by John Shirley
“That guy? I won’t have her move in there, I got anything to say about it. She needs to get a part time job, sure, but . . .”
I was already wandering away from them, looking for Franklin’s room. I had to wait outside a while, till he went to the bathroom. When he came back I followed him in and looked around. It was a little bedroom with clothes all over the floor, socks and underwear, the moldy remains of a half-eaten Subway sandwich, an open magazine called Hip Hop Hard looking like a run-over bird on the messy bed, posters all over the wall, mostly of hard-looking tattooed black guys including one called Lil Wayne and one called 50 Cent. Franklin was on the computer at a white desk that looked too small for him, and, after glancing to make sure the door was closed, he started to look at internet porn.
“Kid,” I said, “Normally I’d be into it, but we’ve got business.”
He was looking at something called “Tranny Fanny” and just starting to touch himself. I leaned near him, and whispered into his ear—whispering in that special way, with my mind: “Your dad’s about to come in and catch you.”
His back straightened and he turned really quick in his seat to glare at the door. And lucky for me, someone—probably Lucille—was walking by just then, outside the closed door. He heard the footsteps, thought it was his dad.
Franklin closed the porn pretty quick, I can tell you.
Then he sat there, shaking. “No fucking privacy,” he said. Teeth all clenched.
“You get things like privacy when people respect you, kid,” I said, knowing he wouldn’t hear it. Then I bent near him again and whispered the opposite with my mind, “You deserve their respect—all the crap you put up with . . .”
He nodded to himself. “Deserve more respect.”
Internet stuff was just starting to get really big when I died. I knew about the worldwide web. I used to stand behind an Assistant Manager in Costco when he was supposed to be working in his little office, and watch him “surf the net”. So I whispered, “Franklin, they made a movie about those Columbine guys. Everybody knows about them . . . How about you check out some websites on that . . .”
It was a little too early in the game to get him into the Columbine thing, though. He seemed to consider looking up the site, and then shook his head.
I heard a car roaring down the street outside, somebody showing off their big noisy engine. That gave me an idea. I leaned close and whispered into his mind, “You can protest your own way. Get fucked up with Justin, go for a joy ride in your old man’s car . . .” The first time I made the suggestion he just sat there and chewed his lip, frowning. Snorted to himself. Kind of laughed. Then muttered something about “Fucking cops . . .”
This would take some work. But I had to prepare him for later. First thing, I figured, was to get him in a more suggestible state. I leaned over and whispered with my mind, over and over, every ten seconds or so, “The only way out is to get drunk and high.” Ten seconds. “The only way out is to get drunk and high . . .”
He resisted a little. Apparently he’d promised his mom he’d do some kind of homework and he sort of esteemed his old lady. But pretty soon he was calling his friend Justin on one of those tiny little cell phones. “What up, dog. Hey we got to kick it . . .”
This was some kind of code between them for get all fucked up. And it wasn’t an hour later that Franklin was “chilling” with Justin, a fox-faced teen with several piercings and a
T-shirt that said, World of Warcraft.
Justin didn’t exactly come to the house, they agreed by cell to meet down the street, in a construction site for another house more or less like the one Franklin lived in. The foundation and the frame of a house, in raw yellow wood, were already there. Franklin and Justin squatted on the bare concrete in a half walled room with a pint of some dark fluid that Justin had stolen from his pop’s liquor cabinet, and what I thought was a small cigar but after a while I realized it was stuffed with dope. These kids, they call it a blunt.
So they were drinking and smoking and talking about all kinds of stuff, neither one listening to the other much. Franklin talking about how he thought his mom was flirting with an airline pilot who lived across the street, how he wished she’d leave his dad for the pilot, he could get a free trip to Hawaii or something, and how the guy knew how to party, because a girl who’d been over there told him this pilot, Mr. Burford, liked to get hammered. Which was something I took note of.
Justin brought out his iPod, and they each took one “ear bud”–I think that’s what they’re called—and listened to some band that Justin said was from Norway, said it was a “death metal rap” band, and they were bobbing their heads like a whore giving a quick BJ and when they were done, oh baby, were they ready to listen to me. Mostly it was the dope and the booze and just being pissed off. It turned out Justin’s dad had smacked him around, the night before, and he was still mad about it, so that helped.
“You could probably get that car away from the house, real quiet, and drive if off and go for a cruise and get it back without anybody noticing,” I told Franklin. “You know where the keys are . . .”
The kid was primed and ready to go. A few more suggestions and he and Justin were pushing the SUV down the driveway slope in neutral and onto the street, not to make too much noise. And then they were driving it off the west with me wedged between them on the front seat. Franklin drove through the residential neighborhoods toward the ocean, faster and faster, and I was there, riding along, whispering with my mind. “You can push it a little faster, a little faster, this’ll make Justin respect you more, he makes fun of you like your dad does . . .”
The car was still barreling along—faster and faster—and the boys were whooping and the radio was on real loud, something about diving from a mountain of cocaine, and then they didn’t quite make a corner, they swerved, the car spun around, and they were both going shiiiiit! but I was going “Ha, this is more like it!”
And then wham, bam, but no-thank-you-ma’am, we’re wrapped around a telephone pole.
The Justin kid didn’t make it. He’d gone right through the windshield. No seat belt, see. Cut all to ribbons. I saw his ghost standing around mewling to itself, and I said, “Hey fuck off, kid!” And he got scared of me and backed away and kind of melted into himself . . . that’s what happens to a lot of them, they melt into themselves, like they’re going down a drain that’s in their heart. Then they’re just gone.
Maybe it’d be better, to be just gone that way. Wherever they go.
Anyhow, Franklin had smacked his head on the steering wheel and his left arm was pinched into place by the door. He was crying like a bitch when the cops got there. Some firemen used the “jaws of life” to cut him out, and they lugged him to an ambulance. There was BlondBoy, working that ambulance! “I’ll find a moment to deal with you, BlondBoy,” I said, as I got into the ambulance, in back. Squatting in there with Franklin, I rode along to the hospital.
“Your dad’s going to say you killed Justin,” I whispered, to the moaning Franklin, in back. “He’ll imply it even if he doesn’t say it.”
Turned out to be not far from the truth, too—Boyd was pretty damned mad. By the time he talked to Franklin the next morning, in the hospital, he’d already had the threat of a lawsuit from Justin’s family. “They’re saying it’s your fault,” his dad said angrily. “And that makes it my fault. And the car is totaled. That much car insurance I haven’t got. Do you know what the deductible is?”
“It was just so unfortunate,” said his mother.
Franklin was lying there listening to this and moaning, and finally he begged them to leave him alone.
Once they’d gone, I whispered to Franklin with my mind, “You see? They’re not concerned about you, or even Justin, only about how much damn money you cost them . . . Somehow there must be a way to teach them respect . . .”
Turns out Boyd’s insurance wasn’t so great. Deductible too big again. Boyd and his wife argued about keeping Franklin in the h
ospital longer—I whispered hard at Boyd to get him out of there. “He’s fine! He doesn’t deserve to be catered to in here! You can’t afford this!” So the kid was rushed out of the hospital against the advice of doctors. They wanted to do an MRI or something. Concussion, and so on . . .
Franklin’s left arm was battered but not actually broken, his head was swollen and bruised but not actually cracked right open. So finally they let him go home.
I suspected something else was going on with him, though, because I’d been watching Franklin closer than the doctors, who maybe spent eight minutes with him total.
Meanwhile, when I followed the family out the hospital, who did I see outside but BlondBoy. He was just getting back into an ambulance, having dropped some dying old lady off. And the Cholo was with him, too. Perfect.
I got in the ambulance and—I’ll tell you about a little ghost trick, here. You can’t push through real solid things—or I can’t anyway—but you can put your ghost fingers right in someone’s eyes, enough so it messes with their optic nerves. They don’t feel it but they start to see things in flashes: on and off, on and off. Hard to drive that way. Even harder when someone is whispering, “Look out look out look out you’re gonna crash” in your mind over and over, making them panicky. They didn’t have their siren on—and he went right through a red light—and a semi-truck plowed them over. Gave me some satisfaction to give BlondBoy’s ghost a face to face earful about being a smartass over my body after the accident. He was too dazed to shout back and I left him to figure it out on his own. His partner drained away into himself . . . but BlondBoy just wandered off.
And I walked in the opposite direction. We were only a few miles from The Holiday family house . . .
Franklin was up and walking around in a couple of days. He seemed pretty out of it and his dad said he must be overusing the pain meds but mostly he just forgot to take them. He had some pressure on his brain from the wreck, I think, probably a minor operation would have fixed it. Good thing for me I was able to get his dad to take him out of the hospital.
Big suspense in the Holiday house while the DA decided whether to charge Franklin with the manslaughter of his pal Justin. The cops pushed for it but Rema got Franklin a good lawyer—costing the family even more money, so they had to take out a second mortgage—and it was looking like the lawyer was going to get him off . . .
I waited, biding my time. Making suggestions, along the way, guiding Franklin to search for certain kinds of websites. And making sure he saw an interview on that “YouTube” thing with some kid who’d almost died at one of those boot camps for problem teenagers. Just lucked onto that one—he happened to be on “YouTube” and I saw it there, scrolling by, as I watched over his shoulder. I made sure he watched it.
I’m not sure exactly how I got so caught up in this process. How it got to be so important to me. Felt kind of pushed, myself. Funny to think that now. But one thing is, ol’ Boyd reminded me of my old man. That’d be a good reason right there. One night, when Boyd was working on his third Tequila Sunrise, Rema broke it to him that a summons had come: they were being sued by Justin’s family.
A nice rage from Boyd. “Franklin has ruined us! Lawyers, lawsuits!” It was handy, how he yelled that loud enough for Franklin to hear, clear upstairs. I went up and whispered to Franklin that he better go down and listen in, see what his parents were planning. Franklin came and sat on the bottom steps of the stairs, eavesdropping. Then I went back in the living room and whispered to Boyd with my mind, “What about putting him in one of those boot camps for troubled teens . . . hell, he stole your car, he was getting high on drugs, got his friend killed, he oughta go to jail anyway . . .”
And Boyd said it right on cue: “Kid ought to go in one of those boot camps for problem teens . . .”
Franklin was already feeling scared and sick—this was too much. Which was what I figured. And he raced upstairs . . . before he could hear his dad reassuring Rema, “Oh hell you know I’d never do that to the boy, I wouldn’t send him away . . . Maybe you’re right, maybe he needs therapy . . .”
Later that night when his parents had gone to bed, Franklin took a handful of codeine and, at my suggestion, drank a tumbler of his dad’s tequila. I remembered having heard you mix hard alcohol and codeine, it puts you in a real bad mood, sometimes a killing mood. And the kid was primed already, when I told him, “They’re gonna put you in that boot camp. To get rid of you. Just lock you up in that boot camp for bad teens . . .”
Lucille was out with “Droppy”. Coast was clear in the room with the gun cabinet.
So I made some more suggestions and a little later Franklin got into the tool box in the garage, found a hammer and chisel, went to Lucille’s room—Boyd’s old den—and busted the lock on the gun cabinet. He picked out the pump shotgun, which his dad had shown him how to shoot, loaded it up good, and went marching through the house, swept along on the red wave of rage I could see in the air around him. His dad was sitting up in bed arguing with Rema when in came Franklin—and there was a moment of hesitation. The kid almost got a grip on himself.
I told him, “The old man thinks you’re disgusting! Look at him! He’s disgusting! He’s disgusting! It’s him!”
And I felt almost like I had the gun, as Franklin brought the butt up against his shoulder and aimed at his dad—but his mother jumped up and shouted no! and got in the way and the shot intended for his dad caught his mom right in the neck and just blew most of it all over the pillows and she fell like a little rag doll. That really made Franklin mad and I told him it was his dad’s fault and he pumped two rounds at point blank range into his old man, right up under the sternum, blew his chest-bones up into his head, and he heard someone yelling behind him and he turned and fired without even looking. He didn’t quite hit the girl, Lindy, directly, mostly she caught splinters from the doorframe and a few pieces of buckshot but it put her down on her back and then he was yelling at himself that he was disgusting, “I totally suck, I’m totally fucked!” and he did suck, he sucked on the gun barrel and blooey, his addled little brains were all over the ceiling.
I tell you what, it was a good night’s work.
That’s what I thought, looking around. But I wasn’t alone in the room—there was Franklin and his mother and his dad.
Their ghosts. Franklin’s ghost was walking in circles, clutching himself, calling for his mom, and his dad was just melting away, like there was so little soul to him it just couldn’t sustain itself without his body. And his mom’s ghost was looking sadly at Franklin and reaching for him but then she drained away into her own heart . . .
Lindy was alive, though. She was lying on her back, looking at me. Right at me.
Seems like being close to death made it possible for her to see me, her being sensitive anyway. “You’re a ghost,” she said. “You’re the one. You and that other.”
“Whatever, kid,” I said. “All I did was make suggestions. They didn’t have to take them.” Then I wandered off to the living room, to look at the Tequila and wish I could have some.
Lucille came home pretty soon after and found the mess. Called the cops, and Lindy was taken to the hospital.
Lindy told Lucille what she saw and she called the fake ghostbuster and here I am, talking on his gear. One thing about this jerk, is he’s totally incapable of [ . . . ]
Okay there was a little cut there. He tried listening back to see if anything was on the tape and he couldn’t hear it. He ended up recording over a little of what I said about him just now. But it’s recording again. Almost out of tape though. I think my story is there, but it’s super faint, he’d probably need some kind of special gear to hear it. I think somebody might, one of these days, though.
I’ve got a new project. That airline pilot, Burford, across the street. I think I can talk him into getting blitzed out of his gourd before he flies the plane. Then I use my other little tricks and get him to crash that 747. It’ll be full of people, of course. I’m going to star
t work on it tomorrow.
People probably see things in the papers, like what happened to the Holidays, and they ask themselves, “Why did that happen?” Well, now you know. Because I can’t be the only one up to this.
I wonder if I should feel bad about it. I can’t feel much, you know. Anyway I try not to.
And after all–all I did was make suggestions. Not counting BlondBoy. Him I flat out killed. But mostly—just suggestions.
Sometimes I think there’s a voice I’ve heard, myself. From somewhere. Making suggestions. To me. Only, not exactly in words. But still . . . whispering to me. Pushing me into all this stuff. Wouldn’t that be funny.
But—same deal. I don’t have to listen to it, just like Franklin didn’t have to listen to me.
That’s the bottom line, man. It’s all just a suggestion. You know?
THE EXQUISITELY BLEEDING
HEADS OF DOKTUR PALMER VREEDEEZ
Sterno felt a kind of sick excitement as he watched the masked craftsmen mount Michael Jackson on the eaves of the castle. At Sterno’s side, Idi Amin chuckled imbecilically.
“Ja ja,” cooed Doktur Vreedeez, as P’uzz Leen sprayed the flexible shellac over the pop star. Jackson had been mounted fully stage-dressed and immaculately coifed: alive, trapped, projecting from the side of the building from the waist up, supported by transparent struts, arms bound to his sides. Replacing Jackson with the surgically-carved double who’d “died” at the hands of a clumsy doctor—that had been relatively easy. The mounting, however, required finesse.
Michael Sterno noticed Idi Amin fingering his crotch as he stared at the desperate, transparently sheathed superstar—the sight filled Sterno with a queasy fretfulness.
“Ov courrrrse,” Vreedeez was crooning, “one can’t alwayyys get zose media-figures vun could like. I tried to zese fellows in U2 get, but dot band is very heavily guarded just now, too closely vatched by people—maybe later—und zo I zettled for zumeone a bit how-yousay ‘past it’: Mr. Jackson. Easy to carve the face of another, to make like his face. Und across from Mr. Jackson ve haff new addition, Mr. Paul McCartney . . . very necessary I haff one of der Beatles . . . but unfortunately Mr. McCartney died in the zustainable-taxidermy prozess, zo we do full dead-taxidermy on him . . . Here is zomeone more up-to-date—he called himself P. Diddy . . .”
