He read part of the story:
First you did this to an innocent, a virgin’s bloody-minded bridegroom, edgy to ejaculate, to educate the earth placing me in perfunctory clay cover, then went miles to your own sleep:
This blanket smells of you, of damp dust into a fist of finality’s gift, reeking of the grave. It shows me vanished to all evils save yours… returned. Like the veil of an obediant Moslem wife, keeping her mouth a secret to be filled only with her husband’s lawful darkness. Her eyes anyone may see, if they can bear her gaze fixed upon stars nobody else detects in a universe where the dead await loved ones to go mad, that they may return in the tears, whispering in midnight screams, touching back before a collapsing dawn.
Chaz shivered. Didn’t Marty see this? Well, he spoke of Pirsya Profana’s prose. Yeah, and he admitted the photos et al made him feel weird. He said he actually got scared.
Now, word for word, it didn’t really add up for Chaz. He’d read material that made him want to hide under the bed all night. That was its purpose.
And he’d seen artwork so good, so well-rendered it was like Da Vinci giving a gory explanation of why he’d decided to go from producing big Renaissance horses to doing autopsies. It’s the purpose for being done, man.
So what was the reason for this… this… enigmata?
Something very different, it made him feel sick to contemplate.
It was as if Chaz grasped what the writer intended as full-frontal damnation, experiencing it sizzling along his nerves, a frisson deeper than the words. A proper combination of syllables—no matter how they actually read—which summoned up this story’s demon. He could re-examine Spunk’s drawing and see things he’d have sworn weren’t there the first time. A photograph that moaned. Ink or pencil moving. He felt a chill, full of heat. The kind that came with the flu. He wiped moisture from his face, felt his guts churn, bile creeping to overtake his world. His mind pitched as if a dizzy spell floated him to a face-down meeting with the floor.
And his penis grew harder than it had ever been before.
He closed the book, ashamed. Guilt at the universal turn-on that was carnage.
Society was saturated with death images: on the news, TV dramas—even some sitcoms—and in nearly every popular movie. Why was that okay and this banned? In the last two weeks regular network series had shown cop dramas about necrophilia, pedophilia, cannabalism, bondage, and rape-slave rings. There had been satanistic rituals, children buried alive, and corpses found skinned with their heads and hands sawn off.
The critics and viewers loved it.
Stuff like necrOmania seXualis? They wanted to crucify you.
Hypocritical assholes.
Call it news or cinéma vérité (as long as the latter was artificial), and it was tolerated pornography, necrography for a proper, puritanical society at odds with primal origins. A sacrosanct outlet, like the missionary position in monogamous heterosexual marriage.
Why were heavenly stereotypes ones of purity and peace, and the hellish symbols were of naked squirmy succulent bodies in violent orgy within flames? Were sex and horror that inseparable: words of awful power uttered by different voices but summoning identical demons?
Summoned in his jeans, within the testosterone circle cast by the dominant chromosome and libido’s cabala. A ‘Y’, wasn’t it? Y, which nevertheless groveled before the X. It listened to its master’s questions and answered as commanded that this was all right, indeed natural, separate from hypocrisy.
Guilt is for liars, it assured him.
Dizzy, Chaz grasped the book spinner for support and fell over with it. Horror—and only a small piece of it—had never pulled a reaction from him like this. Voices whispered in his ears, flames smoked around his eyes, arriving as abruptly as a drug rush.
This must be what prophets experienced with revelation, those chosen to see and hear. Contact poison or hallucinogen or both on the pages? If he were to flick one of the lighters for sale on the counter, sniffing combustible fluid, burning himself on one quarter of a square inch, would the blister speak to him like a god? Every burn scar he bore prickled as if lighting up, at attention for the curiously momentous.
hello jazzman no this isn’t madness just some crazy cool-shit fun
He barely realized when he slipped to the floor, heart in his ears. Somewhere he heard pounding, a chaotic drum. He glanced at the store’s windows as he fainted. There were guys dressed in radical gang shit, fright masks on their faces. Those were masks, right? They didn’t come in, just pressed against the glass, peering at him.
Out how long? Chaz opened his eyes, shook his head as images of female djinn in red and tan veils vanished into the sands of his subconscious. He eyed the window. No one.
Chaz picked up the book where it had fallen on his stomach’s giant dune. He closed it, gently, afraid to read more. He put it under his shirt, flat against his chest. As lumpy as he already was, he hoped nobody would notice. He considered putting the book down his pants but it would grow too warm there. Already excited (it hadn’t shriveled when he fainted?), Chaz didn’t want to accidentally stain it.
Or might that be considered a sacrifice of himself?
The Y to the X?
««—»»
Frank wheeled out at 8:00. His wife arrived with the special van. A bumpersticker read:
I THINK
THEREFORE I’M ARMED
Rosie, Rita and Lysette returned, crunching Altoids to conceal pepperoni. Hannah’d gone home, finals to study for. Dean and Don Warvil—Baucum’s twin star swimmers—came to invite Rita and Lysette to a party. They dickered for a few minutes on the price for the girls to act as game prizes. They roared away in a shiny green Lexus.
An old woman paid for a dozen cans of cheap cat food, a bag of ranch-flavored potato chips, and a tube of denture paste. She left.
Chaz blinked. A smile worked at the corner of his mouth. He and Rosie were alone.
They’d never been alone before. Might never be again. Fate intervened and not-too subtly rubbed his crotch to urge him forward.
But to do what?
Some crazy cool-shit fun… The voices crooned to him on a perfume-scented breeze, puffed into one ear to exit the other. Female voices.
Chaz watched Rosie sigh, not invited to the party. She walked into the storeroom and closed the door. What a bitch. What had he ever done to her to be treated like shit?
The voices again. They cooed, tongue-zephyrs tiptoeing up the lobes of his ears. He understood what they wanted him to do. A creepy, loser’s deed.
It wouldn’t be rape… She sells it ten times a day. Who’d believe her with that reputation?
(Anybody who took a good look at him.)
Come on. Regular whores do it with anyone who pays: guys with major zits, scars, trench breath, jock odor, dirty shorts. Just like a shopkeeper exchanged goods for money, so does she. If you pay for it afterward, it isn’t stealing. Not as if there’s a sign around her neck, I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO BOYBEASTS.
Chaz scoffed, understanding he was merely overstimulated by the book. Other grue tales had stoked him with pretty wild fantasies. Empowerment nightmares. Sex slaves, whips and chains, shapeshifting into a werewolf so hung nobody denied him. Harmlessly letting off id-steam. Nothing he’d ever do.
Besides, Rosie’d tell her friends. They’d beat the excess excrement out of him. The shit wouldn’t merely hit the fan, it’d blanket an eight block area.
Chaz bit his lip. He shouldn’t think that way, making the same sort of jokes about himself that others did. Self-effacing humor was for those who secretly believed what people said about them.
It’s worth the risk. If these jocks think so much of her, who do they slambam—here comes the jam—in a five minute upright dryhump in a murder room, with the voyeuristic ghost of Timmy Yale slowing jerking himself off in a corner with a length of duodenal andouie, since he doesn’t even own a spirit prick anymore?
And Timmy’s there, Jazzbaby
. Believe it. He loves Rosie, too. Didn’t you know? With each time she’s there, he spurts ether cum on her in little love letters. They’re pathetic but he’s getting more of her than you are.
Back to batshits. Do they date her? She ever meet their parents? Naw, she isn’t worth the consideration they give their hook-up pussy. Depressing, the demise of relationships in the twenty-first century.
Rosie had no social life that Chaz knew of. She was always at the store. The boys might seek revenge for her, or they might not.
“Poor Rosie,” they’d mutter. “Fat jerk Jizz. Here, suck on this and you’ll feel better.”
She could tell her father.
(So could I.)
What if Frank knew? It was a repulsive world. Parents sold kids for cigs and beer. How could Frank not know when the girls were there all afternoon and a good chunk of the night? Going in and out of the room behind the store, boys buying condoms before every sojourn.
Usually in his office, Frank probably assumed she was hanging out, glad she stayed where he could keep an eye on her, instead of at the mall where she could be abducted and forced to do things he’d heard about on sensationalist news shows. He wasn’t happy she’d quit school but her grades invented an all-new meaning for less than zero. Of the four girlfriends, only Hannah had any smarts and she was no Rhodes Scholar.
Chaz refused to do this. He’d never hurt Rosie.
It’ll be easy, the voices lapped at his downy ear-hairs. You weigh three times what she does. This is your only chance. You’ve sabotaged the safer-sex devices. She could get pregnant or dosed with the next boy to hoist her up. After one more batshit john, you won’t be sure what you’re messing with.
His heart knocked through every page in the book tucked against his chest. It flapped, rustled, re-animated the corpses of each victim depicted in necrOmania seXualis in either words or pictures. THEY’RE ALIVE!
No, just really horny. Dead and horny aren’t mutually exclusive.
Sweat trickled behind his left ear, followed by another behind the right. His saliva dried up, tongue welded to the roof of his mouth. If Chaz didn’t do it now, he’d never get another chance with Roseann. If he didn’t do it now he might…
…be a virgin until your twenties.
He turned his head—no, some force turned it—to get a good look at the parking lot. No one there. A slow night. Everybody must be at the Warvil twins’ party. That, or studying for those May ass-ripping finals.
“No,” he murmured, trying to scream it.
Suddenly he was away from the window and halfway to the office door. Looking down he plainly saw the two parallel lines of scuff marks from his shoes. He was being dragged.
He lunged, trying to make a run for the parking lot. Then found himself on his belly, his chewed-down fingernails scrabbling to get away from the storeroom door.
“I’m still passed out. It’s a dream. This isn’t what awake feels like,” he told himself. “It’s the book, it’s the thought of her…” He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he levitated into a standing position again, sweaty fingers on the office doorknob.
He chanted a mantra. “This is what it feels like, this is what it feels like, this is what it feels like when the devil makes you do it.”
Those voices giggled, from edges of voluptuous wasteland. Chaz was their seer and they—lo and behold!—were his burning bushes. Re-assuring him, No, you’re not awake. You fell asleep in the cooler. Sultanas dance in your breath’s fog. It’s why your muscles are numb, except for the one between your legs. It’s like fire, like a fist with long red nails. Just remember to pay for it after so it isn’t stealing. She’ll never laugh at you again. Maybe not respect you, but fear you, yes. Surprised you had the balls. And so much love originates with fear.
It wasn’t as if he’d chain Rosie to bricks, change Rosie with razors, claim Rosie for an angel with lice in its white wings.
Over his shoulder one last look. Nobody in the lot.
WHERE IS EVERYONE? Please, someone come in and wake me up!
So what if the store wasn’t watched for five minutes? It’s not as if you care if the place gets ripped off for a few dozen donuts. How long could it take? All Chaz had to do was ram inside her and it would all be over with. Just the idea made it difficult to keep from exploding.
“I don’t want to do this…”
He refused to turn the doorknob. But it turned anyway.
Rosie sat at the table Frank used as a desk, buffing her nails. She tossed a bored glance toward stacks of old Soldier Forever, scattered issues of Honor Is A Warm Gun, Mid-East Hellholes, and Fuses And Action. There was a box under the table filled with Warrior’s Lifestyle. Not a skinmag in sight. No jar of cherry Slickerine. Not even a centerfold calendar.
Rosie stared at him, lips pressed tightly together until they made one lip. She raised tweezed eyebrows with an expression of what-the-hell-do-you-want? She didn’t bother articulating it, never wasting words on Chaz.
He shut the door behind him, smile rictal. Always looking down on me, aren’t you?
Chaz was moved to the table. Who, or what forced him?
Roseanne stood up, snapping, “Get out.”
“Slow night,” he said.
Hurry, he heard from somewhere.
“Get back to work, Mr. Jizzum,” Rosie commanded.
Furious, Chaz grabbed her by the front of her expensive little shirt, one meaty hand entirely surrounding one breast. “Don’t call me that. You know what my name is.”
“Ow!” Rosie cried out, slapping him. “I’ll tell my dad.”
“Give it or I’ll tell your dad,” Chaz growled, a line of blue-white flame dancing along his scrotum’s curve. His balls were fuel tanks. He pulled her to him by that breast. He put his other hand behind her ass, grinding her against his hardened crotch.
What the fuck am I doing? Help!
Nauseous, Chaz quivered outside the event as he hiked up Rosie’s short leather skirt to grab a fistful of panty. Roseanne brought one dainty sandal down onto his foot, rosebud toe ring sparkling like the divine spittle of a haughty girlslut goddess. Chaz let go with a yelp. Lifting her shapely bare knee, Rosie planted it squarely under his erection. She knocked him upside the head, then in the head again as he crouched over mashed testicles. She shrieked and tore his shirt.
The stockroom door opened. Frank Bunny rolled in, yelling, “Why aren’t you out front, you fat queer shit?”
“He tried to rape me, Daddy!” Rosie screamed, enraged, stamping her feet.
“I didn’t.” Chaz managed to stand up straight. He started to get that he wasn’t dreaming. Whatever force had propelled him into the stockroom now fled, trailing wisps of laughter only he heard. “She and her girlfriends run a whorehouse right under your nose. Go look in the restroom out back, at a zillion rubbers on the floor. Check out how many of those have her shade of lipstick on them.”
Shocked, Rosie glanced from Chaz to her father. “Liar! He attacked me…”
Chaz plunged on, feeling more anger than fear. “Think of all the boys who hang out here, Mr. Bunny. Have you noticed an unusual rise in ‘slipcover’ sales since she dropped out of school?”
“Daddy, he’s crazy. He’s only saying it ’cause he attacked me.”
“How about her clothes. You buying her this stuff? Does she always have money of her own?”
The clincher. The old man’s eyes flickered. So, he really hadn’t known. Imagine that.
He still seemed prepared to rip Chaz’s lungs out.
Then he glanced at the torn shirt as if Rosie couldn’t have done it without good reason.
“Daddy…”
“Shut. Up. Girl. Go get into the van with your mother. What the hell’s that inside your shirt, fat boy?”
Frank pointed an abbreviated, nicotine-stained finger. The whole hand was scarred. All the fingers on it were missing down to the first knuckle. Only the thumb remained intact.
Chaz glanced down, plainly seeing the book through
the rip in his shirt.
“Give that here, you maggot lard pot pie,” Frank said, fighting an urge to roll amuck. Not too threatening from a man with no legs and less than a full complement of digits to throttle with.
Nevertheless, Chaz was petrified, his own anger searching for a dark corner to hide in.
He handed over the book, hand shaking until the pages rustled.
“You are stealing from me. I thought so. You have the fat face of a greasy thief.”
Frank was puzzled, not recognizing the title from the inventory. He thumbed—with the intact digit—a few pages, jaw throbbing. A vein bulged, ticking in his forehead, a fuse shriveling toward its destiny.
Frank flung it at the boy. “How dare you bring this filth into my store!”
Chaz caught it, held it as a shield. As if the wheelchair would sprout helicopter blades and Frank’s stumps would reveal themselves as cleverly concealed bazookas.
“Get out! You’re fired!”
Chaz had assumed as much.
“I’m calling your parents!”
Chaz squinted. He put the table between him and the paraplegic before replying, “I wouldn’t do that, sir. Better call the police. Even if you don’t believe the kids call this place Bunny’s Git-n-Slit, and even if Rosie and the others never turn another $20 trick here, the cops’ll find out. It’s common knowledge at the school. They’ll never believe you weren’t the pimp. A man would have to be pretty stupid not to know, huh.”
For a minute, Chaz had a sense that he’d just glimpsed in Frank’s eyes what the guy must’ve felt when he woke up in the jungle and discovered his legs were gone.
Chaz nodded and walked out. Not smiling, no. But no longer afraid of Frank Bunny.
– | – | –
Chapter 8
Captain Walch drank tea with his American whore. The local women brewed a potable cider, and many of his men helped themselves to it. But not the captain. He must maintain a clear mind, so he politely refused the local spirits.
Season of the Witch Page 8
