This made Westphal securely and supremely happy. He had his rent and utilities paid, enough available on his gas card to scoot the popcan around The Harbor, fresh bone marrow for Chip and even a little left over for some food.
He figured he could stock up on drugs and then he wouldn’t have to go to the motherfucker’s big, old rambling house for a while. Westphal did this whenever he could, with the certainty of dread that all real dope fiends had of getting eventually popped by Johnny Law. That would seriously fuck up his employment options.
Steele always had someone nearby the computer to take these orders, so Westphal sipped some more coffee and mixed and chopped and railed some more jet fuel, waiting for one of Steele’s clones to get back.
The drug dealer never hesitated to make Westphal smile. Steele was a hustla of the first order. He ran a string of businesses like a ghetto corporation out of his own home. He had several entrances and exits, many separate as well as common rooms. Whatever a deviant wanted, Steele could get.
He had drugs, of course, but also much more. If you wanted to get your dick sucked on, or get your shit fisted, cool. If you needed an Unwanted to adopt, his whores did a double business of that. There was no need to glove up if you didn’t want to. Most of his females were in a constant knocked-up state. He kept a druggie midwife working constantly to delivery the Unwanteds.
He had a lab set up with technicians harvesting blood marrow around the clock to sell to the exotic pet stores. There were big, softly lit rooms with music leaking gently out of invisible speakers hidden in the walls if you just wanted a place to get high and chill.
There were special group areas to engage in any sort of Greek or Roman decadence. Pornos were filmed on premises. Orgies were easy to be had; coke rails the length of your leg, animal fucking, sucking, sacrifices, Black Magick. There was blood letting and drinking, skin branding and flesh removing. Anything, man. Just fucking anything.
All the different entrances and exits assured as much privacy as you wanted. You could hide out in the basement if you were on the lam, or deeper to the sub-levels where one can dally with the demons and the damned. There were ghosts everywhere and the Magic floating through the place was thick as a sage smudging.
Steele himself was as big and as tough as the cage-fighter he used to be, but sweet and gentle and accommodating if you kept your attitude and rudeness at the door. Westphal had personally seen Steele weep with a young junkie who just miscarried her Wanted baby. And he had also witnessed him crush the trachea of this stupid piece of shit that disrespected the bug guy in his own home.
Steele liked Westphal a great deal. Not only was Westie an obviously steady customer and source of income, but he never hinted on needing credit. He paid his freight up front and, most of all, Westphal was respectful and polite.
Westphal got a reply from Steele’s place and it was the big dude himself, which was unusual. You could imagine how busy the young Gotti was.
“What’s up, Westie?” he asked over the e-mail, “You feel up to a visit here?”
“Absolutely,” Westphal wrote back, “when’s good?”
“The PayToday just cleared your five NewGs and I can put your order together in about –oh, say 2 hours,” he replied. “That cool wit you?”
“Perfect,” Westphal told him. His head was popping off and he was feeling like a million pesos of good, “I’ll swing by then.”
“Can you stay a while?”
He stopped. That was a weird request. Westphal usually stayed just long enough to be cordial, but Steele knew he liked to do his drugging at home. He knew Westphal didn’t indulge in any of his other offerings. Too weird. What should he do, how should he respond?
“Sure, I guess so,” he replied to Steele. “Why, man, what’s up….problem?”
“No, dude, no problem at all. It’s just that my sponsor is here and he specifically asked me for an intro.”
“Okay, sure…but why? Did I piss someone off I didn’t mean to?”
“No way, nothing like that,” he promised. “He just knows you are a good customer and a good guy and Shirk sometimes likes to check out my favorites.”
“Shirk, huh? Is he….connected?”
“LOL, nigga!,” Steele wrote back. “Yeah, he’s connected, but not to the mob, he’s from That.”
Oh fuck, he’s from That? Westphal never fucked with the Dark. Drugs were enough trouble. He was barely hanging on as it is. What the fuck would a demon want with him? But he knew he couldn’t say no. Once you pollute your soul to a certain point, you had to do some bidding. He’s heard of this like everyone else, but he always thought he could keep skating out of range of Them. Fuck.
After no response: “You still there, dude?” Steele asked.
“Yeah, man, of course, just paused to do a bump,” Westphal lied.
“Well get your self together,” he said. “This motherfucker is the real Holyfield and he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Oh, shit, thought Westphal. Now I am in it.
“See you in 2, brother,” Steele told him and logged off.
Westphal just sat there, trying not to be scared.
Chapter Eleven
TENT DREAM
The Cat and Your Fiddle
One of the worker bees must have liked you, because the dosage she gave you was huge. The morphine you received was enough to knock you all the way down and you found yourself in the middle of a wooded glen. You were in a tent, by yourself, all cozy and snug in you sleeping bag. You knew you were still in your hospital death bed, but this dream was pleasant.
The wind sang through the pines and junipers and the moon lent its pregnant glow to woods surrounding your campsite. This was familiar territory, this place. You and your ex-wife used to come here before the affair that left her pregnant and in love with another man.
She wasn’t in this dream, however. It was just you by your lonesome, half asleep, looking through the meshed top at the billions and billions of stars in the galaxy. You were supremely at ease, feeling the wonderful chill growing outside, wondering if you should throw the top piece over before you fell asleep.
You decide on discretion being the better part of not freezing your nuts off, and unzip yourself from the sleeping bag, throwing it back. Your bare feet hit the tent floor and you then heard the mewling begin from just outside the tent.
It sounded like a kitten, but you quickly realized that there were many of them and they were getting nearer. You stopped before you reached the tent flap, debating whether or not to go out into the open. The sounds of cats were getting loud and they sounded hungry.
You looked all around the tent and the felines you could see were beginning to hurl themselves at the tent. They were getting pissed off and several began squabbling viciously with one another. You looked around for a weapon of some kind and an invisible shove knocked you back on your ass. You tried to get back up, but you weren’t going anywhere.
You went from sitting to lying flat with another big shove backward, the source still unseen. Now your ankles and wrists were stabilized and whatever unseen things were holding you down were strong as fuck.
The air temperature plummeted and you can see your breath fog in front of you and it became cold even in your lungs. You could feel the airways tighten up and your heart sensed the danger and responded by starting to pound hard.
You were still able to lift your head, and you saw a small tear by the tent door open. A lone tiny paw came through. It began working with its tiny feral mouth to weasel its way into the tent. A black kitten face with a white flash poked through and stared at you. It put its paw through and popped in through the tear. You watched it as it approached.
It sat on its haunches a moment, studying you, while all of the litter mates filed in through the hole by the dozens. They sat in a semi-circle around your feet, maybe 50 or 60 of the fuckers, just staring at you. What they were waiting for became clear when a huge, fat tabby squeezed in. Its eyes glowed just like you know w
ho’s and it bared its large predatory teeth. It came up to you and morphed right before your very eyes into Shirk.
The demon sat cross-legged beside you. He tugged down your pants with a chilly smile. He picked up your penis with two pinched finger tips. He tugged your pecker upward, nails getting purchase on your foreskin, pulling still. The pain was incredible and you heard your dream-self scream while Shirk used a filthy nail on his other hand to open a slice on the shaft.
“Dinner bell, darlings,” he told the kittens. Shirk never took his eyes or his grin from you.
They all came at once then, devouring your penis while you were full awake. With you screaming and Shirk laughing, he proceeded to open more cuts all over your body.
When the kittens ate out your lips, tongue and tonsils, choking you with their cute little furry feral bodies, your screams lost their sound. But you still heard Shirk’s gleeful belly laughs all the way up to the second you blacked out.
You awoke later, back in your hospital bed. The tent dream was over, the morphine soaked up and used by your body. You could feel pain everywhere. The ice-blocked wall was melting, the cold palpable; the heater kicking on.
She came in from over the side this time. The ghost of her scaling the bed rail; climbing up toward you, once again.
But this time, she had a dead kitten in her mouth. It was black with a white flash on its face. You just knew for certain that the old bitch was going to stuff it into your mouth and make you choke on it.
Chapter Twelve
STEELE’S CASA
One-Stop Shopping
Westphal rolled the popcan to Steele’s house. He pulled into the long, winding driveway that circled around to where the backyard used to be. Steele was bad-ass enough not to fear his neighbors, but he went out of his way to keep his business, well; his business.
Westphal exited his vehicle and went to what he always referred to himself as the ‘drug-express’ door. He knocked and stepped back, giving Steele’s clone a good look to make sure he was him and alone. You never showed up unannounced. That kept the traffic and the bullshit to a minimum. Steele was serious about his enterprises.
After a short wait the door opened. A girl who looked about twelve (please God, say she’s not) opened the door as naked as the day she was born. Her hair was done up in pigtails and a string of beads hung out of her ass and dangled between her stick-skinny legs. She had marks on her neck where she had been recently bled, but her eyes were clear and sharp. She was shaking a plastic bottle of punch flavored sports drink.
“Westphal?” she asked, shaking away.
“That’s me,” he replied and she moved to let him in.
She shut and locked the door, slid an iron bar across the middle. She had freckles from her shoulders all the way down her milky white back to her tiny 10-20-years-of-hard-time ass crack.
Westphal turned away, already nervous, trying not to show it. He started to walk away and she stopped him, grabbing his shirt.
“Steele sez you gotta drink this before you go in.”
Westphal stopped and turned to look at her, trying not to notice her hairless minge.
“What?”
“You gotta drink this before you come in,” she repeated and handed him the sports drink, all foamy at the top from shaking. It had been opened.
“What’s in it?’ he asked.
“Don’t know, don’t care,” she told him, already bored. “He just told me to keep shaking it until you got here and make sure you drink it. Fuck, dude,” she added, “Are you retarded?”
“Don’t know,” he replied as she handed him the bottle, “Jury’s still out.”
Westphal took it and opened the top. He sniffed it and smelled medicine. And then he drank it all the way to the bottom without stopping. What the hell else was he supposed to do? He was a junkie-fuck, his guy was giving him a dose of something and he has been ordered to meet with Shirk from That.
Once he was done drinking down the bottle, he tossed it in a can and started to feel something glow within him already. He watched her, not being able to help himself. It had been so long since he had seen any female naked that wasn’t downloaded he found himself eyeing her with bad intent.
Watch as the pretty panties run…
Sweet little Mary Sunshine sashayed her self and Westphal followed as they walked on down the hall. And they came to a door and Westphal looked inside.
They were all set up to film and that’s where the girl left him. Two huge, muscle bound stunt cocks in black leather masks were getting fluffed by two toothless drug hags, sucking them erect. An old man sat in a corner, dressed in a diaper and a baby’s bonnet, sucking on a pacifier. The cameraman appeared to be ready and looked bored, flipping through an off-road trucking magazine. The director was snorting something off of a pocket mirror.
“Thanks for showing up, honey,” he scoffed at the young girl with the string of beads swishing to and fro like a tail. “I’m just the director of this fuck-flick, so I appreciate the effort of your presence, I really do.”
“Fuck off, Daddy,” she told him, “don’t you dare start with me.”
“Or what, Princess?” he asked, getting as red-faced with rage as Westphal was with discomfort.
“I’ll tell Mom, that’s what, you piece of shit and then you’ll never get visitations anymore,” she assured the increasingly agitated dude. “And then what will you do to pay off Steele, you fuck? Take Arnie and Franco over there up the ass yourself?”
“You better shut the fuck up, you spoiled little brat,” he told her, beginning to make his way over to where she sat on a stool, applying her own stage whore makeup, “Or I’ll –“
“Or you’ll what, motherfucker?” Steele asked, standing right behind Westphal.
“Fuck!” Westphal exclaimed, surprised. He barely kept from peeing himself.
“Steele!” cried the pig-tailed pop tart with delight.
Steele gently, but firmly moved Westphal out of the doorway and went to face the director, already backing up, the red in his face draining quickly to a pasty grey.
“Or you’ll do what?” he asked again, not even needing to raise his voice.
“Nothing, man,” he fumbled, backing up and running out of room.
Steele grabbed him by his shirt front and pulled slightly toward him,
“Don’t –“ Steele shoved him back, banging his sweaty head against the wall, “Fuck –“ another pull back, “With –“ shoved into the wall again, neck snapping, pocket mirror falling, pulling to him, “My –“ slam and the plaster cracked, dusting daddy’s pate, “Talent!” Steele finished. “Do you get me, mister ‘I owe this nigga here so much money I’m lucky to be alive’, motherfucker?”
“Yeah, Steele, sorry, man,” he said so fast it came out almost as one word, “I get you.”
“Okay then,” he said, “get this train rolling.”
“No problem, right away,” the director replied, turning to the girl, all sweet as pie: “You ready, honey?” he asked.
“I am now,” she replied making large, moon eyes of love at Steele who gave her back his huge charming smile. “I wish you would let me work with you, Steele.”
“Oh, sugar, you know I’m strictly behind the scenes,” he told her.
She gave him a mock pout and he blew her a kiss which she fucking caught. She put it between her a-cups. He gave her one more smile and her father one more scowl. Steele turned back to Westphal, who stood there absolutely dumfounded.
“C’mon, nigga,” he said simply, “you’re with me.”
Westphal, without a word, followed Steele.
“Sorry about that shit,” he said, threading through the smoky main room. People were all over the place in varied states of bliss, a boxing match on, with the sound turned down. Music rolled out of the hidden speakers.
“’Salright,” Westphal replied, watching a third trimester junkie burying her mouth on some dude in a business suit, who was too busy watching the boxing match on the TV to not
ice the extra effort. She was pinching his nipples, trying to get his attention.
“Nigga’s got money on Lester,” Steele explained as they were still moving, “Stupid motherfucker.”
“Don’t know anything about boxing,” Westphal replied.
They passed through the room, came to another hall. There were rooms lined all the way down, all the doors were shut. Westphal heard all kinds of strange goings-ons from them and he did not want to know.
“Hell, Westphal, boxing is easy,” Steele explained. “You just got to know where the fix is.”
“And that guy back there is on the losing side?”
“That’s right,” they came to a stairway, leading down. Steele stopped and turned to him. He said: “He’s going to realize it in the next round, that’s why he’s getting throated for free. It’ll make him less stressed and less likely to make me have to hurt him,” he stated flatly.
“Oh,” was all Westphal could think to say to that.
Steel laughed and pointed down into the darkness.
“After you, Westie,” invited Steele.
Westphal looked down into the bleak gloom and whatever he was given to drink was really beginning to kick. He started walking, taking tentative downward steps. The wall sconces sprouted flame as he neared; then went out all on their own as he passed.
“That’s pretty cool,” Westphal admitted, not being a practitioner of Magic.
“Thanks,” Steele said in response. “I think so too.”
“Say, uh, Steele,” Westphal began, still stepping deeper and deeper down, “What did you have that girl back there give me to drink?”
“You like that shit? It’s my own recipe.”
“Well, yeah,” he replied honestly. He was feeling elation and open pleasure welling up from his middle and spreading outward. And his dick was getting nice and throbby. “To be honest I feel real good.”
You Morbid Westphal Page 4