Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife

by Mick Farren

  The self-proclaimed Jesus was now treading water like any normal man. He might be able to lie on the bottom of the pool with his eyes closed, but it seemed as though he wasn’t much at walking on the surface. He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes and grinned at Semple. “That might be nice.”

  He paddled to the edge of the pool and started to climb out. “You’re very good-looking for one of Moses’ bunch.”

  Semple was outraged. “I am not one of ‘Moses’ bunch.’ I sincerely hope you don’t imagine I have any connection to that inbred trash except by force of circumstances.”

  Jesus apparently failed to notice that he’d caused the least offense. “That’s where Gojiro found you, wasn’t it?”

  “I was unwillingly passing through.”

  Jesus was now out of the pool and standing naked in front of her without a trace of self-consciousness. “Passing through, huh? So why don’t you pass me a towel?”

  As she stiffly handed him the towel, she noticed that this Jesus was a near-perfect physical specimen, but the same could have been said for Anubis or Moses, and Semple resolved to treat it as nothing more than a skin-deep phenomenon. Jesus paused in his vigorous toweling off and waved a hand in the direction of the couch. “Could you switch channels? I don’t think I can take much more of The Pride and the Passion.”

  Semple was a little surprised. Not standing on formality was one thing, but this was offhand to the point of rudeness. “You mean me?”

  The goat snorted. “He doesn’t mean me. You can’t work a remote with hooves.”

  Semple was about to snap back at the goat with a crushing retort, but decided that maybe it was a little early in the game to be throwing her weight around. Instead, she went looking in the vast depths of the central couch for the remote. Sure enough, in one of its bottomless corners lay something black with color-coded buttons, only slightly smaller than a laptop computer. Semple decided this had to be the Remote of Jesus. She picked it up and glanced at the goat. “Which button do I push?”

  The ram had moved from his pile of straw and was now grazing on a cardboard packing case. He spoke with his mouth full. “It doesn’t really matter. He’s almost completely unselective in his viewing.”

  Semple hit a button at random, and The Pride and the Passion was replaced by a segment of Zombies of the Stratosphere in which a young Leonard Nimoy appeared as a zombie. As she adjusted the remote, Jesus flipped the towel over his shoulder and walked, still naked, to the fridge. “Brew?”

  Semple shook her head. “Not right now.”

  The goat looked up from his destruction of the packing case. “You could bring me one while you’re up.”

  Jesus handed Semple a ring-pull can of Rattlesnake beer, chilled from the fridge, and Semple opened it and passed it to the goat. Jesus gestured in his direction. “You’ve met Mr. Thomas, I see.”

  “I didn’t know that was his name.”

  “He was once a famous poet, but after he drank himself to death, in a bar called the White Horse in Greenwich Village, he was so racked with guilt that he came to the Afterlife as a ram.” This Jesus seemed freely to indulge an oblivious and gratuitous petty cruelty that Semple hardly found becoming in even a wannabe Messiah. Mr. Thomas stopped lapping and stared balefully at Jesus. “I’ll have you know I enjoy being a goat. We goats can eat just about everything and we also get to fuck a great deal. As you well know.”

  This last remark caused Semple to look covertly from Jesus to Mr. Thomas and back again. Were these two an item? And if they were, why had she been invited here? Before she could say anything, though, Jesus glanced at the screen and shook his head. It seemed that Zombies of the Stratosphere didn’t meet with his approval. “Try something else, would you?”

  Semple hit another key on the huge remote. Zombies of the Stratosphere was replaced by Eva Bartok in The Gamma People. Jesus shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Semple tried again. What the fuck was going on here? She hadn’t come here to change the channels for him. The Gamma People were history. Now they had Journey to the Seventh Planet. Jesus didn’t seem to like this any better.

  “No.”

  Semple punched buttons, surfing a whole selection of drive-in fodder, while Jesus stood unselfconciously naked, beer in hand, staring critically at the screen. She whispered a low aside to the goat. “I though you said he was unselective.”

  “Except when he’s just come up from the bottom of the pool.”

  Next up, The Curse of the Doll People?

  “No.”

  A trailer for Invasion of the Star Creatures?

  Jesus merely shuddered.

  Atom Age Vampire?

  “No.”

  The Town That Feared Sundown?

  “No.”

  Track of the Moonbeast?

  “No.”

  Yog?

  “No.”

  Revenge of the Creature?

  “No.”

  Alien Contamination?

  Jesus shook his head.

  Flying Disc Men from Mars?

  “No.”

  At Death Race 2000, Jesus hesitated. For a moment he seemed tempted, but then he changed his mind. “Maybe not.”

  Panther Girl of the Congo?

  “Definitely not.”

  “Listen—”

  Jesus seemed unaware that Semple hardly shared his enthusiasm for locating the perfect ambient movie moment, and was oblivious to her growing irritation. “Try a different combination; we seem to be locked in some psychotronic sector.”

  Semple held out the remote. “Why don’t you try? I’m clearly hopeless at this.”

  Jesus took the remote. With a swift and skillful dexterity, he entered a long combination of keystrokes. The screen flashed and there was a grainy black and white Irving Klaw one-reeler of the great Betty Page, near-naked in stockings and shoes, with manacles on her wrists. What was unusual, and had Semple riveted, was that this particular one-reeler also had a man in the frame. In fact, Betty was on her knees giving him enthusiastic head, cupping his balls with her chained hands, while he reclined on a couch strangely like the one right there in the dome. Semple had been certain that Betty, whom she once met briefly in Florida, had never in her life done hardcore. It had to be a morphed simulation of some kind. Semple glanced quickly at Jesus. “If it was vintage porno you wanted . . . ” Then she stopped in midsentence. “Wait a minute.”

  The camera had panned up to the ecstatic face of the man, and she instantly recognized him. It was that same long-haired young man again, the one who had featured in her orgasm vision with Anubis, and again during the strange brief flash while stepping into the animé world. Who the hell was he, and what did he want? She turned to see if she might get this or maybe some other answers out of Jesus, but she found that Jesus was gone. He was still nude, and still standing there as a physical entity, but his mind was somewhere up there on the screen with Betty and her mysterious paramour.

  “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Although it coincided with Semple’s question, Jesus’s gesture was in no way a reply. He made a slow pass with his right hand. The lights dimmed and the volume of the moaning, gasping audio rose. He started to move backward toward the couch, never once taking his eyes off the images on the screen. Semple’s irritation escalated to anger. “Can you hear a damned word I’m saying?”

  Without looking away from the screen, Jesus sank into the couch, pulled his legs up, and slowly curled into a fetal positon. Then, as though motivated from deep within a dream, he began to masturbate. Semple was outraged. “This is getting absurd.”

  A Welsh accent came from the other side of the room as Mr. Thomas looked up from the packing case he had all but demolished. “Did you know that goats discovered coffee?”

  A white tuxedo and a clean dress shirt over his trademark leather jeans and boots, a black bow tie hanging unknotted around his neck, a scotch on the rocks in one hand, and a cigarette in the other; Jim felt ready for anything.
He was cleaned, shaved, modestly cologned, and now leaned against the bar and surveyed the salon privée and decided that, maybe, with a couple more scotches inside him, he might actually be ready to face down Dr. Hypodermic and whatever that entity might have in store for him. When it came to gambling in Hell, Doc Holliday had to be given full credit for finding his way to the glittering diamond heart of the matter. The salon priéee was clearly an anthology of the best of every belle epoch in classic high rolling. A Sean Connery–era James Bond commanded the baccarat shoe and seemed to be winning with heroic consistency, while, facing him across the table, an overfed epicure in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket, who greatly resembled Orson Welles, chain-smoked Cuban Perfectos and looked exceedingly unhappy about the situation. As they’d entered the large, ornately furnished room, Doc had whispered discreetly to Jim, “That could well be Le Chiffre sitting over there. Or a ringer, who’ll do, for all practical purposes. I’d seriously advise against doing anything to ruffle or disoblige him. In fact, it would probably be a good idea if you didn’t even bring yourself to his attention.”

  “Watch out for the carpet beater?”

  “You’ve got the right idea.”

  At another table, four Regency bucks played hazard. They were going heavy on the port and the claret and their brittle badinage was growing a little slurred, and Jim noticed that two of them were probably well on their way to taking it to the terrace. In contrast, the five Fu Manchu mandarins playing fan-tan at a nearby table did so in absolute silence, letting the click of the tiles do their talking for them, with a nuance of clack that could vary from smug to angry.

  When Doc had pointed out the lights at the end of what Jim now thought of as the Sewer of Suicides, he had expected just a single casino, some kind of smoky western-movie gambling den with hunched degenerates losing the price of their souls to dealers in striped vests and eyeshades, while hostesses in fishnets hustled blow jobs and red-eye to the unshaven, whiskey-breath carriage trade. Jim quickly discovered he had set his sights mournfully low. Instead of a lone gambling joint, he found himself walking down an entire plaza of well-appointed casinos, fascias hewn from the living rock, much in the manner of the desert city of Petra, each with its own complex riot of animated neon. The lights he’d seen up ahead weren’t just from a single source but from a diffusion of many. What confronted Jim when the tunnel opened out was a complete subterranean strip: Vegas, Reno, or Monte Carlo consigned to the rocky bowels of the hereafter. In some respects it could almost be viewed as a refinement of a much older concept of Hell. Instead of lakes of fire and brimstone, souls could find themselves doomed to draw to an inside straight through all eternity, not unlike the sex-locked denizens of the elevator concourse. Not that Jim was thinking this way when the Sewer of Suicides first opened out onto this cavernous boulevard of honky-tonk angels, five-card stud, and broken dreams. He just looked around in surprise and bad-boy delight. “This is really fucking something.”

  The Virgil had looked at him with a hint of reproach in his expression. “Did you really think I’d steer you to some funky clip joint, my young master?”

  Jim had half expected Doc to go straight into the first establishment in line, which went by the name the Atomico and sported an elaborate nuclear explosion in garish red-orange and yellow as its electrical come-on. Jim had even started to move toward the entrance before Doc had shaken his head. “Not that one, my boy. I have a reputation to maintain.”

  “Isn’t one casino much like another?”

  “To a drinker, maybe, but certainly not to a gambler. All this tourist mill has to offer is slots, Wayne Newton music, and seven-deck blackjack to discourage the counters. Not that anyone who goes in there is going to be able to count beyond the sum total of their fingers and toes.”

  As if in practical confirmation of Doc’s summation of the Atomico, a squad of casino security, in silver radiation suit uniforms, forcibly ejected three sweating, Day-Glo-pink, very drunk pigmen. The pigmen, hominids but hairless, with snouts, curly tails, and perky little ears, existed in some numbers throughout the length and breadth of the Afterlife. No one really knew where the pigmen originated or for what purpose they had been designed, but some humans claimed that they were the leavings of an unholy Cold War genetic experiment. Others simply theorized that they were kept around to make everyone else look good.

  Doc also declined to enter Glitter Gulch, the Alhambra, the Shalimar Sporting Club, the Four Aces, and the inevitable Flamingo and Golden Nugget. He was setting a course for the far end of the street, where a magnificent flight of steps led to what could only be Hell’s grand casino. So grand, in fact, that it didn’t even need to display its name. Where the others were purely gaudy, this last place made its point with dignity and fine architecture. Flames danced from cressets flanking the stairs, and the porticoed entrance was guarded by men dressed in the uniform of Napoleonic lancers. As they drew nearer, Doc nodded approvingly. “That’s the place we need, my friend. I’ve always found money flows cleaner and more smoothly in surroundings of quiet elegance than amid gaudy trash.”

  Jim had looked down at his tattered shirt and general filth and then at Doc’s equally disheveled appearance. Although Doc had left his filthy duster coat in the launch, his boots were scuffed, his frock coat was dusty and stained, and neither of them had shaved in days. “They’re not going to let us in there like this, are they? We look like a couple of bums.”

  Doc stared at Jim disappointedly. “Oh, ye of little faith, do you think there’s a gaming room anywhere that’s going to refuse admission to Doc Holliday?”

  Jim shrugged. “Sure, they might let you in, but what about me? I don’t have any gambler’s rep.”

  Doc sighed. “Have some trust, will you? You’re with me.”

  And, as it turned out, being with Doc was all that it needed. Two of the Napoleonic lancers looked stonily askance at Doc and Jim as they first approached, but then Doc gave then a strange high sign with his index and pinky fingers raised and they seem perfectly content with that. The maitre d’ had raced up to the pair the very moment they set foot inside the door, and for an instant Jim had thought that they were going to be thrown out after all; but the maitre d’s only concern was to rectify their condition of grime and travel stain without delay. After receiving tips from both Doc and Jim, the Virgil had taken his leave of them, telling them he would be in the Virgil’s lounge if they needed him to go elsewhere. With that business attended to, the two travelers had been whisked into an elevator and taken to a lavishly appointed basement locker room with mirrors, marble showers, a half dozen highly attentive valets, and three barbers’ chairs with no waiting. Clean shirts had to be purchased, but a black satin frock coat for Doc and white tux for Jim came with the compliments of the house, as did cocktails on demand. At the end of the process, Jim had regarded himself in multiple mirrors and been highly satisfied with the result. As a final touch, he’d bought himself a pair of Ray•Ban Wayfarers at the casino gift shop. Prices in Hell seemed to be extraordinarily cheap.

  They had been left to make their own entrance into the casino. Jim had been all ready to follow the curving, velvet-carpeted stairs down to the main room, where a guitar player who looked a lot like Long Time Robert Moore, only in a white suit and now supposedly blind, was playing blues with a trio whose sound was far too casino-genteel for Jim’s more raucous taste. Once again, though, Doc had steered him in a different direction. “Stick with me, my boy. The main room’s strictly for amateurs.”

  Jim was tempted to remind Doc that he was an amateur, but decided to follow the flow. How many times did a man penetrate the salon privée of the best casino in Hell? The initial impression had been luxuriously pleasing. The cigar smoke was exclusive and harmonized with the most expensive of perfumes and that indefinable bouquet of seasoned money. Players sat with piles of plaques in front of them, some almost as large as dinner slates and plainly worth a fortune, while Van Goghs, Toulouse-Lautrecs, and Picassos looked down from the w
alls. On the lifeside it would have been called old money; here Jim thought of it as dead money. In his rock star days Jim had now and then found himself in similar places but always as an interloper or a sideshow. To enter as the companion of Doc Holliday, on the other hand, seemed to guarantee him instant acceptance.

  Doc immediately handed over the bag containing the entire take from the sale of his soul for a croupier to convert into plaques and chips. Doc, it seemed, was going for broke. For the moment, meanwhile, Jim was left with precious little to do. In the salon privée, if you didn’t play, you could be little else but a silent spectator, and Jim had never found card games a spectator sport. The bar, whose booze certainly tasted top-shelf, filled his time for a while, and when its novelty wore off there were always the women to observe. One could never divorce money and sexual tension, and the women in the salon privée were of a unique standard of predatory beauty. Unfortunately, their attention was on the players, not any kibitzer in the twilight, no matter how romantically he might sip his scotch. One, however, did seem to be paying Jim a certain amount of attention. She had jet-black hair, cut in a severe geometric fringe low across her eyebrows, and was wearing a 1950s-style sheath dress in dark aquamarine. Jim didn’t recognize her, although she did in many ways remind him of . . . what was her name? The great underground lingerie and bondage model? Jim was certain he’d never seen the woman before, but the covert glances she kept slipping in his direction, which seemed to be a combination of desire and anxiety, were hardly the kind to be directed at a perfect stranger, no matter how perfect that stranger might be.

  The reason the woman’s glances were so covert was immediately apparent. She was with a tall, narrow-shouldered, impeccably correct character in full white tie and tails, who went all the way to the wearing of white kid gloves to handle his cards. It took Jim no time at all to peg him as an aristocratic sadist from the old Heidelberg school, right down to the dueling scars on his cheek, the monocle screwed into his left eye, and the way his hair was shaved high above his ears. Heidelberg was losing badly at twenty-one and when he rose to resupply himself with chips, the woman quickly scribbled a note on a drink napkin with a slim silver pencil. She handed the napkin to a waiter and nodded in Jim’s direction. Sure enough, the waiter, without being too obvious about it, brought the note quickly to Jim. The handwriting was flamboyant and urgent, with the characters formed large and with decorative curves. The content, on the other hand, hardly made any sense at all, unless Jim’s memory was even more damaged than he had so far assumed.