Exhibitions of Flesh

by Jillian Rose

  Chapter 2.

  Preston almost couldn’t contain his excitement as his chauffer parked on the street just outside the ex-cultist’s house. He got out, bemused by the scene of rural Americana he was greeted with. They were on a gravel backroad, somewhere in the middle of Oklahoma, with rolling hills of wheat stretched out before him on one side. A combine chewed through one of the fields in the distance. Behind him was a fenced in pasture where plump cows grazed lazily. He got out just in time to see a large bull push out a forearm sized turd ten feet from where he stood.

  “Jesus.” He said, recoiling at the site. He walked over to the driver side window. It rolled down, and the lined face of Mr. Perkins loomed up at him from the driver’s seat. “It might be awhile, but keep the car running and the A/C on.” He said.

  “Yes sir Mister Jennings.” He croaked, and proceeded to unravel a newspaper. Preston scoffed as he walked down the gravel drive way towards where the rustic little farm house loomed. It’s the fucking 21st century, who the hell still reads an actual newspaper? He wondered as his Gucci loafers took on a coating of rock dust. Cow shit was redolent in the air, the heat and humidity not helping in that matter. Preston told himself if this Rick Mantell character was bull shitting him about having the personal collection of Theron Mobley, infamous cult leader and ex-CIA spook, and a certain sought after volume that Preston was looking for specifically, he’d murder the lying hillbilly and feed the corpse to his pigs. He didn’t see any pigs around, just cows, but where there was cows, there was pigs. In places like this, there was always fucking pigs.

  He walked past a scabrous old truck that looked like it saw it’s prime back when Perkins was a strapping young lad. Despite the fact he felt like he’d entered a time machine back to the great depression, he had his hopes up. Everything the man said checked out. It was verified that he used to be in Mobley’s cult, had lived in the town of Dupo where the cult operated, and was listed as the sole inheritor on Mobley’s will. If what the man said was true, he’d be the last living survivor of Theron’s insane cult, called Sector 5. All of the members had supposedly died in some kind of mass suicide ritual, but there was some controversy about the authenticity of that claim. Preston had heard the conspiracy theories, had looked up the missing people who disappeared while trying to explore the cultists property. He didn’t really give a shit either way, he just knew Theron was rumored to have some very rare occult tomes on spell magic and sex magic.

  He was going to knock on the screened in door when the shadow of a huge man filled the doorway. Preston took a step back, alarmed at the bulbous mass that was nearly as wide as the doorway itself. A moment later a middle aged man who was at least seven feet tall and Preston guessed to be in the realm of 500lbs answered his summons.

  “Howdy! I heard your car pull up.” He said in a typical rural drawl. He had on sweat stained suspenders and nothing else apparently. Preston tried very hard to keep his composure, he was fastidious to the point of obsession about his hygiene and cleanliness. In his mind he saw morbidly obese people like Rick Mantell as filthy, because of all those folds and excess skin that could not possibly be washed and kept clean all day. Judging by the man’s intense body odor hygiene was not high on his priority list.

  “Are you… Rick Mantell? The man I spoke to on the phone?” Preston asked, trying to be polite and hide his utter revulsion. Rick grinned, exposing a mouth that was more gum than teeth. He nodded jovially.

  “Yessir! I know I look a bit different than the photos. I used to have dreadlocks, can you believe that? Those were awhile ago… and well, I been through a lot. Some people turned to booze and drugs. I turned to food and farming. Although I still like myself a drink every once awhile. Prolly don’t help matters.” He said, and that’s when Preston saw the sweating can of Budweiser in the man’s hand. The other was outstretched in a greeting, a calloused, plump dirt covered appendage that Preston forced himself to shake.

  “I…I see. Um, well, yes, do you have it? The third revised law of ritual magic?” He asked, his voice shaky with anticipation.

  “Yessir I do. Bunch of other stuff of Theron’s as well. Personally I don’t wanna have it, but I don’t really know what else to do with it except put it online and—”

  “Yes right, can you present it? I’d very much like to see it, confirm it’s authenticity.” Preston said anxiously. Rick nodded, took a lumbering step back and beckoned him inside the filthy house.

  “Come on in, have a beer! I’ll go get it.” The big man said. The thought of it made Preston’s thin frame shiver with revulsion.

  “Uh, sorry to be rude sir but I really must be going. I have a plane to catch. If you could just bring it out in the sun light where I can get a good look at it please.” Preston called through the door way. A cat had sauntered it’s way out from underneath the porch at the sound of their voices. It walked over to Preston, trying to rub on his freshly pressed slacks. He was deathly allergic to cats, and just seeing the matted fur of it’s coat was making his eyes water. He was about ten seconds away from high tailing it back to the car. He shoved the cat away with one loafer, making a sound of disgust as he did so.

  He heard the big man’s slow approach and wanted to scream for him to hurry, but instead used his last shred of will power to remain calm. If this was the authentic version of the law of ritual magic, his life would soon see a big improvement. If he could finally be purged of Lilith’s presence, he could go back to living some semblance of a normal life again, get his health back on track, perhaps even entertain the idea of getting a real human mate before he died. He played with fire and very much got burnt. He was willing to accept that now, and prayed that the man had the real thing.

  Rick reappeared a moment later, a red book sealed in a plastic bag in his hands. Preston couldn’t help but seize it from the man’s grimy grip. Emblazoned on the red leather bound cover was THE THIRD REVISED LAW OF RITUAL AND CHAOS MAGICKA. Underneath it were the authors, A. CROWLEY, M. BROWARD, ET AL. With trembling hands, Preston opened the bag, taking the book out and cracking the cover of the thick tome, finger searching for a publication date. The pages were yellowed and stiff, a good sign. An authentic copy would have been printed in 1927. All the copies after that were printed for mass market purposes and had been edited severely for public consumption. According to Preston’s research, only 50 of the pre ‘27copies were ever printed.

  “Oh thank Christ.” He said under his breath as he saw the publication date. It was in his hands now. The only other book he knew of in existence with authenticated, verified summoning spells for succubi and other night guardians. He put the book back in the bag, and proceeded to pull out the check he had folded away in his shirt pocket. “How much do you want for it?” He asked, his voice trembling. The man gave him a strange look.

  “And what’s a fella like yourself want with a book like that? It’s full of hogwash you know. If Theron bought into it it was hogwash. I know that now. I don’t want there being another Theron. Some psycho trying to use witch craft for evil things. It’s unholy and I repent every day for the reckless decisions I made back when I was with sector 5.” He said with some consternation.

  “I need it for…research purposes… I’m an…academic. Anthropologist actually. This is a very rare text, and the university I work for would very much like to be in possession of it, for historical preservation.” Preston said, the lie coming easily to him. He was the farthest thing from an academic, but this big galoot didn’t know that. “How does four thousand sound?” He asked before the man could reply. Bushy eyebrows were raised at this price.

  “Four thousand dollars? For that?” He asked in amazement. Preston honestly couldn’t tell if the incredulity came from how high or how low the price was. Trying to appraise such an obscure text if a copy wasn’t in the hands of historians or university libraries was impossible.

  “…Yes.” Preston said with some hesitation. “I mean… I’d be willing to haggle with you.” He added after a moment.


  “Four thousand. My god. There’s so much I could do with that.” Rick said, and stared off into the sky contemplatively, Preston assuming he was imagining all the Budweiser and fast food he could buy with that lump sum.

  “So what do you say? We have a deal?” Preston asked impatiently as Rick took on the vacuous stare of his bovine neighbors, contemplating his new found wealth.

  “I mean… Shoot yeah, I could sure as hell use the money. Thank you mister. Thank you so much.” He said, watching with wide eyed glee as Preston handed the check over with one of his monogrammed pens.

  “Excellent. Just fill out the amount and cash it when you’re ready, I already signed it. Keep the pen.” Preston said quickly, backpedaling towards the limo. “I’ll trust you fill in the amount we agreed upon. Otherwise I will end you.” He said casually as he sauntered over to the limo, leaving the big man to stare stupidly at the blank check.

  Chapter 3.

  Preston walked through the front door of his apartment. He’d gone to get groceries from the corner market down the street, and also met up with his old weed dealer from college to buy a few grams of mescaline.

  “Shit man, you sure you don’t just want some boomers or acid? Fuckin no one fucks with mescaline no more. That’s like a grandpa drug.” Sid the sidewalk dealer told him. Preston insisted it had to be mescaline. He would follow all the rules in the book to a T. He would not make the same mistake Ian did. Once inside, he set aside his normal groceries and took out the notebook he bought, and the ten candles. Timing was very important for this, so he watched the clock with a more obsessive fervor than he usually did. It pained him to make a mess of his normally spotless apartment, but the summoning spell required he make the ten pointed star of Nyp’eth via salt.

  Before doing that however, he took out the old fashioned calligrapher’s pen he bought from the art store in midtown. The sight of blood always made him squeamish, so he did not look forward to the most crucial step of the ritual, which involved writing out his wishes for the demoness he would summon, using his blood for ink. But he would do it, even if he had to down a half bottle of Johnny Walker to accomplish it. Once he had all the supplies set out on the table, he proceeded to take a long, hot shower to pass the time. He’d already taken two since this morning, his skin dry and chaffed, but he was nervous, and the repeated showers were one of his most comforting rituals.

  He came out of the steaming bathroom and saw it was eight in the evening. If he wanted everything to go right, he would have to eat the mescaline now, so he could peak at midnight, performing the ritual as instructed, with his third eye completely open. He went into the kitchen, where he began to grind up the dried green cacti buttons in a mortar and pastel until they were a fine powder. He mixed this with some orange juice, the taste of the OJ making it more palatable to get down, as well as the acid in the juice helping to potentiate his dose. He’d learned that trick in college, back when he’d unwind from a successful basketball season and quite liked the euphoric, child like wonder that mushrooms instilled.

  After choking down the mixture, he prepared a small snifter of whiskey, which he forced himself to sip on instead of gulp down. He didn’t want to get drunk, that might interfere with whatever neurochemical actions the hallucinogens were supposed to alter. Just enough to steady his nerves and prevent a panic attack from happening before he even began to trip. The glass in one hand, the handle of salt in the other, he began to pour out a large circle on the hardwood floor of his living room, scooting the couch and coffee table out of the way to do so. He walked over and consulted the thick book, which was sitting splayed open on the kitchen counter.

  The symbol he was instructed to make was like the typical satanic pentagram you saw tattooed on goth kids, but this one had a few more extra lines and points to it. Once he had the design burned into his mind, he carefully poured the salt out until it roughly resembled the “Star of Nyp’eth” as it was called in the book. Then he took the candles, each in their own little jars, and set them at each point of Nyp’eth’s star. He would wait until just before midnight to light them. Once he had all the preparations in place, he turned to the kitchen knife and the ink basin.

  He paused with the knife point in his palm, hands trembling. He had ingested the hallucinogen some twenty minutes ago and could already feel a subtle come up begin to work it’s way through him. He had to get this part over with now or soon he’d be too out of it to do so carefully. He closed his eyes, and sunk the sharp tip right into the middle of his palm, jerking it a few centimeters forward to slice deep enough for a good flow, but not deep enough for an artery or muscle to be nicked. He hissed with pain and had to drop the knife and grab the counter as he got light headed, thinking he might pass out. But he commanded a grip on himself, and placed his palm over the ink well, where the pooled blood spilled out.

  He kept his head turned away, knowing the sight of it would make him vomit or pass out for sure. He instead counted mentally to twenty, and then grabbed the clean dish towel sitting next to the basin, making a fist around it to staunch the flow. He looked and saw the blood had overflowed from the little basin, and felt his gorge and all that acidic cacti sludge rise with it. He took a huge, painful gulp however, fighting his gorge tooth and claw, and blinked rapidly. You can do this, he told himself.

  He took the pen with his right hand, forcing himself to steady the arm before dipping the ornate pen in the crimson ink. He had torn a piece of plain white paper from the notebook before cutting his palm, and very carefully scrawled his message on there. He wrote each letter slowly, methodically, putting all his concentration into it. His arm began to feel much longer than it normally did, and he feared messing up the note in his inebriated state. But after some ten minutes, the message was written, the summons in his blood.

  He looked at the clock, and was shocked to see two hours had went by. It was 10:30. The witching hour grew near. He got up to walk over to the circle of salt he’d made, bringing the lighter and the letter with him. He sat down Indian legged, disturbing as little of the salt as possible. His body began to feel off kilter, like the floor was tilted slightly. He stared at the big ornate clock in his living room. His father had gotten him that clock. His father, who was the infamous oil Barron Robert Jennings, would have a stroke if he knew about Preston’s dabblings in the occult. He began to giggle as he thought of what he’d say to his dad right now.

  Hey ol pops, guess what I’m doing right now? Sitting in my high rise suite on 53rd street, trying to summon a succubus, in order to piss off another succubus and get her to leave me alone. Or have them fight to the death. I’m pinning these two girls against each other, isn’t that some shit? The reality of his situation hit home then, and the laughing turned into nearly hysterical cackling that sounded like the baying of a deranged mad man. His mind was trying to wrap itself around what his life had become. From a once promising college athlete on ride with a full scholarship to resting completely on his father’s laurels and taken instead to a life of boozing and whoring, which in turn led him to that goddamn book which got him here in the first place.

  He thought of Lilith, and the physical transformation she had caused. His teeth were now rotted and decaying inside of his mouth due to her fluids he ingested. His hair began to thin and his muscles erode away as he ejaculated roughly ten times a night. He was unable to replenish the large amounts of zinc and other crucial minerals that were excreted in male ejaculate at such a high number, because his stomach was constantly in a roiled state due to the foul curd milk that he sucked from her breast like a helpless babe in feeding. He experienced torsion in both testicles from all the repeated orgasms and contractions. His body was falling apart from the inside out.

  “You were so fucking naïve.” He said to the empty apartment as he remembered being a young bear of a man in college, getting his pick of the swim team co-eds and thinking he could go all night, even though he usually tapped out after his second or third round. He’d never been t
ruly pushed to his limit, until Lilith came along. Despite all the physical ailments her visits manifested, he had a feeling he would miss her nightly visits, long after she was gone, if she left. She could be sweet when she wanted to be, when the spells were doing their work. She understood he had limits, but simply could not control herself, which in itself turned Preston on. To be so driven by sex, for that to be your very existence. He wished he were man enough to satisfy her, to endure her worship of his seed. No other mortal woman would ever be so sex starved for him and only him. In a way, their relationship was cruelly ironic.

  He flinched, snapped out of his increasingly rambling inner monologue by the tolling of the living room clock, which dinged out the first ten seconds of Chopin’s “Nocturne number nine”. The bells, which he’d heard so many times before and grown indifferent too, sounded so heart breaking and beautiful that for a moment the somber melody rendered him frozen. He longed to hear it again, but remembered why he was tripping in the first place, why he was sitting completely naked in the middle of a fancy salt pentagram. Using a book of matches he kept within peripheral reach of the diagram, he quickly lit each of the ten candles around him, trying not to be mesmerized by the dancing flames, who’s flickering auras spat out ethereal tracers that swam around his apartment like forest spirits.