besides, what did he care what other people thought? He did not know this city or this town. He was going to leave soon anyway so it did not really matter.
With that in mind he drifted into the bedroom, clutching his prized paper bag, and switched on the small saucer shaped light set into the shag-carpeted ceiling.
The room was dim, but there was enough light for what he needed to do. Hector scattered the contents of the bag all over the unmade bed. He had a pack of cigarettes and the magazines. Hector went to them first, descending the same way the chupacabra had descended on the roadkill earlier. He tore open the plastic coverings to get at the literature inside. They were slick and glossy and dirty. Neither of them came from Warren Falconer. No, tonight was a Daily sort of night. They reeked of a prostitute’s perfume.
On the cover of the first was a soft blonde woman, spreading herself thin. The title of this mag was “Tomboy.” It was one of his favorites. A thought struck him.
Last year he had been on a shoot for this very magazine. Now he was about to jack off to it. If he had to come up with a word for it that word would be relapse.
Hector thought about how much he hated pornography. He hated how sick it made him feel to see these women doing these disgusting things to their bodies, slaving away to satisfy the sick fantasies of men
like him. How disgusting he felt, looking at oiled flesh filled to bursting with silicone, and the people between the covers rolling over one another in mocking acts of love. Hector knew that there was no love here, only lust as every orifice was filled. And the worst was to come.
He hated the pictures of men the most, especially when they started to orgasm. The women pretended to enjoy it, loving the gooey ministrations of their awful mates. They were covered in wet pearls, white skin dripping with dead children, and smiling like it was Christmas.
But Hector knew these girls. They were never happy. Never. And neither was he.
No one should look at this. It was like watching a murder. It was something no eye should have to see, something that should be locked away behind iron doors, hidden from dirty minds. But Hector was looking. Hector was opening the awful doors in his head and he was going inside. He could not stop himself. He was an addict. Relapse. This was relapse.
“How the mighty have fallen,” he said to himself as he slipped off his pants, careful to remove them over the erection. They were an old pair of jeans, torn and faded. They scraped his skin raw, so it felt good to be naked from the waist down. He casually tossed them over the captain’s chair like a white trash playboy.
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