You Morbid Westphal

by Reverend Steven Rage

  Steele laughed, “On the house, Westie. To be completely honest back, Shirk wanted you to have it before you two met. You know, calm your nerves before you see him. He don’t want a nigga freaking out who’s never seen a jinn before.”

  “That’s a demon, right?” he asked, already not caring and surprising himself with curiosity.

  “That’s right, Westphal,” he replied and stopped him, turned him around. “I know you are a smart dude, so I don’t have to warn you to be on your best behavior, do I?”

  “No,” Westphal said, stoned all the way out of his gourd now, smiling, probably like an idiot. The dick in his jeans was ramrod erect, Steele feeling Westphal’s stiffy for himself.

  “Don’t get the wrong impression, Shirk told me to make sure.”

  “No problem,” Westphal told him, his vision blurring, “you put some X in there, didn’t ya, big guy?”

  “Yeah, there’s some X, some Viagra, a good dose of Demoral, you’re gonna need that, and bunch of other shit. You are going to use it all,” Steele replied.

  “I’m gonna use it all for what, exactly?” Westphal wanted to know.

  “This is the point where you listen to the small, still voice in the back of your brain,” Steele replied. The niceness went all the way out of him. “You know; the one that tells a motherfucker when to nod and smile and shut the fuck up. You know that little voice, Westphal?”

  Westphal would have become afraid, if he wasn’t so baked.

  “Yeah, man,” he said instead. “I get you.”

  “See?” Steele said with a very small and insincere grin, “I knew you was smart.”

  They made it down to the bottom, a full 3 floors below ground level. Westphal could see his breath plume out before him, but he was too wonderfully doped up to feel the chill. Steele knocked and unlocked a big heavy door. He opened it up and gently pushed Westphal into the room.

  “This is where I leave you, nigga,” he replied. “Good luck,” he said. “You’re gonna need it.”

  The door shut before he could even think of an answer to that. Westphal turned around. Now that he knew he was getting that powerful pain killer, he could really feel it making him warm and placid. The MDMA was making him happy and open and the Viagra got him as hard as a rock.

  He had no fear and the warning little busy-buzzy bee was sleepy and drunk, instead of the swarm it should have been. Westphal was being played. He knew it and he just couldn’t conjure up caring.

  “Come down here,” the demon told Westphal. “It’s okay, buddy,” Shirk promised when he saw Westphal hesitate at the top of the compact landing, “Don’t be scared. I’m not the one who bites.”

  “Okay,” Westphal answered.

  He stepped very carefully down the few remaining steps, his vision very blurred now, but he made to the bottom. He found himself on a wide expanse of dried mud. The air was dank and cold; he could see his breath in puffs of fog, but he felt fabulous and didn’t care.

  There was candle lit lanterns all over, the ceiling of the room looking every bit to Westphal like a cave. In the center of the mud floor was a chair with wrist and ankle cuffs made of metal and lined with fleece.

  “You want me in the chair?” he asked his unseen host.

  “Yes,” Shirk replied, “In the chair.”

  “I’m the man of the hour,” Westphal happily slurred as he made his way over.

  “Quite,” agreed Shirk.

  Westphal went to the chair and sat himself down. Without being told he secured both of the ankle cuffs and his left wrist. He closed his eyes, the room began spinning. He felt like the walls were breathing. A faint but growing scent of burning matches and something decidedly sweet filled the air. His erection became painful. A fantasy vision of Westie and the middle school princess began playing out in his fevered mind. He moaned with it.

  “Snap to, asshole!” the demon shouted. Westphal opened his eyes, fearfully.

  “What?” he stupidly asked.

  “Save it, you idiot. We aren’t rolling yet,” Shirk told him.

  Westphal was surprised to find the biggest hard-on he had ever managed in his life, standing at attention in the midst of his closed fist. He let go of it and slid his hand away.

  “Sorry,” he sheepishly added.

  “No harm done,” Shirk replied, “You didn’t squirt, did ya?”

  “No way,” Westphal replied. He could hear a rustling sound and movement coming around from behind him.

  The jinn came into view. He was deep within his hooded cloak, all glowing eyes and clownish grin. He held a paper and a pen.

  “First I need you to sign this,” he ordered, “Don’t worry, it’s not for your soul, or anything,” Shirk told him with a nice, hideous grin. Westphal did it without any hesitation.

  “What is it?” he asked the demon after he signed the paper with his barely legible doped-out scrawl.

  “It’s just a standard Waiver for mine and Steele’s production company.”

  “A Waiver, you say, whatever for?”

  Shirk snapped the cuff on Westphal’s writing hand and then he introduced himself.

  “Nice to meet you, Shirk,” Westphal said.

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “What? I didn’t catch that.”

  “Never mind, not to worry, old chum,” Shirk assured Westphal. He continued: “The paper you signed simply gives us permission to sell the film and your likeness rights to whomever we want, whenever we choose.”

  “That was nice of me,” Westphal said.

  “Yes, Westphal, it was,” agreed Shirk.

  “What kind of film is this going to be?” he asked

  Shirk chuckled and stepped out of view, behind the chair and back into the dark.

  “You’ll see,” Shirk said.

  “Okay,” said Westphal drunkenly, “What’ll you need me to do?”

  “Nothing,” the demon told him, “Just sit there like a good boy and try not to piss me off.”

  “Hey,” Westphal replied with mock gruffness, “Is that anyway to talk to the star of this epic?”

  “Hardly, but you are not the star, Lilitu is.”

  “Who the fuck is that?” asked Westphal, all goggle-eyed now.

  Shirk came back around the chair and answered Westphal by giving him a short, but hard smack on the kisser. That got Westphal’s attention.

  “Listen up, you twatsicle,” Shirk told him, leaning in. His breath was truly wretched and as stoned as he was, Westphal could have sworn he saw a rodent’s tail lodged between the jinn’s front teeth. “Can you hear me?”

  “Yes,” Westphal said.

  “Good, then look at me and listen carefully so I only have to say this the one time.”

  Westphal did exactly that.

  “Do you know when you go with your idiot friends to drool all over the lovely strippers down at the ‘Mane & Tail’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you know the tall shiny stripper pole in the middle of the stage that the lovelies perform on?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, genius,” Shirk told him, “That’s you. You are that pole. That’s all you are and all you need to do. Understand?”

  Westphal nodded.

  “Good,” Shirk replied. He glanced up over and behind Westphal’s head. To them he said: “Let’s begin.”

  As Shirk stepped around back into the darkness, the lights got real bright for a few moments. Westphal could hear some kind of equipment whirring and buzzing in the background.

  The lights faded and the room got smoky and thick with tension and Magick. Westphal could feel the Dark pulsing from below. He excitedly stared at the direction of this, the mud directly in front of him and below his shackled feet.

  The excitement began stirring deep within Westphal’s chest, belly and groin. He was still being kissed by the painkillers and whatever else he drank, but he felt like a speed-bomb of high grade glass was shoved of his ass and ignited. His erection became impossible again, as
she began to slowly rise from the mud.

  The top dried layer cracked as she rose, falling off the crown of her jet black hair. The wet layers of mud showed as she rose languid and with purpose. The wet muck of the deeper layers rolled lava slow off of her nude form, her eyes opening and showing hungry and red.

  Westphal moaned when he saw her. He leaned forward to be with her, fighting his restraints. He wanted her to let him lick the foul muck from her fallen angel body. He writhed and ached and she hadn’t even seen him yet.

  “There he is darling,” Shirk said from behind them. “He’s right there in front of you.”

  Lilitu snaked out her long snake tongue, tasting the air in front of her; finding his scent. She located him and looked directly at Westphal. She locked on to him and he ceased his writhing, captivated as he was by the filthy vision of her evil beauty. She became his whole universe and all else ceased.

  She rose to the top and stood on the mud. She danced fluid and seductive before him, playing to the camera, smiling at how easily she owned him. Lilitu took her fingertip and placed it in Westphal’s mouth where he sucked the muck from it like it held all that was dear to him. Lilitu took the cleaned finger from Westphal’s suckling mouth and touched her forehead. All became dried dirt, as dry as dust, and she shook it all away. She stood dangerous and radiant before him.

  One in a million girls.

  Clean then from head to toe and as naked as Westphal’s desire for her, the demon sank to her knees in front of Westphal, just then noticing he was fully clothed.

  “I love this part,” Shirk said from behind, “Watch this shit.”

  She tore in a fury the clothes from his body, so fast it made Westie’s painful cock flick quick up and down.

  Lilitu looked up to Westphal’s begging face and, smiling knowingly, she put her cold mouth on him.

  Her mouth tightened around him and it warmed up in an instant and she began sucking him as he mumbled promises of love and began drooling all down his chest.

  Just one look I was a bad mess.

  Westphal felt he could go on forever, time seemed to slow, and then he was ready. He was right there and she began nibbling on the tip of his dick and jerking him off hard until he came what felt like a gallon all over the demon’s face.

  Lilitu wiped Westphal’s expulsion from her face and rubbed it in a thin layer all over his thighs and belly and chest. She then placed that mouth back on Westphal still rigid member, sucking him afresh while her hands turned to mouths of a completely different kind.

  The mouths were filled with the sharp teeth of feral cats. They began biting him all over, eating his come and taking gouges of flesh with each of the dozens of bites he was receiving.

  The pain was an exquisite opening parachute, numbed as the injuries were by the drugs and Westphal came again. Lilitu swallowed all of it this time, taking a bite off the very tip of his head in the process. Westphal could not murmur his endearments to her fast enough.

  She bent down to him again, bringing him there even faster, biting more and more. Westphal was covered in his own blood, speaking in tongues and begging for her love before coming a third time and finally passing out.

  And in the background, just as Westphal’s eyes rolled up and his listless head slumped over to the side, he heard Shirk yell: “Cut. That was beautiful, baby,” he told her as she waived goodbye to Shirk and sank back to the bottom, “Just beautiful.”

  Had it all, long cool woman.

  “Alright,” Steele said, “The master’s done. Uncuff him and get him the fuck up out of here.”

  I’ll never be forgiven.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DOWN GOES WESTPHAL

  Be Seeing You

  Westphal awoke in his bed. Sammy was there, looking on with concern.

  “I was dreaming of kittens,” he told the ghost. “There were dozens of them and they were eating me.”

  “I don’t know about no cats,” Sammy told him, indicating all the bandaged wounds on his thighs, belly and chest, “But somethin’ sure as shit was biting da fuck outta you. What was it?”

  “I got in over my head, don’t worry about it,” Westphal replied, sitting himself up in bed. “I went over to Steele’s and got dosed.”

  He looked down at all the bandaged bites. They hurt like crazy, but they looked clean. Sammy did a nice job of first-aid.

  “What time is it, anyway?” Westphal asked.

  “It’s early afternoon, Westie,” Sammy replied.

  “Early afternoon, then why the fuck you wake me up, Dad?”

  “Because when they dropped you off, it was yesterday, Son,” he explained. “I woke you up cuz I know how you feel about yer job.”

  What?

  “I’ve been sleeping for a whole day?”

  “Yeah, kid,” Sammy told him, “A whole day.”

  “Shit, man, I gotta go to fuckin’ work?”

  “Yeah, if you still want it.”

  Of course he still wants his gig at Harborside District. They would all be lost without the money.

  “Did you see a package when they dropped me off?” he asked, and then: “And my car?”

  “They’re both here, Westie,” Sammy replied. “The car’s in yer spot and da package I put under da sink where yous keeps yer medicine.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Westphal replied with great relief.

  He had to get ready for work and needed the extra extras. He asked for the coffee. While Sammy went to put the pot on, Westie gingerly stood up from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom.

  He kneeled with a painful grunt and found the bundled package under the sink. God bless, Sammy!

  Westphal opened the bubble wrap lined manila envelope and saw the goodies inside. All the powders were labled and the pills as well. And on the top of all the drugs he ordered, Westphal saw a syringe with a note wrapped around it.

  He unwrapped the package and read the note: “Take me with you. Save me for later. You’ll need it! Shirk.”

  Shirk. Now he was beginning to remember the film and the demon and Shirk. But he was on his feet, with his crazy memories of getting sucked by a beautiful demon. He also had a big, even generous buffet of powerful and dangerous drugs. Coffee was brewing and he still had his job to go to.

  So Westphal grabbed some percs and popped them for the pain. Knowing they would make him sleepy, he went to his desk and snorted up some pre-work enthusiasm.

  Then he showered, having Sammy re-do his bandages.

  When he walked out to the popcan, he thought the bullshit was behind him.

  Westphal’s boss, Mr. Whistlebottom, was waiting for him when he walked through the entrance to Harborside District Hospital. Oh, shit.

  “What’s up?” asked Westphal as soon as he saw him.

  “Let’s go to my office,” he said and Westphal followed him as they wound their way around and down to Mr. Whistlebottom’s office, next to their department in the basement.

  We’re always underground, huh Westie?

  Once they were in and seated, Westphal let his boss get started.

  “You won’t be taking care of Mr. Mandiddle anymore.”

  “Why’s that?” Westphal asked, hoping not to show his exultation.

  C’mon, Westie, you know why.

  “The patient is deceased.”

  Westphal felt a punch to his gut, remembering the filthy scrubs he had Sammy burn. He began to wonder why he really did that, instead of washing them.

  “Did you need to go over my notes, or?” he let it hang. Mr. Whistlebottom looked at him a moment.

  “No,” he replied, “We already did, but you weren’t even here, were you?”

  “No,” Westphal said a tad to quickly, “I mean; when did the patient expire?”

  Expire. Just like milk gone bad.

  “Day before yesterday,” he was told, “but it wasn’t due to his illnesses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Mr. Mandiddle did not die of natural c
auses. He was murdered in a horrific way,” Mr. Whistlebottom stated flatly.

  “Murdered?” Whestphal replied, the fear beginning to balloon in him. “Murdered, how?”

  The boss picked up a piece of official looking paper. It looked like a coroner’s report. Mr. Whistlebottom read from it. “The patient was strangled to death by purposeful and forceful placement of a foreign object, occluding the trachea, leading to anoxic death.”

  “Somebody strangled Mr. Mandiddle?” Westphal asked in a squeak. He nervously shifted his position and felt a panic coming on. “Who did it?”

  “The police don’t know yet,” he said, staring at Westphal, watching him begin to shake a little. “Are you alright there, Westphal?”

  “Yeah, sure, of course,” he told him. “Umm, uh what was he strangled with?”

  “Well now, that’s the really strange part of the story,” he said, “It was with his own diseased rectum.”

  “What?” asked Westphal, “Are you playing with me?”

  “Not for a minute would I joke about something like that,” he replied, “don’t make that mistake again.”

  “Yeah, sure, I’m not joking either, Mr. Whistlebottom,” Westphal tried to explain, “It’s just that I guess I don’t understand how that could happen. I mean I knew he had the necrotizing bug in his rectum, but how could he have been strangled by it?”

  “The authorities claimed they found a pair of those long, curved forceps they use for tube placement on the floor, under his bed.”

  “Okay.”

  “Yes, so they initially determined that someone rather strong used the forceps to literally grab onto and forcibly removed his rectum and then, still using the forceps, forcibly stuffed it down Mr. Mandiddle’s throat.”

  He shouldn’t have been mean to you.

  “Well, uhm, uh – that would certainly do it,” was all Westphal could think to say. He was already thinking about how he could ask if there were any prints on the forceps without ass-squeak here getting suspicious.

  “So, that’s why you won’t be taking care of that gem, anymore,” his boss replied, showing just a hint of humanity. But then: “The other longer-term care patient we would normally assign has specifically requested to not be cared for by you.”