Ichthyic in the Afterglow

by Allen, Jason

  ICHTHYIC

  IN THE

  AFTERGLOW

  For

  by Jason Wayne Allen

  ICHTHYIC IN THE AFTERGLOW is giddily published in the US and A by MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright: Jason Wayne Allen. Edited by Vincenzo Bilof, 2015. Original Cover Art by Elena Helfrecht, 2015. Stage direction by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his various disjointed proclivities have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this dark and viscerally violent novel may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of The Reverend, Jason Wayne Allen, The Great and Powerful Oz and the Hand that turns the Big Wheel, except where permitted by law or whatever the hell you think you can get away with. But if you do, please be advised that you will incur the righteous disdain of The Reverend. And that is no bueno, primo. The characters in this vicious tome are fictitious. Duh. Obviously. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, demons, circus groupies, homicidal clowns, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.

  For my wife,

  Melissa Allen

  The Clown turned his powdered face to the mirror:

  "If to be fair is to be beautiful," he said, "who can compare with me in my white mask?"

  "Who can compare with him in his white mask?" I asked Death beside me.

  "Who can compare with me?" said Death, "for I am paler still."

  "You are very beautiful," sighed the Clown, turning his powdered face from the mirror.”

  ― Robert W. Chambers,

  The King in Yellow and Other Horror Stories

  Chapter One

  CLEM HELD HIS BREATH INSIDE THE SUICIDE CHAMBER. His eyes stung in the haze of yellow gas, needles on gauges reached the red. He was a breath away from dying when cowardice prevailed.

  Clem pressed the cancel button on the control panel, frantically pried the door open, and bailed out. He rolled onto the concrete, coughing violently. The crowd gathered outside the suicide chamber was a diverse collection, ranging from housewives to gutter punks, the terminally ill, body builders, the wheelchair bound, and fresh faced teenagers lined the block. Everyone wanted to die and suicide chambers had recently become affordable, every sector in the Imperiam had a black skull at its center.

  Clem looked up and glaring down from above was a middle-aged man, balding, in a dress shirt, and tie decorated with Christmas reefs. "Are you finished?" Clem nodded. The middle-aged man fed dollar bills to the black skull. The chamber's teeth parted and the middle-aged man stepped inside.

  Clem cursed himself for wasting his rent money on the suicide chamber. Of course, there were no refunds. He would have to visit his father and ask for a loan.

  He contemplated jumping in with the middle-aged man before the black skull closed its teeth. There were two security guards in the black skull's eyes, on the second tier, they would just shut down the machine, and have him thrown in jail for trying to steal a suicide.

  Clem got to his feet. Dramatic gasping, heckling, and laughter came from the crowd gathered around the suicide chamber as inhuman screams mixed with delirious laughter came from the middle-aged man dying inside. The method of suicide Clem chose was gas, because he figured it would be the least painful, it sounded like the middle-aged man chose bludgeoning. Clem figured next time he'd have to suck it up, and choose a more brutal method. Nothing worth doing is ever easy, death was no different.

  Another purple day under a cancerous sun, in the afterglow of a world that was and will never be again. Clem made his way past a variety of prostitutes and other solicitors, offering jewelry, food, sex, and some just simply asking for money.

  "Hey fish boy," said a fat, hairy, topless transvestite in a gimp mask and plaid skirt. "You wanna tap this? Tightest ass in the Imperiam?"

  "What's up, Tina," said Clem. "Not today, I'm kind of strapped for cash." The transvestite didn't reply and gave the same offer to the next guy.

  "You got a dollar?" asked a young pregnant girl with empty eye sockets and pink hair.

  "No money sorry, Chloe," said Clem. "If I had anything, I'd give it to you."

  Indifferent, Chloe asked the next guy.

  On the curb outside Clem's apartment building, a nude, emaciated man with no arms played country blues on an acoustic guitar with his feet. "…your Southern can belongs to me (in the mornin'), your Southern can belongs to me…,” he sang.

  "What's up, Mac?" said Clem. Mac looked over and nodded at Clem, without missing a note.

  Clem got inside his apartment. Flies clouded and mingled in the stink of stale beer, rotting garbage, and dog shit. Chico scurried into the room barking and baring his teeth until he realized it was Clem. “Settle down, killer. Who's a good boy,” Clem baby-talked and picked the Chihuahua up. “Who's hungry?” Chico vibrated with excitement in his arms.

  Dogs were as rare as angels these days. Clem happened upon Chico a few months back after his first failed visit to a black skull.

  In an alley that evening, three robed and hooded, Ultharian cultists in rubber cat masks genuflected around the little guy. He cowered, shaking in the center of a Star Claw sigil scrawled with chalk. Black marble eyes met Clem's own. Clem generally minded his own business, but he couldn't ignore the Chihuahua. “Hey,” Clem shouted. Each cultist turned eerily, simultaneously. “That's my dog,” Clem choked, timid. The three figures walked slowly toward him. “I'll get a policeman!”

  Ultharian cults had cropped up in the Imperiam in recent years and dog sacrifice was a felony. These three cultists didn't seem to care. Clem's leg came out from under him and things blinked on and off when his head bounced off the pavement. He curled into the fetal position as feet and fists rained down. In the distance the dog squeaked furious barks. When Clem came to, wallet gone—no worries there, it was empty anyway— and pockets turned out, the Chihuahua was licking his face.

  After Clem fed Chico, he got ready for work. He put on a white shirt with black stripes, pulled his pants high above his waist, and snapped on suspenders. Before he put on the greasepaint he studied his face in the mirror.

  His thirties had not been kind to him. His hair had long ago fallen out, he seemed to lose a tooth every week, and his mouth pulled into a constant frown. Clem's more ichthyic features were becoming more prominent. Soon enough, he would be a fish.

  His ears had fallen off last year and he hated his artificial ones, he snapped them on and smoothed his hand over his cheeks and peeled flaking skin. He turned the water on in the sink and washed his face, every time he washed his face the scales developing glowed grayish-gold under what was left of his human skin.

  He applied make-up thick on his face, circled black eyeliner around his eyes. The final touch was the slightly cocked beret'. He made a terribly ugly person, but a handsome mime.

  Being a mime was not dependable work. He could show up at Whosit Whosit Party Corp. and there could be no jobs available. There were hundreds of workers vying for gigs, and they all got up early in the morning and reported for duty. Clem had gotten up early, but of course chose the suicide chamber instead of simply reporting for work.

  Clem looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. There was no way around it; he'd have to visit his father for a loan. The Colonel would not be happy with him. Not that he ever has been.

  “Okay boy,” Clem said. “I'll be back later on. Hopefully old lady Cranston won't come knocking today, demanding her money. You be a good boy.” The Chihuahua wagged his tail.
/>   Clem made his way into the late purple morning, and sighed at the new dead day.

  Chapter Two

  PURPLE LIGHT INVADED CASSIE'S BEDROOM, her face furrowed in a grimace. She wore a large Ramones t-shirt, panties, and on both sides of her as she lay sprawled in her posh bed, sitting sentinel, two giant stuffed polar bears in gas masks. She grumbled, ran her hands up her face and through her chin-length green hair, and heaved her pregnant belly to the other side of the bed.

  "Rise and shine, sweetheart. Today's the big day."

  Cassie moaned. "Huh? Daddy? When did you get back?"

  "Earlier this morning." Cassie's father had been on a business trip. Doctor Syndrome was a renowned plastic surgeon and was always away.

  "What's so big about today," Cassie said, annoyed.

  "You're getting an abortion."

  "Like hell," said Cassie, suddenly sitting up. "I've carried this baby almost to term. And daddy, it has not been easy."

  "Where's the father?" said Doctor Syndrome, arms crossed looking down at his daughter.

  Cassie wondered this herself. She had not spoken with Carl since she told him she was pregnant and every time she called him his phone went straight to voice mail. She figured she probably dropped a bomb on him announcing the pregnancy and he was just getting his head straight. Then again she feared Lee, Carl's conjoined twin, convinced him to run away and avoid her.

  Carl and Lee were from the Carp District and that made Carl that much more appealing. The typical bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Her father would hate him, but Lee had been a problem since their first and last rendezvous.

  Lee made comments, calling her a stuck-up bitch, a little virgin, and Cassie was a virgin when she and Carl first had sex. Cassie had been saving her virginity, but one day she had pulled into a service station to gas up her pink Hello Kitty hover car, and there he was standing outside in a black leather jacket running a comb through his pompadour. She locked eyes with him as she walked inside. Those dreamy blue eyes. The grotesque little head on his shoulder blew raspberries at her.

  "Yo, babe," Carl stopped her. "You want to buy some 'Dalos? Good prices.”

  "Sure," said Cassie, in a confident tone as if she had done 'Dalos before.

  She asked if he would do some lines with her. They climbed into Cassie's Hello Kitty hover car, drove into the Carp District and chopped some up on the dash.

  There, they watched the cancerous sun set and change the day from purple to pitch. Cassie's first trip into the fourth dimension, stoned to the gills on 'Dalos, in the pink interior light, Cassie gave her virginity to Carl.

  During the sex, Lee heckled, "Aw, sick dude. Her tits are wall-eyed. Ha! You two pump chump," on and on.

  A few weeks later Cassie found out she was pregnant.

  "Look at you," said Doctor Syndrome. "My baby girl has green hair."

  "Daddy, I'm almost eighteen. I can dye my hair whatever color I want."

  "The operative word there, my dear, is “almost”. Go to the bathroom and shave your head, right now. I'm going away later this afternoon; your mother has a very important performance.

  I'm not sure when I'll be back, but when I do come back I better see your belly deflated, and that beautiful red hair coming back in."

  "But daddy!" Cassie whined, tears welled in her eyes.

  "Shave it now, this instant and if you don't get that abortion, I'll perform it myself. I seriously doubt you want your daddy seeing your hoo-ha!"

  "You're not even a real doctor," screamed Cassie.

  She was right. Doctor Syndrome was not a real doctor. He'd never gotten his license officially, because he couldn't pass the math portion of the final test in college. He supported himself in his younger days by selling 'Dalos, that when snorted in large amounts destroyed the user's nose, like corrosive acid.

  One of his buyers was a young, red-haired starlet named Camilla Mahoney. Mahoney had sent a fat line of 'Dalos into her nostril that took her nose with it into the nasal cavity. Before Miss Mahoney choked to death on the back drip of her own nose, Syndrome performed the Heimlich. Using the tools left over from his college days, reconstructed her nose back to its original form. Camilla was so thankful she recommended Syndrome to all the stars. Syndrome gave up dealing drugs and wound up impregnating Camilla, and became a father.

  Syndrome was completely ignorant when it came to numbers. It was a crippling embarrassment. He hated his daughter, or anyone knew about this weakness.

  "What's twelve times twelve?" said Cassie, defiantly.

  Syndrome growled. "Now, young lady, get your ass in there and shave that green shit off of your head, then get to the clinic!"

  Cassie stood in front of the bathroom mirror and sobbed as she sheared her green locks. She would visit a black skull; kill herself, which would show him.

  Cassie decided she had to find Carl instead. She would tell him what her father was making her do and he would run away with her. She would leave the Imperiam, maybe move to the Carp District and start a family…but first she had to find Carl.

  Chapter Three

  STANDING IN LINE BEHIND A MOTHER AND A CRYING child waiting for his turn in the suicide chamber, Melvin adjusted his pants, and made sure the bomb strapped to his chest was still there. This was going to hurt, sure, but he would still have eight more lives to go.

  Melvin was a relatively new member of the Calico Militia having joined a couple months back after his father gave up booze for religion. He stopped beating his wife and son, and forced them to join the Order of Nosarii. Worship at the Kennel on Sunday, read the scriptures every evening before bed, mandatory. Melvin had to get away and had heard rumors about a group of Ultharians calling themselves the Calico Militia setting up camp near the Carp District. The group stood against everything his father believed. Nosariis were dogs, the militias were cats—a Satan to his father's God.

  Melvin did not go home immediately after school one day and decided to go check it out. The camp was everything Melvin could ask for. Inside the giant warehouse that constituted the campsite, young men and women, wearing rubber cat masks, played video games, pinball, and there was a large vert ramp for skateboarding, (Melvin was a skater and the vert ramp closed the deal).

  Camp Calico wasn't all fun and games. The leader of the Calico Militia was Elder Talon, an old Samurai from days passed. He sat upon a throne of rats and wore the mask of a fat orange tabby. By Elder Talon's side, Nip and Fang. Two figures, a male and female in black, Siamese cat masks-- both sleek, with bright green eyes. As well as target practice and weapons, the young recruits were trained in an ancient, esoteric form of martial art called, Bastetki-Do.

  They were made to file their teeth to points as well as their finger and toenails, shimmy fast up trees, and match the agility and strength of the feline as best they could, given their humble humanoid bodies. The warriors trained hard. War was on the horizon.

  A volunteer was needed for the first attack. A meeting was held where the crowd, on their knees, bowed while Elder Talon presided over and spoke of prophecy.

  "And who my children," he said in broken English, "will be the one to throw the first stone? Who will be the first to flex his claws in the name of our Ultharian masters?"

  Melvin got to his feet. "I will."

  "Good boy, step up." Melvin walked up and knelt before the throne of rats and genuflected before Elder Talon. Elder Talon, old and feeble, stretched a rubber mask over the boy's head. The mask was similar to Elder Talon's tabby mask, but a kitten. "You have done your sect proud, boy. And worry not, because it will be just one life lost out of your nine."

  "I would give all nine in the name of Ulthar," said Melvin.

  Elder Talon let go a hardy laugh. "Ambitious! Haha! Boys and girls, students of my militia, you could all learn from our dear Melvin here. You will go far, son."

  Melvin's insides felt fuzzy at the word 'son'. He thought of his father, the fat drunken bastard. The hypocrite. His father believed in nothing. Melvin
determined to go far in the Militia. Melvin determined to see his mother out of her circumstance. If he had to kill his father in the process, then so be it.

  Melvin was gaining his turn in line to the suicide chamber. The large black skull came closer and Melvin started getting nervous, took a deep breath, and let it go. He had to go through with this; he would see the prophecy flower. He would do the Master proud and his mother.

  Melvin looked into the crazed eyes of an infant wailing on its mother's shoulder. The mother and child stepped up and fed dollar bills to the black skull. The black skull's teeth parted. The mother and child stepped inside.

  Screams came from inside, normal agonized screams mixed with terror, and then screams like a tape being rewound as vocals chords were ripped and torn.

  Then silence.

  The crowd outside the suicide chamber gave a massive cheer. Melvin gulped, this would hurt but he would still have eight more lives he told himself. He fed dollar bills to the black skull and its teeth parted. Melvin stretched the rubber cat mask over his face and turned to the crowd behind. "For the Calico Militia! For Ulthar!"

  The teeth parted and Melvin stepped inside the black skull.

  ***

  "…The remains of the attacker have been identified as Melvin Grossman, age seventeen. A member of the Calico Militia, one of many Ultharian based religious cults that have sprung up in the Imperiam in recent years. There have been rumors of religious sects combining forces and putting denominational differences aside to wage war on these feline worshiping cults. This was the largest attack on the Imperiam in recorded history.

  The attack happened earlier this afternoon when Grossman stepped inside a lethal chamber with a bomb strapped to his chest. Grossman is responsible for the deaths of hundreds and counting, the annihilation of a city block, and many businesses. The government who builds these black skull lethal chambers is particularly angry, with profit margins dropping drastically in just an hour, since the attack dealt so much free death…"