Two oversized goons backed Rocky and Bullwinkle. Rocky and Bullwinkle were the two trouble-boys in the front. The oversized goons in yellow pinstripe suits and hats stood behind them. Rocky and Bullwinkle weren’t their real names, but that’s how Duke referred to them. Their real names were Frankie Corleone and Muggins Avelone. Frankie was the smart-mouthed one wearing the polka-dot black and white vest, gold chain, smart shoes, and dapper hat. Muggins Avelone was the other one in a not so suave suit.
The two goons in back had smug looks on their faces. They weren’t smiling or frowning, but they looked amused. They all wore fedoras, crisp and clean. Glad rags, they called them. Frankie’s socks were bright white under the lampposts, polka-dotted like his vest.
Running into gangsters in the middle of the night wasn’t what Duke or Newt had in mind, but here they were. Rocky and Bullwinkle’s gaudy jewelry flashed in the amber light.
These boobs were a dime a dozen. They filled the city streets, shot Tommy guns, dumped bodies into rivers, smoked fat and stinky cigars, and played poker every night all night. They liked to talk smart and jab roscoes into the small of your back just to watch you jump.
They had their own language, which only they could understand. They liked to make concrete shoes, or drench you in syrup, then leave you in the hot sun and let the ants devour you. They were known to interrogate you all night and make you walk home naked through rain, sleet, and snow. It was how they amused themselves. They had secret handshakes, passwords, secret smiles, and all sorts of secret stuff no one was supposed to know about, but everyone did. They had their own brand of liquor and cigarettes. It was the same crime-ridden, underground, festering vomit throughout Innsport, and for Duke and Newt, it got nauseating fast.
“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Duke said. “We got enough on our plate as it is. How about stepping aside and letting us through. That sounds like a great way to spend the evening, doesn’t it? Getting along. It’s a new concept, Rocky. You should try it sometime.”
“I told you not to call me that, gumshoe,” Frankie said, looking peeved. “Whatcha doin’ walkin’ round late at night fer if you don’t want any trouble? You get an earful of this fairytale, Muggins? They don’t want any trouble.”
Thick-lipped Muggins was right beside him, otherwise knowns as Mugsy. It was the ongoing saga of gangster meets flatfoot.
“Uh-huh. Yes, boss,” Muggins said. “That’s the stuff. Sure enough. Got it where its hummin,’ and it’s hummin’ fine. Stick and stash. You got the jim-joint. They serve the bushmaster. Greasy part left out to dry, but no one wants it, so who’d gonna leave it?”
Rocky smiled and nodded, as if ‘How could you argue with that?’ The two goons in the yellow pinstripes nodded, elbowed each other, and chuckled.
Duke frowned and shook his head. The other goons didn’t understand what Muggins just said. They spewed out nonsense and chuckled as if it were a secret code.
“Where did you get that boob, Rocky?” Duke asked. “From the animal shelter?”
Bullwinkle, otherwise known as Muggins, chuckled. “That was funny, wasn’t it, boss?” He elbowed Frankie in the side. “A corker!”
Duke was amused. Newt raised his eyebrows.
Frankie frowned. “He’s insulting you, you dimwit,” he said to his sidekick.”
“He is?” Muggins said.
Frankie rolled his eyes. “It’s all sugar rolls, you know what I mean? You got a long way to put your hands in the dough to make the swirls come out right. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Duke and Newt had no more idea what Frankie was talking about than anyone else. The two goons were cracking smiles, but no one moved.
“Whattaya say, Duke?” Frankie said. “Wanna dance?”
“I wouldn’t want Bullwinkle to get jealous,” Duke said.
Frankie narrowed his eyes. “You got any greenbacks on you, honey?”
Duke stared at him. “You’re the most predictable thug in Innsport, you know that, Bullwinkle.”
“He’s Bullwinkle,” Frankie said, gesturing his thumb at Muggins.
“That doesn’t make much difference at the moment,” Duke said.
“You getting this, Mugsy?” Frankie asked his partner. “He’s standing here trying to be funny, but no one’s laughing. What does that make me?”
“A boob,” Duke said.
The thugs behind Frankie stopped smiling. They were reaching into their pockets.
Newt watched all this, fascinated. His hand inched toward his iron.
Four against two weren’t good odds, and Duke was a slow runner. That made it, with the size of the goons, about six against one and a half. Frankie had no problem taking people out, and neither did his goons. A couple of gumshoes wouldn’t go over well with Frankie’s boss, however, who would have the entire Innsport Police Department after them. Duke thought he and Newt could take Rocky and Bullwinkle easily. It was the goons who were the problem.
“What are you two doing out this late anyway?” Frankie asked.
“You don’t ask the questions, pipsqueak,” Duke said. “Guns don’t give you the license to flap. Got it?”
Newt raised his eyebrows. He’d never seen this side of Duke, but he liked it. The man hated dealing with the underground scum of the city, and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
The fog was thickening, crawling around the buildings like giant fingers. Duke thought he could hear the clip of toenails against the pavement. He wasn’t thinking about the thugs or Rocky and Bullwinkle. He was thinking of the hound. He turned to his partner.
“You hear that, Newt?”
Newt turned in his direction. “I don’t. What am I supposed to be hearing?”
Frankie did a dramatic gangster bit: pointing two fingers at them from the waist and cocking his head. He said out of flamboyantly curled lips, “What kind of game you playing, tough guy? You trying to crack foxy?”
“You settled for small-time, Rocky,” Duke said. “You gonna stand there and tell me you haven’t noticed anything strange tonight?”
“Just the fog,” Frankie said. “And . . . I keep hearing this wolf howl.”
“We’re in the animal shelter,” Muggins said.
Duke and Newt looked at each other.
“You catching this drift?” Rocky asked his sidekick. “All the stuff’s on the wire, man! These gumshoes are trying to play it cute!”
“It’s a little over my head, boss,” Bullwinkle said, scratching his head. “But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t been taken to the cleaners.”
“Sure, sure. I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Frankie said. “It’s the way it's going down. Who’s got the bubble-gum?”
The orbs started glowing. Greenish blue lights popped up along the alley. That stink returned, something hot, alien, and tarry. The sound of crickets grew louder, a decibel of insects crying in the night.
“I got some advice for you, Rocky, and for your goons,” Duke said, backing up slowly. “Turn and walk away.”
“You trying to get smart?” Frankie said, doing that hipster, two guns at the waist bit with his fingers pointing.
One of the goons made a sound of contempt. The light was growing. It got Rocky’s attention, along with the goons.
“Hey, what gives?” Frankie said, looking around. “What’s with these glowing lights? You seeing this, Mugsy?”
Mugsy/Bullwinkle, and the goons saw it. Their expressions went from amused to confused.
“I asked you a question, copper,” Frankie said. “What’s with the glowing balls?”
“I warned you,” Duke said. He reached out and took Newt’s sleeve, backing up.
“Run for it, boys,” Newt said.
Frankie and the goons looked around. They were backing up. The insect sound was louder. The stench was almost palpable. Frankie and the goons looked left and right, walking backwards, and as they did, their eyes continued to get bigger.
“Run!” Duke shouted.
Duke and Newt ran. The hound bayed
close. The next thing they knew, Rocky and the goons started screaming.
—
“These don’t belong to you,” Nyarlathotep said, indicating the scrolls.
“We can talk possession later,” Macky said. “Gates are opening. Things are crawling around the city, in case you didn’t notice.”
“Yes,” the god said. “Ten now, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Ten?” Macky said, surprised.
“Ten?” Capshaw said.
“Ten?” Armitage and Millie said.
“Ten,” Nyarlathotep repeated.
“I thought we were at nine?” Macky asked.
“The Mad Arab moves quickly,” Nyarlathotep said. “Many hands have touched it. Most of which you won’t recognize. It’s a mad, mad, mad, mad world, isn’t it, Mr. Macky?”
“You seem awfully amused by the whole thing.”
“I enjoy mischief and mayhem. It makes me laugh. I find this whole charade quite entertaining. The Mad Arab is moving things along nicely. Favorably. That doesn’t make him any less of a fool. It just means he’s persistent.”
“I thought you said you hated him?” Macky said.
Nyarlathotep nodded. “I admire his ambition, even if he’s a sycophant.”
“That means he’s a suck-up, Dev,” Millie said.
“I’m glad you’re here for something, Mill,” Macky said.
“I hate feeling useless,” Millie said.
Macky turned to Nyarlathotep. “And he’s sucking up these gods?”
Nyarlathotep nodded. “Yog-Sothoth, mainly. Azathoth. Didn’t we discuss this already?”
“You people are something else, you know that?” Macky said. “Egos completely out of control. I thought politicians were bad, but you guys take the babka. You don’t settle for worldly gain. You’re looking for cosmic control over the whole, stinking universe. Outer dimensions! Gimme a break! What then? Usurp the throne of God? Someone’s already tried that, and it didn’t work out too well for them.”
“No one’s tried hard enough,” Nyarlathotep said. “Yet.”
“No one will ever succeed,” Millie said, holding the cross at her neck
“We can still have a little fun in the process,” Nyarlathotep said.
“The Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Arab is trying to impress the gods by opening gates and unleashing unholy horror upon Innsport,” Macky said. “That Necronomicon is quite the tome, if I do say so myself.”
“So it would seem.”
“You seem pretty even-keeled about the whole thing,” Macky said. He turned to Millie. “That means neutral. Unfazed. I think.”
“I know, Dev. I taught you that word.”
The god shrugged. “Entertainment isn’t so easy to come by these days. We know all the tricks. I hold no sentiment in the value of mortals. Groveling. Weak. You’re a tired and predictable species.”
“Millie, do you find me tiring?”
She nodded. “Definitely.”
“Are you going to help us or not?” Armitage said, losing patience.
“Yeah,” Capshaw said. “Why did you take the Elder Scrolls in the first place?”
“I wanted to know what was in it for me if I helped you,” Nyarlathotep said.
“What do you want?” Armitage asked.
The god smiled. Or so it seemed. It was hard to tell on the faceless visage. “Pain,” he said.
“Another sadist,” Macky said, putting his hands into his pockets. “Just what we need.”
“In a matter of speaking,” Nyarlathotep said. “I long for the Mad Arab’s humility. His time has come.”
“What kind of humility are we talking about?” Macky said.
Nyarlathotep smiled. “I want to see him torn apart.”
—
Duke and Newt slowed down, both weary, breathing heavily. Duke more so. He was bent over, hands on his knees, gasping.
“I can’t wait for . . . all this . . . to be over,” the big detective said.
“I think it would be easier if the thing decided to kill us and be done with it.”
“That would be nice . . . sure.”
Silence surrounded them. The fog, dark, the light of the October moon was all they could see. The stench was discernible, but the sound of screaming insects had quieted. The lateness of the hour was also getting to them. They were tired and hungry.
“I don’t hear anything,” Newt said, looking around.
Duke labored for breath and finally stood up. “Come on.”
“Do you think it’s wise to go back there?” Newt asked.
“No. But there’s civil unrest in the city right now, and we’re here to uphold the law.”
Newt raised his eyebrows.
“I heard that from a radio show Vera and I listen to,” Duke said. “I thought it was appropriate for the moment.”
Newt smiled. “Lead on. Although I feel like we’re going in circles.”
“I’m not going to argue.”
They started back the way they came.
“I’m getting worried about Amelia, too, Duke,” Newt said.
“I know. Me, too. But don’t worry. We’ll find her.”
“Those are comforting words, but you don’t know any more than I do.”
Duke looked at his partner. He smiled and put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry.”
The hound bayed again. It was farther away, echoing over the city like a distant wolf howl.
“Stop,” Duke said. He put his hand out, forcing Newt to stop.
The fog had thinned.
All four bodies were on the ground. Blood glistened in the moonlight. Rocky, Bullwinkle, and the two goons in yellow pinstripe suits lay motionless and dead.
“Why do I get the feeling this thing wants just put the fear of God into us, Duke,” Newt said.
“Why? Is it working?” Duke asked.
“Very much so.”
“It wants us to know it,” Duke said, looking at the bodies.
His partner snapped his head in his direction. “Huh?”
Duke nodded. He looked at the foggy moon, the fire escapes between the buildings. “It wants us to follow it. It’s on the fire escape. It wants us to . . . know it.”
Newt followed his gaze. The hound with wings was looking at them from the fire escape to their right.
“This isn’t funny anymore, Duke,” Newt said.
“I know. But instincts are telling me to lead the way—for the hound, that is.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Newt said.
“You and me both.”
As if in answer, the hound spread its wings, and took to the air. It descended to the alley. They understood each other. It had never been about finding the hound and killing it; it had been about following it.
But why?
Duke and Newt had no idea.
The hound disappeared into the fog.
Duke and Newt followed.
—
“There.”
Nyarlathotep led them from the museum to the outskirts of the city. The warping in the atmosphere continued. The fog was shifting like a wisp of spiderwebs. The moon was a pale smudge behind the clouds. The strangeness of the evening, the semblance of depth and time meshed and merged in strange eons. They walked for what seemed a short ways before realizing they’d come to a place in the country. On the top of a long hill, surrounded by gangly trees, was a Victorian house. From inside, it looked like a rainbow-colored electrical storm was taking place. The windows flashed blue, pink, green, and yellow. The place looked like a conduit for electrical energy.
“What on earth is that?” Macky asked.
“The gate,” Nyarlathotep said. “Portal. Dreamscapes. The key to the Elder Gods. Kadath.”
“As long as we know the answer,” Macky said. “What’s a Kadath?”
“The place you’ll have to go if you want to bargain with the Elder Gods,” Nyarlathotep said. “Home. It’s referred to by many names. Some don’t know of it. Some say it doesn�
�t exist. I know otherwise.”
“Sounds like a real festive place,” Macky said.
Nyarlathotep surprised him by chuckling. It was strange to hear.
“Whose house is it?” Millie asked. Mr. Kalabraise was beside her, wagging her tail.
“How much does it go for on the market?” Macky said. “It looks cheap.”
Armitage and Capshaw looked at each other.
“It’s the witch-house,” Nyarlathotep said. “A nexus. A different sort of gate. To other, unknown things and places.”
“What’s there that’s so important again?” Macky asked.
“Don’t you pay attention to anything?” Millie asked.
“There’s a lot to take in,” Macky said.
“It’s your only chance to reach the Elder Gods. Once you get there, you won’t be able to return.”
—
Frye W. Fields was listening to the book and all it told him. It was the sound of the Wendigo, as he liked to call it. The Nameless Mist. He’d been immersed in the story of the hound, typing away, but it was missing something. He wanted to come up with a few more angles. There was something here. Something juicy. But it needed pizzazz. The Necronomicon was showing him how. It had told him its name.
Fields stopped typing and looked at the book. It was strange, creepy. The smell coming from its pages was one thing. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was written in blood. But who’s? Or what’s?
He didn’t want to know, but the words came together. They were written in a language he didn’t understand. Then miraculously, he did. The words came together and started to make sense in his mind. His cat, Munster, had retired to the bedroom, making a hissing sound at the sight of the book. He hadn’t seen her since. He would coax her out later with some tuna and chicken.
The language was Latin. Or Greek. Or perhaps Aramaic. He didn’t know exactly. His journalistic mind wrapped around the words and put them together in a way he understood. It was unnatural. Impossible! But there it was.
Fields recited the words out loud, a sing-song cadence, like music. Poetry. Once he got started, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop. It was . . . fun. He was having a good time.
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