by Sutter, D.
The Mercenaries of Havenshaw Crypt is giddily published in the US and A by MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright: D.G. Sutter for words and music 2015. Cover Art by J.M. Cooper and poorly edited by Steven Scott Nelson, 2015. Stage direction by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his various disjointed proclivities have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this novella may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of The Reverend, D.G. Sutter, The Great and Powerful Oz and the Hand that turns the Big Wheel, except where permitted by law or whatever the hell you think you can get away with. But if you do, please be advised that you will incur the righteous disdain of The Reverend. And that is no bueno, primo. The characters in this vicious tome are fictitious. Duh. Obviously. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, demons, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.
THE MERCENARIES OF
HAVENSHAW CRYPT
By
D.G. SUTTER
For
MorbidbookS is a grotesque Bizarro ballet where the most profane things occur. An impious and perverse dwelling of dark revulsion. A cozy cottage where torture porn and brutal bible tales are devised. A quiet place to relax and spin tales of depravity and wickedness. A halfway house for the disturbed where rules no longer apply. A safe haven for deviant serial killers to hatch their wretched schemes. Bring your pets.
The tasty ones are always welcome.
WWW.MORBIDBOOKS.WORDPRESS.COM
CHAPTER 1
“MY CHILDREN ARE sleeping, there’s little to do. I’m blinded by darkness, my vision askew.”
The man in the rocking chair repeated this over and over, silently arcing forward, the slight breeze from the supports making the flame atop the white pillar candle dance as it sat on the round table. A shadow was sleeping in the corner, but when one of its limbs shifted, the rocking chair stopped abruptly. The father of the children sat forward, leaning into the wan light.
“Shhh...” he said, putting one bony-knuckled hand to his lips. His eyeballs swam lazily beneath the flaps of skin sewn shut with black thread.
The shadow tried to move again and the father jumped to his unsteady feet. “I said shut the fuck up!”
Finally, the shadow blended in with the darkness, creeping across the walls as if not there at all, irresolute in form. Satisfied, Father Necrocious laid his head against the back of the rocker.
“My children are sleeping, there’s little to do. I’m blinded by darkness, my vision askew.”
Using one shaky hand, Necrocious grabbed the decanter off the small mahogany table and pulled the cork out with a trying effort. His left hand he doused in the salty water, rubbing the liquid over his forehead, heart, and then his loins. Off the floor of the crypt, he grabbed a handful of ash and dirt and gently tossed it over the flame of the candle. His spine cracked when he sat upright.
After whispering his chant once more Necrocious fell to sleeping, barely a snore or sound escaping his throat. He did not witness the shadows as they began to break apart, or when they fully separated into silhouettes of trolls, demons, sprites, and other vile creatures. He did not witness the shadows as they tipped over the pillar candle and flames took to the walls. Then, the shadows seeped into the sand surrounding Necrocious’s feet and vanished forevermore.
BENEATH THE GROUND——far, far in the depths of the pure soil——the lid of a splintered casket opened. A black hand shot through the side, shards of wood scraping by the appendage, dirt dipping under the cardboard fingernails. The body compressed and slipped through the opening in the box. It manipulated itself so as to sift between clumps of dirt and rocks that blocked its advance.
The thing was bothered by the hard ceiling at the surface, which to most was actually a floor. It knocked and banged, flimsy limbs catapulting off the ceiling-floor, digging a wide trench. The form expanded to full capacity and stretched as fast as possible, blasting a manhole sized access point.
There were stars above, resting on a map of deep blue. The black suited form sprung out of the hole and landed on the solid piece of land. Looking down at where he stood, Carbie knew he was born once more.
SPIKE WAS READY to get moving. He’d been curled like a snake around the branch of the tree so long that he could no longer stand it. Finally, he was awake and just needed to stay put and wait, but for how long? How long would it take for his brothers to arrive?
He poked one of his aluminum arms through a bushel of grapes and dropped it into the can by his feet. From around his waist, he uncoiled the long strand of metal, which at first look one would assume to be a belt, but was actually his penis.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Piss wine, here I come.”
How long, he wondered, since last a long, hot piss had passed through his pipes? Ten years? Fifteen, even? Once the pitter-patter of steamy liquid stopped Spike dove skyward, retracted his limbs into once fine, straight point, and started to stab the grapes in the can until they were mush.
It looked delicious when he was done. The once stringy red grapes, all veiny and rounded, were well blended to make a stellar pink concoction. Spike took the can in his thin hand. At the bottom was half of a cigarette. He laid it out to dry on the piece of volcanic rock near the tree’s base.
"Smoke that later.”
He then walked to the edge of the island and looked out at the sea of clouds. The only interruption was the skinny, and seemingly endless, piece of rock on which his island was balanced. Day time was creeping up, plastering light through the powdery clouds. When would they be here?
He took a long swig of the drink. The piss tasted great passing through his syphon lips. He could drink the shit all day. Hell, he may need to produce a subsequent batch. His brothers were always late.
IT WAS A quiet evening. Megamouth was sitting in his living room in the stomach of Mount Pus, when the walls began to rumble. He didn’t think much of it, but still looked up from his text on volcanic insects in time to see his collection of germ wings crash toward the igneous floor. The scream he let out came from the bottom of his lungs. The sound vibrations funneled out of his pyramidal mouth, which jutted off of his face, and lifted the frame aloft of the floor.
He pulled the bark frame into his chest with both hands, triple knuckled fingers curling over opposing corners. Before he had a chance to move, the fleshy walls pulsed and squeezed. Pressure forced into his ears and channeled out his megaphone mouth, making the television explode, the flower vase shatter. He was shot into the air.
The passage he was pushed through felt like a long vagina, narrow and squishy. He shot into the tropical night, covered in Mount Pus’s filthy yellow, protective juices.
When he landed, there were no clues giving away his position. The only thing he knew was that the glass on his germ collection was cracked and his brown wool suit coat was stained the color of boogers. Luckily, the wings he’d molded of his own dried feces slowed his descent. They were made for such an occasion as when Mount Pus would erupt. However, he wasn’t prepared and was sent in a dizzying whirl through the air. If deployed a moment later he may not have survived.
He tried to breathe, but his mouth was clogged. The only air he could muster into his chunky body infused through his zucchini sized nose that rested atop the megaphone through which he spoke. He blew air through his nose and swallowed at the same time. Something traveled down his windpipe. He shrugged it off for the ability to breathe had re
turned.
Surrounding him was a ring of six giant wooden cubes. On each side of the blocks was a door, thirty six of them in all and no two the same. Some had odd shapes laid into the wood of the door, while others were very plain-looking bedroom-style entrances. Megamouth tapped into his intuition and felt a severe sense of urgency to his left. He walked in choppy steps, slightly dragging his left foot.
The aura was drifting downward and he could feel it stronger across his head and shoulders than across his stomach. He reached toward the top of the cube, but couldn’t reach. Thus, he was forced to flap his fecal wings. The door on the plane perpendicular to the sky was the one emitting the feeling. He tried the handle made of pure pewter and linked like a chain fence. The handle flapped limply, only giving resistance.
Unable, as usual, to control the volume of his voice, Megamouth shouted: “OPEN UP!”
The door did not oblige. It was denying him entry and therefore pissing him off royally. He dug into his pants pocket and found the multi-tool he carried everywhere. Many attachments branched off of the tool——a toaster oven that unfolded from a toothpick, a gumball machine that only needed water to grow——but none as useful and fanciful as the candid can opener.
After flicking the switch the curved point of the attachment began metamorphosis. The point rounded into a head, from the squared sides there branched two arms, and the base detached into two scrawny legs, melding from the corners. The tool Megamouth once more pocketed, but the can opener he held in his massive palm, awaiting the finality of the transformation.
When finally the small can opener man began to move of his own volition——clawing across Megamouth’s hands, etching deep wounds——he placed the daemon on top of the door. Rufus, as Megamouth had come to call him, dragged his two inch body toward the dangling keyhole near the knob. He was still unable to speak, but remembering how to mobilize his throat muscles always took a little longer.
The lock clicked when Rufus started to dig around inside the hole and the door fell into the frame. Megamouth started to fall and grabbed the two inch daemon in passing, placing Rufus on his shoulder. Far below was a world of clouds, beyond which he could not see a thing. He closed his eyes, terrified of the splat below. His scream resonated through the megaphone, so loud that it damaged his own ears. Blood trickled out of his right canal. He could smell it with his giant schnoz.
A tiny whisper could be heard over the rush of the air. “Quiet down!”
Then, Rufus found his voice and yelled: “FLY, SHIT WINGS!”
CHAPTER 2
IT FELT LIKE he’d been waiting for days when really it was only eight hours or so. Being brought back to a state of animation meant that his father was still alive. Unfortunately, it most likely meant that his father had not accomplished their mission. Spike knew his choice order of business, but it would have to wait for a conference between children and father. A great deal of persuasion would be needed to sway his father, but Spike had manipulation down, especially regarding his very dim brother. He was an easy vote.
Spike finished off two batches of piss wine and was waiting for the urge to sting before he could make another, when movement caught his eye. A clambering black form had breached the mass of marshmallow clouds. Spike squinted, his round brown eyes barely hanging onto his needle-thin face. The form’s arms were wrapped around the skinny base that held the island in place, so high up in the air. It was his brother, Carbie.
He rejoiced by pumping his hand in the air, for it was true. His brother was en route, scaling the vertical piece of land. Spike lay on the grass beneath the grape vines and peeked over the edge. What Spike lacked was Carbie’s strength, his ability to plow through people or walls. Spike was great at manipulation, both physical and mental. He always thought that maybe his mental traits were stolen from his youngest brother’s gene pool, the big dumb fuck. Maybe father dipped into his test tube, Spike thought.
Carbie scuttled up the base and then, reaching the bottom of the island, burst through the ground. The ground shook and the leaves on the tree rustled. When he landed there was a cracking sound and the island teetered. Spike remained perfectly still on his back, aware that his brother’s grand entrance had disrupted the island-in-the-cloud’s stability. Carbie also stood stock-still in his spandex suit, breaths frequently expanding and compressing his chest.
“Don’t move,” Spike said in his metallic voice.
“I’m not.”
“Where’s the loud mouth?”
“He’s not with me, obviously,” Carbie said. “Do you know where he was last seen?”
Spike cackled. “If I did, would I be asking you?”
“No.”
They remained motionless and quiet for some time, worried the island would break off and fall through the sky. When it became clear that the third brother was going to be further late, a decision needed to be made. After such a long tenure in complete stillness, neither of them wanted to endure it a second longer. Both understood the gravity of the situation (and how couldn’t they?), being so experienced in dire circumstances.
“I’ll slither over the edge,” Spike said. “Then, I’ll slowly climb onto the support.”
“Be careful.”
He’d been waiting for the supplication and when it came, Spike wrapped two hands full of pin sharp fingers into the underside of the island. There was another sharp “crack!” and he halted progress.
“Steady...steady,” Carbie said.
“I’m good,” Spike said. “I’m a skinny bastard, unlike you. You’re the one that’s got to be careful where you walk.”
“Why’s that?”
“You’re a bag of shit. Everyone knows that. You’re a thousand times recycled.”
Carbie blew a raspberry, his corrugated tongue flapping in the wind.
“How far up are we?” Spike asked.
“About twenty thousand or so.”
Carbie took a heavy step, starting to follow Spike without permission.
“Don’t move another foot! It’s unstable.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
He lifted his foot in the air. If Spike could see Carbie’s face beneath the tight black hood, he assumed it would be adorned with a box-cutter-forged smile. The brother dropped his square foot onto the dirt, tipping the can of piss wine into the grass. The island started to tilt downward. Spike’s body became vertical. Carbie stood on an opposing horizontal axis to the ground.
The half-cigarette flipped out of the piss wine, falling past Spike’s face, spattering his cheeks with stale urine and squished grapes. He unlatched one of his hands in time to stab through the filter and then jammed it back into the dirt, securing the smoke under his hand.
“Nice knowing you, Carbie!” he yelled over the rush of air.
Carbie’s mouth was moving. Spike could see a brown hole through the slit in his hood, but could not hear him. He looked over his shoulder. The clouds were approaching at an alarming rate.
Oh boy, he thought. This is it.
They entered the fields of clouds and Spike expected to feel them brushing his metal parts like cotton, but was disappointed when they merely dissipated in retaliation. The hope had been to taste them like whipping on a cake, but then, he didn’t taste anything but the screaming wind, drying out his mouth.
Then, the clouds all but disappeared. He looked over his shoulder. The ground was visible, maybe a mile below. A range of extremely close together mountain peaks, thousands and thousands like the bottom of a mountainside comb, sat as a death trap. The piece of land that had been holding the island grew out of the very center of the range, a massive flagpole.
He tried to reach behind his head and stab into the strip, but couldn’t quite reach. When finally he did, the force ripped his arm away, bent it over the edge of the island like a candy cane.
It seemed as though all options were abandoned. However, as Spike conceded to defeat, hoping maybe to land unscathed amongst the peaks and valleys, a beacon of hope shon
e. Floating below was a familiar hulk wearing brown wings. He hoped the loud mouth would see them in time.
The brown wings flapped, spinning the brother in circles, oblivious to the island rapidly descending upon him. Spike didn’t try to warn him, for he would not have been able to hear it. Instead, he dropped silently, crossing his metal fingers.
With mere seconds to spare the imbecile lifted his head, apparently not hearing the sound of a giant rock breaking the aero-dynamic barrier. His circular eyes widened and his funnel mouth pulsed. Spike wasn’t prepared for the onslaught of noise. His ear canals were penetrated by the low embrace of a spectacular foghorn.
Megamouth’s scream derived from fright, it was not meant to levitate the island. Yet, it sent the rock spinning in barrel rolls and Spike saw Carbie flip off the surface.
He screamed: “Noooooo!” But his cry was lost on the wind.
In the dizzying flips he saw the ground pass by numerous times, as well as the sight of his youngest brother frantically attempting to fly beneath the island. Then, Megamouth was humming, at a much calmer level, and the island was gravitated by his voice. The ride took longer than it would have if the island dropped all the way to the mountains, but Spike counted his blessings once the piece of land holding the tree and grape vines landed gently in a gulley. He lit his piss-drunk smoke.
CHAPTER 3
“WHAT THE HELL you got there?” Spike asked Megamouth first thing. He was holding a frame crafted of bamboo.
“Deez my germ wings. Found them in Pus Mountain,” he yelled.
“So why’d you bring them here? You know we have things to do.”
Megamouth scratched his ass. His red bow tie was crooked. Rufus whispered into his ear. Then he responded “Dey my prized possession.”