The Trouble In Dogflat Hollow

by Cameron Sword

  Pumpkin Eater, as he was known to many of the locals, sat at a cluttered desk stabbing keys on a computer and manning the mechanism that opened the gate. Beside him, stacked haphazardly, were heaps of cheap plastic harps.

  With a contemptuous wave, Pumpkin Eater summoned a would-be entrant to step forward.

  “Gerald ‘The Throat’ Selbano.”

  Pumpkin Eater had a funeral director’s demeanor, perpetually moist hands and a stern, stentorian voice. Gerald, bleeding from a head wound, stepped forward, clearing his throat, forcing a smile.

  “Yes sir.”

  “How do you plead?”

  “I plead ignorance.”

  Pumpkin Eater studied his computer screen for a moment, unimpressed by the data staring back at him. He looked up, no flexibility in his voice.

  “Five million demerits accrued over thirty-nine short years. Quite an unacceptable tally, Mr. Selbano.”

  “Okay, it’s like this, man. Sure, I’ve done some stuff, but I know my rights. When I was lying on the sidewalk, bleeding to death like that, I looked skyward and I asked for forgiveness. The good book says that’s all I needed to do, repent before it’s too late. I repented.”

  “I see. Then your ignorance plea does not apply. Good-bye.”

  Pumpkin Eater worked a lever that operated a sliding floor panel, sending Gerald tumbling into an abyss.

  Torchlight illuminated a mud floor, which bubbled like a hot spring. Gerald materialized, splashing in, landing hard.

  Waiting eagerly for his arrival, a long-tailed, horned guard manhandled him and led him away, prodding him in the back with a sharp trident. Out of the darkness, faint, disembodied voices moaned in tortured agony. The ancient Greeks named this place Tartaros.

  Staan barely noticed Gerald’s arrival as he sat in his impressive windowed office overlooking a series of muddy arrival dungeons. Looking confident, but concerned, he was fixated instead on live images of Ouranos. Dozens of them on computer screens on his desk.

  Working a grain of tobacco to the tip of his tongue, Staan spit as he consulted a pair of digital thermometers. One registered 212 degrees Fahrenheit, the other 100 degrees Celsius. Why was he still a bit chilly?

  One of his cronies, a short disfigured man, wearing burnt clothes, still smoldering, stepped forward pointing out one of the computer screens.

  “I don’t like this. The reception is too good. I think it’s a trick.”

  Staan had a tail, and it whipped up like a scorpion’s, stinging the disfigured man on the neck.

  “Silence! Do not presume to know how I have developed my surveillance equipment. We shall see everything clearly now. And soon, they will be receiving my transmissions… so… Jon is scheming to take a little trip, is he?”

  “What are we going to do, Boss? He has such power.”

  Taking exception to the disfigured man’s choice of words, Staan stung him again, harder this time, sending him reeling.

  “You ignorant slime! He has no power! I have power! He has but influence.”

  And, as Staan stood there threateningly over the cowering creature, the poor little guy could only manage a feeble apology.

  “I’m sorry… for being so slow to understand… power, influence… English was not my first language.”

  “Let me then draw the distinction for you, little man. With his influence, he must persuade people to do his will, but I, with my power, can order them to do mine!”

  “I lay before you humbled, Master. What is your command? What shall I do?”

  “You? Nothing, you fool. I’ve already done all that needs to be done.”

  Jon sat on his favorite hillside overlooking Ouranos, whittling away on a fresh piece of wood, fashioning another dog. Virginia approached.

  “Bichon Frise?”

  “Griffon Bruxellois. Not as cheerful and affectionate as the Bichon Frise but then again, I wouldn’t know.”

  Virginia extracted a dossier she had hidden in the pleats of her robe and dropped it by his side, startling him.

  “I hope you can appreciate how difficult that was to obtain. Soul reports are highly confidential. Took all I could do to sneak it out unnoticed. You wanted to know who in Dogflat Hollow harbors the darkest soul, there’s your answer. Happy Birthday.”

  What? Had Virginia actually decided to help him? Jon grabbed the folder, jumping to his feet with excitement, opening it to see a photograph of Grace Hallond. Prominent eyes, a full mouth, greasy limp brown hair straining over her temples. She appeared diffident, paralyzed. Hey, it was a mug shot.

  “Her name is Grace Hallond.” Virginia said.

  “My goodness, she looks just like Mary Magdalene.”

  Virginia slapped him across the face. Whack!

  “Mom. What manner of communication was that?”

  “You will keep your hands to yourself this time.”

  Jon faked a cough, fighting to suppress an involuntary facial tic. Virginia continued to eye him over a moment of silence, distrustful. She finally snatched the soul report from him and gave it a read.

  “A complete waste of a life is what this is. Abandoned at birth, raised by multiple uncaring foster parents, young offender since age twelve, several arrests and convictions. Hmm, this is odd. She moonlights as a police informant/sympathizer.”

  “What’s the nature of her greatest transgression?”

  “She’s a prostitute.”

  “Really?”

  Whack! Virginia slapped him again, harder this time, wiping the smirk from his face. Jon clarified things for her.

  “What I meant was – really? A prostitute? That’s all?”

  “I’m starting to have second thoughts about this.”

  “Don’t you see what I’m getting at, Mom? This is a perfect example why we can’t trust this new demerit system of Pumpkin Eater’s. I ask you, how can a prostitute possibly be the worst person in Dogflat Hollow?”

  “You’re calling him Pumpkin Eater now?”

  “Everyone does.”

  “To his face?”

  “Sometimes. He’s not too fond of it, but it fits. He loves pumpkins, ate an entire twelve pounder in a single serving once. I was there.”

  Virginia shook her head, disappointed with her son all of a sudden. If they ever decided to elect a queen of political correctness, she’d be wearing a crown.

  “If he’s not too fond of it, should you be referring to him by that name at all?” she asked.

  “He calls me Pinky Boy.”

  “What?”

  “He considers me effeminate because I’m not a brute like he is. I wear it as a badge of honor.”

  Virginia shook her head once again. Boys just never really fully grow up do they?

  “His demerit system is flawed, Mom. You’re holding the proof.”

  A group of plastic harp-toting hikers approached, forcing Virginia to conceal the report under the pleats of her robe once again.

  “I need to return this before someone finds it missing. Is there any way I can talk you out of going through with this madness?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Very well then. Walk with me.”

  It was during that stroll that Virginia discussed her plans for her role in his scheme. How she was going to help, what exactly she was willing to do and how she was going to implement it.

  As far as trendy Los Angeles cafes went, this one was nothing special, which was why Brandon Rogers III and his tailored tuxedo stood out. He sat, sipping a latte, reading the article in Forbes Magazine about Yves LaPomme.

  Essentially, the article chronicled LaPomme’s unlikely meteoric rise from nothing to become the wealthiest, most powerful man on the planet. It was as if LaPomme was a modern day King Midas – everything he touched turned to gold.

  Fusco’s car pulled up across the street, Grace dry heaving out the passenger window. Nearby, a group of kids break danced in a dusty playground to rap music.

  Fusco slapped a handkerchief over his mouth and kept it there.


  “That does sound viral. You should see a doctor.”

  Grace pointed out the kids.

  “Look at this.” she said, disgusted.

  “What?”

  “This.”

  “Kids break dancing?”

  “The music. I used to think disco would be the worst type ever invented. I was wrong.”

  “Some of it’s not so bad.”

  “You like rap music?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Are you telling me you actually listen to the stuff?”

  “My kids listen to it. Some of it’s not so bad, okay?”

  “Wow. Old farts appreciate rap music now. The world must be coming to an end.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Grace moved to engage the cigarette lighter as she produced a pack of smokes but Fusco deflected her arm, engaging the lighter himself.

  “Don’t touch anything. I didn’t make myself clear enough?”

  “Why are we stopped?” she asked, trying her best to tune out the music.

  Fusco pointed out Rogers III.

  “Over there, the one in the tux, reading the mag. His name is Brandon Rogers III, old money. I hear he lives in a castle in England somewhere, great-grandson of one of those turn of the century British industrialists.”

  “And?”

  “He’s after somebody. A Wall Street scumbag named Lance Foster. Apparently, the guy stiffed him with a bunch of fraudulent stock and now he wants to get even. Claims Foster carries his entire office around with him in his briefcase and that’s what you’ll be after. He figures it’ll be enough to put him out of business.”

  “Roll up my window.”

  “Are you listening to me?”

  “You told me not to touch anything.”

  Fusco engaged the button that rolled up the passenger window, sending it into a tight seal that helped drown out the music.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Feeling less inclined to punch you in the face now, yeah. Go on.”

  “You meet with Foster, do your thing, take the briefcase. That’s it.”

  “This sounds like a law enforcement issue. Why don’t you take him down?”

  “This is personal. Rogers doesn’t want a public record detailing how he got played like a cheap fiddle, guy’s got a legitimate privacy issue here.”

  “Uh-huh. What’s your end?”

  “Nothing. I owe him a favor.”

  Grace just kept staring at him. In the entire time she’d known Fusco, he’d never done anything for free. The prick didn’t even tip. Ever. He finally relented as he lit her cigarette.

  “A couple of hundred. I have to eat too, you know.”

  “Well, get on a diet. I’m out.”

  “What?”

  “I made a resolution a while back to always listen to my gut, especially when I’m dealing with you. And right now my gut is telling me something’s not right.”

  “Come on, don’t make me look like an asshole. Foster’s flying in from New York in three days. You get him up to his hotel room, drug him, take his briefcase. Easiest five hundred you’ll ever make. On top of whatever else you manage to negotiate from him for your services.”

  “Drive me home.”

  “What the hell, Gracie. Just spit it out then. What’s it gonna take to get you in?”

  And after a not so brief moment of keeping him waiting…

  “My parole officer is threatening to have me arrested on some pretty serious bogus charges if I don’t turn tricks for his friends.”

  “Yeah, I know, I’ll talk to him, I told you.”

  “Today?”

  “Soon. Okay? Are we set then?”

  “I want a thou. Half up front.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Hey, you asked what it would take to get me in. I’m telling you.”

  “You’re killing me over here. Rogers won’t pay that kind of money.”

  “Then he’ll have to find another way to protect his legitimate privacy issue.”

  “Maybe I can talk him into seven fifty.”

  “Take me home, Bill.”

  “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do. Let’s go, I’ll introduce you.”

  Transporter rooms aren’t supposed to look this dusty or technologically challenged, but this one was certainly showing its age. Jon stood motionless in a transporter circle, wearing only a loincloth. Virginia stood by his side.

  “Listen very carefully” she said, “because I’m about to set the ground rules. Number one. Absolutely no miracles. Zero, you understand?”

  “Why?”

  “Are you kidding me? You know how they disturb the natural order of things. How would I explain to your father why his universe is reverberating? It’s not like there are a glut of prophets or saints down there anymore, you know. Where would I point the finger, who could I blame?”

  “I see your point.”

  “Number two. Keep a low profile. If people find out who you are and start praying, well… you know who’ll be listening. All prayers must be answered.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. Finally, and most importantly, promise me you won’t interfere with events that lead to the Day of Reckoning. You’re going down to save one soul, not 5.3 billion.”

  “I promise.”

  “Say it again.”

  “I promise. Can we just do this please? I’m cold.”

  “In a minute. Remember, you only have until the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. The stroke of midnight, you understand?”

  Jon nodded as he stood there shivering. Virginia kissed him on the cheek, tucking a credit card into his waistband in the same smooth motion. American Express. Member since day one.

  “That’s money. Use it every time you purchase goods or services and it’ll keep an automatic tally. No need to struggle with math this time around. Mr. Pythagoras’ idea.”

  “He knows about this?”

  “Don’t worry. Your father tries to avoid him as much as you do. Now, if you find it necessary to cut the trip short for any reason, repeat the word ‘claustrophobia’ three times. I’ll have an extraction team standing by. Ready?”

  “I’ll be dressed when I arrive, right? You’re sending clothes.”

  “You’ll be clothed by the time you get there. And you’ll have six days, not seven. It’s already well after midnight.”

  Jon nodded. She worked a lever. Jon vanished into thin air.

  December 26, 1989 – 3:19 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

  The sun had set and this was the type of urban alley you’d never feel safe in, day or night. Filthy. Graffiti-laden. Rat-infested.

  A flashing billboard overlooking a nearby boulevard read: JESUS IS COMING. ARE YOU PREPARED?

  It wasn’t long before a thin laser beam of light streaked down from the heavens, giving birth to Jon as he materialized among the trash. To his dismay, he found that he could barely move because he was cinched tight in a swaddle.

  Very unfortunate because a garbage truck was backing out of the alley, heading right for him, about to crush him. He managed to recite only one and a half claustrophobias before the sickening squish stirred Buddy from his restful sleep inside the rusting skeleton of an abandoned automobile a short distance away.

  Buddy cleared his eyes; approached to investigate. By the time he got there, the garbage truck was long gone and curiously, the only thing left was a bloodied swaddle. No remains of Jon’s body. Poor little creature, Buddy thought, whatever it was that just got pulverized. Probably in a better place now though.

  Buddy snapped a Polaroid of the swaddle and yawned, placing the photo in an old satchel he carried around that he specifically used, not only to house his camera, but also to house and protect his pictures. He made his way back to bed.

  Virginia was not looking very happy as she regarded Jon who was standing in a transporter circle once again, wiping a tire mark from his face.

  “Three full days to resurrect.” she groa
ned. “That leaves only three more left. I’m imploring you. Abort.”

  “Pull that lever, Mom.”

  December 29, 1989 – 3:25 a.m. Pacific Standard Time

  The same billboard flashed near the same alley. This time however, in the alley, a street thug was holding a switchblade to his victim’s throat, demanding cash. The victim rummaged for his wallet as a thin laser beam of light gave birth to Jon. Swaddled yet again.

  Jon’s eyes flashed furiously, scouting for a garbage truck but it wasn’t there this time. Hopefully, it had already come and gone.

  His sudden arrival frightened the crap out of the thug and victim alike though. Fumbling with his switchblade, the thug dropped it as he scampered off in a panic, his victim hot on his tail.

  Jon tried to wriggle free but it was useless. He spotted the switchblade and shimmied for it as a mangy dog happened on the scene, taking exception to Jon’s presence, baring its teeth, growling menacingly.

  Pumpkin Eater stabbed keys on his computer, summoning the next would-be entrant, an elderly woman, to approach.

  “Jocelyn Elizabeth Brennan.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “How do you plead?”

  “Innocent.”

  Pumpkin Eater hissed a column of air through his teeth. Innocent. Nobody was innocent. As he continued to tap his keyboard, his computer suddenly broke down.

  “Martyred mother of Zacharia!” he shouted.

  He continued to fiddle with the contraption but all he was getting were blue screens and error messages. Ouranos, it turned out, also suffered through the vagaries associated with the early days of computing. Frustrated, Pumpkin Eater motioned for Jocelyn to step even closer.

  “Step forward and bow thy head.”

  Jocelyn obeyed, confused, leery. Pumpkin Eater stretched out worn, blunted fingers and plucked a single strand of hair from her head.

  “Step back.” he grunted, sounding even more belligerent now.

  She did. Pumpkin Eater took his time rolling the strand of hair between his fingertips, finally finding her terrified gaze…