So absorbed is Frank in his inner reveries, that he fails to notice the Satanic-looking homeboy watching him from the beachfront side of the hurricane fence, watching him from among the gathering of long shadows cast by the white-hot ball of sun still riding the low swell of early-morning zenith & suspended just above the surge of surf. This shadow amongst the shadows is tall & lean, vaguely Asian in appearance—this impression no doubt accentuated by his downturned mustache & sinister, spade-shaped thrust of goatee, & by his severely backswept dark hair, tied at nape into a long, almost waist-length queue.
His eyes are hidden behind matte-black bugeye shades. & his wardrobe looks more like leftovers of some Miami Vice or Scarface villain than stock beach party-boy attire: a T-shirt emblazoned in bold, graffiti-esque scrawling, “buTThOlE sUrfERs,” & long black leather duster coat.
Two gulls dive for the same choice tidbit among the waves. They converge in a mad fluttering of wings & raucous cries…
[ 102 ]
When he finally reaches his building, he smiles at his good fortune. A sacrifice for his bloodbath has been practically delivered to his doorstep. The Latin whore who lives one floor above him is climbing the dim stairs just ahead of him. Her skintight miniskirt makes it clear that she is wearing no underwear, but Slice is not interested in her sex. Like blue lightning, he strikes her from behind, cupping one hand over her mouth, & placing the point of his knife against the curve of her back. “Come with me,” he whispers in her triple-pierced & heavily studded ear. He hustles her into his rented room (which he never locks because it contains nothing of value to him), & half-carries her to the bathroom.
Fungus rules the throne room, growing in cracks, covering edges, creeping in corners, permeating the tiled water closet with the odor of an earthen-floored cellar.
In deference to the blade at her back, the woman does not struggle as he pushes her face against the filthy mirror over the yellow-stained sink.
Even though the itching is distracting to him, Slice has no trouble sliding into the whore’s mind: Yeah, & she prays to the Virgin Mary that this psycho is just some crazed geek into WS or enema games or bathroom boffing, but it looks like Santa Maria’s on call-forwarding… He slips the knife in her hand & steps back, his hands free to scratch his itching body while his mind occupies the woman’s mind/body. His skill has increased to the point where he has rudimentary voluntary control over his motor reflexes while he is invading the being of another. His nails dig into his crotch as the whore uses the knife to cut her scant clothing from her body. Through her eyes he watches her in the mirror, sees the blade slice the thin cloth off her bosom. A final burst of the whore’s resistance flashes through the blue haze, then fades forever…
Completely naked, she turns from the mirror, walks over to the tub, & aligns a mildewed vinyl stopper over the drain, then steps onto the cool porcelain. She stands, her eyes dazed & inward-focusing, & she begins to carve her mind-captor’s psychopathic signature into the soft, yielding surface of her flesh, seemingly oblivious to the searing pain of severed skin & nerves. 7734. 7734. 7734… over & over & over her possessed hand guides the gleaming blade, tattoos of black blood welling across the tortured topography of human canvas, art for art’s sake, Slice leers to himself from within this mortal framework bent to serve his sick, sadistic purpose…
When every reachable inch of her body bears his mark, Slice at last tires of this so-artistic game of cat-&-mouse—
The whore lies down on her back, her naked buttocks crushed damply against the smooth, cool porcelain…he lets the sensation intrude for a moment, toying with her… She settles her head against the sloping swell of the tub farthest from the stopped drain. Her hand raises the blade up to her jugular. She whimpers once as the blood shoots in pulsing spurts over her chest & spatters on the porcelain in an obscene parody of some Jackson Pollock masterpiece of Abstract Expressionism…
Before she grows too weak, the mind that guides her self-mutilating hand forces her to perform a series of deep-thrusting punctures of her wrists & the creases of her arms, drawing a warm bath of her own blood… &, with a sudden rush of inspiration, Slice wills her to tug taut first one breast & then the other, shearing the fleshy mounds away in a torrent of spilled blood… &, even as she dies, even as her last gurgle of death rattle spews from between her gasping, blood-drenched lips, his/her hand guides the blade between her open thighs, the tip penetrating, the edge severing soft flesh, as she excises her own vagina, lifting it up in solemn offering to this New God who has chosen her tainted flesh as the vessel of his sacrament…
As orchestrated by Her Master, the New God, her death is peaceful, a delicate point-&-counterpoint to her previous, prolonged suffering, her soul passing into terminal sleep.
Slice withdraws from her passing, & returns fully to his body which is shivering with death chills mingling with the throes of his blue-spewing orgasm. He strips off his clothes, climbs into the tub, slips & slides his body under the dead whore, & wallows in the warmth of her soothing blood. His itching immediately subsides everywhere that the blood touches. He turns & twists in the slick bath, holding the corpse above him so that the blood can trickle down on him. He groans in pleasure at the suddenly absent itching, & his hooded serpent again dances a bone-dance of delirium.
When the congealing blood begins to cool, he stands up & turns on the shower. Hot water washes the woman’s blood from his hair & skin as he steps over the legs of the corpse, being careful not to trip over her. The jets of water begin to sting his flesh, like a heroin hophead, supersensitized in the fading of his fix… Thinking the water is too hot, he turns on the cold tap. The stinging does not subside. It intensifies, burning, stinging, itching unbearably. His fingernails begin a frenzied scratching, raking & clawing at his sickly, pale-olive skin. His scratching merely increases the ferocity of the itching but he cannot stop, the compulsion is far too overwhelming. Even when his nails start to rip & shred away his flesh, he cannot halt the obsessive scratching. The skin comes off in small strips at first, but soon whole chunks of flesh are peeling off & plopping onto the tub.
“What the FUCK?” he gasps in horror. But horror quickly transmutes to awe as Slice sees what lies under the flayed fabric of his old flesh. Not bothering to turn off the shower, he jumps out of the tub, & stands in front of the mirror. He claws at the prickling facial tissue & is transfixed by the emerging face of smooth cobalt blue.
“My God,” he says to the thing in the mirror. “My Holy Fucking God!” & He is correct in His divinely inspired exclamation…
He is the New God. & His is The New Flesh…
[ 103 ]
Snuff circles the block once, scanning the apartment complex, sniffing the wind for the scent of trouble, listening for any commotion beneath the rumbling roar of that ghetto-blastin’ rap crap…
He noses the T-Bird into the home stretch. Kills the engine. Removes the Halloween mask & once-again-rolled knit cap. Stuffs them inside his windbreaker.
& makes his slow, smooth move for Hell Motel to rejoin the torment games with Mal & Julie & their two captive playmates…
[ 104 ]
Frank stands outside the door of Room 126 of this slightly seedy motor hotel. The pink stucco’s peeling: not a lot, about as much as the skin on his nose (forgot to pack the zinc oxide, again, he thinks…). He takes a quick perimeter scan. The coast seems clear. He inserts the tarnished key into the lock, listens as it clicks & the damp-swollen wood of the door creaks open grudgingly at his insistent push.
Elijah gives a single, brief bark of welcome, stifling any further outbursts when his master raises his right index finger to his lips signaling “silence.” Frank squeezes through the gap, retrieves a sturdy, undyed leather leash from the dressing table, & snaps the catch-slide over the brass ring on his mascot’s matching collar. “Wanna do a little cruisin’, Chum?” he asks rhetorically. Elijah maintains the silence his master has cautioned, but his tail wags like a madly clicking metronome.
&nb
sp; Frank does another quick scan before exiting. Then he & his dog shag it down the breezeway, hang a right at the end of the building, & head for the strand of beach beckoning just beyond. He could probably have requested dispensation for his canine companion from the desk clerk. No doubt a small security deposit guaranteeing compensation for any “accidents” would have found then both bid welcome. After all, he isn’t staying at the Hilton. But sneaking the dog into his room is just an obsessive habit perhaps subconsciously based more on trying to beat the odds against being caught than upon any rational motivation. Just a pleasantly guilty little vice like smoking too much or jaywalking or stealing hotel towels or cheating on your taxes…
Burnside, his VA counselor, had hit the nail on its proverbial if overused head when he told Frank: “Based upon the childhood experiences you’ve related to me, I’d have to guess this idiosyncrasy of yours stems from your mother’s unwillingness to allow you to keep your pet dog…what was its name…? Oh, yes, of course, Elijah Blue! Right? Where the Hell did you ever come up with a name like that from, anyway, Frank…?” He had paused as if expecting an answer but had received none. “Yes, as I was saying—to allow you to keep your dog inside the house, specifically, in your bedroom; hence, this somewhat irrational though relatively inoffensive behavior is a subconscious form of rebellion, ‘replaying old tapes,’ as we are want to say…”
The sand shifts & scrunches beneath the weight of his one hundred-ninety-seven pounds racing the now-unleashed hound down the still as yet uncrowded beach. The private eye revels in this rare moment of totally untroubled exercise & relaxation, man & beast both churning forward at full-tilt, both kicking up wild flurries of dry sand grains in their passage, zigging & zagging past the few hearty sun worshippers already indulging themselves at surfside—
The cry of gulls, the booming of the waves, the wet whisper of the salt-edged breeze, the buzzing drone of swarming gnats & sand fleas: these calming sounds all serve to lull his hair-trigger senses in a synergistic glow of sweat & elevated heart-rate & laboring breath where the only reality is inward-focused upon the machine-like pistonings of the next stride & the next & the next…
For the first time in days the details of his manhunt are temporarily forgotten, as are the taunting, haunting visions in electric blue that have washed constantly across his conscious since his ill-fated encounter with the mind-fucking slayer known as “Slice.”
& the man in the matte-black bugeye shades & the black leather duster coat fades into the shadows, unnoticed by both Frank & Elijah. But they are noticed. He watches their every movement, as does The Watcher who views the scene through the vantage of the mini vidcam mounted just above the bridge of the Satanic homeboy’s nose, within the frame of his sunglasses, broadcasting on tightly closed frequency through a CCD-linked sub-micro transmitter integral to the broad plastic band of the glasses sloping back across his left temple.
“Chan,” the voice inside the watcher’s brain whispers, “Just keep them within range; we will track them on close-up pan, so keep a good distance, don’t take any risks on being spotted, not yet…”
[ 105 ]
Professor Punk awakens to a tidal wave of nausea. He manages to roll onto his stomach & hang his head off the edge of the mattress just as the tsunami of vomitus spews forth with explosive force. For several eternal seconds, he fears that he is drowning in the expelled contents of his stomach. But finally he is able to breathe, & he groans in misery & disgust. His head is throbbing with raw pain, & his eyes quiver with each pulsebeat, causing the dim lab to waver with each of his painful spasms.
“Uuuhnnnnn…” His groan seems to come from the depths of his gut, twisting upward through chest, & rasping against his raw throat.
His mind is full of half-formed questions. His skin tingles, then the itching begins with a vengeance. The itching further clouds his mind, & everything goes dark.
When his eyes open again, he’s standing over the sink, splashing cold water on his face. A glance into the mirror fills him with horror—superimposed on his face is the face of a demon with sleek, blue skin. Then his pain & horror recede to a backroom of his psyche, & he is possessed by the Blue Demon:
Open the metal cabinet. Pick up the scalpel. Walk to the door. Open it. Keep the scalpel out of sight. Man in a flowered shirt coming out of the chair in the far corner of the room—wait ‘til he is close enough…now slice his throat. Good. Very good. The key. Get his elevator key. Back into the lab. Stuff your pockets with the blue vials. That’s right. Take the elevator to the first floor. Speak to no one. Up the stairs. Go outside. Head west. Look for a taxi when you reach the street. Keep walking… Half an hour later, you’re in a taxi. You give the driver an address you don’t recognize. The sunlight hurts your eyes, so you close them…
“Here you are, Mac,” says the taxi driver. You tell him to wait for you, then you enter the Little Shop of Costumes & Theatrical Supplies. You buy the latex makeup kit, false eyebrows & man’s conservatively-styled wig. The shopkeeper gives you some strange looks, but you ignore him, & return to the waiting taxi. Then on to your rendezvous with the demon of your dreams…
[ 106 ]
“Just in time for the fireworks,” Mal says, as Snuff enters the motel room, pushing the grimy, weathered door with its peeling green paint firmly closed behind him.
The wiry, bearded slayer’s smug, Cheshire-cat grin seemingly threatens to split his face from ear to ear. “Strike two,” he giggles.
The leatherclad boys of Metallica are torturing their axes into a frenzied, apocalyptic speed metal wail on MTV. Blue light pours from the television set, illuminating a bareassed naked Julie kneeling beside the farthest bed, fellating & fondling the Bible salesman while the Hell-blue pools of her eyes are fixed on the emanations of the cathode gun blasting her retinas at thirty-rounds-per-second…
Mal holds a brown electrical cord in His left hand. His thumb & index finger clasp the plug in a snake-handler’s grip, pinching it just behind the viper’s head with its twin brass prongs like glittering fangs. This is no ordinary extension cord. It has been specially modified to suit their single-minded purpose. In His right hand Mal grasps the rheostat that is wired into it. & the remaining six feet of cord dangling from His fist have been carefully separated with a straight-edged razor blade, with alligator clamps attached to the wire ends.
Snuff’s eyelids twitch with tics of uncontrolled excitement. The crotch of his Levi’s bulges, tentlike. He quickly strips off his windbreaker, folding it over a nearby chair, & he lays his custom webwork holster with its silenced Cobray 9mm & the pair of Velcro’d three-cell magazine pouches on the dresser.
“Goddamn single sockets…” Mal says, stooping to tug the lead from the dresser lamp out of the wall plate. He plugs the twenty-five foot extension cord in its place.
“Just like the Fourth of fuckin’ July, right, Mal—?” Snuff looks like one very hungry tom, licking his lips & whiskers with nervous anticipation.
Mal closes in on the helpless little blonde tied spread-eagled to the bed. He sets the rheostat between her open thighs, the cold cord trailing across her naked belly. The gaping jaws of the alligator clamps expose scorch-blackened teeth as the Medic of Mutilations prepares to administer His own brand of shock therapy.
[ 107 ]
“Let’s go for a ride,” Frank says to Elijah.
A clipped, eager bark signals his approval.
Frank slides his .44 Mag out of its holster, sighting down that long, deadly, blued barrel, his big right thumb giving the cylinder a quick spin of that six-pack Wheel of Fortune—double-checking he’s not rolling with any empties. He pockets a handful of spare Teflon-coateds just for good measure.
“Headin’ for the combat zone,” he adds, “we’re gonna see if we can’t pick up the trail where Rios & the junkie entered the alley with me, okay, Pal?” Elijah utters another approving bark.
Frank reaches for his pack of Marlboros lying on the dresser. He picks them up, taps out a
last lonely cigarette, & curses: “Awwwwwhhh, SHIT! Outta smokes! Better pick some up, & maybe a pack of luncheon meat for you, huh?”
The Stingray slips & slides through the fastlane traffic, Frank darting quick glances at the choicest flesh-flashes of jiggling thigh & breast & backside among the milling throngs of near-naked, beach bunny vixens. All that dark-tanned, tropic-oil-glistening skin so incredibly distracting… That he fails to notice the tail he should be worrying about—that coffin-black-lacquered Porsche Targa dog-tailing him about half a block behind. The one with the Satanic homeboy slouched at the wheel. Nor does Frank notice yet another vehicle trailing even farther back—a metallic-bronze Jeep Renegade.
Hawkes pulls a smooth fade to the right, emerging from the stream of cars in a blur of gunmetal-silver & a flurry of loose gravel slithering from beneath his tires. He eases to a stop in front of a convenience market. Bails out, & clears the distance between himself & the swinging glass doors in less than a dozen long-legged strides.
He grabs a package of Oscar Mayer olive-loaf slices from the meat cooler, beelines for the counter, & says, “Two packs of Marlboro soft-packs, please—” as he whips out his wallet & slaps down a crisp ten-spot & a fiver on the fake-butcher-block formica counter.
Duet for the Devil Page 23