“PILLS IN A LITTLE CUP”
By
THE GRIM REVEREND
STEVEN RAGE
FOR
MorbidbookS
PHX, AZ.
Everything Bleeds.
PILL~IN~A~LITTLE~CUP is published in the US and A by
MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright The Grim Reverend Steven Rage for words and music 2014. Cover art and design by the elusive and Grim Reverend Steven Rage 2014. Stage direction by Steven Scott Nelson and inappropriate fondling of said Author and Staff by The Spun Monkey. Slicen and dicen by FucknPunch, The Chronically Unemployed Child-Care Clown, and Steven Scott Nelson. Advance Reading, Proofing and sage wisdom from the one and onliest Monica Roncancio. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his disjointed multiple personality disorders have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this dark tale 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, Steven Scott Nelson, 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. 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.
This shit right here is a MorbidbookS blunt. You dig?
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“Pills in a Little Cup” is a collection of stories that represent the hardest of the hardcore in Occult/Horror creep-fests. ‘PiaLC’, like all Rage fiction is not for the squeamish or the easily offended. The meds listed are some of my personal faves. The pills may or may not have anything to do with the story. Don’t worry, this is some of my very best shit, you will love them, The Grim One swears.
Enough fucking around. All You Freaks still with me?
Then let’s get this shit ramped up.
HYDROMORPHONE-METHAMPHETAMINE HYDROCHLORIDE
“DURADILAUDERAL”
Also known as:
“PLATA”
THE RUNNER ENDED HIS CALL and shoved the phone deep down in a pocket of his hoodie.
“I talked to his Second, Juan. He say Pilate gonna come now,” the boy warned the dirty cop. “And he gonna come hard.”
“Let him bring his ass down here,” bragged Theodosius, “save me a step. He’ll get what he’s come for, on the real. Meantime,” he continued, “Herod wants me to get hold of him. I’ll have my boys pay his lair a visit, see what we see.”
Pilate’s runner stood and waited. He felt regret for what he was doing, but what the hell, he thought. It’s a dog eat dog world, you know, and it’s better to get paid then to get dead.
“Where’s his hole at, where he lay?” Theodosius asked and the boy told him. “You sure it’s his?”
“Like I say, I followed the girl, Mary, this one time. She’s not too bright, this chick, she never even looked for a tail. I followed her and she led me to the old church. I have a feeling Pilate has other places where he stay, but that’s the only one I know of for sure.”
“Alright,” Theodosius said and peeled the boy off a few hundreds. “I want you to vanish for a week. Then you can come back and run for me.”
“A clocker?” the boy asked, disappointed, “still? What happened to a promotion, man? That’s what I expected.”
“To me, to my way of thinking, you ain’t done anything. You just jumped sides and dropped loyalty at the first chance you got.” He grabbed the boy by his shirtfront. “My offer’s the only one on the table right now, which makes it the best offer on the table. And that’s better than catching a bullet in the back of your head. Which is just what the vampire’s gonna do when he catches wind of this. So, concerning your short-term safety, hooking up with my crew is the only choice you have. Or am I wrong about that?”
He put his hands up in surrender. He quickly agreed with the logic as well as his terms of employment. His head started nodding so obsequious fast now that Theodosius thought the boy had a bobble spring in there.
“Good,” Theodosius said. He released the boy. “Now go, and don’t come back for a week.”
The runner nodded once and ran off. Theodosius watched him go. He was reveling in his new spirit of industry. He turned and went back to his crew, where he paused to rub his hands together in greedy anticipation.
“This is going to be a night to remember,” he told them. They all agreed. Theodosius sent four of his big-ass, bad-ass dirty cops to the old church to see if they can locate the elusive blood drinking drug dealer. That Pilate was a specter. His exploits and ruthlessness were so ingrained and legendary in The Harbor, that Theodosius doubted very much he even existed. And if Pilate did exist, he’s sure the gruesome vampire tales were way overblown.
Theodosius and his crew already were accepted as replacements for Pilate’s people by the junkies that stood restless-waiting on the corner. The fiends lined up in a jumpy queue, anxious for their dinner. They didn’t care who fed them, as long as they got their Plata and got high on the quick. Or else the marching bugs will start running beneath their skin again, tickling and itching where not one of them can reach.
Theodosius smiled. Drugs were slung. Customers left happy while a seemingly endless wave of Plata fiends kept coming to the corner in a steady stream.
The sun slid silky toward the horizon.
Chapter One
THE INSISTENT NOISE FROM THE INTERCOM burns a hole in my sleep. I press the button: “Trouble?” I ask through the hidden speaker.
“Yeah, Pilate,” my Second tells me, “Big trouble.” Juan relays what our runner just said.
“I’ll be right up,” I reply.
I release the intercom button and lay back on the bed. I am ravenous and beginning to get short-tempered because of it. I keep my eyes closed a little while longer, but the brief respite does not make me feel any better. Now I have to go to the spot to deal with this before I can feed. It’s been three days since I had last fed and that brings me right up to the edge.
I rise. My cold skin is nude and beginning to prickle with hunger, my normally absent breathing is making itself known.
I dress quickly and leave the vault where I sleep my protected sleep. I head upstairs to the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Inside the freezer there are a few frozen I.V. packs of consolidated red blood cells. I put one in the microwave to defrost it. The blood is normally used between my twice-weekly feedings. But now I am forced to use it to stave off the need for fresh blood. Packed cells do carry some oxygen, but there is no significant amount attached to red blood cells in this form. It is the oxygen I so crave.
I park myself at a chair by the table. Juan comes in and sits with me. I remember the time Juan asked to be turned. I told him the truth. That there is no way to turn a human into a vampire, that vampires are born, not made.
Vampires all house an inherited recessive genome that will spell the end of the lineage unluc
ky enough to sprout a nosferatu. Vampires can’t reproduce. It’s nature’s way of not perpetuating a genetic mistake. Juan was greatly disappointed, as I recall. He wanted so bad to believe the mythos and legends. I, on the other hand, am quite glad the tales are fiction. The human herd would thin rather quickly if there were squads of vampires out there. Herod is trouble enough.
I put nasal prongs into my nose and turn the oxygen tank on. The microwave beeps. I retrieve the defrosted blood and tear open the package. I proceed to squeeze the warmish goo into my open mouth, swallowing all 500cc of the blood at once.
I concentrate on pulling in supplemental oxygen through my nose. What is efficient for humans; is woefully inadequate for vampires. The blood I consume and oxygen I inspire will increase my deficient oxygen levels a mere twenty percent. If I relax, this treatment’s enough to quench my need for fresh blood until the following day. Then I will have to feed. If I find myself under extended duress, my oxygen reserves will swiftly evaporate. This will leave me weak and vulnerable.
“I’m going to check it out,” I say at last. I was getting so very hungry. I turned the tank off and remove the nosepiece. “I’ll feed before my return.”
“Okay,” replies Juan. “Do you need us?”
“No,” I state and rise. “I’ll return soon enough and we’ll discuss what I find when I do. Mary will give me some rows and we’ll figure all this crazy shit out together.”
Juan nods, looking like he is feeling better with the return of our routine. We always discuss business while Mary gives my long hair some nice tight cornrows.
I study Juan’s face, sensing his concern. “I’ll bet it’s the quota,” Juan states. He looks up at me. He suggests, “Maybe we should cash some in, you know, catch us up with Herod. Get him off us for a while, give us time to figure this out; negotiate a different price or some of the other ideas we talked about.”
I have considered dipping, but I still must decline. I am stubborn about Herod’s quota demands. I feel that the hit Plata is taking should be shared by all in the organization, not dumped solely at our feet.
“Don’t worry,” I reply instead, “I’m sure it’s nothing, some sort of misunderstanding. We’re only, what – thirty grams short for this whole year? I sincerely doubt that we can get moved without notice, without a word over an ounce. What is it we push, forty-five, fifty zees a year? And Herod is getting pissed off over one?”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” agrees Juan.
“Anyways as long as it isn’t approved by Herod, his flunkies will see the light. I’ll bet they’s nothing more than a bunch of dumb cowboys playing dress-up. We shouldn’t worry about it too much. Herod will have to be a raving lunatic to bounce me. Look at how much money he gets from us,” I smile, “you’d think he’d be happy.”
I can feel from my tongue that my partially starved state is making the sharp fang tips poke out of my pink-gummed smile. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I repeat, then get up to leave.
Juan follows me down to the basement of our old abandoned church. This is the place were Mary, Juan and I call both home and work and have been doing so for going on five years now. Juan watches me as I leave out the back door. I turn to him, smile once. I easily leap over the tall property wall and then disappear into the mushrooming dusk. Ready for anything and down for whatever.
Chapter Two
IT IS LATE DUSK IN THE HARBOR and the shadows are deepening quickly. I am within the yawning gloom of a crumbling vacant building and I stare with great interest at the group manning my corner. The drug runners, their dealer, and the cops protecting them stand my spot. I choose with my yellow eyes the dealer. This dirty cop will die first. I can smell his blood. I think he smells delicious.
I crouch in the deepening shadows and gaze in silence at the police officer and his entourage. The mortal isn’t wearing a uniform, but I have no trouble making him. The cop’s name is Theodosius and he’s one of Herod’s up and comers.
I begin to breathe deeper as the hunger for oxygen-rich blood grows strong. Breathing is pain for a vampire – a not so subtle reminder of physiologic need. My need is food and I’m going to need it real soon.
Theodosius is standing my spot, talking animatedly with other cops. He has a whole grip of his young toughs milling about and acting tough.
The cop’s crew have shut my doors and opened up their own shop. They are taking money out of my pocket and none of my runners are anywhere to be found. And with the presence of Theodosius, there is no doubt of Herod’s blessing. Enraged; my jaw clenches and bites. A thin string of brackish blood slides down my chin.
“I’ll have Herod’s teeth for this,” I grunt, “hanging from my neck.”
It’s time to take care of this miscarriage of ghetto justice. I yawn deeply, stretching out the stiff muscles in my back. I step with purposeful noise from gloomy shadows to dying sunlight.
The mortals turn to look. I listen as I pull back my tightly curled hair into one long ponytail. I am just out of earshot, for a mortal.
Theodosius and crew catch my movement from the darkening shadows. They could see me, but just barely.
“Who’s that?” Theodosius asks. I stand straight as a runner answers his boss: “That’s Pilate,” he say.
“Are you sure?” Theodosius snaps, gripping the boy’s shoulders.
The boy sneaks a quick peek over to me and I stand waiting. My eyes, I know, are twin orbs of murky yellow. They are backlit like a beast.
“Yeah,” little dude replies, “that’s him.”
“Pilate,” he mutters real low, “Oh, no.”
But, vampire hearing brings it crisp to me, where I wait for more.
“Never thought I’d see him,” the runner says, “I wasn’t even sure he’s real.”
The dirty cop’s fear he cannot hide. That, more than anything else, decides it.
“I’m gonna give him what he come for!” Theodosius declares, fear exploding. He shoves his right hand beneath loose fitting coat, finds his weapon and pulls it.
I stare intently, sensing the group’s growing concern. It makes my head swim. The delicious smells of this fearful herd bombards my senses. I can hear their hearts’ increased force and speed, the way they’re doing little trip-hammer dances in their collective chests. The lungs suck in air to saturate hemoglobin in the blood with volumes of oxygen. This oxygen is what makes my mouth water. My pupils dilate. The murky yellow surrounding the black holes grow in intensity.
The rich, heady scent clouds my reaction and bullet-spit from the cop’s concealed auto pistol cuts a furrow through my left shoulder. The stream of rapid fire bullets pulverizes my muscle tissue as I am already leaping backward and down into the gloom.
I then run, unseen, across the street from those shadows. I stop and watch as a second quick spray tattoos the old brick façade of the crumbling Boys and Girls club, the one where I was standing a moment ago.
Firing stops. I squat behind a stripped sedan, to the right of Theodosius’ crew. They were looking left at the cement dust kicked up by bullets and still hanging as a cloud. I lower my face and fold my hands together as if in prayer. I welcome the exquisite pain of the lengthening fangs and the pointed growth of talons as they split my bleeding fingertips. The blood shimmers from where I’d been shot.
Then I stand.
One of his runners spins around and beholds me. My smile, full on, the teeth long and sharp, I display in an open mouth. The boy’s eyes roll up in his head. He faints dead away. He crumples to the ground just as Theodosius turns and raises his weapon at me again.
I close the distance of twenty feet in the blink of an eye. First I am beside the wrecked sedan and the next instant I’m six inches from Theodosius. The cop’s face is vacant. Comprehension as of yet has not set in. The runners follow their leader’s arm as it arcs, staring where I’d been beside the car.
Before anything registers, I sink my talons deep inside the mortal. Theodosius glances from my yellow vampire eyes, to the
already healing shoulder, to my fingers sunk in his very own belly.
“But…” Theodosius manages. I ignore him. Instead, I behold the crew and pull all of their attention to me. It is magnetic and they cannot begin to resist.
I scan the group and glean the herd’s weakest, easiest to control. I locate the little dude and turn to him.
“Shut your eyes,” I whisper to the young lad, not even old enough to drive, “but stay alert.” The rest of the crew I order quiet stillness. “You do not witness,” I tell them.
The boy’s eyes are closed as commanded and I refocus my hold on him. The boy stands tall and rigid, at attention.
“Why are you here?” I ask him.
“Herod say you missed the quota three months in a row, so he give this spot to Theodosius.”
“Impossible,” I angrily reply, “this here my spot. I brought it to Herod. It belongs to me.” My voice is getting raspy, dry and painful. “He can’t give away what don’t belong to him.”
The boy is shivering. He’s so very healthy with lots of bright red life inside, sludgy-thick with oxygen. My patience is dangerous thin. My hunger’s getting deep, clawing at me. Soon it will uncheck. Heaven help the poor slob’s who’s dumb enough to still be near me when the other shoe drops.
“When this happen?” I snap.
“Yesterday,” chokes the boy. His tears are welling and his lips quiver.
“Be calm,” I advise and I gotta say the boy did try. The others were nothing more than standing clay statues: ignorant, motionless and awaiting their next command.
Now I am boiling with a powerful rage. The monthly quota the boy was talking about is missed by only a few grams of Plata. This powerfully synthetic heroin-meth mixture makes slaves of users and normally has hordes of fans. In the last few months, however, the trend reversed. Now they are getting pissed because their pockets aren’t as swole as they once was.
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