Duet for the Devil
Page 31
Sea. Nightmare. Death. Sex. All are One to Him…
Resonations of the Single Truth…
“You see, don’t you, You Bible Fuck, that ‘EVIL’ is ‘LIVE’ is ‘EVIL.’ That ‘EYE’ is ‘I’ is ‘EYE’ is ‘I’ is ‘EYE’ is ‘I’—
“That I was born to kill…
“That ‘Z’ is ‘N’ is ‘Z’ & ‘Z’ is the Terminus, the Ending of All Things That Now Are…
“That My birth into this World of Pain & Death was prophesied? That I am the catalyst that shall bring about the ‘Demon & Beast’ & ‘The Second Coming’ that Yeats, member of the Golden Dawn perceived:
“‘Yet I am certain as can be
That every natural victory
Belongs to beast or demon…
Turning & turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, & everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned…
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming!
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
& what rough beast, My hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?’”
In all of this George Brittain, the Maldoror, quotes Yeats verbatim, His normal monotone again replaced by a voice of resonant timbre, at once oratory & oracular, conjuring the words from His mnemonic depths, save in the next-to-last line, where He substitutes the word ‘My’ for ‘its’…
Then His voice segues to inflectionless inhuman scalpel-coldness: “& yes, Truman Gilmore, Bible Boy, there is. More than one. Bethlehem. Indeed…”
[ 155 ]
Frank sits on the edge of his motelroom bed, his head bowed, his big hands grasping his throbbing temples, the pain washing over him in crashing waves of flickering blue torment. For the first time in many years the full weight of emptiness crushes down upon him—lost comrades-at-arms, lost job, lost family—like a new arriving lifer at Hell State Pen as he watches the outside world seal itself away forever behind him, like a muck-jumper cleaning out a shithouse well who hears the sudden cyclone blow away the roof, & the walls come a’tumblin’ down…
The words of an old Eagles’ song triphammers through his thoughts, a segue playing out again…again…again:
“One hand holds a Bible, the other holds a gunnn…”
“…a life upon the road is the life of an outlawww mannnnn…”
His world indeed flickers blue, & the chill laughter of his old army buddies’ phantoms fills the room with swelling breakers of despair, pounding against the inside of his skull, mortar shells exploding in the mental rift of Devil’s Fucking Valley…
A voice of blue whispers deep deep down within his brain.
Frank’s left hand lifts his .44 Magnum from the bedside table, sensing the weight of its long barrel, flicking the cylinder so it clicks & spins like the Wheel of Fortune, as the demons of his past caper & chuckle amid the gathering shadows …
Zenno… Doc Rock… Simmons the Cherry… Carver…
& always the charred & grinning skull of Shaw taunting him to join them for the last battle beyond the quivering edge of the ab-real zone of time & matter…
His mind’s eye sees the dollar bill laid flat. The words written out across its surface: “NO ONE BUYS OR SELLS WITHOUT THE MONEY OF THE BEAST—APOCALYPSE.”
& remembrance whispers: “Money is the Root of all Evil…”
& the fragments of the song whisper: “…one hand holds a Bible…”
But his right hand is empty, balled into a fist of impotent rage & self-recrimination…
“…the other holds a…”
& the deep blue whispers: “No. Mammon is not the Root. No. I am…”
& the voice of blue whispers deep, so deep in the pit beneath where the day residues draw forth the buzzing swarm of a million flies, down where the serpents slither, & the blue whisper resonates & transforms itself into the image of a shark’s gaping mouth which unfolds itself & becomes the mermaid, the archetypical Woman/Creator, Hystera, the darkside Sophia, dreamflesh flows into a blooming Venus’s flytrap, again unfolds, becomes a woman like a blooming flower, dancing, clad in veils, a thing of living smoke & cobalt, & her dreamflesh becomes a single Word & the Word is carved within the vibrating heart of an immense star sapphire of three-hundred-&-sixty-five scintillating planes or facets, & the shark’s mouth & the mermaid & the Venus’s flytrap & the Dancing Woman of the Veils & the Star & the Word are One… & thrice the One Star the Five-pointed Star that is the Sigil of Baphomet whispers the True Name given to the crystal…
& the Word is:
“ABRASAX.”
& the Name is:
“ABRAXAS.”
& the word is:
“ABRASAX.”
& at its utterance the countless serpents of the blue pit hiss & twine & swallow their own tails in supplication…
[ 156 ]
“—But, He also misspells ‘promised’ by substituting a ‘C’ for the ‘S.’ He inserts an extra ‘A.N.’ in the phrase, ‘so I punished them in an another way.’ His last misspelling in the message is the extra ‘L’ at the end of ‘untill.’ He also mentions: ‘I shot a man sitting in a parked car with a .38’ & in regards to His school-bus bomb, that ‘You have untill next fall to dig it up.’ It could be significant that in the October, or fall card, He uses the peculiar ‘4-TEEN.’ He’s also drawn two eyes onto the skeleton just below & to the right of the number. I think it safe to assume Zodiac suggests many times in His messages— ‘I am the days.’ If that is the case, then we further prove His coding by the logic leap: His last letter was four months & two days earlier. We have ‘four’ in His deliberate ‘4-’ reference. October is the tenth month. The same portion of the puzzle says ‘TEEN’ or ‘ten,’ with a leftover ‘E.’ There are a number of ways to approach it, but the answer is always the same— ‘4. Minus sign. TEEN.’ equals ‘negative six,’ the sixth month, June, already passed. Subtract the two ‘eyes’ or ‘Is’ or ‘days’ from the round image of the skull, & the entire equation equals ‘June 26th.’
“By the way, did I mention that Brittain scored in the ninth stanine on all of His SAT categories. In fact, He scored in the top 99.9% on several, including Pattern Recognition & Spatial Relationships…? One of His major intellectual strengths lay in abstract reasoning.”
Prof. Punk hesitates again, as she questions him or comments on his discourse. “Of course. How else could I unravel this…?
“Okay. Now. From here on out, it gets curiouser & curiouser, as they would say in Alice…
“The puzzle becomes a veritable maelstrom of whirling, interrelated references as we follow the thread of logic & let it pull us where it will—
“Zodiac/Brittain perceived Himself as Death who rides a pale horse. From the Book of Revelations. Self-referential. Particularly as He used the Gemini-like doubling as one of His leit motifs or ‘signatures.’ I never saw the card itself, mind you, but it is reproduced in Robert Graysmith’s excellent true-crime exposé, ZODIAC…
“The first Death figure, the one original to the card (the other was glued on), as you can see, depicts a grinning skeleton with right arm crooked, hand raised, & its palm marked ‘14,’ giving the ‘OK’ or ‘all right’ sign with forefinger touching thumb, the other three fingers upright. Across the pelvic area of the skeleton, a large pumpkin with four prominent ribbed sections has been glued. Above the pumpkin are visible a total of twelve ribs. I think there’s some biblical wordplay suggested there, perhaps referring to Adam & Eve, etc.…? In any case, the Freudian interpretation should be simple— ‘Pumpkin’ or ‘Punkin’ is a term of endearance frequently used in addressing very y
oung girls. Right? Okay. So this symbol is juxtaposed straddling the groin of a grinning Mr. Death. & I already commented on Brittain’s twin obsessions—necrophilia & sadistic sexual contacts with children, particularly, but not restricted to, little girls. I may be reading too much into this one, but the four-ribbed pumpkin below the twelve exposed ribs seems to echo His ‘4-TEEN.’ As in ‘4 to teen.’ In both cases, a case can be made for it implying the preferred age-range of His intended victims of His sexual psychopathology, ehhh…? Taking this logic leap one step further, the positioning of the skeleton’s legs, with the pumpkin above, seems decidedly vulvate-referential, as does the distinctly crotch-like angling of both arms. In fact, it keys me back to a couple of twisted boys I went to junior high school with. They used to crook their elbows, then giggle suggestively as they clasped the furrowed ‘lips’ formed at the juncture, with the soft, downy hairs on their arms, the whole thing was a very crude but effective imitation of a young girl’s ‘peachlike slit’ as the Victorian pornographers often called it—”
[ 157 ]
“Yes. You Bible Bastard…” Maldoror groans as He spins out His savage lust thrusting deep into the shaved sex of the corpse of the slain teenager. “Yes more than one Bethlehem, yes, yes, ‘the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, & everywhere, the ceremony of innocence is drowned…’ ‘Surely the Second Coming is at hand; the Second Coming!’”
Laughter rumbles from the bellows of His heaving chest, deep terrible & chill…
“Ahhhhhh, ‘That twenty centuries of stoned sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rough & rocking Beast…’
“Ahhhhhh, ‘turning & turning in the widening gyre, My Hour come round at last, spins the terror-web of The One True Beast, then on…shapes shift & Names may transform, things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mare Anarchy & The Serpents are loosed upon this stinking World… then on to Bethlehem down 666 the Road of the Beast, at long, long last to split this tired husk of World as ready to be reborn…’
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh…” Maldoror throws back His head, moaning in sick pleasure, baying like a rabid DOG (or GOD…?) at the pox-scarred corpse-rind of Her silver face, at the red & festered wound or eye of Hell, or, perhaps, in some opium-sweating dream, at the yawning cuntmouth of the Whore of Babylon, at Her yawning void burning BLUE, flickering hypnotically, provoking the perverse, seducing all who watch into the deepest deeps of fevered melancholia, depravity & morbid lust… THE ROOM FLICKERS BLUE AS MALDOROR RUTS LIKE THE BEAST HE IS UPON THE SAVAGED CORPSE OF HEATHER RILEY, THE ROOM & SOMEHOW BEYOND THE ROOM SOMEHOW WITHIN THE DEPTHS OF THE ICE-FILLED MATRIX HIS GROANS & THE SLAP OF FLESH-ON-FLESH & WET LIQUID SOUNDS OF SEA MINGLE WITH HIS CHANTING, HIS CONJURING, HIS RESOUNDING & REVERBERATING ECHOES—
“‘turning & turning in the widening gyre, this World shall end in ICE & FIRE, ‘EYE’ is ‘I’ is ‘EYE,’ things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mare Night Mistress Governess of Anarchy & The Serpents are loosed upon this CUNT-HOLE this stinking SHIT-HOLE of a World…”
[ 158 ]
Frank jumps forward, startled by a sudden cool touch upon his neck. He pivots his torso, swinging his pistol in the direction of the unseen intruder, his finger poised, curled around the trigger.
In the split-instant before his finger tenses, a hand traps his thick wrist in midair, skillfully exerting pressure on critical nerve centers, inducing total paralysis of his fingers, thumb & palm.
“Whoa, Frank!” The voice is cool & honey-soft, yet edged with an inner strength that matches the iron-hard grip.
“Christ, Cherry! I nearly blew your goddamn head off?”
“No. You didn’t…”
“How the fuck—” he catches himself in mid-sentence, “Ow! Excuse my French, huh…?”
“—did I get in here? & no, you don’t need to excuse yourself. Heh. I ain’t no Virgo, dig me, Sailor…?”
Cherry lowers Frank’s immobilized arm, controlling him, puppet-like, then releases his wrist, & lets the gun drop gently onto the bedcovers. “Quite a rod you’re packin’ there,” she comments, motioning to the .44 Mag but glancing at his groin. “You know what the Freudians say about these things, don’t you…
“Big man, big gun…?”
She reaches out her cool, slender fingers brushing away the tears from his injured cheek. “I’m sorry about Elijah. I did what I could.”
“Shit, Cherry? I can’t believe everything you did for me. Goddamn, you saved my butt & his, both. What the Hell can I do to make it up to you?”
“Nothing. Well, almost nothing. But, first, you said I saved him, too…?”
“Yeah. He’s in real bad shape, Cherry. The Doc had t’ am… amputate, but he says there’s every reason to expect Elijah will pull through. Says he’s never had one with a gunshot wound before, but he’s treated hit-&-runned dogs who lost a leg & seemed to adjust okay, & even live a fairly active life—” A fresh flood of tears trickles down his cheeks, & his chest is wracked by sobs. “—but I guess there won’t be any more runnin’ down the beach together…”
Again, he clasps his throbbing skull in his hands, feeling the pain & emptiness clawing in his gut.
Her hand trails across his trembling cheek, his neck, brushing against his chest, she begins to unbutton his shirt, pulls it open, strips it from him, exposing his sweat-stained white T-shirt.
He starts to open his mouth, but her fingertips press softly against his lips, begging him to silence.
The big man trembles, the gentleness of a woman’s touch like a cattle prod applied to his bare flesh after so long… Yeah, more than his share of one-nighters, but those always a mere act of desperation expressed by two lost souls passing, usually performed in a drunken daze of hunger, using in a mere frenzy of coupled bodies with only the hot harsh need of rut, more akin to devouring each other’s flesh in the kill-need of wild wolves or some physiological & psychic vampirism than in anything denoting compassion or tenderness…
How long since he & Judy Lynn had twined their bodies lovingly in a true joining of the flesh & soul untainted by the bitter seeds of suspicion & festering hate, that darkside flipside of the Janus’ face of love…?
Somehow, Cherry is naked beneath him before his fugue passes, & he thrusts into her with every intention of slow, easing entry, but she crushes her pelvis up to meet him, drawing him into her fiery, contracting depths, somehow the second skin of a condom bagging his length, “girding his loins,” to wax biblical about their sudden, contradicted act of Genesis.
For some unknown reason, the phrase, vagina dentatae flickers forth, a term conjured from memories of a long-forgotten Psyche class.
Just as Cherry looses a deep & throaty moan, just as her nails rake bloody furrows across his shoulders & his back—
Stigmata of their secret little Passion Play…
Low cries. Wet slapping sounds. Sheets flapping like the wings of gulls. While the room light dims & the scene is awash with exaggerated shadows, & wave upon wave of rippling sapphire & ultramarine & cobalt radiance crest & break across churning flesh & the white dunes of the sweat-soaked bedding. & perhaps the clicking sounds, far off, echoes of crustaceans’ gnarly shells, flexing their raised claws…grinding their mandibles in hunger…
[ 159 ]
“—Knowing you, Lucy, you’ll probably get all juicy when I tell you that the boys then used those pathetic prosthetic quims to fuck off in! Yes. Indeed. They took turns screwing each other’s crooked elbows! Bizarre…? Oh. Yes. & the ‘OK’ signal of the right hand mimics the same vulvate shape as the position of the joined legs.”
He stops a moment to catch his breath. Then continues….
Prof rambles on, recounting the various definitions, experiencing Gestalten, making split-second free-associations & logic leaps…
[ 160 ]
His system wired beyond the limits of merely mortal by the massive jolt of adrenaline triggering the residual Li Di 1 still harbored within His system, Maldoror lifts the plastic-wrapped corpse of Heather Riley like a ragdoll
, lays her fouled remains upon the bathroom floor, spread-eagle, the shaved gash of her vagina torn & bleeding, gaping from between her opened thighs like the gasping, fish-like mouth of some perverse demon. He steps to where Truman Gilmore lies, coiled in mock-fetal posture, babbling like a lunatic. He kneels, & grasps the right-hand manacle that secures the Bible salesman to the commode. His gloved hands pull at the hinged metal as if it were a wishbone, then He breathes a single word into the lock: “ABRASAX,” & the handcuff clicks open…
Mal tugs His captive’s arms behind his back, gives the manacled left wrist a vicious twist, eliciting a strangled cry of pain, then snaps the right cuff closed, cinching Truman’s hands at the small of his back. He jerks him upward from the floor—250-plus pounds of tortured flesh hauled bodily upward without sign of obvious exertion on the part of the captor, the Bible salesman’s strained tendons creaking & popping like dry kindling wood as he dangles face downward above the obscene spectacle of the blonde girl’s ravished corpse. Mal lowers the moaning fat man down until his shattered kneecaps are crushed against the plastic-covered tiles, until his own carved & blood-smeared groin is flush with that of the deceased, until his weight grinds the pitiful, snail-like thrust of his child-sized penis into the shaved-hairless wound of dead Heather’s sex slit, until the residual cocaine dusted upon & within her mons serves to irritate his already stimulant-enflamed organ of generation, until the coaxing fingers of Maldoror stroke & torment his shrieking body into the motions of primal ocean, until Maldoror’s fingers milk & tickle ever-so gently at his shriveled scrotum, until Maldoror thrusts a micropore-gloved index finger past the Bible Fucker’s sphincter, violating his semen-smeared, already-violated anus, until this further stimulation of his prostate pushes Truman beyond the limits of sane response, & then, the iron-hard length of the Maldoror enters him as he enters her, & the Beast grows three backs, Life locked within Life within the depths of Death…