Duet for the Devil
Page 18
“I’d start with her mouth,” BellaDonald advises sagely.
The room flickers, a chuckle of savage shimmering blue…
[ 78 ]
The two detectives, private & public, have just collapsed into the chairs in Rios’ office when the phone starts jangling angrily. “Yeah. Rios,” the public detective answers.
The voice on the other end is loud enough that Frank can catch the gist of the conversation via the bleedthrough erupting from the receiver: “This is Lucas. Any luck?”
“No Captain, the evening was great orientation for Mr.…uhhh, Frank, but a washout on any solid leads—”
“Hold on. Are you sittin’ down…? One of my boys just turned some hopped-up perv who rolled over when we threatened nailing him with Possession With Intent To Sell & letting him unjuice cold turkey. He’s total ‘no-dice’ as a suspect in the homicides, but copped to having frequented some sub-subterranean sleaze pit that we’ve caught whispers of from time to time, but NOBODY in Vice has ever zeroed in on with a ‘confirmed’ status.”
“Heh, Captain, I haven’t heard you this wired since—”
“If it’s true, it’s BIG, Rios, REAL BIG—”
“Some sex club? A bar? Shit, Captain, Frank & I must’ve hit every dump in this city, tonight… I mean, just how big is BIG?”
“Rios, ever hear of some place named ‘Mermaid’s Inn’—?”
“C’mon, Cap, that place is some freakin’ legend they whisper about to spook the new recruits…”
“Mermaid’s Inn…?” Frank mumbles to himself, “Mermaid’s Inn…? Where in the Hell have I heard that name before…?”
“Rios, I’ve got a gut feeling on this one. & you know my gut feelings. I think we’ve got a live one on the hook this time…he’s just got too much. & it may be cliché, but where there’s smoke there’s usually fire…”
…& why in Blue Blazes do I feel like someone just walked across my grave…? Frank ponders.
[ 79 ]
AN ENDLESS, MIND-SHATTERING SCREAM ECHOES THROUGH THOSE PORTIONS OF THE MATRIX THAT ARE DEFINED IN SHIMMERING WALLS & UPTHRUST CRAGS OF NEON-FLICKERING COLD BLUE ICE…
& somewhere within the MATRIX, the cold analytical “fingers” of an unknown “someone” begin to riffle through the “pages” of data, accessing the knowledge banks belonging to the man known only as “The Professor” or “Professor Punk”…
This is a soulless Limbo-world of “pure” info/data… A repository for the billions upon billions of “info-blips” that a previously physical or mental system of storage was responsible for maintaining… In many ways CHAOTIC & UNUNIFIED… That is, before the genesis of MATRIX… A world defined in terms of Man’s convenient jargonese: RAM. BYTES, MEGABYTES. GIGABYTES. PIXELS. AIs…
(or did it, in some inexplicable fashion already exist…? A world totally devoid of conSCIENCE, truly beyond GOOD & EVIL… A world existing by common conSENSUS only because MAN has created it to transcend the limitations of his only-partially-tapped, only-partially-explored BRAIN & if the collective science of MAN has yet only mapped a portion of that which is possibly the most truly human, the human BRAIN, then what strange dimensions may yawn open through these opened gates of the MATRIX, new gates even to the realms of Heaven or of hELL
7734.
Some things simply happen. Some things must forever remain unexplained. Some things must simply be accepted or rejected—for to seek out the reason or reasons behind them can lead only to confusion, or, if prolonged beyond the limit that Reason dictates logically for their attempted interpretation, into shrieking gibbering coprophagous uri-dipsic mindlessly babbling INSANITY—
7734.
fugue (fug), n.
2. in psychiatry, a state of psychological amnesia during which a patient seems to behave in a conscious and rational way, although upon return to normal consciousness he cannot remember the period of time nor what he did during it; temporary flight from reality.
7734.
Les 120 Journees de Sodome (The 120 Days of Sodom), the notorious masterpiece of sexual & moral perversity was penned by Count Donatien-Alphonse-François de Sade—for the annals of history known simply as “the Marquis de Sade”—on a roll of paper some twelve metres (thirty-nine feet) long during his incarceration in the Bastille in Paris, expressing the inspired madness of the rage & boredom building within him during the seven-odd years spent in a succession of penal instituions—ironically, legend has it that those selfsame twelve metres of paper had originally been supplied to him for the purpose of cleaning himself of excrement…
7734.
blue, n. (M.E. blew, blewe; Fr. bleu; O.H.G. blao, blue; A.S. blaew, in deriv. as blaewen, bluish.)
1. any color between green and violet in the spectrum;…
4. the sea.
9. a sailor.
10. (pl.) a sailor’s blue uniform. (Slang.)
the blues; (a) (short for blue devils.), (Colloq.) a depressed, unhappy feeling; (b) a type of Negro folk song, characterized by minor harmony, slow jazz rhythm, and melancholy words; (c) any imitation of this.
blue, a.; comp. bluer; superl. bluest. 1. having the color of the clear sky or the deep sea.
2. despondent; melancholy; low or depressed in spirits; as, she looked a bit blue last night.
4. austere or puritanical in morals or religion; overstrict; as a blue Covenanter; also, calculating or prescribing a severe code of conduct; rigorous; as, blue laws.
6. having a purplish color; livid, as the skin from a bruise or from extreme cold or fear.
8. pale, without glare or redness, as a flame; of the color of burning brimstone; hence, suggestive of the flames of Hell; baleful; as, the air was blue with oaths.
9. Indecent, obscene; as, blue stories. (Slang.)
blue devils; (a) low spirits; melancholy; (b) delirium tremens or its hallucinations.
7734.
dev’il, n. (ME. devil; AS. deoful; LL. diabolus, the devil; Gr. diabolos, the devil, lit. a slanderer, from dia-, through, across, and ballein, to throw.)
1. (sometimes D-) in theology, (a) the chief Evil spirit, a supernatural being subordinate to, and the foe of, god and the tempter of man; Satan (with the) he is typically depicted as a man with horns, a tail, and cloven feet; (b) any of such subordinate beings who reside in Hell; a demon.
2. a very wicked person,
Have I not chosen you twelve, and one of you is a devil? —John vi. 70.
3. any great Evil
To be tax’d, and beaten is the devil. —Granville.
5. an unlucky, unhappy person; as that poor devil has had a hard time.
6. anything difficult; a thing hard to operate or, control, etc.
between the devil and the deep; between equally unpleasant alternatives.
the devil’s tattoo; a monotonous, rapid, drumming, as with the hands or feet.
7734.
AN ENDLESS, MIND-SHATTERING SCREAM ECHOES THROUGH THOSE PORTIONS OF THE MATRIX THAT ARE DEFINED IN SHIMMERING WALLS & UPTHRUST CRAGS OF NEON-FLICKERING COLD BLUE ICE
(hip acronym for “Intrusion Countermeasures Electronics”),
VIBRATING ON DEMONIC WAVELENGTHS OF THE SUB-or-SUPER-CONSCIOUS, IT FORMS THE DEVIL’S TATTOO, THEN THE FIRST CHORDS OF AN INSANE DEATH SYMPHONY JOIN IN, HINTING OF SWELLING OCEANIC BREAKERS OF EBB/FLOW/EBB BEYOND THE CONCEIVABLE RANGE OF TONES & SHADES & TINTS OF BLUE, THE POINT & COUNTERPOINT OF A DEVILISH DUET ECHOING & ETCHING ITS FORM WITHIN THE CANYONS OF ARCANE PROTECTION AROUND THE CITADEL OF PROF. PUNK’S DATA REPOSITORY…
(perhaps released through the agency of Prof. Punk’s own formula—the BLUE DEVIL serum, Li Di 9…?)
7734.
Professor Punk tosses & turns on his cot in the lab. His uneasy sleep is tormented by strange nightmarish jump
cuts & juxtapositions of text from his dictionary program & “SERIALK” & flashbacks to his early days at UCLA, when his lifeline had been tossed into this surging SEA of BLUE of pain-pleasure of sex & torture & mutilation & death-the-mystical-doorway into the womb of the succubus into the place where Hell invades earth, marked by human spillage exploding entrails sacrificial cannon fodder smoldering gore headless torsos…glory of war &
(ONCE AGAIN—how many times? how many times…) He explodes in a deathless profusion of semen & blood & the succubus sucks him dry, his soul shriveling geometrically with each thick spurt & beat of pulse—
the endless ringing of a telephone somewhere in the swirling storm-tossed BLUE SEA of the DEVIL SERUM progression waves crashing across his pounding skull like some atrocious atomic-blasted atoll rocked by the shockwaves of unleashed fury—Li Di 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…9…
THIRTY YEARS & MORE DISSOLVED INTO THE SWIRLING BLUE MISTS OF HISTORY OF PAIN & DEATH IN THE PURSUIT OF A SINGLE OBSESSIVE EXPERIMENT…The Nine Hells…
the endless ringing of a telephone somewhere—
Prof. Punk plunges surfaceward through the nightmare tides of his own private oceanic Hell of BLUE… & he is washed up on the beach or beachhead (?) of chill & crumpled sweat-soaked & semen-stained sheets, reaching groggily for the sound of his incessantly ringing phone—
His hands fumble with the receiver, almost dropping it before he can raise it to his ear—
“Hhhuuul1lOwhhhhh…?” he groans.
Prof. Punk pauses for a moment, letting his mind reel with shockwaves of revelation, his face blanching grey-white as his soiled bedsheets, his hands & arms shuddering like a petit mal has seized him, his bare toes tapping a devil’s tattoo of sick sweating terror—
“P.P.P.YNCHON? D.D.D.EAD— (?),” he stutters, disbelief acid-etched into his gaunt & angular features—
LOOKING MORE & MORE LIKE A HOLOCAUST VICTIM WITH EACH SECOND TICKING ECHOING RAUCOUSLY FROM HIS BATTERED TIMEX JITTERING & PULSING ON THE CHIPPED GREY METAL TABLE RIGHT BESIDE THE CRADLE OF THE PHONE & AS HE STARES AT THE TICKING TIMEPIECE LIKE SOME INFERNAL INCENDIARY DEVICE IT BEGINS TO MELT & DRIP IN SIZZLING DROPLETS OF BLUE SLAG…
[ 80 ]
Schuyler from lockup is a real piece of work. Frank sure as shit hopes he’s not one of Miami’s finest. His gut wobbles within his bulging khaki shortsleeve like twin jeep tires bouncing at his midriff, He must be six-foot-four. Maybe three-seventy-five worth of mostly excess baggage. The seat of his trousers reminds Frank of two midgets fighting in a gunny sack.
But the shiny black truncheon that’s hanging at his waist means business with a capital “B”—for BIG. BAD. BRAIN-BASHER. The goddamn thing must be the size of an axe-handle.
When Schuyler turns to face Hawkes & Rios, the buttons of his shirtfront threaten to pop at any moment. His flushed face & mean, squinty little pig eyes & unruly thatch of Aryan-white hair make him look like a cross between a shaved, psycho Santa & some stock bullyboy from a Nazi extermination camp grown gargantuan on a surplus of greasy sausages & Bavarian bock beer.
His blubbery fist fumbles with his key ring, finds the correct key, & inserts it in the lock of the holding cell.
“Get the lead outta yr ass, you FUCK!” he bellows to the emaciated hype in the metal cage. “IT’S VISITIN’ TIME AT THE ZOO—”
[ 81 ]
Thunder in heaven, lightning in Hell.
The New God moves between the two, testing his new powers, bridging opposite extremes, picturing himself as a great constellation in the blue/black heavens—burning holes in the firmament & shortcircuiting natural power sources & causing Hell to leak into heaven. Blue lightning flashes jagged daggers across the sky. & Slice sprouts a boner. He sees the future. His future. The past is the rotting corpse of humanity. The present is his murderous hardon, giving direction & heading for release. Slice—the name he keeps because he digs the symbolism—is in a rapture of heavenly/Hellish BLUE. His vision slices the invisible fabric & reveals the future: countless stars dripping blood as heaven burns red in a great bloodbath.
Slice stares at the purple-tinted moon, finding meaning in the patterns of pockmarks & craters. The moon is his messenger, killing is the message. He closes the vintage ’60s blue sharkskin raincoat that he salvaged from a nearby Goodwill outlet over his boner; then moves on, into the Miami night, half-remembering half-scenting the way to Mermaid’s Inn, the pheromones of fear & feeding-frenzy released in turn by prey & predators drawing him unerringly onward like a primal magnetic force, like the pull of moon on tidal waters & the creatures lurking within its cold, cruel depths…
[ 82 ]
Schuyler slams his prisoner down into the straight-backed interrogation chair. “Got some’a the big shots here to see ya’, puke face, so listen up & lay yr scam on ’em so’s I can tuck ya’ in t’night ’stead’a some big-tit bimbo nurse down in th’ infirm’ry—”
“You’re dismissed, Schuyler, until further notice. Go read your stroke books or something,” Rios says, staring the brutal giant square in the eyes. “Just get the Hell out of my face before I forget you’re supposed to be on our side…” He gently pats his shoulder-holstered S&W “Distinguished Combat” Magnum, hoping to make himself perfectly clear. Like the conservative cut of his light tan suit, this little beauty is a work of understated reliability & excellence—a conventional double-action six-pack in the strong yet compact “L” solid frame, with a four-inch blued steel barrel, & packing its deadly, non-reg, .357 hollowhead payload.
Frank positions himself directly across from the hophead, who’s sitting on the opposite side of the fake-woodgrain formica table, letting his gaze wander everywhere except into contact with the detective’s piercing stare.
“If you’ve got something to tell us, pal, you’d better square with us, & fast; otherwise I turn Killer Kraut loose with you & just call out for the boys with the body bags—dig?” Frank pauses a moment, letting his words sink slowly through the rapidly fading haze of smack. “Like the song goes, ‘It’s now or never…’”
[ 83 ]
Professor Punk pounds his pud, trying to summon the succubus for the purpose of acquiring supernatural guidance through these dangerous times. He has not forgotten Slice’s vow to “do” him. He has already shit-canned the idea of running away. If Erebos didn’t track him down, Slice & his mind-fucking powers certainly would. Either way, he would be a dead man. Either way, he is a dead man. A dead man still breathing. A dead man still waking from his own personal repository of nightmares & dreams. A dead man still walking. Still shooting up. Still shitting. Still pissing. Still…
…still feeding on his fellow men: like any other plastic/plastique ZOMBIE or DEMON in this endless-loop replay of outtake footage cut (NO. Sliced…) from BEYOND the BLUE EXTREME, from some Romero/Argento classic that never filmed… Either way… His best bet is to throw up defenses against the Blue Devil Killer. Perhaps, lure the son-of-a-bitch into a trap & destroy the monster.
Prof. Punk needs a sign from the succubus. He’s already dropped a cube of Sandoz-pure. But the succubus still won’t come to him.
Maybe if he does a little carving on himself, his blood will attract her. Nothing to lose by trying, & the pain would be kinda nice, sure as Hell. He takes the ritual sword in both hands & uses the point on his naked thighs. The pain & the sight of his own blood gives him a new erection. Then he stares into the candle flame in hopes of seeing the succubus appear.
[ 84 ]
“Shit, man, that fuckin’ place’s a Hell hole,” the emaciated smackhead confesses to Hawkes & Rios, “& I know Hell holes, beee-lieve me…”
“Can you take us there?” Rios asks.
“Oooohhhh, nooohhh, man, y’ don’t wanna fuckin’ do that!” he moans, “No fuckin’ way, man, if they find out I took y’ there, man, they’ll like fuckin’ do me, y’ know…?”
“Listen up, punk,” Rios warns, “you’ve got two choices—either take us there, or we turn you over to the DA, & wit
h your rap sheet, Mr. Jones, they’re gonna lock you up & toss away the key! No snow for you this Christmas, just a Halloween with no tricks or treats, & more cold turkey for Thanksgiving—”
They’ve been giving him the slow sweat, &, though they’ve only been at it for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, the junkie’s starting to come unglued. Can’t take the stress. Not without his number. He’s got the shakes. Bad. Real bad.
“Okay, okay, man, like don’t fuckin’ say I didn’t fuckin’ warn y’ about this fuckin’ shit, y’ know…?”
“Time to shit or get off the pot—” Frank tells him.
“I only been there a coupla times, y’ know, & like there’s always all this shit happenin’, y’ know? Like shootings & stabbings &…&…the other, shit, man, the other shit…” A trembling Mr. junkie Jones (Jones? sure? an a.k.a. if Frank ever heard one…) breaks down in a predictable flood of needlehead tears, sobbing & choking with whacked-out, momentary remorse, then continues his endless loop of hopelessly rambling discourse: “Like, man, I mean y’ wouldn’t fuckin’ believe it, man, more shootings & stabbings there than—”