by Jordan Krall
Keith shook himself out of it, grabbed Smitty and threw him away. He kicked at the crab-shit thing and picked up the shotgun. Keith quickly aimed and as a claw came up toward him, he fired.
The creature became a trembling mound of mush.
Smitty whimpered and Keith ran toward him. “Are you okay? Smitty?” The small squid let out a high-pitched whistle and then died. Keith’s eyes filled with tears. He would bury the squid that afternoon. Then he’d call his brother and tell him about the visit from Mr. Timothy.
Perhaps after that, he’d take a nice, long nap.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Peggy Entwistle
Peggy applied more make-up to her neck, covering the scar. “That about does it,” she said, looking forward to her first official role on the silver screen. She had already talked to the producer, George Archainbaud and he seemed to think that Peggy had talent.
He had said to her, “Peggy darling, you are going to be a big star and I’m going to help make it happen! You’re going to be working with one the best directors in town. He’s a little queer, likes wrapping himself in squid guts while drinking martinis, but he’s a real talent and every film he’s made has been a hit.”
Peggy had eagerly agreed to meet with the director. She bought a whole new wardrobe and got her hair done.
Things are really looking up, she thought. My life is going to be perfect.
CHAPTER TWENTY THREE
A Month Later, The End
Peggy was drunk again. Tonight, however, was different. Peggy had lost the film role to someone she knew was less talented. The slut probably gave that bastard Archainbaud a blowjob. On top of that, Peggy’s father was giving her grief about her wild lifestyle. He wanted her to be more disciplined, just like him. But how could she be? She wasn’t an army brat like him. It seemed like everything was going against her.
So in order to combat everything that was against her, Peggy climbed up to the top of the big H and made her final impact on Hollywoodland. Before she jumped, she thought about Jim Steam and how she betrayed him. She almost felt bad but figured that if she hadn’t done it, someone else would’ve. And he was a pretty good screw, too. Peggy took one last look at the sky and then jumped.
She splattered on the ground below, the pieces of her body jumbled in a sloppy mess that resembled a tentacled sea creature.
A gang of stray cats came over to survey the damage. They sniffed and meowed like furry investigators. Curious, they got closer. The cats, seeing Peggy’s face, scurried like mice. They wanted no part of her.
THE END
APPENDIXES
APPENDIX I.
LINCOLN’S ASSASSIN FACE
Abraham Lincoln woke up in a dank, green sweat. He had had that dream again, the one where he is shot in the head by that squid with the giant breasts. One minute he’s looking at some slippery slimy cleavage, thinking about sticking his flesh-pistol in there and then the next minute, BAM, his brains are splattered all over a theatre balcony.
There was a time in his life when he would have believed the dream to be an omen, a sign warning him of imminent danger. But a hard life had taught him that there was nothing to be gained from dreams except an occasional nocturnal emission. It was odd, though, how much the green sweat resembled the discolored semen that was produced from those periodic emissions. If it wasn’t for his growing distrust of doctors, he might have sought some medical attention.
Even so, he was glad the dream was over. He got out of bed, making sure not to disturb his wife since she had become such a light sleeper. She was down to eighty pounds and blind. She was gradually turning into a mole. Lincoln was convinced that it was those goddamn confederates who were behind it. Was nothing sacred to them? It was his wife, goddamnit.
On the other hand, weren’t moles clever creatures? Perhaps he could train her. Were moles even trainable? He’d have to find out.
Lincoln walked to the corner of the room and looked down into his spittoon to make sure that his birthday cake was still there. It was. It sat there in all its glory: a soft and sugary rectangle covered in gooey phlegm provided by the Chinese prostitutes he hired. Those yellow whores had given him trouble at first. They didn’t want to comply with his wishes despite his paying them a handsome sum. Eventually they gave in and spat on the cake that he now hovered over. He’d eat it later.
He went downstairs, careful not to disturb his kittens who were busy playing poker. Those bastards were always gambling. And now they had taken up smoking pipes, too. If they weren’t so damn cute, he’d kick them out of the house. But if he did that, who would help with his memoirs? God knew that his wife was in no shape to do it. The cats were his only hope in the matter. He still had two volumes to go and he wasn’t getting any younger.
Once he was in the kitchen Lincoln made himself some breakfast: two hairy eggs and a glass of donkey milk. He loved the stuff. When he was a boy living in Kentucky, it was practically all he had eaten. His parents had been worried about his diet but he assured him that it’s exactly what the Lord wanted him to eat.
So Abraham Lincoln sat in the kitchen, eating his breakfast, thinking about his parents.
He was chewing so loud that he didn’t hear me as I snuck up on him. I put the pistol to his head and then whispered, “This is for John, you bastard!” and then BAM-BAM-BAM. A bunch of presidential rice-krispie treats splattered across the kitchen.
His wife ran down the stairs but instead of attacking me, she ran outside and dug into the ground. She had a nice ass for a mole. I’d like to stick my flesh-pistol in there, I thought. Why not?
I walked up to her and said, “Sic semper tyrannis.”
She stuck her ass up out of the hole and said, “Where’s the beef?”
I stuck my tentacle-manhood inside her, answering her question with a forceful thrust.
She screamed, “God bless America!” while I freed my semen-slaves into the expanse of her gaping mole snatch.
APPENDIX II
A REPORT OF BIOMECHANICAL EXORCISMS IN THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR
Fresh meat .. real houses .. warm women .. dreams of my defeated men .. but I do not let them write home .. they can stare at the trees & pretend they’re wives .. wood skin covering pale bodies beneath the moss ..
I have to remind them .. just eat the rations, boys .. & watch out for injuns & their fire spit .. it’ll turn your brain to flakes of iron mush ..
Oh, the horrors of red liquor hell .. goddamned pagans .. violating virgins .. sleeping with machines .. pumping blood of metals .. scalps & gears pulsating beneath red epidermis .. devil worshippers .. bottles of teeth & whiskey in the barn .. the battle was lost from the beginning .. put your guns down .. it's all just a barrel of iron & viscera .. absurd assassinations .. spiders spy on me through numerous trap doors .. they transform my limbs into tree branches & gun metal .. mesmerizing drunken red gods .. shattering bones into pieces of machine meat .. like john the rotator ..
Lincoln & ghosts in the crimson room .. political advice from mechanized ectoplasm .. sometimes the stars move & perform surgery on me with electromagnetic slime .. nature & organization explode.. my body is nothing more than a crooked machine of flesh .. digesting duck parts .. defecating harmonic milk .. maids service the skin-wrapped rod .. electrical performances sparking mental automation & dusty arcs of action .. steam & turbines .. pancakes & axles .. flapjack off the grid .. like john the revelator ..
Oh, the horrors of simple wheels & fleshy leather feet .. stinking aroma of hydraulic toes tapping along the gears .. cotton corncob .. cock-skinner creek .. pickpockets with faces made of steel and envy .. when will we end this war for squid parts .. squid spirits .. squid shine .. squid gods .. in the morning meshes .. like john de conker ..
With a heavy heart .. & pen in hand .. I am ordering my men to retreat .. retreat .. retreat ..
APPENDIX III
ASSASSINATION’S SECRET DOMAIN
Shotgun Man walked into the bar and took a good look at e
very man’s face.
The target, Johnny Balance was supposed to be there between the hours of three and six in the afternoon. It was like some sort of ritual for him and Shotgun Man was going to use that ritual to his advantage.
“Help you?” the bartender said to Shotgun Man.
The bartender’s face was covered in deep wrinkles that reminded Shotgun Man of the scars he saw on that prostitute back in Detroit. Her back was practically a map of knife wounds and broken beer bottle surgeries. Poor girl would have done anything for a buck.
Shotgun Man said, “Just beer.”
The bartender did nothing to hide his impatience. “Jesus Christ, what kind?” Shotgun Man put his hands palm-down on the bar and said, “Just beer.” He stared at the bartender. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move.
The bartender got the message and the wrinkles in his face flushed with frightened blood. “Sure thing.” He grabbed a glass and filled it with beer from the nearest tap. Placing it in front of Shotgun Man, he said, “On the house.”
“Thank you.” Shotgun Man grabbed the glass of beer but did not drink it. He scanned the room again for Johnny Balance. The man was supposed to be there so why wasn’t he?
There were no women in the bar and that felt strange to Shotgun Man. There should be at least one whorish barfly in the place even at three-thirty in the afternoon. He didn’t think it was a gay bar but if it was, he wanted to make quick work of Johnny Balance so he could get the hell out of there.
He was looking at a man at the far end of the bar when he smelt something. It wasn’t any of the usual smells you’d encounter in a bar. It wasn’t alcohol or peanuts. It wasn’t piss or belches.
It was pancake batter.
Shotgun Man knew the smell very well. He cooked himself breakfast every morning and it was almost always pancakes. They weren’t made from scratch, though. He always just bought the pancake powder that had just had to be mixed with water. The smell and taste of the batter was unique. It was something that Shotgun Man looked forward to and he often ended up eating half the batter before it could be made into actual pancakes.
He’d always thought that the smell and taste of pancake batter was a combination of raw eggs and semen. Shotgun Man wasn’t ashamed to admit that he had smelt his own semen before though he was also proud to say that he hadn’t tasted it. If he had, though, he guessed it might taste a little bit like pancake batter.
But what the hell was the smell doing in the middle of the bar?
Shotgun Man put his beer down and looked around to see if anyone was in the process of mixing up a batch of pancakes. No one was doing any such thing. However, his behavior was causing several of the men in the bar to stare at him, wondering who the weird guy was who was just looking around, not drinking his beer.
“You smell that?” Shotgun Man said to the bartender.
The bartender was busy scratching the wrinkles in his face. The wrinkles seemed to have multiplied and were now covering his neck. They were also a deep shade of red now. He said, “Smell what?”
“Pancakes.”
“Pancakes? What the hell you talking about?”
Shotgun Man tapped his knuckles on the bar. “I said pancakes.” He couldn’t believe how hard-headed the bartender was being. It wasn’t like back in Sicily. Back there, the men who tended to the bar were smart men who knew what to say to their customers especially to someone like Shotgun Man.
“You crazy or something? Get the fuck outta my bar,” the bartender said, waving his hand. The fear he had felt earlier had left him only to be replaced by dumb courage.
“No.”
“You just get off the boat or something? I’m throwing you out. You don’t have a choice. Want me to call the cops?”
“No.”
“Jesus Christ!” the bartender said. He threw his hands up and walked away.
Shotgun Man watched as the man made his way to a door in the back of the bar. Was he going to get a weapon? Call the police? Maybe he had a gang of tough guys back there ready to beat the shit out of any stubborn Sicilian who came through the door.
He looked at the other patrons to see if anyone was going to take the bartender’s side in the conflict. No one was paying attention. They were all just sipping their beers and watching the ballgame on the small television that was on a shelf in the corner. Shotgun Man thought about baseball and still didn’t understand the appeal. It was a slow game but it wasn’t slow in the way that chess was slow. There didn’t seem to be any real strategy involved in baseball, at least not enough to justify the tedious pace. Seeing the men drink their beer and stare at the television made Shotgun Man uneasy. It was as if they were seeing something he couldn’t. Maybe there were secret codes or symbols in the game. Maybe each game was some sort of occult ritual and all those baseball statistics that people memorize were really magick spells.
Shotgun Man eyed up the men in the bar, seeing them in red and black robes. They had drawn a diamond shape on the floor in chalk and were standing around it, reciting cryptic combinations of letters and numbers. What the hell were they doing?
White dust filled the room, covering the men in a thick blanket. Shotgun Man closed his eyes and held his breath. Was it poison gas? Had Johnny Balance been waiting for him with an army of baseball cultists?
“Son bitches,” Shotgun Man said. He pulled his gun out and fired several rounds into the dust cloud. There was the sound of deep groaning and then skin hitting skin. Once the dust cleared, Shotgun Man saw that the cultists were now playfully slapping each other in the face.
“You crazy. All of you,” Shotgun Man said. “I come back and then you’re all dead.” He put his gun away and walked to the door. He took one last look at the man and spat on the ground. As soon as the saliva hit the ground, the men in the bar stopped their activity and stared at Shotgun Man.
“What? Why you looking at me now? You have something to say, say it.”
The men stayed silent. Behind them, the television was spurting out baseball nonsense.
Shotgun Man put one hand on the door and then stopped. He smelt that pancake aroma again. “God, I need to eat.” He walked out of the bar, leaving those baseball assholes behind. So what if he didn’t get the job done? He’d get it done eventually. Besides, there was something strange about the whole thing and if the bosses didn’t like it, then they could come down to the bar and look for Johnny Balance.
There was a diner across the street so Shotgun Man walked over to it, hoping to get some pancakes to satisfy his sudden craving for them. As he entered the place, there was no smell of flapjacks or any other food. There was only the stench of alcohol.
He walked up to the counter and made eye contact with a woman who was wearing a name tag that said her name was Cathy. She slowly walked over to him and said, “What can I get for you?”
“You have pancakes?” Shotgun Man said.
“Sure do,” she said. “Want a short stack or regular stack?”
“Regular.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
Cathy walked away and went into the kitchen. Shotgun Man looked around and saw that all of the other patrons were quietly sitting at their tables with no food in front of them. He thought that was strange. Could it be that the cook was so slow that no orders had gotten out?
Shotgun Man put his hands on the counter and leaned forward, trying to get a look into the kitchen. As soon as he did so, he felt something dig into his back. He turned his head quickly and was met with a fist to the eye.
