CHAPTER FOUR

One Year Later

Paul drove his new-used 1989 Chevy Cavalier down the Garden State Parkway on his way back to Pink Meat, tapping the steering wheel along to the music blaring out of the speakers. He smiled every time he glanced at the books on the passenger’s seat:

THE VAMPIRES OF THE APOC’O’LIPS by Paul Minisink

WEREWOLVES FROM VENUS by Paul Minisink

THE ECTOPLASMIC BOSS by Paul Minisink

When he had had read Don Patchogue’s manuscripts he knew that they were something special and it didn’t take long for him to get accepted by a publisher. The tiny voice of his conscience occasionally nagged at Paul but he never really regretted his decision. It wasn’t like Patchogue would be able to benefit from the royalties or the good reviews. In fact, Paul had done him a favor simply be getting them published at all.

He felt lucky not only because he was able to get published so quickly but because Outer Space seemed to have forgotten about him ever since it had drowned Don Patchogue in space-goo. Paul wasn’t sure if that was the reason for the absence of attacks or if simply the grudge was gone. Either way, he felt elated.

Paul wasn’t completely sure why he was going back to Pink Meat. A part of him wanted to check out Don’s house while another part wanted to check out that librarian. He hadn’t even caught her name. Being in that profession, she was no doubt going to be impressed by the three books that he had brought along.

Once he got into town, the events from the previous year came flooding back to him like a gooey deluge. He could almost smell the cosmic sperm that had enveloped both the dead cat and Don Patchogue. Paul was grateful that his last visit to the town didn’t cause any problems with the law. After the attack at Patchogue’s house, he walked back to his totaled car where the police were waiting. They concluded that it was not as a result of reckless driving. He got out of town the following day.

Since that time, Paul had wondered why the librarian didn’t inform the police that he had inquired about Don Patchogue’s address on the very same day that the guy disappeared. Was she afraid that Paul would come back to kill her or did she just not make the connection?

He pulled into the library parking lot and saw that it still contained only three cars. The town of Pink Meat had not had a literary renaissance since the last time he was there. Walking in with his books in his hands, he felt his pulse quicken and palms started sweating like crazy.

Paul walked up to the front desk and saw a woman, he figured her to be in her fifties, who looked unhappy to be there. He cleared his throat and then said, “Excuse me?”

“Can I help you?” The woman didn’t get up from her chair.

“I’m looking for a librarian. I don’t know her name, she has a British accent.”

The woman looked at Paul as if he had just cursed her off. He didn’t think it was possible but her facial expression got even nastier.

“Are you serious? Is this a joke?”

Paul took a step back. “No, why would it be?”

“Ms. Frost passed away a year ago.”

The woman stared at Paul without blinking which really freaked him out because her eyes were mean and sharp to begin with. He let the information sink in. The British librarian passed away a year ago which was around the time that he last saw her.

“May I ask how?”

That question didn’t seem to go over well. The woman sighed and then finally blinked. She seemed to be mustering all of the bitchiness possible and said, “She was murdered.”

Paul was going to ask for more details but decided that it probably wasn’t a good idea considering the woman’s escalating nastiness. Luckily another woman, this one a younger one who looked both kinder and gentler, poked her head out of a doorway and said, “They found her body in the old brick plant. Still didn’t catch the guy.”

The bitch gave the nice woman a nasty look and then went back to her paperwork. Paul nodded and tried thanking the other woman but his throat went dry. No words would come out. Desire to see the brick factory overwhelmed him but there was no chance he was going to ask the librarians. They’d think he was some sort of morbid freak or something. Instead, he decided to use the same thing he used to find Don Patchogue’s address. Paul walked to the computer and used the Internet to find the address of the Pink Meat Brick Company.

Paul drove down the street, turned right, and headed through the industrial section of Pink Meat. The area was barren; the town was no longer a hub for industry. The Pink Meat Brick Company’s building was at the end of the street, overlooking the Raritan River. Right next to it was an even more dilapidated brick water tower.

It didn’t take much to get into the building. No one seemed to have put forth much effort to block the abandoned building from vandals or squatters. All Paul had to do was climb a fence and kick in a door with minimal effort. The interior of the building looked bigger than he had expected from looking at the outside.

Paul thought about the character in The Grub Star Shudders who becomes obsessed with a pile of bricks. He looked around, thinking that perhaps that same imaginary stack would be there waiting for him but there was not a loose brick in sight.

He leaned up against a dirty wall. His books, or rather Don’s books, were still in his hands. He dropped them to the ground. One of them opened up but instead of showing the text that was supposed to be there, it showed a mish-mash of unnamable colors and shapes, all twinkling and twisting into new forms. Paul recognized all of this from when he first encountered The Book of Space Codes.

Paul took his eyes off of the book and walked outside. When he looked up into the sky, he saw it: a daylight constellation of stars shaped like a celestial phallus. It was sword-shaped, a glittering starry blade that Paul knew was aiming to cut him down with the frenzied vengeance of a rapist.

So it’s come to this, he thought. Three books published and now he was going to have to finally surrender to his fate. He would no longer be able to enjoy the small fame of being a published author. Outer Space was finally going to have its way with him.

The constellation got larger, moving closer to Paul who was now lying on his back. He kept his eyes on the constellation until the stars grouped together and fell from the sky like ferociously horny birds.

Paul didn’t feel any pain as his body was covered in a shroud of glistening, plasmatic space-cum. Though he had never used heroin, he imagined that the high was similar to what he was feeling. It was a tingling euphoria. As he felt himself being pulled up into the air, Paul saw something written in the sky, in glowing greenish-brown letters against the blue background of the Earth’s atmosphere. They were the words of Don Patchogue:

IT’S ALL JUST SHIT!

THE END