B00N1384BU EBOK

by Unknown

  If I’d had the presence of mind, I would have finally understood Phillip. He had lost her, once upon a time, and was trying to bring her back. That may have been what started his journey into the world of magic. Science had no cure for death; maybe there was an older remedy. But I didn't see any of that at the time. I just saw my own horrors and felt the emptiness they had left behind. And I saw what was behind Phillip's lost love.

  Tentacles were rising from the depths, billowing jellyfish-like.

  I had grabbed my friend, shaking him by the shoulders and yelling for him to run, but he wouldn't listen. I looked to her and the tentacles, looked at him, and made my decision. I drew my own knife, an eight-inch hunting knife with serration lining the top of the blade. I swung it at her, trying to make her go away, but my hand passed through cold fog. She didn't react, but Phillip did. He was on me like a wild animal, screaming, punching, and clawing. We tumbled across the floor, Phillip trying to avenge his lost love, and me, trying not to die.

  It all happened so fast, I forgot I was still holding the knife. I only meant to hit him in the stomach, but he fell away, eyes wide, hands clutching the blade protruding from his chest. The singing immediately stopped, and when I looked back, everything was gone. The mermaid, the kraken, every bit of water had disappeared. There was only me and my dead friend.

  “Sir? We've landed.”

  I drag myself out of then and into now. America. I've survived the night and have one more day to face.

  One more person to kill.

  ***

  Lights and smiling faces. Shadows and scowling faces. Nashville blurs as I walk by, hands in my pockets, breaking the sound barrier at ten thousand miles per hour. Neon burns away the stars, leaving only ash and smog. A million steel guitars and banjos tear through the air like a tornado, pulling all thought from the head and replacing it with a maelstrom of trains, cowboys, and whiskey lullabies. The lives of the frontier echo through the ages, watered down and filtered for nostalgic sensibilities. The hardship of settlers and brigands and miners and regular, everyday jerkoffs, all boiled down to a blonde bimbo who can't believe a small town girl can make it as a pop star pretending to be a yodeling cowgirl.

  My veins are on fire and trying to strangle my brain in their death throes. Cowboys who have never seen a horse before swagger down the boulevards, trying not to notice the wanna-be gangsters who eye them up and down. The city is a million monks in denim robes, yodeling praises to the God of Music who has forsaken them. On every corner, His evangelists sing hymns they’ve scrawled on McDonalds napkins, hoping to buy their freedom from slavery to ascend to that neon, smoggy heaven.

  I walk like a man who has downed too much tequila, but I'm anything but drunk. The nameless herb I harvested from the wastelands has burned away any form of alcohol in my system and taken all forms of intoxication with it. I've pushed my brain out of drunkeness, through sobriety, and broken down a wall into a state that has no description. Every sight, every smell, every sound: they clamor around me, trying to scream their story. All matter is unable to express the possibilities that never were. Imprisoned by probability, it has nothing to do but confess its sad story.

  I normally use this herb to drive men insane, but I can handle it. Before going on my search, I took just a sip of Buruwimai venom. Not even a sip, really, just enough to have a multiplicative consciousness. I'm not in the Dreaming, thanks to the herb, but I've got one foot in the door. The two chemicals are fighting for dominance in my system, but their conflict is my serenity.

  My other possible selves help me process the cacophony of input, all looking for an imprint of the golden florin. I have nothing to compare its presence to, but I don't need it. I clutch the picture of Thomas Harworth in one hand, the Emperor trump in the other. My selves look for impressions of Harworth on passing faces and places, searching for some clue to his location.

  There! I throw his picture to the ground and pull a flask from my hip pocket. Downing the hard liquor burns my throat and hits me like a kick in the nuts, but it soothes the fire in my veins. All at once, the world is quiet again. I only hear one song, see one neon sign. The legion of people, places, and worlds becomes one and I'm the only one occupying it.

  The Cowboy Mouth. A weird name for a bar, but I don't have the presence of mind to wonder about it. He's here, he's here, he's fucking here! His presence glows stronger than the giant neon cowboy out front. The Western Colossus of Swampfire stands guard, winking at me while smoking a cigarette. His left boot is flickering, making me wonder how much power it wastes just to advertise for this one bar. The front lot is filled up with giant boats of classic cars, beat-up pick-up trucks, and motorcycles. Johnny Cash blasts from the yawning door of the saloon, a chorus of voices echoing the words of the Man in Black.

  "When the Man Comes Around." How fitting.

  I compose myself in the tinted window of a Cadillac, making sure my glamour is properly in place. Bob Coullette's eyes stare back at me like a ghost’s, empty and haunted. Increase pigmentation, further, further, until they're almost black. Add a little scruff; a babyface might draw attention here. Not much, but some is too much. Adjust the angle of the ears, bend one forward into a cauliflower. Darken the hair—no, lighten it. Not blonde, not black; too close to the chromatic poles will give the impression of either effeminacy or ethnicity, neither of which would be welcome in this place. Trim the body-fat just a pinch, add a small degree of muscle tone. I need to be big, but not too big.

  Perfect.

  The window of the car rolls down, hesitating every few seconds. An old fart goggles out at me, his face pale despite the neon glow of the Colossus.

  “Have you seen my car?” I ask in a loud voice. “I don't feel good.”

  “Son,” the codger says, “I think we both might need a doctor.”

  I turn and walk towards the bar, cackling.

  ***

  “Are you buying?”

  “No, I bought the last one. This is your turn.”

  “Are you sure? I could have sworn—”

  “So are you buying?”

  “Yeah buddy, you got the last one.”

  Thomas Harworth looks about as drunk as I feel. I never imagined it would be this easy. When I first walked in, I thought all the gray was from the smoke in the air. It turns out it was just everyone's hair. The bar is full of middle-aged men and women, clinging to a youth they’ve long forgotten after years of cirrhosis-level drinking. While I’m scanning the faces for a familiar one, a woman walks up to me with a swagger only shared by sailors in a storm and the severely drunk.

  “You wanna drink my pussy water?” she slurs.

  I had looked up to see a leathery face that was forty, going on sixty.

  “No, thank you.”

  Apparently she had misheard me, because she started grinding the dungeon of forgotten horrors she called a pussy on my hip. When I politely told her to fuck off, she had finally walked away, calling me a faggot. Harworth had been easy to find once he stood up. The man was a full head taller than everyone around him and two full shoulders wider.

  I had introduced myself as Brad Coullette, an executive touring the country for Smithfield. I was in Nashville for the weekend and looking for some fun. I had ripped Bob's lifestory to pieces, just as the vultures had undoubtedly done to Bob, and sown it back together as my own Frankenstein monster. It turned out Brad was a record producer; maybe he had heard some of my new stars on the radio? He hadn't, but would love to hear them some time.

  “So where did you say you're from again?” he drawls.

  “Just around. I travel a lot.”

  “But didn't you say you were from Australia?”

  Had I? I was drunker than I should be, but I guess I did. “Yeah, originally.”

  “You see any crocs? I saw that movie Crocodile Dundee back in the day. It always made me curious about what it was like down there.”

  “Hot. And dry. That pretty much sums it up. Where I lived, you didn't have everyon
e crawling over each other like you do here. It was peaceful.”

  “You have football down there?”

  “We do, actually. It's not as big as it is in the States, but it's got a pretty big fanbase.”

  “Now, you know I'm talking about throwing the pigskin around, right? You're not thinking about soccer, are you? 'cause I hear you people call that football too.”

  “That's South America,” I laugh. “Even the abos speak English where I'm from. I've actually only heard Spanish on TV. No, we have honest-to-God football down there. We don't run around in a bunch of body armor, though. When you get hit in the game, you're fucking hit.”

  “Well, you've gotta keep yourself safe when you've got the big boys beating you down.” He laughs, slapping his barrel chest. I notice again how massive the guy is. The picture didn't do him justice. The guy is older than he'd looked in the photo, with more creases in his leathery skin. On his bicep is the tattoo of a black boar, but the ink is faded by the years. His hair is a little thinner, a little more white than iron gray. But none of that matters. He’s built like an Olympic athlete, with more muscle definition in one veiny forearm than I have in my entire body.

  The Tarot card. The Emperor is the key to defeating him, but how am I supposed to use it? Strength and power: those are his strengths. What did I have? Poisons, and lots of them. But what to use?

  “Alright, buddy. It's your round,” he says.

  I tapped the ring against my empty glass, taking care to make it ring only faintly. His body stiffens, then slackens.

  “I think it's your round, but you might want to piss first.”

  “I'll get this round in a second, but I've gotta piss like a racehorse first,” he says, rising to his feet and making his way through a crowd of bikers.

  I go through a mental checklist of the herbs and fungi, bark and roots, shells and scales, venoms and poisons. I can't use anything that would make him drop dead in the bar, nor anything that would expand his mind into the Dreaming. It would serve as a nice distraction, but some of the extracts would have him hearing my thoughts before even I do. Psychosis, strokes, bowel ruptures, respiratory paralysis, hallucinations; so many options, too many options.

  I finally settle on two grams of Deathcap. I sweep my arm over his glass, dropping the powdered mushroom in a fashion that won't arouse suspicion in prying eyes. I'm confident that I wasn't seen until laughter explodes beside me. I almost knock his glass clean off the bar and turn to find Harworth standing over me, grinning like a shark. Fuck me, did he see me? What did he see? At best, he thought I was trying to steal his beer. At worst, he thought I was trying to mickey him for a night of amnesiac buttsex. At the very worst, he knew I was trying to poison him and would rip my head off at the first opportunity.

  What type of magic does he practice, anyway? Just how am I gonna die?

  “Did you hear what that fuckhead said?” he asks, the last thing I expect him to say.

  “Do huh?”

  “What's the difference between an orphanage and a whorehouse?”

  “Uh...I don't know, what?”

  “You're a sick son of a bitch,” he says simply, grinning and trying not to laugh. After a second, I get the joke and laugh. It’s nervous and strained, so I laugh doubly hard to mask it.

  He plops down beside me, slapping me on the back in an amiable manner. He didn't see me after all. He proposes a toast to fuckery and stupid shit, but I barely hear him. I drink my beer as he downs his, relieved to see that he drinks it to the last. The Deathcap is extremely toxic, but I have only given him a fraction of the lethal dose. I need him weak and open to suggestion for what I plan next.

  It isn't long before he starts shifting in his seat and rubbing his stomach. He laughs and jokes with me, but I’m gleeful to see the strained look on his face. An evil part of me vibrates in place, anticipating the sweetness of victory. He sings along with Lynyrd Skynyrd and Molly Hatchet, but he keeps on missing lyrics.

  “Do you know anywhere we can go for more booze? It's kinda dying here,” I said.

  “I don't know, man. I think I've had enough. I probably need to get home,” he says, sweating.

  “Well, we can share some drinks there, if you don't mind. I'm still wired, ya know?”

  “That sounds like a total sausagefest,” he responds bluntly. “You're not queer, are you?”

  “Hell no, I'm straight as a grizzly's dick. I'm just wanting to get some more drinks in before I call it a night.” I tap my ring against my glass, just to give my argument that extra oomph. Relief crashes over me as he grins like a dope and laughs.

  “I feel ya, brother. Alright, let's go. Did you drive?”

  “No, I took a cab. You?”

  “Yeah, my car's out front. I hate to ask this, uh, but...you mind driving? I know you're not on my insurance, but I'm not feeling too hot. Probably just need some air.”

  ***

  We listen to music while I drive, but he doesn’t quite seem up to singing along. He mostly just stares out the window, occasionally directing me to turns when we come on them, directing me to the best ways to circle back when he forgets a turn. I take advantage of his condition, stroking the Phoenix Eye to catch his thoughts. All I get are snatches of song lyrics as he tries to sing along with the radio. Other than that, he’s dead in the water. I’m amazed that he even remembers the way home, but in no time, we’re parked in front of a two-story plantation-style home. I feel an immediate wave of jealousy, thinking of the tiny shithole I call home.

  Why had I not researched him a bit? What if he doesn’t live alone? Could I wipe out an entire family for my quest? Does he have security? A guard dog? Even when the radio cuts off, all I hear from his head is music. It's garbled, his thoughts muddied by the poisonous mushrooms making his stomach boil.

  He bobs and weaves, intoxicated by more than just booze. He almost drops his keys trying to unlock the front door. When I move to help him with the keyhole, he waves me off. Eventually, we're inside. He heaves a sigh of relief, hangs his keys on a hook, and begins to turn my way, stopping when he feels the prick of a knife against his back.

  “What's going on?” he slurred.

  “The gold florin. Abramelin's coin. Where is it?”

  “What are you talking about? Abraham?” he seems genuinely confused, but I catch an image flittering through his brain. Down the first hall on the left, at the end of the hall, there's an ornately carved wooden box hidden beneath the work desk in there.

  Satisfied, I pull him back onto the blade, simultaneously ramming it forward into his kidney. He tries to fight back, but the poison has taken its toll, and he flops like a drowning shark. In seconds, he's down. The Emperor has been overthrown, the giant toppled by a lousy fungus.

  I smirk down at him for a moment before rushing down the hall. There's magic in that room, I can feel it! All preceding moments have led to this one, forming a pyramid of cause and effect that reaches up to the heavens and threatens to stab the gods themselves. All of my labors, all of my suffering, everything I've lived and killed for has led to this moment.

  This is my time.

  The room is bare save for that desk. The floors are polished stone, a wasteful luxury that makes me despise Harworth all the more. I hope that carpet he's on is expensive. I hope it's one of a kind and imported from some far Eastern country that no longer exists. I hope its value can't be measured and he's destroying it as he bleeds out onto it. I hope he shits himself when he dies, so nobody could ever buy it again. I want to burn this fucking house down when I leave.

  I find the box easy enough. Some type of gargoyle is carved into the surface, a creature with an exoskeleton and tits that are lactating scorpions. I don't know what it's supposed to be, but it makes me nauseous just looking at it. I open the box.

  The florin isn't here. The box isn't empty, but it definitely doesn't have the florin in it. I pick up the tiny object and hold it up to the light. It's barely the size of a pea, but it's spongy and dry. I sniff it, try
ing to place the smell.

  Its two grams of Deathcap, reformed into a single piece.

  There's a feeling of being weightless and crushed at the same time. Before I realize what's happening, I'm thrown through the air and crash into the far wall.

  Standing where I have been is a demon, a horrifying knight in black scale armor. Fire pours from the slits in the horned helmet, whispering words I can't understand. Before I can stand up, the monster is gone and the door slams shut.

  I hobble after Harworth as quickly as I can, rushing to open that door, not sure what I'll do when it opens. I hear the scrape of armor against the other side of the door as he barricades me in. I slam into the door, but it doesn't budge. I'm a broken man, worn thin by the chemicals I've lived off of and the horrors I've put myself through. What can a man do in such a situation?

  What can several men do?

  I pull out my leather flask of Buruwimai venom and drink the toxin straight. In its concentrated form, it hits the tongue like a shark's dick and makes me want to vomit. It burns the tongue and throat as it goes down, but I can already feel the effects of the meta-organic compound. The room is larger, much larger, than I had initially thought, with walls that spread off into terrifying angles. The bones of Harworth's enemies are chained to the walls, somehow held together and still bearing eyes that gape in their skinless sockets.

  That's when I hear it. Singing. Harworth is chanting on the other side of the door, unknowable words sung in a terrible baritone that vibrates this otherworld with their energy. I have to get out of here, and fast. There's no telling what he's gonna try. I turn to my other self, then my other self, and my other self. I'm surrounded by a dozen versions of me that are more than copies. They're all me, in simultaneous possibilities. All of us lunge for the door, a battering ram of improbable flesh and bone. We strike again and again, trying to force the door open. The ones up front are crushed behind the pressure of the others pushing, blood pouring from their mouths and bones protruding at odd angles, but still they push forward in their death throes.