THE APOCALYPSE DONKEY

 

 

 

 

Chapter One

Simon Palmer swerved the car but ended up hitting the squid anyway.

What the hell was a squid doing in the middle of the road? He didn’t know the answer but didn’t care so he kept driving. He figured the thing was dead before he hit it. But how could that be? It was out of water. Squid can’t survive for long out of water, can they? Another question he didn’t have the answer to. He was getting used to that.

The car hit a pothole and Simon heard one of the boxes in the backseat fall over, spilling copies of his books all over the floor.

“Shit,” he said and reached back with one arm to scoop some of them up. He almost hit the car in front of him so he eased over to the side of the road. Looking at the copies of book, the trade paperback collection of his comic book The Adventures of Fauntleroy LeRoux, Simon was reminded of the year he spent living in his car, drawing Fauntleroy LeRoux over and over in his notebook. Who would’ve thought that he’d get a chance to work on a new series featuring the classic character he had grown up reading? Though he was far from rich and famous, Simon considered himself lucky.

This book signing was something that Simon looked forward to despite knowing that most of the readership came from an obscure demographic. It wasn’t the usual comic book fan (male, 18-35, living with his parents) who read his work. He got fan mail from eighty-year old doctors, meth-addicted housewives, ten-year old orphans, and even an imprisoned priest. His publisher told him that the biggest readership came from central New Jersey and more specifically, the city of Thompson.  Simon recalled hearing that Byron McPhee, the creator of the Fauntleroy LeRoux comic strip, moved to the area in 1932 although whether or not there was a connection, Simon didn’t know.

Once he drove into Thompson, he stopped at a strip mall and looked for a payphone. There was one by a liquor store and when Simon picked up the receiver, his hand touched something slimy. Smeared on the phone was something yellow and gooey. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and held the phone with it. Then he dialed.

It rang twice and then a voice answered, “Hellooooo there!”

Simon said, “Hey, Chaps. What’s up? I’m in Thompson.” Chaps lived three towns away. Ever since Simon moved to Pennsylvania four years ago, they only saw each other occasionally.

“Already? I figured you wouldn’t get there until another hour or so. I still have to eat breakfast.”

“We’ll get something to eat, just meet me at Zip Comics and we’ll go to a diner or something.”

Chaps said, “I don’t know. I think I’d rather eat at home and meet you afterwards.”

Simon sighed. “Okay, when?”

“Maybe two hours or so.”

“Two hours? You kidding me?” Simon wanted to curse but held himself back, not wanting to upset an already unstable friendship. He wanted to tell Chaps to stop being a hermit, stop being a procrastinator, stop alienating his friends. But instead, Simon just said, “Okay, meet met at the comic shop at 9:30.”

Chaps said, “Okay. I’ll be there.” He giggled nervously. “Take care.”

“Yeah, you too. Bye.” Simon hung up. I really should’ve told him to go fuck himself.. Sick of this shit. If he doesn’t want to hang out, just fucking tell me. Simon felt like ending the friendship but felt like there was something there to nurture, something that was worthwhile. Chaps was unreliable to say the least but for some reason Simon liked his company.

What the fuck am I going to do for two hours? The comic shop isn’t even open.

Simon sat outside the strip mall and smoked a cigarette. He watched the cars drive by and wished he was in one of them, wanting to know what it was like to be someone else. He wasn’t discontent with his life but it would be fun to explore other lifestyle options. There might be a good story in there somewhere.

A car pulled into the parking lot, taking a space that was near Simon. The car idled for two minutes and then shut off. A man got out and walked towards him. He tried not looking at the guy but it was difficult. He was tall, freakishly so. Long brown hair and muscular, though not really that big. Okay, I think I better go back to the car. Simon hated being afraid but that was his instinct especially in unfamiliar surroundings where there were guys he knew could kick his ass in a minute.

Though mentally he was prepared to stand up, his body wouldn’t listen. The man got closer and walked up to Simon. He could see now that he wasn’t as scary close up. In fact, he was attractive and if Simon were gay, he’d find the guy irresistible.

The man said, “You him?”

Simon didn’t know what to reply. Was this a Fauntleroy LeRoux fan that recognized him? Did the guy come into town for the book signing? No, he didn’t seem enthusiastic. He’s too casual, nonchalant.

“Uh, I don’t know. Who are you looking for?” He stubbed out the cigarette and realized right away that it might come off looking like an aggressive gesture, like a character in a spaghetti western who was getting his hands ready to go for his six-shooters.

“Don’t fuck around. You’re the only guy standing here and so I’m asking, are you the guy?”

Oh, what the hell.

“Yeah, I’m the guy,” Simon said, instantly regretting it.

The man didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look excited or disappointed. His facial expression didn’t change while he went for his back pocket and brought out a black envelope.

The man said, “Here,” and dropped it on Simon’s lap. Then he walked back to his car.

“Hey wait!” Simon grabbed the envelope and stood up, taking a few steps towards the man. He got no response and so then jogged over to the guy, wanting to say, “Hey I was just kidding. I’m not the guy so here, sorry about that. Take back your weird, black envelope.”

He knew he couldn’t do it. So when the guy turned to look at him, Simon just said, “Thanks.”

The guy didn’t respond. He got into his car and drove away.

Simon stood in the middle of the parking lot, watching the car drive away and wondering what was in the black envelope. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

 

Chapter Two

Harry Bosch drove out of the parking lot, relieved to be done with the whole mess. He was told by Terry that there’d be a meth-head hanging out in front of the convenience store on Washington Road and to give him the envelope. Harry did just that and hoped that it would indeed be the end of the whole fucking mess.

That meth-head was acting strange but who knows what the fuck those guys are gonna do?

He’d been in debt to Terry Silver for far too long. Harry had been sucked in the by the allure of Terry’s unorthodox organized crime family, one that was not based on ethnicity or old country tradition. It was based on money, violence, and squid, all of which Harry loved. Still, Terry turned out to be the kind of guy who’d promise the same thing to three people, never intending to give it to any of them. Fucking asshole. I shoulda listened to Mike Barnes and stayed the fuck away from him.

And to top it off, Terry tried to get Harry into the Kabbalah, talking for hours about one mystical thing or another. Jesus Christ the goddamn guy thinks I’m a fucking Jew or something.  Harry decided that after this whole situation was settled, he’d find a way out. He was a strong guy, big in all the right places and there were plenty of jobs around town he could get. I think Kreese’s is looking for a bouncer or something, I gotta check on that. It’d mean a cut in pay but I got savings.

Harry drove down to see if Zip Comics was open but then saw the CLOSED sign and passed it by. He normally didn’t read comics but Mike had told him that there was such a thing as adult comics. “Full of sex, and not just normal sex, I mean sex with aliens and squid and shit, guys jacking off on car engines, two-headed hookers and donkeys. Crazy motherfuckin’ stuff,” Mike had said, so Harry decided he just had to check it out.

I’ll go by there later. Got nothin’ better to do.

Hoping that his day’s work was done, Harry stopped by the Thompson Diner for pancakes, sausage, and fried eggs: sunny side up. He knew the waitress, a woman who always flirted with him, making it quite clear that if he was so inclined, Harry could take her to his car and screw her brains out. He would’ve taken that horny broad up on her offer if not for his impotence. So Harry would just have to settle for glimpses of her ample cleavage and plump ass.

When he was done eating his breakfast, he asked her for the check.

She said, “Going so soon, hon?”

“Got stuff to do, Stella. I’m a busy man, you know.” He couldn’t tell her the truth, that he really had nothing to do the rest of the day and he’d be happy to sit there at the diner, staring at her goodies. But if there was one thing he had learned in life, it’s that women don’t like a man who doesn’t do shit all day.

Stella said, “Oh, I bet you are. I just wish you’d get busy with me.”

“You’re a hellava waitress, Stella, you know that? That’s why I tip you so good.” He took out his wallet.

Stella leaned over the table, her freckled cleavage on display. “Yeah but that’s not the kinda tip I want.”

Harry stared unabashedly at her breasts. He had no shame in the matter. Being coy was for teenagers or romantics but it wasted time, Harry thought. So he licked his lips and imagined those milk-mounds slapping his face. In his fantasy his dick was hard and he was able to follow through with the act of love-making, something he wasn’t able to do in five years.

“You’re terrible, Stella.” Harry laughed and took the check from her hand and looked at it. She didn’t charge him for the side of sausage as usual. I think that’s her way of saying I’m gonna owe her some of MY sausage.

He took money out of his wallet and handed it to her with the check. Tipping her above and beyond the usual amount was something he was happy doing. She made his day pleasant and she deserved it.

Stella said, “Thanks, cutie pie. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Well, maybe,” Harry said. “Remember, I’m a busy man.”

She giggled. “Oh, don’t remind me.”

Harry left the diner and sat in his car for a few minutes, smoking and wondering what the hell he was going to do for the rest of the day. The comic shop would kill a half hour tops but as for after that, he was clueless.

He started the car and turned on the radio, scanning the radio stations until he found a song he liked.

Yeah, Judas Priest. Now we’re talkin’.

Harry drove away, tapping his fingers to “Ram It Down” and wishing he had stayed at the diner for a few minutes longer.

*                      *                      *

Chris woke up next to a dumpster.

The first thing he saw was a chain-link fence, behind it a field made of dirt and the occasional patch of grass. He wondered why someone put a fence around that field, why someone would want to keep people out of it.

He also wondered who he was. He couldn’t remember.

Who am I?

Chris hated that question; it sounded so existential, so cliché. But he asked it in all seriousness because he had no idea what his name was and how he ended up propped up against a dumpster. He checked the pockets of his dirty khaki pants but there was no wallet, only some loose money and a plastic baggie full of little crystals.

Okay, okay. I took some of these drugs, and it just fried my brain a little bit. Everything’ll come back to me soon. I just need to wait it out.

So Chris waited.

After a half hour, he started to get worried. Though he lacked the memories of his identity, he remembered other things. An old movie he had seen with John Hodiak playing a guy who loses his memory. Shit. Why can I remember that but I can’t remember my own fucking name. And I remember walking up to Krauszer’s to get a lottery ticket and a coffee but the door was locked. I thought they opened at like six or something.

But then the memories stopped. What happened to him between trying the door to when he woke up? He had no clue. But he did know that he had a baggie full of what he took to be crystal meth. He looked at it again, crushing some of it between his fingers. Another memory came back to him: arriving at a house that had a green van parked in the driveway. Chris knocking on the door, asking for some holiday meth, envisioning the green crystals as vividly as if they were right in front of him. He remembered the guy at the door saying he didn’t have any more but that he had something brand new and it was called Squid Ink, looked just like crystal meth but was twice as powerful. Chris remembered asking, “What’s in it?” and then guy responding with “You really want to know?” but then the memory stopped there.

What the fuck is in this shit?

If that’s what messed him up, Chris wanted to know the details. He could picture the guy’s face but no name. He could picture the house but no address. So he knew he was a drug addict, fine. But where did he live? Or did he even have a home? What if this was it?

Is this where I sleep every night? Fuck, this is crazy. This can’t be happening. I gotta remember something.

Chris hoped that slowly the details of his life would trickle back to him until the whole jigsaw puzzle was complete. Then he could go on.

But what if my life isn’t worth remembering? What if I wanted to forget?

He stood up and walked around to the front of the building. A trace of memory flashed through his mind because he recognized the strip mall and could see the sign for Krauszer’s. Another piece of the puzzle. He walked over and went inside.

There were a few customers in the store and one guy behind the counter. Chris walked down the aisles for a few minutes, hoping to jog his memory again but nothing came. He walked up to the counter and looked at the middle-aged guy with a beer gut who was sitting on a stool looking grouchy.

Chris said, “Excuse me?”

“Yeah?” The guy didn’t look in the mood for questions.

“Do you know me?”

“What?”

“Have I been here before?”

“The fuck should I know?” the guy said, squinting and getting impatient.

Chris was embarrassed. He said, “Sorry,” and walked out of the store, feeling like a complete jack-ass. That was stupid. If he knew me he would’ve said something when I walked in. So what the hell do I do now?

He sat on the curb in front of the store. Another sliver of the past came back but this time in the form of a feeling and not an image. Chris had the distinct impression that he was supposed to be waiting for someone here, someone who was supposed to give him something.

Guess I’ll just wait here and hopefully whoever it is will come by and give me whatever it is they’re supposed to give me. Shit, I hope it’s something good.

 

Chapter Three

 Simon had seen enough movies to know that when a guy you don’t know hands you an envelope, it can’t be good. Most likely the guy mistook him for a hitman and inside the envelope was a picture of the target as well as half of the fee, the other half which would be delivered after the hit. He didn’t want to believe this but the situation was so similar to a set up of a movie or a book that he couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all.

Still, if it turned out that he was correct, he knew he was in deep shit. It ever ended well in the movies. The guy who was mistaken for a hitman would be hunted down by both the man paying for the hit as well as the real assassin. In the movies, the heroes were resourceful and destined to come out on top but this was real life. Simon knew he possessed no attributes that would help him in that situation. No strength. No special skills. No martial arts training. No military background. No real determination. He would be doomed.

Here goes nothing.

Simon tore open the envelope.

The first thing he noticed was that there was no money inside. Part of him was disappointed. Even if the whole mistaken-for-a-hitman thing had happened, at least he’d have some extra cash in the meantime. It would be a short-lived fantasy, he knew that, but he was disappointed nonetheless.

The second thing he noticed was that there were photographs, just like he had expected.

Son of a bitch.

Then he looked at them. There was a cold fist of dread in the pit of his stomach. His eyes bugged out of his head and he was aware of the sensation. He would have never thought it was possible for eyes to do such a thing but the shock of what he was looking at was too strong. His hands shook and the pictures fell to the ground.

Simon quickly bent down to scoop them up but before he did, he looked at the position of the photographs and imagined them as tarot cards.  If they were, he wondered, what the hell would they be telling me?

They’d probably be telling me to get the fuck outta here.

He didn’t want to think about it anymore and so he picked them up. Once they were back in the black envelope, he put them away in his pocket. Fear was slowly coming forward like a blood red tide.

What the fuck am I gonna do now?

Simon was sure that the guy who handed him the pictures would come back once he found out that he gave them to the wrong person. It was only a matter of time. But Simon didn’t live in town and if he left right after the book signing, what are the chances that the guy would find him? 

Okay, after I finish up at the comic shop, I get the fuck out. I throw the photos out or I drop them off at the police station or something and that’s it. I’m gone.

While he planned his escape, Simon saw a child staring at him from across the parking lot. The child walked closer and Simon soon realized that it wasn’t a child but a dwarf.

She was dressed in a tight, green dress and black cowboy boots. Simon watched as she made her way over to him, fixing her long blond hair in the process as if wanting to make sure she looked pretty for him.

The dwarf said, “Hey sweetie, wanna date?”

What the fuck is this?

“Um, no thanks,” Simon said.

“A blow is twenty, half-and-half is forty-five. I know it’s early but I’m real good,” she said as she tweaked her hardened nipple through her dress. “Really fuckin’ good.”

Simon said, “Yeah, um, no thanks.”

The dwarf’s face squinted in anger. “What the fuck is your problem? You a fuckin’ homo or somethin’?”

“No, I just don’t want a date, okay.” Simon started walking away. The last thing he wanted was for her to make a scene or bite him in the thigh or something.

The dwarf followed close behind but was now bald, her blond wig in her hand. She said, “How’s this? You like ‘em bald? I’m bald everywhere, you know.”

“Jesus Christ, leave me alone,” Simon said, picking up the pace. He wanted to get into his car but imagined her jumping in with him, forcing him to fuck her. The thought made him sick not because she was a dwarf but because she was so goddamn aggressive.

“You look like you’re into squid. I can get squid if that’s what you like. Only cost you seventy-five, best price on the street. How about it?”

Simon said, “What the hell is wrong with you?” He walked faster and decided that getting into his car would be the best thing. Once he reached it, the dwarf stopped following him and walked away muttering under her breath.

The relief was short lived once Simon remembered the envelope in his pocket. I just need to make sure that I can get out of town after the book signing without the guy seeing me. He thought about the photographs again and instinctively shook his head in disgust and denial. How can anyone take pictures like that? Where would anyone even get the idea to do those things let alone grab a camera and document it? He asked those questions but didn’t really want to know the answers.

Simon started the car and went on his way to the comic shop, hoping that maybe Chaps would get there early but he knew that was unlikely. Maybe one of the guys at Zip Comics was there early and would let Simon in. He hoped so or he’d have to sit in his car, hoping another dwarf hooker didn’t accost him in the parking lot.

When he got to the comic shop, he saw that the lights were off but walked up and knocked on the door anyway. There was no answer. Simon went back to his car and put the seat back, hoping he wouldn’t fall asleep and dream of the photographs. As if to protect himself from their influence, he put the photographs in the glove compartment.

Chaps better be here by 9:30 or I’m gonna beat his ass.

 

Chapter Four

Having enough to worry about, Chris tried to ignore the stomach pains.

He didn’t know his name or anything else specific about himself so having diarrhea would just have to wait. The pains came in waves, sharp knives one minute and then dormant the next. He walked away from the strip mall, hoping to find something that would help him regain his past or at least lead him on the right path.

His stomach started gurgling. It was like someone was boiling water but in this case the water was in danger of erupting out of his ass. Chris stopped walking and bent over, holding his stomach. He thought if he could withstand the pains and hold it in, it’d go away. Once he felt the spasm in his colon, he knew he was wrong.

Chris was now on a main road and there was cars passing him, making it impossible for him to just take down his pants and get it over with. He ran across the street to a gas station. The man working there was a tall Sikh with a nametag that said his name was JIMBO.

Chris said, “Can I use your bathroom please?”

“Customers only.”

“Oh come on, please. Here,” Chris said, pulling out money from his pockets. “I’ll pay you, please, just let me use it.”

Jimbo said, “It’s out of order.”

“Fuck!” Chris walked over to the side of the gas station with Jimbo slowly following him asking him what he thought he was doing. Without any other option available, Chris pulled his pants down. He crouched down and leaned against the wall and relaxed his sphincter muscles.

Jimbo was a few feet away but stopped when he saw what was happening. He watched in disgust and gross fascination as Chris’s ass emptied itself on the ground, quickly forming a greenish black pile of shit. For ten years, Jimbo had worked at the gas station and had dealt with junkies and longheads but never did he ever see anything like this.

Chris was feeling faint and tried to keep himself from falling into his own shit. His stomach kept churning and Chris felt like his ass had become an assembly line that would never stop producing. With a grunt, he pushed out what he hoped would be the last of what was festering in his bowels.

For Jimbo, there was no way to stop staring; the sight of it was hypnotic. The thick curls of feces started to tremble and lift off the ground like tentacles. He was surprised to see the man stand up and run off after shitting. Jimbo wanted to go after him, make him clean it up. However, the sight of the living-shit tentacles kept him cemented in place.

The wet sounds of shit-hitting-cement got louder. The tentacles got closer and before they wrapped around his leg, Jimbo thought he saw the hypnotic and crystalline eyes of a squid. He blinked, thinking it was his imagination but when he looked again, they were still there.

Jimbo’s body was wrapped in tentacles. A car pulled up to the gas station for gas and after thirty seconds, the driver got out and said, “Anybody here?”  Jimbo tried to answer but could only manage a faint cough as his mouth was filled with the warm tip of a tentacle.

The car drove away and Jimbo lied down. He wanted to feel the soothing cold of the cement and not the burning stink that was now gripping him like a family of pythons. Jimbo felt himself loosing consciousness which he didn’t think was possible. He always thought it was a sudden blink into la-la land rather than a gradual descent into sleep. It was not as unpleasant as he had imagined. He finally succumbed to it, falling into dreams of squid and debauchery.

Several streets over, Chris was running away. Of all the things that he had forgotten and couldn’t remember, he wished he could get rid of the memory of shitting against a gas station wall. That guy watching him do it made it even worse.

Why the hell was he just standing there watching? Must be a pervert or something, getting off on me taking a shit.

Chris stopped running and realized how uncomfortable he now was. He had run off without wiping his ass and his ass now felt sloppy and wet. There had to be somewhere that he could clean himself off. He walked two more blocks and saw something promising: a carnival. It was closed and there didn’t seem to be anyone around so Chris hopped the fence and looked around for a portable toilet.

He found at Johnny-On-The-Spot in the corner next to a hotdog stand and a place that sold fried Oreos. Chris went into the portable toilet and locked the door. The carnival wasn’t open yet so the toilet was clean and smelt like disinfectant. Chris pulled down his pants and realized that these sort of portable toilets don’t have sinks.

“Son of a bitch.”

He sat down and leaned against the wall, exhausted from the experience at the gas station and from racking his brain for his identity. Now he just wanted to sleep again in hopes of waking up with his memories intact and his ass clean.

Maybe this whole thing is a dream. Some drugs I took or bad squid I ate or something.

Then he fell asleep.

*                      *                      *

The tape player squeaked and the music stopped playing. Harry slammed a fist into it to no avail. “Motherfucker.” After hearing the Judas Priest song on the radio, he dug around his car for one of their tapes and was happy to find it under some magazines.

He hated having to replace the tape player again. It was the third one he had bought in the six years he had the car. Fucking car must hate tape decks. The squeaking stopped only to be replaced by a clicking sound. Harry slammed his fist into it again but only succeeded in cutting his knuckle.

As he drove past the video store, Harry thought he saw someone he recognized so he pulled the car into the parking lot. Shit, yeah, it’s Liam. He could see the guy leaning against his car.

Harry parked two spaces away and got out.

He said, “Hey, you son of a bitch, what’s up?”

“Look who it is. What’s goin’ on, Harry?” Liam Holt was an extremely friendly, unassuming guy; Harry always thought he was too nice to be in the sort of business he was in. He also observed that the niceness often covered up the dormant force of a volcano. More than a few times Harry had witnessed Liam explode, like the time he carved Ronnie Winkler’s eyes out with a Godzilla toy. It was an unexpected act of violence that made Harry fear and respect the guy even more.

Harry and Liam shook hands.

“So where’s Henry?” Harry asked.

“Hank’s in the store looking for porn.”

Harry laughed. “And you’re not in there with him? What’s the matter? You sick?”

“I can’t stand looking at porn with him. He takes too goddamn long trying to decide whether he wants fucking ‘Golden Oldies Part 12’ or ‘Spit Swappers Part 23’. It’s a pain in the ass, know what I mean?”

Harry said, “Yeah, I hear ya. Hey listen, you know anything about Kreese’s needing a bouncer or anything?”

“Why? Terry not giving you enough to do?”

“I just want to explore my options. I’m not really digging the way shit’s happening.”

Liam frowned. “Well, you know I don’t want to fuck with your shit or anything but you shouldn’t fuck around with Terry. I mean, he’s a hard motherfucker. Look at the shit he put Robert through when he wanted to leave.”

“Yeah, but Robert still left and he’s doing pretty good I think. Doing his own business without having to deal with Terry’s shit.”

“But he’s locked up now.”

“For what? What happened?”

Liam said, “You didn’t hear? He got into a car accident and started killing a bunch of people.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah but this whole town’s pretty fucked up so I’m not completely surprised, know what I mean?”

“I do but listen,” Harry said, wishing he’d have kept his mouth shut, “forget I mentioned anything about Terry or bouncing at Kreese’s, okay?”

Liam said, “Sure but remember I’m just looking out for you, man.”

“I appreciate it. Say hi to Henry for me when he gets done picking out his porn.”

“That could be days, man, days.”

 

Chapter Five

At five minutes to ten, Simon saw two guys go up to the door of Zip Comics. One of them, the fatter guy, had a set of keys that he used to unlock the door. Simon looked at his watch and saw that Chaps was twenty-five minutes late but thought he might be in the parking lot somewhere.

He got out of the car and walked to the comic shop. Before he went in, he took a look around the lot to see if his friend was parked somewhere. There was no sign of him. What the fuck is wrong with that guy?

Simon walked into the comic shop and a skinny guy wearing a Kate Bush t-shirt said, “Hey, Simon Palmer, how are ya?” He held out his hand and Simon took it. As they shook hands, Simon wondered if the guy knew his hands were sweaty.

“I’m Scott. We talked over the phone.”

Simon said, “Yeah, thanks for having me.”

“No problem. Once I heard you were doing a book tour, I called your publisher right away to get them to let you come up here. Thompson is a small town and all but there’re a lot of LeRoux fans in the area.”

 The fat guy came out of the back room wearing a t-shirt with a picture of Adam West’s face on it. A scraggly beard covered the lower half of his face and a tattoo of a whiskey bottle decorated his right arm. “Simon, hi, I’m Peter.”

They shook hands and Simon was relieved to find that Peter’s palms were dry. “Hi, Peter. I was just telling Scott that I appreciate you guys hosting this.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re excited to have you. We’re big fans, big fans.”

Peter took Simon to the back of the store where they had set up a table complete with Fauntleroy LeRoux merchandise surrounding it. Behind the table were several LeRoux posters which Simon remembered having done under duress. He didn’t like the merchandising as much as he liked simply writing and drawing the thing.

Peter said, “You have anything in the car you want me to help you with?”

“Yeah, I got some extra copies of the new issue plus the trade paperback and an exclusive one-shot that’s only available on the book tour.”

“Awesome. You mind if we bought a couple of those before the signing?”

“No, not at all. Oh, but before we do that, can I use your phone.”

Simon was handed the phone and he waited until he was away from Peter and Scott to make the call. It rang several times until finally Chaps picked up and said, “Hello?”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Oh shit, Simon, sorry, man. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You said you were eating breakfast and then coming to the comic shop.”

Chaps said, “I know, I just got distracted. I started playing my French horn and got into the zone, you know? Doing some recording, getting some things down on tape.”

“You’re blowing me off because you want to play your goddamn horn? Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t get so upset. Try to be more understanding,” Chaps said. He sighed and went on. “I’m really sorry about this, though.”

Simon wanted to say, “Fuck you.” He wanted to tell the guy what a complete and utter jack-ass he was. Instead, he just said, “Okay, I’ll talk to you later,” and hung up the phone.

Peter walked over to him and said, “Hey, you wanna see something?” He held open a tattered phonebook-sized comic. Simon looked at it.

It was a rough, ultra-violent montage of sex and death. There was so much happening on the pages but Simon could make out a few things: a woman being sawed in half with a polka-dotted femur bone, a smiling man carrying a bag of teeth, a twisted body that was a cross between a toilet and a woman,  a  half-man half-crab lying in a bathtub bleeding to death.

Peter said, “It’s Turkish. They’re really giving the Japanese a run for their money, let me tell you. I can’t even sell some of the shit the Turks publish.”

“Wow, pretty cool,” Simon said despite thinking the art looked too rough and assumed that the writing was probably less than stellar.

“You can have this one if you want,” Peter said.

“Nah, that’s okay.”

“No, seriously, man. This might be worth money someday. Just take it.” He handed it to Simon who felt he had no choice but to take it. In social situations like this, he would have rather just kept refusing but knew that if he had to spend the next six hours in the shop with the two of them, he’d better stay on good terms.

He said, “Thanks,” and took the book, looking closer at the battered condition of it. Shit, I hope the guy didn’t jerk off to this.           

Scott said, “We got some cool as hell bootlegs, too. Ever hear of Death Laid an Egg?”

“Nah, never heard of it. Any good?”

Scott became animated. He said, “Oh my god, man, you have to see this. It’s a crazy as hell giallo. You know what a giallo is, right? Italian thriller? Like Dario Argento? Well this is a weird, psychedelic one with headless mutant chickens and shit like that. The beginning alone is worth the price. You wanna see it?”

Simon said, “Now?”

“No, maybe after we close we can hang out and watch. We got a T.V. in the back.”

“Oh, after the signing I gotta get going but thanks anyway.”

“Well just let me know if you change your mind.”

Simon nodded and slowly moved away from the guy. He didn’t want to chit-chat about the shit they stocked in the store. They were nice enough guys but were the type that would talk your ear off if you let them. He flipped through the Turkish comic book again, landing on a page where a crudely drawn man in a diaper was eating a bowl full of human toes. This is gonna be one hell of a day.

*                      *                      *

While asleep in the portable toilet, Chris dreamt of his father.

He didn’t recognize the man but something told him that it was his father. It was one of those moments of intuition that often occurred in dreams and Chris was fascinated and scared at the same time.

The man was wearing a green suit two sizes too small for his body. He stood on a wheelbarrow, screaming and complaining about corn husks and sinister skin blemishes. Chris was floating around the wheelbarrow, though there was no water in sight. He wanted to talk to the man but the words stopped at his throat.

He felt something at his feet. There was something moving in between his toes. Chris looked down (though it really wasn’t like looking down; it was as if he had eyes on several parts of his body) and saw a polka-dotted squid. Again he wanted to scream, to verbalize his discomfort and fear but his dream-physiology wouldn’t allow it.

The squid moved up Chris’s body, rubbing up against his torso and his chest. It moved up to his neck and nibbled on it with tiny teeth that looked like pencil erasers. It let out a squeak and said, “Do you know your name?”

Chris wanted to tell the thing that no, he didn’t know his name but again, the words wouldn’t come.

Again, it said, “Do you know your name?”

He tried dream-swimming away from it but as much as it felt like he was moving, the squid stayed with him, asking again, “Do you know your name, Chris?”

It took him a second but Chris realized what the squid had managed to accomplish. Its cryptic questions turned into an ironic revelation. It provided him one of the pieces of the puzzle.

I know my name now. Chris. My name is Chris. Can the squid hear me? Am I talking? What’s wrong with me? Am I talking?

If the squid heard him, it made no indication but instead asked again, “Do you know your name?”

Yes, yes I do. My name is Chris.

The squid trembled and moved away from him, floating through the air and attached itself to the man on the wheelbarrow. Chris wanted to make contact with his father, wanted to ask him so many questions that he couldn’t even concentrate.

I gotta pee, where’s the bathroom?

He left his father and walked through a restaurant where he stared at the Mexican waitresses in tight skirts and low-cut blouses. When he passed one of them, he saw a door that he knew was the bathroom but when he went through it, he was in a library. He turned to go back to the restaurant but the door was gone and he then forgot about the restaurant and instead started looking for a book on bathrooms.

I gotta pee, where’s the bathroom?

A woman was standing by a stack of books. Chris somehow knew that she was waiting for something and so he went up to her in the hopes that she was waiting for him. The woman looked at him impatiently. She reached down and took off her blue and white sneaker.

Placing the opening of it to Chris’s nose, she said, “Breathe in.”

Chris sniffed the sneaker and got a whiff of warm sweat. He felt his nose grow and actually touch the moist sole of her sneaker. The laces felt rough against his forehead.

“Keep breathing,” she said. “You have to pee.”

Chris remembered his quest for a restroom. He wanted to pull away from the sneaker but felt himself growing lightheaded from the smell. He slowly awoke and found himself staring at the label that declared that the portable toilet he was in was a Johnny-On-The-Spot V.I.P. exclusive model #2332.

Shit, that was all a dream.

Chris remembered the sexy Mexican waitresses and the woman making him sniff her shoe. He knew there was something else he was forgetting, something that happened before the waitresses.

I remember a squid, yeah, and the squid talked to me and it said something to me that made me happy. What was it?

He got frustrated at not being able to recall anything else and soon realized that he had pissed his pants during the dream. He looked at the Johnny-On-The-Spot label again and smiled sourly at the irony.

 

Chapter Six

Harry drove around trying to kill some time and find something worthwhile to do. He passed the strip mall again and saw something he liked. Pulling over the car, he rolled down his window and waved the dwarf over.

She walked over and said, “Yeah, honey. What ya want? Lemme guess. You look like a guy likes his dick sucked. Am I right?”

“Nah, not that. How about you hop in and we’ll talk about it.” Harry unlocked the passenger side door and watched her climb in.

The dwarf said, “So what do you want?”

“How much for,” Harry said, “having you, maybe like, spit in my hand a little bit.”

She laughed. “Jesus Christ, why you so nervous? You think that’s the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked me to do? You’re in Thompson, you know. How about we say for twenty I’ll put a shit-load of spit into your little hand there?”

Immediately Harry regretted having picked up the hooker. The fantasies in his head were one thing but when someone else actually said it aloud, he felt embarrassed. He knew he shouldn’t have been uncomfortable, though, since he knew that the level of depravity in the town was high above even his own interests. He also felt justified in his fetishes since he wasn’t able to fuck the normal way and had to rely on more creative measures to satisfy his sexual urges.

Harry held out his hand and watched the dwarf spit a ball of drool into his palm. It was yellowish and bubbly and reminded Harry of whiskey vomit. She hocked up another one and forcefully sent it into his hand. Some of it sprinkled Harry’s lips and he thought about licking it off but was worried about what the dwarf might say though he knew that was ridiculous.

Who the fuck cares what she thinks? I should just go ahead and lick it off. Goddamn, why can’t I do it? Don’t be a pussy, man, come on, just do it, do it.

Harry sent his tongue out like a snake’s, lapping up the tiny beads of her spit. Luckily, she had her head back, gargling some more phlegm in her throat. With a hocking sound, she spat out another load but missed his hand. The bulk of it landed on his chin.

She said, “Shit, sorry about that.”

Lick it off, lick it off. Just do it. Who cares what she thinks?

The dwarf made a move to wipe it off. Harry knocked her hand away.

He said, “No, don’t worry about it.” Harry moved his tongue out again and tried to reach her drool. He couldn’t reach so he moved it into his mouth with his fingers.

The dwarf said, “Shit, why didn’t you say so?” She started spitting into Harry’s face, practically covering his jaw. “You happy now?” She wiped the sides of her mouth. “That’ll be twenty.”

Harry took the cash from his wallet and handed it to her. When she left the car, he wondered if she’d be telling her fellow hookers about him. A part of him felt embarrassed about that but another part felt special. Then he decided that in comparison to all of the other shit she would probably do today, his request probably wasn’t worth talking about.

He looked at his watch and decided he might as well go over to the comic shop and see if he can get his hands on some of those adult comics. With the stale smell of the dwarf’s spit lingering in his nostrils, Harry drove away.

*                      *                      *

Once the time arrived for the book signing, Simon was fairly impressed with the turnout. He didn’t think people would travel to a small, somewhat shitty town like Thompson to get an autograph from him. Sure The Adventures of Fauntleroy LeRoux was nearly a century old and he was the newest artist and writer to take over the storyline. But Simon couldn’t help but be surprised that it brought such a diverse fan base.

The shop was crowded with fans of Fauntleroy as well as people wanting to see what the hubbub was about. Simon imagined that a good quarter of the people getting autographs have probably never even read an issue. They see some guy signing autographs and they figure, “Hey, it’s gotta be worth money someday, right?”

He didn’t mind. He liked his job and this was a part of it. The hardest part was still to come, though. The question-and-answer period.

Shit.

Peter hushed the crowd and asked if anyone had any questions for Simon. A woman in her fifties raised her hand and said, “Have you ever used any of the original Fauntleroy comic strips from the 30s and 40s as inspiration?”

Simon said, “Um, not really. I mean, of course I’ve read them before and I’ve always been a big fan but I try not to use them as inspiration because I want to present something new, um, something fresh that I think the, uh, readers will enjoy.”

I sound like a real douchebag. .

Peter said, “Next question.”

A young guy in a Cary Grant Dropped Acid t-shirt said, “I heard that a lot of celebrities used to read the comic strip back in the day. Do you know if that’s true? And if it is, do you know which celebrities?”

“Well, yeah, it’s true. Um, Sterling Hayden was a big fan. John Hodiak, Edgar Ulmer, uh, Richard Widmark, too, I think. Barbara Stanwyck of course, that’s pretty well-known. But she actually was a bigger fan of the Fauntleroy spin-off comic strip called Little Bing Bong. But that comic strip only lasted like a year and a half or something like that. There was rumor that she actually suggested to Howard Hughes of RKO Pictures that they do an adaptation of it but being the finicky guy he was, Hughes passed on it.”

There was a murmur in the crowd as if that last bit of information was a particularly juicy bit of gossip. A man in a suit raised his hand said, “Are there any plans to put any of the Thompson longheads in the story?”

“Uh, I really wasn’t planning on it but if it comes to that, maybe. If I did, I’d make sure that I wasn’t doing it in an exploitative way or like any way that’d be insensitive to the veterans, I mean, you know, the longheads.”

The man said, “What about Byron McPhee? You know he came from Thompson, right?”

Simon said, “Yeah, I heard that. That’s part of the reason why I agreed to come here and I can see that it’s the reason why there’re so many fans here in town. I think that’s pretty cool.”

A different man shouted, “I know where McPhee used to live. It’s where the movie theatre is now. They tore down his house to build it back in 1955.”

“Wow, I didn’t know that. Thanks,” Simon said, wondering if his house would ever be torn down to build a multiplex. If so, would anyone ever wonder where Simon Palmer’s house stood?

He took a few more questions and then Peter said that they would be continuing the signing for another half hour.

Simon started to sign a copy of issue number 34. It was one of his favorites; Fauntleroy and his sidekick Mushy Nebuchadnezzer find out that they’re infected with a rare strain of syphilis and have to travel back in time in order to make a deal with Aleister Crowley for the cure. He finished signing it and looked up to see someone come through the door to the comic shop. Someone he recognized. Someone handsome and freakishly tall.

It was the guy who had given him the black envelope.

Simon said, “Oh, shit.”

*                      *                      *

Liam got tired of waiting so he went back into the video store to get Henry. He walked into the XXX section and said, “Hank, what the hell’s taking so long?”

Henry Price looked up from the box he was looking at. “I can’t help it, can’t decide on which one to get.”

“So get them both and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“If I get two, then I might as well get three and that’ll mean trying to make even more decisions. Plus, I only have cash for one anyway unless you wanna lend me some.”

Liam said, “How come you don’t have any money? Didn’t we just get paid like two days ago? What the fuck you spending your money on?”

“You know what I’m spending it on; I’m working on a project. Anything extra gets used for paying bills and for porn,” Henry said, putting the box down and picking up Water Power.

“Holy shit, I can’t believe they have this.” He held up the cover so his friend could take a look at it.

Liam said, “So? What is it?”

“It’s this really fucked up movie about a guy who goes around forcing women to have enemas and shit like that. It’s not even really a porno.”

“So what the fuck is it doing here?”

“No, I mean, there’s hardcore shit in there, cumshots and all that but there’s an actual plot, it feels like you’re watching a real movie, I mean, sort of like a perverted version of Taxi Driver but instead of a gun and a Mohawk, there’re enemas.”

Liam shook his head. “And you watched this movie?”

“Yeah I saw it a couple of years ago. But this must be a bootleg. They didn’t release this in America yet.”

“So rent it and let’s go.”

Henry put it down. “Why? I already saw it.” He perused the movies again and picked one up. “Okay, fine, I’m getting this one.”

Liam looked at the cover. “MILF and Cookies Number 23. I heard that one’s like Taxi Driver, too.”

“Shut the fuck up, Liam.”

“You shut the fuck up,” Liam said, grinning and walking out of the XXX section. Henry didn’t know it but his friend was going to go back later on and rent Water Power. 

Just for curiosity’s sake. Yeah.

 

Chapter Seven

Harry wondered why the hell the comic shop was so crowded. He could barely walk in the door.

The geeks really come out and play, don’t they?

There was no one behind the counter when he looked but then saw a fat guy come around and ask him, “Can I help you with something, buddy?” The guy was smiling widely, all yellow teeth out in the open and it made Harry look away.

Harry said, “Always this crowded?”

“No, we’re having a comic book signing. The artist and writer of The Adventures of Fauntleroy LeRoux is here.”

“Never heard of it. What is that, some kind of super hero?”

The fat guy laughed as if the question was absurd. “Um, no, it’s much more than that. It’s a mature-readers comic which means it’s for adults. It has great stories, really great writing.”

Ah, so I guess this is what Mike was talking about when he said adult comics. I guess I showed up at the right time.

Harry said, “Can I get a copy?”

“Yeah, just wait in line and there’re a bunch of different issues up on the tables along with the trade paperback that just came out that reprints issues number one through fifteen of the new series.”

Harry nodded and got in line behind a short girl with pink hair and a t-shirt that said she loved “Little Bing Bong”.

Who the fuck is Little Bing Bong?

He tried looking ahead at the table to see what the guy signing autographs looked like but couldn’t see anything because there were a bunch of those damn comic geeks in the way, babbling and asking questions.

Let the poor guy sign the autographs. Let the guy breathe, why don’t you? I hate geeks like that. Fucking weak ass motherfuckers who probably still live at home with their moms. Never been in a fight, never did anything worthwhile but jerk off to comic books. Losers.

As Harry thought about it, he realized the irony and smirked. Though he was quick to judge the people around him, he knew that they were harmless enough and he probably was being too hard on them. After all, he was waiting in the same line.

*                      *                      *

After seeing the tall guy walk into the comic shop, Simon signed the autographs in a nervous daze. How did the guy find him? Worse yet, what would the guy do to him now that he knows Simon was the wrong guy.

He smiled and nodded to the people in line, answering only the easiest questions, the ones that required a one or two word answer. When it was over, he knew he’d feel bad about it. He’d feel like he’d cheated the people who’d come and bought his comics but he couldn’t help it. He was probably in deep shit. In fact, he was sure of it.

Minutes passed and he lost sight of the tall guy in the crowd.

Shit, maybe he didn’t even see me. Maybe it was a coincidence and he already left. God, please let that be it.

He signed another copy of the trade paperback and handed it back to the ten-year-old boy. Then he motioned to Scott to come over and then said to him, “Hey, is it alright if I go into the back and take a break?”

Scott said, “Yeah, sure.”

Simon practically ran to the room behind him and sat down. He looked around at the posters on the wall. Among the huge pictures of Spiderman, Batman, and Ms. Tree, there were vintage one-sheet movie posters that practically filled in every other empty space on the wall. Barbara Stanwyck in Lady of Burlesque, Jean Harlow in Hell’s Angels, Jane Russell in The Fuzzy Pink Nightgown. He looked closely at them and decided that they were originals. Simon was envious.

Scott poked his head in the doorway. “Hey Simon, don’t wanna be a pest but we gotta lot of people out here. You mind coming back out now?”

“Sure.”

When Simon went back out, the tall guy was standing there, first in line. He wasn’t there before but now he was there, smiling and holding a copy of the trade paperback.

The tall guy said, “Hey asshole.”

Simon fought the urge to run back in the room but instead grabbed the magic marker and sat down at the table. The guy dropped the book in front of Simon and bent over.

He said, “You took something of mine, you know. You had every chance to tell me you ain’t the guy but you didn’t do that. So how about you give it back to me.”

Taking the book and signing it absent-mindedly, Simon said, “I don’t have it on me, okay? I’m sorry I took it, I didn’t know what the hell else to do, know what I’m saying? I was just confused. I’ll get it back to you. I promise.”

“Fuck your promises, asshole. We’re getting up right now and getting it wherever it is.”

A voice from behind said, “Hey buddy, hurry up, will ya?”

The tall guy turned around and shot a dirty look at the people behind him. Peter came up to see what the problem was. Simon saw him put a hand on the tall guy’s shoulder and thought that was a bad idea.

Peter said, “Hey there, we gotta lot of people behind you so now that you got your book signed, you mind moving aside?”

Simon watched in amazement as the tall guy actually listened to Peter and moved aside, leaving his signed book. He walked out of the comic shop and Simon felt relieved.

“What the hell was his problem, dude?” Peter said.

“I don’t know.”

*                      *                      *

When Harry got close enough he saw the guy who was signing the comics. Sonovabitch. That’s the motherfucker I gave the envelope to. Now why the hell is a fucking meth addict signing comic books. Unless…

Harry had given the envelope to the wrong asshole.

“Shit.”

And the fucking guy took it, too. I asked him straight out “Are you him?” and he lied right to my face. That asshole is dead.

He saw the guy get up from his seat and go into the room behind him. Harry got out of line and went to the front of it. Harry thought the guy at the front of the line was dressed like a psychiatrist: wrinkled khakis, eyeglasses, and a boring sweater.

Harry said, “Excuse me, buddy. My wife’s in the car and I really want to get a book signed. You mind if I hop in front of you?” He handed the guy a twenty-dollar bill. At first the psychiatrist-guy seemed like he was going to refuse but when he looked up into the intensity of Harry’s eyes, the choice was made.

The psychiatrist said, “No problem, man, go ahead.”

“Thanks,” Harry said. Then he waited for the guy to come back.

When he finally did, Harry relished the look on his face. It was priceless.

I love that look. The “Oh fuck, I’m in deep shit” look.

Harry said, “Hey asshole,” and proceeded to ask for his property back. He had to admit, though, that he was only half serious in his tough-guy attitude. He especially enjoyed the “Fuck your promises” bit. That was great. Straight out of a movie.

The guy wouldn’t budge and that pissed him off even more than him having taken it in the first place. Harry always believed that if confronted with a mistake, one should at least have the balls to admit to it and try to correct the problem.

Goddamn, the guy was spineless. I hate guys like this. Always a coward no matter what.

Finally, the fat guy who worked at the shop came up to Harry so he decided to avoid any trouble in front of the crowd and just leave. He’d figure something out later. As he walked out, he read the flyer that announced the comic book signing.

Simon Palmer, huh? Well, Palmer, you are in deep shit indeed.

He could just imagine the fear that was going through that asshole’s mind. He probably had expected Harry to go ballistic right there in the store. Then the cops would’ve come and taken him away. That coward could sit back and be satisfied that he did the right thing even though it was the pussy thing to do, the weakling’s way out.

As he walked out the door, Harry started to think of various ways to go about screwing with Palmer. Then someone came up from the side and tapped him on the shoulder.

“Heyo, buddy boy, thought that was you.”

Harry said, “Oh, hi Dave, what’s up?” It already turned out to be a pretty shitty day as it was but running into Dave Carteret made it even worse. The dickhead never shut up.

“So hey, listen. I hear you’re not really digging Terry’s vibe, the Kabbalah situation and all that jazz. What’s going on with that, man? You can talk to me.”

Yeah, I’m sure I can talk to you. And then you’ll talk to every goddamn person you know.

Harry started walking to his car, hoping that Dave would take the hint. He didn’t. He followed Harry and kept talking.

“Seriously, Harry, give it a chance. I mean, when we’re talking about God, it’s not the typical shit, you know, that bullshit they teach you in church. You don’t have to be a Jew to get the benefits of Kabbalah. I mean, it’s something universal. Really helps out with the business, too, puts things into perspective.”

He just wouldn’t shut up.

Harry grunted in response and opened his car door. As Dave went on about the Tree of Life and the ten divine powers, Harry rummaged through the backseat.

He came up in one motion, sending a six-inch blade into Dave’s neck. He got in close, bringing his body close to Dave’s.

Harry said, “Take it easy, Dave. Don’t fight it and you’ll do fine, easy, easy. Don’t breathe too fast. Relax.”

Dave’s neck bled profusely and his body trembled, his teeth shivering. He grabbed onto Harry’s jacket but let go after a few seconds, realizing he didn’t have enough strength to do anything anyway.

Harry hadn’t planned it. He knew what he did was partly as a result of the bad day he was having and partly because he wanted Dave to shut the fuck up. The fact that the dickhead wouldn’t stop pressuring him about the Kabbalah probably factored into it, too.

Goddamn guy’s worse than the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

“Sorry, Dave,” he said, easing the body into the backseat of his car. Now there was the problem of what to do with the body. If it was just any old fucker, Harry had a whole myriad of people he could ask for help from but since this was Dave Carteret, a guy closely associated with Terry Silver, it wouldn’t be so easy. Harry would have a lot of explaining to do.

Harry sat in his car with Dave’s body next to him. He thought about his limited options. Then he thought about that Palmer guy and how he could perhaps solve two problems at once.

He got out of the car and looked around the parking lot. It was a small enough lot and he thought he could probably figure out which car was Simon’s. He thought that the guy was probably not from New Jersey so if there was an out-of-state license plate, it might just be him. He searched around and looked at both the plates and the bumper stickers to see if there was any indication which was Palmer’s car.

After five minutes of looking, he got lucky. There was a Pennsylvania license plate and in the backseat, Harry saw a cardboard box full of comics.

That’s probably him. If it ain’t, who gives a fuck? Another poor sucker will have to deal with Dave, then.

Harry went back to his car, started it, and parked it close to the one from Pennsylvania. He got his tools out from under the front seat. Though he hadn’t had to do it for a while, he was adept at picking any lock. He brought his gear to the other car and within thirty seconds, got the driver’s side door opened and then popped the trunk.

He quickly and successfully brought Dave’s body out of his car and into the trunk of the other one. It was a good fit. The driver of the other vehicle didn’t seem to have a need for keeping any extra supplies in his trunk.

Guy should bring something along, shit. Extra oil, antifreeze, jumper cables, something. Christ, typical pussy who can’t do shit for himself.

After closing the trunk, he went back to his car and drove to his original parking spot. He just had to wait and see the guy come out and get into his car, unknowingly driving away with a stiff in the trunk. Whether or not it was that Palmer asshole, Harry didn’t care. Just to see some innocent fuck cart away the evidence was pure entertainment.

While he waited, Harry saw someone walk behind his car. He looked in the mirrors but when he couldn’t see anything, he turned around. Standing in the rearview blind spot was a longhead.

Harry said, “What the fuck is that guy doing?” If it was anyone else, he would’ve been out of the car and in the guy’s face, asking why the hell he was standing there staring. But the longheads had always grossed him out. He wasn’t totally insensitive to their predicament. Harry had a friend who had come back from the war with no legs and no right arm. Those things happen and it always tragic. But in Harry’s opinion, the longheads were creepy as hell and ever since the massacre at Laruso’s restaurant, he had been more than a little fearful at what those freaks could do.

Shit, the guy looks like he just lifted weights or something.

The longhead’s face was deep red, his neck muscles pulsating and his arms flexing. His elongated head was bald except for a tiny sprout of blond hair at the top. He tapped Harry’s car with his knuckles.

Harry said, “Seriously, of all the goddamn things I had to deal with today, really, I gotta deal with this, too?” He opened the door and but didn’t stand up; the longhead was short and Harry didn’t want to intimidate him by his height. Instead he just leaned out and said, “Hey buddy, can I help you with something?”

The longhead smiled and stepped closer. His hand reached into his camouflaged jacket and brought out a straight razor. Harry’s eyes widened and he shut the door and started the car. There was no way he was getting into a fight with a longhead. Even if you win, you lose. You’ll have fifty of them coming to your house to avenge their fallen comrade.

Harry drove away, circling the strip mall until he saw the longhead get distracted by a small, one-legged seagull. The animal was hopping around, tearing off pieces of a Twinkie while the longhead watched in obvious delight. Then he put the razor away and got down on his knees. He grabbed the Twinkie away from the bird and started eating it. Stale cream soon streaked his face and Harry looked away in disgust.

Fucking freak.

             

Chapter Eight

Simon wasn’t about to explain the whole situation to Peter and Scott even though he knew they were curious as to what the tall guy was talking to him about. He didn’t want to discuss it, though, at least not with them.

Toward the end of the signing, the crowd dwindled and Simon managed to leave a few minutes early.

“I hope you don’t mind, guys,” he said, hoping that they wouldn’t ask him to stay to watch a movie or read some more Turkish comics.

Scott said, “No, it’s okay, man but you sure you don’t want to stay, hang out a bit or something?”

“I really gotta go, I’m supposed to meet somebody.”

Peter came up from behind him and said, “Before you go, you gotta see this.” He shoved a statuette in Simon’s face.

“What is it?” Simon said. The statuette was a half a foot tall and looked like a cross between a squid and a donkey.

“It’s my version of Little Bing Bong from issue number sixty-three. I had it custom made. You like it? I saved this for last. Scott said I should show it to you right away but I wanted to make it a surprise.”

“Wow,” Simon said. “It’s pretty cool.” He actually sort of liked it but was feeling uncomfortable with the two of them grinning like horny freshmen.

“You can have it if you want. I was thinking about asking you to sign it so I can sell it in the store but I thought you might not be cool with that. So you can have it if you want.”

What the hell am I supposed to say? If I say no I look like a dick and they tell all their comic friends and then it’s “Simon Palmer is a big, stuck-up asshole who doesn’t appreciate the fans.” Yeah, that’s all I need.

Simon said, “Sure, that’s awesome. I’d love to have this. Thanks a lot.” He took the statuette, looking at it again to appease Scott and Peter. It was extremely heavy and that surprised Simon who thought it looked hollow.

The two of them kept smiling and looked pleased that Simon had accepted their gift. Then he took them up on their offer to help load the extra comics into his car.

“Just put them in the backseat, guys,” Simon said when they outside. They loaded the boxes and said their goodbyes.

Simon started his car and leaned his head back. He was more than simply relieved that the day was over but now he had to deal with the whole envelope business.

What’re the chances that the guy’s gonna spot me in my car? No way. He doesn’t know what car I drive.

He pulled out of the parking lot, intent on driving around town. Though he had only been the Thompson once before, Simon felt a connection with it. The town was a relic and he felt at home in its sleazy arms. As he drove he kept seeing signs for St. Stanley’s Carnival.

There’s a church named after a saint named Stanley? Are they kidding?

Considering that the plans with Chaps had gone down the drain, Simon decided to follow the signs to the carnival.

Ah, what the hell.

Then maybe, just maybe, he’d go to the police and tell them the envelope story though he wasn’t too sure they’d believe him.

*                      *                      *

Liam had one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the radio when Henry pointed to the sign and said, “Hey, the carnival. Let’s go.”

Liam turned down the music. “What?”

“Let’s go to the carnival, I heard there’s some fucked up shit goes on there.” Henry bobbed his head and thought of the stories he had heard about St. Stanley’s annual carnival. The clandestine booths that weren’t visible to the casual attendee.

Liam said, “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

“I don’t but I still wanna take a look.”

“Let me guess; you’re going to ask me for cash. Am I right?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be a dick.” Henry saw another sign for the carnival and noticed a longhead standing at a bus stop holding a turtle.

Liam said, “We’ll stop by but I don’t want to stay long, okay?”

“Dude, listen,” Henry said. “I heard there’s a woman behind the hot dog stand who’ll blow you for five bucks and get this, she doesn’t have any teeth. You believe that? But she’s hot, I mean, not like she’s old or a junkie or anything. She’s fucking hot but has no teeth.”

“And apparently no idea what a blowjob is worth nowadays.”

Henry laughed. “Someone also told me, wait, yeah I think it was Billy Roanoke, he told me that there’s this black girl with the biggest ass you’ve ever seen who sits on you face and if you can stand it for more than three minutes, you win a prize. Thing is, get this, she’ll only sit on a white guy’s face. I think she wants to show all the white boys what a strong black woman can do.”

“What the fuck kind of carnival is this, anyway?”

“Nah, the shit I’m telling you only happens in the back, behind the regular booths and tents and shit. You gotta know the right people, grease some palms and then you get access.”

“So I gotta pay a bunch of people to have a black girl sit on my face? I can get that for free, you know.”

Henry said, “Okay, you’re missing the point. It’s the atmosphere, the excitement, the whole carnival environment. I think they also have a booth where you can throw pies at longheads.”

“That’s fucked up, Hank, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m just telling you the shit that’s there.”

Liam said, “Wait. You are going to ask me for money, aren’t you? You’re gonna see that big black girl and you’re gonna tell me how she’s waving you over and taunting you and shit and you’re gonna beg me for money, just admit it.”

“What?” Henry said, trying to sound insulted. Then he said, “Okay, fine, yeah, I’ll admit it, okay, I’m getting down on my knees, dear old pal, and asking will you please lend me some money when we get the carnival?”

Liam said, “I lend you money you better stay under that ass for three whole minutes.”

“Deal.”

*                      *                      *

Harry smiled as he watched that Palmer guy get into his car. It was perfect; he had been right about the Pennsylvania plates. Though he didn’t consider himself a genius, Harry always knew he was pretty good at figuring things out.

He followed Simon out of the parking lot and kept at a distance, not wanting to alert the guy too soon that he was being followed. That would come in time, he thought.

Gotta wait for the perfect time and then BOOM, “Hey asshole, look in your trunk.” Maybe I’ll threaten to call the cops or tell him I already did. That’d really make the guy freak out, a pussy like that would probably start crying, shit. That’s gonna be hilarious.

Harry followed him for a few miles and then saw Simon turn onto Main Street. They kept going until they passed the banner that announced, “St. Stanley’s Carnival Parking - Use Lot Across the Street”. Simon pulled into the lot and parked on the grass. Harry pulled in right next to him.

He watched as the guy got out of the car and as soon as he was walking away, Harry got out and said, “Hey.”

Simon turned around but said nothing.

Harry said, “Hey asshole. Look in your trunk.” He was relishing the look on the guy’s face. It was what he was waiting for.

Still, Simon didn’t say anything nor did he move. Harry walked around his car and went over to Simon’s. He sent a fist through the driver’s side window. Though it hurt like hell, he made no outside indication of pain. Harry always liked to keep up appearances.

He reached inside and pulled the level that popped the trunk but it didn’t open.

Motherfucker.

Harry said, “Something’s wrong with your trunk.” He motioned for Simon to come over. “Don’t worry, I’ll back up. Just go ahead and open your trunk.”

True to his word, he backed up a few feet until Simon started walking toward the trunk. Harry was happy; the guy still looked scared shitless as he grabbed a hold of the trunk and lifted it. His face became pale and he screamed.

Harry laughed and walked closer to the trunk. He looked into it and then stopped, the smile on his face disappearing.

Then a strange voice behind him said, “Hey, do you know who I am?”

 

Chapter Nine

When Chris heard voices outside, he unlocked the door and left the portable toilet.

He knew he looked like shit, figuratively and literally but he wasn’t too concerned. His first priority was finding someone he recognized. As he made his way into the middle of the carnival, he saw only strangers. He took a look at the attractions, at the Kiss the Squid booth, the mirrored funhouse, and the Take Your Picture with a Barbara Stanwyck Look-a-Like booth. They all looked like they’d be fun if he was in the right state of mind to enjoy them.

God, I just feel like giving up already. Fuck it.

Chris forced his body to zombie-walk through the crowd that was getting thicker by the moment. The smell of hotdogs, pizza, deep-fried Twinkies, and roasted cashews made him nauseous. He had to get out there but as he walked towards the exit, a middle-aged woman in a business suit tapped him on the shoulder.

She said, “Hi sir, would you mind taking a five-minute survey?”

“Who? Me? What’re you talking about?”

“A survey, sir, a five-minute survey about your satisfaction with your current choice of car insurance.” Her mammoth breasts were barely held back by her blouse and Chris noticed this immediately. His eyes were entranced as he shook his head.

“No thank you, I gotta go.”

She wouldn’t give up. “Sir, it’ll only take five-minutes but if you can’t do that now, I understand. Here, let me give you my business card and if at a later date….”

Chris tripped over his own feet as he stumbled away from the woman. He liked her breasts, sure, but her bullshit was unbearable. Besides, he had to figure things out.

He walked out of the carnival and across the street to grass field that doubled as a parking lot. As he walked through the grass he noticed something. There were huge teeth scattered on the ground and when he went to pick one up, he saw that they all looked freshly torn as if some crazed dentist went ballistic in the parking lot.

God, am I losing it?

Then he heard a child’s voice in the distance. “Look, mommy, teeth!”

Chris dropped the wet tooth he was holding and continued walking through the parking lot. Up ahead he saw two guys standing near a car. One of them he recognized.

Yeah, I know that guy or at least I know his face.

He quickly walked up but stopped when the other guy screamed. Then Chris said to the man he might know, “Hey, do you know who I am?”

The guy turned around and gave a startled look that soon turned into one of horror as something jumped out of the trunk.

It was a donkey covered in what looked like phlegm.

Then Chris remembered.

Harry. That’s my name? Is my name Harry? Is that his name?

Chris said, “Harry?” as the donkey jumped around the car, bumping it with its wet head, leaving a sloppy trail on the paint. Harry was petrified and the other guy fell to the ground. Chris was oblivious to the donkey and when it hit him in the abdomen, he barely felt it.

The donkey’s head went clear through Chris and stuck out of his back. Entrails and squid-parts splattered out of Chris and onto the donkey. Blood pumped out of Chris’s busted body as he was carried along with the animal.

Harry watched as the donkey danced around, its head sticking out of Chris’s back, galloping around the parking lot in a bloody celebration. The stringy intestines and squid-guts that hung out of Chris looked alive and when Harry looked closely, he could’ve sworn he saw some of those parts move on their own. It was as if the whole thing was some sort of donkey-squid-human monstrosity.

The donkey made a loud hee-haw and ran off into the carnival where it was met by screams of confusion, horror, and stunned curiosity. Harry got up from the ground and looked to see if anything was visible from where he stood.

Simon got up from the ground, unknowingly holding a handful of teeth he had picked up while he clutched the ground in terror. He dropped the teeth and ran to the front seat of his car.

Harry grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t.”

Despite what he had just witnessed, he wasn’t about to let this guy Palmer get away with taking the envelope. Donkey or no donkey, he wasn’t done with this asshole.

Simon made a fist.

Harry laughed and said, “You fucking pussy, just give me the fucking envelope.”

He stopped laughing when Simon punched him in the nose.

Harry said, “Don’t do that,” and then got punched again. He was about to pull out his six-inch blade when he saw the longhead standing next to the car by the passenger side window.  Harry said, “What the fuck?”

Then there was a warm flash of white light and the sound of something cracking. He realized that it was the sound of his skull splitting like an egg.

Harry saw that donkey-squid thing again but this time it was smaller, almost cartoonish. It looked liked a miniature version of what had hopped out of the trunk.

Simon raised the statuette and hit him in the head again. Then again. And again. Harry’s brains were slowly leaking out of his head and onto the front seat as well as onto Simon’s pants.

As Harry died he thought about who would take care of Smitty, his squid. Maybe Keith will take him, I hope so. He always seemed to like Smitty.

Then he looked at Simon.

I guess the guy wasn’t such a fucking pussy after all.

Simon dropped the statuette onto the floor and put his head back. He stared upside down through the window at the longhead and watched as a straight razor tapped against the window.

“Get the fuck out of here,” Simon said, exhausted.

The longhead walked away.

 

Chapter Ten

Henry couldn’t breathe.

Both the denim and heat were almost unbearable and he couldn’t believe he had paid money to do to do this. At first it was arousing, Bonnie in her tight jeans, putting her entire weight on his face. But then it got too much for him.

Liam stood a few feet away along with the rest of the small crowd of men waiting to have their chance with Bonnie. He said, “You had enough, buddy? You want me to go get the lady a magazine or something?”

Henry was on his back with the voluptuous Bonnie sitting on his face, smothering him with her ass. He didn’t answer Liam but instead reached his arms up to tap Bonnie on the shoulders, the agreed-upon gesture that would signal that he had had enough.

“Nah, honey, you’re so cocky, tellin’ me how you gonna stay under there for an hour, well that’s what you’re gonna do,” Bonnie said, laughing and bouncing her rump up and down.

Liam was just about to walk over and taunt Henry some more when something ran into the tent. It was a blur at first and then he saw what it was. Though it looked like a wet donkey, there were tentacles hanging off of it along with the flapping remains of a human body. The human head bobbed up and down and Liam thought he recognized the face but didn’t stare at it long enough to make sure.

Bonnie jumped off of Henry, kneeing him in the crotch in the process. She ran out of the tent screaming along with the rest of the crowd.

Only Liam and Henry remained in the tent with the donkey-thing.

Intestines and tentacles were entwined like gory vines and Liam thought he saw the head of a squid below the donkey’s jaw. Whatever it was, it was moving on its own, bouncing to its own rhythm as the animal galloped around the two of them, leaving a trail of sticky goo. Henry was still on his back, holding his sore crotch and looking at Liam.

“Are you seeing this? Is this real?” Henry said, getting up to his knees.

“I don’t know. I guess so,” Liam said, “But I don’t know.”

The thing stopped and looked at Liam. From the way it had barged in and ran around madly, he had expected the eyes to be sinister but they were almost human and even looked friendly. Then the squid-head flopped around and dropped to the ground, sliding on the trail of goo that the donkey had left behind.

Liam’s and Henry’s eyes met and they both shook their heads simultaneously. They darted out of the tent like terrified bullets, almost slipping but successfully making it outside where they saw a crowd of longheads standing around eating deep fried Twinkies.

“Let’s get the fuck out,” Henry said. As he ran through the carnival, he thought he could still smell Bonnie’s ass though he knew it was probably just the aroma of hotdogs and gyros in the air. Still, his face felt like it was still being punished by denim as he dodged the frantic crowd that was just getting over seeing the donkey-thing run past them.

In Bonnie’s tent, Little Bing Bong shook off Chris’s body and watched it fall to the ground in pieces. He felt sorry for whoever it was though he lacked the appropriate human understanding to follow through on that sorrow. Little Bing Bong, in his own little donkey way, said goodbye to the squid-head and watched it grow more tentacles and slide off out of the tent. Then he did the same.

Outside the tent, the longheads looked at the donkey, covered in sloppy entrails, blood, and sticky wetness, and felt pity. One by one, they came by to pet the beast, wiping it clean of its filth. Behind them, the “normal” citizens of Thompson came up and, ignoring their general fear of the longheads, did the same. They rubbed Little Bing Bong until he burst into donkey laughter, his feet stomping gently in a slow spasm of joy.

He finally felt free.

*                      *                      *

Liam figured that he’d never run that fast in his life. He considered himself to be in pretty good shape but he was about to fall down from exhaustion. As he left the carnival, he knocked down a woman in a business suit who was holding a clipboard. Liam thought he heard her say something about car insurance or something. He didn’t feel bad, though as he actually caught a glimpse of her panties as her feet went up.

He looked back and saw Henry close behind, his face red and generally looking like he’d seen better days. Finally they reached the car and got inside. They both sat silent not wanting to be the first to start the discussion about what they had just witnessed. Liam wasn’t sure if he should just start the car and pretend like it didn’t happen or start the conversation and get it over with. Liam decided to speak first.

He said, “You know you owe me twenty-bucks, right?”

Henry laughed.

Then Liam started the car and drove away, swerving so he wouldn’t hit the bald dwarf that was stumbling her way through the parking lot.

*                      *                      *

If asked, Chaps Goldman would admit to feeling just a little bit bad about ditching Simon.

When he thought about it, though, he couldn’t bring himself to leave the house. He was having too much fun jamming with his new free-jazz band. For Chaps, blowing his French horn was a lot more enjoyable and now that he had his band together to record their demo, he was determined to stay home until it was completed.

Chaps sat on the bed next to his recording equipment and instructed his saxophone player to go through the bit he had liked. Chaps snapped his fingers and smiled, loving every second.

 He had never heard a longhead play the saxophone before.

Thank god I went to Thompson last month.

In the corner, the longhead behind the drum kit started using the sticks to poke at the window until Chaps told him to chill out and get a beat going. Soon the whole room buzzed loudly; saxophone and horn sounds squeaked against each other while the drum made rapid fire beats that shook the knick-knacks from off of the shelves.

Chaps played his horn like a man on a mission. It was almost orgasmic for him, the feeling of connecting with other musicians, feeling the music move him in ways that friends or girlfriends never could. He was glad he had cancelled with Simon. This session was much more important.

 Fuck friends. Fuck going out of the house. Avant-garde jazz is where it’s at.

The longhead on the trumpet took two steps forward and wiggled his ass. Chaps loved it so much he got up and did the little dance himself. This was it, he decided. This is what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Then he thought about the longheads.

For the past few months he had gone into Thompson alone, wanting to spend some time finding himself. He thought perhaps trekking into downtown Thompson would help him but he ended up making friends with some of the longheads. Upon their request he even brought them some things: porn magazines, old vinyl records, a couple of straight razors, and a turtle.

It was all worth it, Chaps thought. Not only did he get a new band but they were also just about to record their demo. He just hoped his mom wouldn’t come up and disturb him. She always had the habit of doing that. Sooner or later he’d get a job and move out, he decided.

But once this demo gets out there, I won’t need to get a job.

He continued blowing his French horn and dancing along with the trumpet player. The music roared through the room like a high-pitched avalanche.

With his ass still wiggling, Chaps took his mouth off the horn and shouted over the music.

“This song’s gonna be called LONGHEAD BLUES!”

The saxophone player nodded his head and took one hand off the instrument. Slipping his hand into his pants pocket, he stepped closer to Chaps.

Then he pulled out a straight razor.

One of the last things Chaps thought about while he was getting his throat slit was how sad it would be that he’d never get to listen to John Coltrane’s Ascension LP again. Then he remembered that he had lent that album to Simon.

He appreciated the irony and let a great big smile grow on his face while the last of his blood bubbled out of his neck.

 

THE END