“More and more priests came, throwing water on me, but nothing changed. I was still urinating. The priests were told to wear race car helmets when they came over. It was for their protection – to keep them clean and smelling real good. No one understood my pissing. I kept telling them I was an artist. Some people used fancy paints and pencils. I was original. You see, it all seemed so normal to me. I wasn't attacking people and disgracing their faces, I was just being artistic. I could never tell if it was me talking or Shoehorn. Very confusing.
“Then one day, a nun came over, all dressed in white. Dad said she was special – that she came alll the way from Rome. The nun wasn't going to pour water or any liquid over me, and for that, I was grateful. At that point in my life, I was tied to the bed and very stink. The nun looked me over, wrote in her notebook, and told dad that I was a real mess. Only my father could save me. Only the other half of my soul could save me. The stronger side of my soul could save me. My soul mate. Dad said that he WAS my father. But the nun shook her head. Dad wasn't my true father. He might have been my physical father...but not my spiritual father.”
And with that said, Shells touched my hand, squeezing it.
“You are,” she said.
We were both crying.
Five minutes after Lynn went off to work, and Shells went off to bed, there was a knock at the door. I was about to head into the shower, so I had just a towel wrapped around my boney waist when I opened the door. I looked down to see a boy looking up at me.
“Can I help you, boy?” I asked.
He frowned.
“I'm no 'boy',” he said. “I'm a midget.”
My face turned red.
“Sorry,” I said, stepping aside. “Please...step into my office.”
He walked in with a brown bag. He had my flier in his other hand.
“My name is Kopit Kityur. I hear you hunt zombies,” he said. “I have a job for you.”
I was relieved to hear it. I didn't want anymore exorcism gigs. I wasn't good at it. Zombie hunting, that was something I was eager to do. Those jobs made me feel useful – and that was the point of living, no? Feeling useful?
The midget opened his bag and looked in. He seemed concerned. “I didn't know how much to pay you....”
I raised my hand.
“Don't worry. I take what you can give. Tell me more about your problem, Mr. Kopit.”
He nodded and turned around, talking to the window, to the Moon.
“I own a hostel in Waikiki called Mahalo House. Three days ago, I did my alcoholic cousin, Hanns, a favor and gave him a free room. That was a mistake. He over-drank, and I guess his liver exploded. But that wasn't all. As we know, Mr. Boss, Waikiki is flooded with prostitutes. They saunter around, shaking their tails for a few bucks, tempting good Catholics and Mormons and Protestants...and my cousin was no exception.” He shook his head, looking at his feet. “Dammit, Hanns....I always told you, just stay away from dem whores! Oh, noooo....” He turned to me. “Sniffing something awful, I ran up to his room. Blood ran out from under the door. I kicked the damn thing down and found Hanns on the floor, naked with a big, purple bruise on the side of his stomach. His eyes were open; and I knew he was DEAD.
“An equally naked woman was nearby, sitting on the couch. She had a beer in one hand and a needle in another – literally sticking out from the top of her hand, like someone stabbed her. A cigarette was in her mouth, and it had lit her whole head on fire. The flames were crazy, and I started to panic! I took off my shoes and started hitting her with them. Luckily, I was able to put the damn thing out before she burned the whole place down. Damn whores....I just don't understand them. The room was then filled with a strange sound, and I looked up and saw a mini, cloudy sky on the ceiling. It turned clockwise...made a popping sound. Things were in them – weird things...weird lights...weird moaning. I saw demon-faces. They flew out and went into Hanns and his prostitute. Their bodies twitched, like they had stuck their fingers in an outlet, and they stood up....They walked towards me, arms out, eyes red as gunshot wounds, tongues flapping in their mouths....They came right at me!”
The midget fell to his knees.
“It was horrible....” he said. “I ran out of there. This is bad for business, Mr. Boss. You can see that, can't you? Please....Help me.”
“Hmm,” I said. “Are they still in there?”
He thought for a second, standing up and dusting himself.
“I think so. YES. I remember now that I locked the door behind me.” He held my hand. “That hostel was handed down to me by my father. I loved him very much. He built his business during the 20's. He trusted me. I have to treat it well. I can't fail him.”
I walked him to the front door.
“I understand,” I said. “What's the address?”
He smiled and told me, reaching in his pocket for some keys.
Before I left, I woke Shells up and told her I had to go to work.
She said she understood...and for me to be careful.
I kissed her forehead.
Sweet kid.
Waikiki at night always made me feel dirty.
Here was a place spilling with drunken military people. They always seemed to be looking for fights. The streets were filled with slow-moving cars and cops and whores, and homosexuals that treated Waikiki like Halloween. Many arrests. You'd always hear a hip car go by – they'd always have a large speaker in the trunk. It was for attention, of course. The bass would send vibrations up and down your legs. At night, all the freaks come out to play. I walked with my head down, wondering how many of these people went to church. How many of them were God-fearing? How could they let themselves go? A very disrupting feeling in the air. Bad vibes. Uncertain frequencies. Anything could happen....And I hated that feeling. I needed control.
The bars spewed people – drunks. My ears were filled with a mix of all sorts of music: Country, R&B, Rock. My eardrums wanted to vomit.
A fight broke out in the middle of the street. White guys with military haircuts, dressed in bluejeans and polo shirts with the collars up, ran out from bars and formed a big circle. My heart raced. Big, muscular guys that meant business. Totally unpredictable personalities, capable of anything, afraid of nothing. Real men. I can't be seen. I forced my tiny body across the street to avoid that wild mess of screaming men & women and the thudding of fist on flesh. The crowd parted a bit, and I caught a glimpse of the combatants. A black army-man in full soldier attire, fighting with a Chinese biker-guy.
No one stopped them. I began to wonder, was this how it was in Waikiki during the 60's? 50's? 40's? Probably. Most definitely. Things never change, do they?
Where were the police? I imagined myself running in there – into that mob – and stopping the fight, telling everyone to go home. They'd respect me – be afraid of me, this little guy that meant business.
Crazy drunks. Crazy, bored tourists. To be honest, I feared those people more than the zombies.
Welcome to Waikiki.
I kept seeing these posters all over the place. They read, “Wanted! Have you seen this man?” There was a crude sketch of a man with an eye patch on them. Of ME. Apparently, I was wanted for kidnapping.
Goddamn.
I reached the hostel and walked up to the room the client told me about. Indeed, the smell was bad. My nose caved in. I took out the keys and opened the door. The place made me gag – turned my stomach. Those eggs were coming back up. I bit down on my hand to regain my control. It worked. I walked to the refrigerator and looked inside. I opened a soda and took a sip, soothing my innards.
No sight of the zombies.
The place was quiet.
But not quite.
There was a very soft sighing sound.
I walked to the bedrooms. The first one was filled with empty potato chip bags – hundreds of them, all littering the floor. Roaches saw me and froze. I walked to the next room...and saw the zombies. They were on the bed – sitting on the edge of the bed, eating something
that looked like....
They were eating themselves.
The man was eating his own hand, and the woman....She was eating her own breast. The left one. I turned away for a second but then remembered I had a job to do. I reached back and pulled out my knives. The zombies were at me. They were faster than what I was accustomed to. They speed-walked! I couldn't believe it. I remembered Nora saying something about how zombies run sometimes, but I thought it was just a myth.
I went, “Yarrghh!” and fell back into the hallway, right through the wall, landing on my butt. I was in the bathroom, and my head had hit the toilet. Blood came out and covered my face. Those hyper zombies were at the hole in the wall, sniffing the air. My brain locked.
Now what???
I sat up, and the zombies were on me, holding me to the floor. I raised my knee and got the male in the genitals. He make a retching sound, and two bloody round things landed on my chest (I was lucky they didn't get all over my face). The female tore at my hair. I kicked the male away and grabbed the female's head and forced her face down the toilet, slamming the cover on her and pressing down hard – bashing her head over and over until I saw brain shoot out from her ears. She was still. The male growled and came at me again. I turned around and did a roundhouse kick and took its head off. It landed in the sink, looking around confused, mouth shaping vowels. The female came to and moved around. I took off the top toilet lid – damn thing was heavy – and slammed it over her head. She just blew up, and I made sure to shut my eyes and my mouth. I stumbled over to the bathroom sink. I washed her goo off my face. The zombie man's head was looking up at me. I picked it up by the hair and whacked it against the wall a few times until the skull cracked and green stuff came out. I had to jump back, not wanting that crap on my shoes.
I yelled, “Yaaa!” and threw the head down on the tiles, then grabbed that heavy toilet lid and dropped it on the head. It cracked in two, and the eyeballs came rolling out.
I stepped on them, and that was that.
After showering while trying to swat flies away from my face, I went outside and made my way to the nearest bus stop. I tore away as many of those dumb “Wanted!” signs as I could get my hands on, crumpling them up and tossing them behind bushes. I looked down at my feet and let my bangs cover my face when people walked by. One time, I heard a couple whispering to themselves, staring at me, pointing at me, so I sped up and turned a corner. I was having trouble breathing. My mind was betraying me: I kept getting visions of prison – hardcore prison, where they pass you around for cigarettes and do things to your body that make the baby Jesus cry.
I heard a woman arguing with someone.
Not being able to see too far, I squinted and slowly made my way toward her. It was a prostitute. She was trying to get out of a car. A real fancy one, too. The doors didn't open sideways, they went UP. It was a DeLorean, just like the one in Back To The Future. I was impressed and immediately jealous. The woman kept getting pulled back in. She screamed and whacked the guy – hitting him with her purse. She looked at me.
It was Lynn.
A look of shame crossed her face. Before she could say anything, the driver pulled her back in, and one of her high heels flew off and hit some woman in the eye. I ran to Lynn and grabbed her foot and pulled. The man inside was an older gentleman with white hair and a cigar in his mouth.
“Let go, you fool!” he yelled at me.
Lynn snarled at me.
“Get out of here, Boss!” she said. “Leave!”
That old man yanked on her hair.
“Gimme back my money!” he kept saying. “Gimme back my money, you useless whore!”
That old man began punching her in the face. I dove in with my elbow out – like a damn torpedo – and got him right in the nose. Blood shot out in clumps, and he slapped his hands over his face, crying like a baby, just, “Wah! Wah! Wahhhh!”
It was a little disturbing.
I took Lynn by the hand and dragged her away.
“Let go of me!” she said, hitting me with her purse. “You shouldn't be here, Boss! He'll see you!”
I was about to ask her a whole bunch of questions, when a beefy hand clamped down on my shoulder. My knees buckled, and I was on the ground, kissing concrete.
Slovoth had his other hand in Lynn's purse, digging around.
“Where's my money? I know it's in here, dammit,” he said.
Lynn was kicking him in the knees.
“Let go of him!”
He grabbed her face...and pushed hard. Lynn stumbled back about twenty feet, landed on her ass, and I heard something crack. She cried out. It was something I never heard before – a horrible sound of pain, like someone strangling a cat.
“My back....”
She said it soft, like it hurt too much to even speak up.
“My back, my back, my back. Jesus, my back....”
I took hold of Slovoth's fingers and bent them until they snapped. He shrieked like a fancy school girl and let me go. He brought his hand up to his face, holding his wrist, staring and drooling over his broken fingers. His hand reminded me of a swastika. I took him by the hair made his face meet my knee. He bounced back and did a cartwheel through the air, landing on a passing dog. The owner, he screamed and ran off, his dog whining behind him. At this point, a crowd had gathered, mainly military folk, men and women, black, white, Asian. They formed a circle around us. I jumped on Slovoth and bit him – sunk my teeth into his neck, his arms, his stomach, his nipples, and I tore away much flesh. All my anger just went into each bite, and I snarled and made wicked animal sounds as I worked. I felt alive! It felt right!
I helped Slovoth up by his broken fingers. He spat in my face. I punched him right between the eyes. My hand cracked a little, and the pain was like lightning shooting up my arm. The crowd cheered. They clapped and cheered for me, and it felt good.
Some of the people watching were looking at me all funny...like they somehow knew me. Many of them were on their phones. I heard police sirens in the distance. Slovoth just stood there on wobbly knees, head spinning, eyes to the stars – just standing there, covered in bite marks. Pieces of him – chunks of him – were all over the place, steaming, nerves twitching. I shoved my finger in my mouth and felt around, picking and spitting out whatever remained of Slovoth between my teeth. I pulled Lynn up and was about to walk away, when a van pulled up.
It opened, and the Pope reached out for my hand. His goons helped us in, and we drove off. I looked out the back window and saw that crowd running after us – cheering at us.
At me.
The walls of the van were covered in what appeared to be kid-drawings: There was one of a man conquering a tall demon and one of the same man fighting on the street. The man had an eye patch, and it didn't take me long to realize that it was me. That same woman I saw earlier – the one with the wires coming out of her head – was there, still sitting in the dark next to the doctor. A crayon was in her hand, and she was drawing something: Me in a giant van, surrounded by some people. She stared at me, and I was impressed how she could draw so well without looking down. Lynn had her head on my lap. She stared up at me. It was like I could read her mind.
Everything will be all right, she was saying. I won't let anything happen to you, she was saying. I love you. Boss, I hope you can hear me. Hear me, she was saying. Boss...I love you. I will always love you, no matter what happens.
I ran my fingers through her hair.
“I know,” I said. “I love you, too.”
She smiled.
A throat next to me grunted. That Pope held out his little offering plate.
“I think you know what I want,” he said, shaking the plate. I was drawing a blank. What was he talking about? The Pope seemed to understand. He smiled. “That little gig you did at that house – with the giant demon. Our holy psychic got the vision a little late, so we couldn't get there in time to collect. But now that we're finally all together....” He shook the plate again. A few coins were in i
t.
So I paid them their share. I figured it was fair. They DID just save us from the cops.
I reached back and took out my wallet. The Pope's eyes grew wiiiiiiiide in anticipation. He licked his lips. Before I could place the money on his rattan plate, the van JUMPED, and we all flew up into the air and hit the ground hard. The Pope's goons were moaning and massaging their limbs and their heads and grabbing at one another, helping one another. The van made a loud scream, took a tight right turn, and then...SPLASH. I just knew...I just knew we were in the Ala Wai Canal. Bad water. Bad sewage. A man died in that canal. After a fight, covered in bruises, he fell in and went to the hospital. His body pretty much swelled to a comedic state, and he blew the hell up. I just kept thinking, Don't fall in. The last thing you wanna do is open your mouth, eyes, or ass. All holes are doomed. All-holes-are-doomed.
The van was on its side.
Everyone was in a mad panic, stepping over themselves. I caught a glimpse of the Pope. His goons were running all over his head, crushing him. They had no idea what they were doing. One of them reached UP and pulled the side door open and climbed out – they all climbed out, thanking Jesus and kissing the air. The van began to sink – it rumbled. A black box labeled “Van Tools” slid next to my foot. I heard the goons outside screaming. It was a fight! I could hear meat being tenderized. I grabbed Lynn and pushed her UP through the van's side door.
“My back....” Lynn begged.
“Jump down,” I told her. “I'm right behind you.” I looked down and saw the holy psychic and her doctor. They just sat there, smiling at me, holding each other. I was about to say something, but the psychic seemed to already know, which makes sense.
“We're staying,” she said. “Our time has come.”
The doctor nodded.
“I've been praying for this glorious day!”
And then they embraced and kissed in a sloppy way, hands going into greasy areas. I believed they were turned on. So be it. Lynn jumped, and I heard a splash, followed by her screaming out in pain. I climbed up and looked around. A cool breeze slapped me in the face, and I got goosebumps. All these people were standing on their balconies, pointing at us – at this van in the stink canal – taking pictures – flash, flash, flash. Japanese tourists chattered in excitement, giggling with their hands over their mouths, nodding and going, “Oh! Sugoi! Sugoi!”
Ghost City Page 7
