by Garrett Cook
“I’m afraid this is far as you get, Godless Jack,” said his blackhatted waistcoated overdressed companion from his lethal vantage point.
“You’re afraid?” the outlaw Jack Cavanagh laughed, “You ride with me and you still use words like that?”
“You ain’t death,” said Doc Faustus, the Tartarus Kid, “I know death and you ain’t him.”
The outlaw Jack Cavanagh pointed his own gun at the priest.
“You know the words are there and what they are. You tell me what they mean!”
The old priest closed his eyes.
“Leave this place and I’ll pray for God to forgive you.”
“That’s a mighty fine offer, padre,” said Faustus, “but I’m afraid…yes, afraid, that my colleague will have to turn it down. We can’t have his sins scrubbed clean.”
Faustus pulled the trigger, assuming there would be a spatter of blood and the man who men knew as Death would be no more, the true liege coming for the pretender to the throne. The emaciated grey head of the man that men call death did indeed explode open, the bullet sending chunks of hair and skull flying, but no blood or brains came forth. There were bats with heads like half formed fetuses, leeches, floating black seahorses and dozens of tiny marionettes, swarming back at the one that had unleashed them. Though the back of his head was torn open, the front bore an evil grin, revealing teeth that had crunched on human bones.
Faustus twitched and struggled, puppets crawling into his open mouth, fetal vampire bats drinking from his neck, leeches sucking blood from his face as the black seahorses floated around him observing the situation.
“I have been to Big Empty,” said Cavanagh, “and there is nothing good left in me.”
His partner choking out his life on the floor did not distract Cavanagh for long.
“The words,” said the man who was thought to be death, “what do they mean?”
“I have sworn not to tell,” said the priest. “No man will ever know.”
Cavanagh pulled the trigger on his Colt Peacemaker and the barrel extended, transforming into a black metallic serpent that coiled around the clergyman’s neck.
“What does it mean?”
The priest defied Cavanagh to the last, on his final breath, taunting him, gasping out the words that drove the outlaw to murder him, words that had come to him the first time he ate flesh and came to Big Empty.
“Archelon Ranch.”
Celebrity
“My Heart For Hades” blog
I did this for him. I don’t mean Hitler, I don’t mean Satan. I mean HIM. The lightning from God calls for retribution, it calls for swift strikes, dismantled machines and rivers of sacrificial blood. There is no room for Hitler or Satan in today’s world, we are more logical than that. The true psychopomp transcends good and evil and wants you to shove your celebrities and your politicians and all your other shit right back up your ass where it belongs. If you think I’m wrong, you can go fuck yourselves. None of you have the guts to listen and follow the call of the prophet of Hades. So I told you fucking queer little ripkids standing in line to suck Godless Jack’s cock that I was gonna go on and do it, and I went on and did it. I wasn’t alone though, I had my friend John (we’ll call him John) and I had Mr.400 to guide me.
Fucking idiot high school. When things are this dangerous they don’t put up a fucking metal detector, cause they think it’s the niggers and the poor kids who shoot people since they don’t fucking read the books, they don’t go on ReapChic and they don’t even watch the news. Blame the terrorists and the Chinese. Fucking ignorant, I mean, shit…haven’t they heard the message, the message of God’s war on ignorance and sloth. Jocks are too scared of the reapkids to go off on them, know they might get their tires or their throats slit. Jocks push me around cause I’m small and I’ve got glasses and I’m not tough enough to be down with Mr. Right or Anubis or any of them…I told you what those fuckers do and what I always thought about you know then on the radio clear as day it’s the time and I told you I was gonna get the fuckin’ guns and you just leave your little that’s fucked up, but it’s not fucked up, we’ve had it up to here with the jocks pushing us around and the cocktease cheerleaders hanging out with the little Bundy girls and the “hey fag”…the lightning from God strikes, rains retribution and I strike for the lightning…cocktease bully hatemongers your culture of violence is dead fuckers it’s fucking dead and all the sparks rain down…here is my lightning!
John doesn’t even get it, he’s such a pussy, he just wants to get back at everybody, no better than the reap kids doesn’t get that we need to end this, just…shit, we need to end this! I don’t go shouting anything like “my life for Satan” or “kill the fucking niggers!” I’m reasonable, I come in and I sweep the halls clean of all their garbage, can’t even let them stop and beg. They’re the ones responsible. The monstermakers are everywhere and I want them to just…shit, you know…Mr.400 guides my hand, guides my eyes and guides my gun and lo, I struck…I didn’t count, but I think it’s around a hundred, didn’t leave anybody wounded…hate that, just sick, if you want to end it you gotta end it, you know…I don’t hate you guys, I still think you’re kinda cool, but maybe Mr.400’s right, stop and think about it. Liberate yourselves, liberate your schools and put an end to it, that’s what Mr. 400 wants, no more violence, hypocrisy…it makes sense, it really makes sense, you just gotta think about it, take out the trash, sweep up the hypocrites, usher them unto the lord for judgment, confine them to the pits where they belong. Listen to the man, guys, he makes some sense.
Comments:
GashKit-E69: Get a fucking grip, man. It’s not like that. He’s a symbol, a symbol for what we need to be. He’s not saying that Reap’s bad; he’s saying it needs to be different. More directed.
SnakeIs: Forget Mr.400. You heard Jack’s broadcast, that fucker’s toast, he killed that crazy homeless shit who helped him out and he’s gonna kill your “hero”. GJ forever, yo!
GossamerSteel: Yawn. SSDD, Snake. As if.
SnakeIs:Just you wait, Goss, Jack don’t let people take his likeness.
CrimsonFeast666: Him and a personal army, man. I wanna see the coward go Mano-a-mano. 400 will beat Jack out of his Depends.
RedQueensBlessing:You went too far. That’s not what this is all about. Get a conscience and a brain.
GashKit-E69: Amen! Somebody had to say it. Ps. Snake is wrong. 400 will win.
IanSterlingMOD: Mr.400 wouldn’t want this. I’m obligated to give the cops your contact info, MyHeart. Come on, Ryan, this was too much. You’ve forgotten the rules of Reap, not to mention common decency. Let this be a lesson to the rest of you guys.
RedQueensBlessing: Well handled. Hope to see you you-know-where.
Mad Tea Party
These gargoyles are made to stave off angels. The demons with their twisted faces contoured into triumphal joy know well that their kind is welcome here. When you pull into the driveway, the statues start innocently enough. There is a smooth, pristine, virginal maiden whose angelic face screams “I am an untouched soul.” But perhaps they’re not all that innocent, because there’s an agony to the purity, an obvious coldness. Every virgin in every pieta has a bit of it. Like whiny Disney princesses, they beg for fresh, exciting worlds. The gentlemen across from them don’t look like they’ll provide that. The detail is admirable, it reveals just how perfectly pressed all their suits are and just how stiff their carriage. Their innocence too, is agony, an agony that remedies itself as you get closer to the house.
They are relieved of the burden of purity a little more every few steps you take and the statues seem to move closer to one another. The woman’s dress slides down her shoulders invitingly; the man’s face shifts into a twisted grin. As you draw nearer to the house, the man draws nearer to damnation and the woman draws nearer to carnality. Perfect gentleman has turned into Mister Hyde, and reveals himself ready for things far worse. By the time the two figures are close enough to grasp one another, the man lo
oks like a shaved ape, a true predator. He has drawn a knife and the lady’s features fill with sweet surrender. Soon her clothes are shreds on the ground and he has changed yet again. Where once he had legs, there is a long serpent body like the Ray Harryhausen Medusa. In one arm, he holds a sword aloft, and with the other he reaches into her chest. Her face is orgasmic and fearless, her posture the eager victim’s. Right outside the front door, the woman stands up. Her feet are cloven hooves and leathery, draconic wings spring from her back. These devils dance together. May that serpent king dance into my midst and find death at the edge of my swordcane. I know that statue’s final face and I know I want to come home with the head it sits on. Maybe I’ll also be lucky enough to rid the world of Ian Sterling while I’m at it.
Cass knows why we’re at this party, but when Cass is excited, she’s excited, and the Contessa’s mansion is a reasonable source of excitement for anybody who’s been obsessed with crime and violence as long as she has. This is, after all the place where the who’s who of slaughter and depravity meet to relieve the tension of cutting a swathe through the populace. I almost feel bad for revealing the innate corruption and terror of Reap, which makes all this a little bit less like a senior prom or dinner at the Whitehouse. The sense of wonder is still with her just a bit, and I’m actually kind of glad. I would hate to have ruined this completely. A dream is still a dream. Though, I can see that for me, this will be something of a nightmare. I’m already uncomfortable with the company of the monsters outside. The company of the ones within will be more than a bit of unease. And from what I’ve heard about these parties…
“I swear, Jeremy, I’ll stay out of the back rooms,” she says, grabbing my hand and partially reading my mind, “Ian will make sure I do.”
“Who says that I’ll stay out?” he jokes, “I’m single and ready to swing, sweetheart.”
There’s something wounded about him tonight. Something that I could only call “profoundly beat.” His smile is tissue paper. Something’s catching up to him. Something really big. Makes me feel almost bad about the fate he’s going to have to suffer. But there’s no time to be weak. Jack could be in there, after all, and if you get weak, he’ll eat you. Not just you, but maybe your soul. Never forget who your targets are. Don’t stop to pity them. Pity makes their human faces realer, pity should belong to the innocent. Pity is the voice that tells you you’ve gone mad. This is one of Jack’s own sayings, one quite pertinent to the act of hunting him and his kind. I will impale him on my irony and run him through with his own transgressions. Poetry, absolute poetry.
The woman who answers the door wears nothing but a bowtie, fishnet tights and black angel wings. She has nothing to hide. It’s admirable, considering she’s probably somebody with a lot to hide. I’m a bit shocked by her outfit, even after having been to Le Couteau on two occasions. It indicates that this party is either very high class or completely devoid of it.
“Come in,” she says in the sultriest monotone she can muster for a couple of D list guests, “Milady welcomes Ian Sterling and guests.”
A nervous Ian doesn’t even give her so much as a “hello”. Since “guest” is not my name, I don’t feel inclined to give her one.
“I was, um, wondering, if Godless- Mr. Cavanagh-was going to be around this evening. I was hoping to get an interview from him about the Mr.400…umm, thing. The Mr.400 thing…” Ian gulps and stutters out his question, meteorically plummeting his air of importance to the ground.
The girl shrugs. Being announced at the door is the most you can expect from people like her. Having been announced, Ian’s moment of relevance is gone. I MUST continue to enjoy this, regardless of how frazzled and twitchy he looks. I must greet the failures of Ian Sterling with inward sardonic laughter, for if I do not he’ll be too pathetic to destroy, a sacrificial lamb. She leads us into a lavish, faux-Baroque ballroom. It is wallpapered in red, though little wallpaper shows beneath all of the portraits. Rich as this woman is, she still smacks of nouveau riche. Too much everywhere. Portraits of Vlad the Impaler, Elizabeth Bathory, various Jack the Ripper suspects, and every actor who has ever played Dracula. The room has no need for wall sconces, but she has some anyway, in the shape of small dragons. Between two of these sconces is the one piece of art here that I don’t know what to make of. It’s nothing but a black canvas with a gaping blood red zero in the middle of it. On closer examination I can figure it out a little better. There are initials in the bottom corner, and next to the initials is another little red zero. The initials are GJC. These displays of gaudiness look almost pallid compared to the chandelier. It is made of fine crystal, adorned with golden dragons that carry the bulbs lighting the room in their mouths.
The ballroom is full of impeccably dressed and impeccably undressed people, who I actually find myself hoping Ian knows some of, because if he doesn’t belong here then I don’t belong here, and it’s hard to sneak around a place you don’t belong. Accustomed as he is to being a VIP, he looks shocked that nobody is swarming to him. Poor little bigshot. Poor me having to count on his importance to avoid sticking out like a sore thumb.
It’s almost laughable. With all the eagerness to be here and the two years of almost wrangling invitations, he’s as out of place here as I was at Le Couteau. As a serial killer, I actually belong here more than he does. This isn’t a place for poseurs and fans, but rather one for monsters and their cultists, groupies and accomplices (though I recognize a couple higherups from the local police), a place for those who DO. He’s interviewed a few of these people, he says, some of them post on his forum, but their intellectual investment isn’t what makes them pro-Reap. The girls here have come with news reporters, politicians, Reap activists and quite a few small time and big time killers on their arm.
Hacksaw Sally is twenty nine and in fact quite striking. Her trucker garb and bulging biceps are almost a kind of fetish costume. She used to be able to just pick up guys at truckstops, offer them a good time and then bring them somewhere private to saw them in half like some kind of twisted stage magician. But, her face has spread too far. She has to go to real isolated places, wear a wig or just sneak up behind the guy and knock him out. She never explained to the press if it was rape, child abuse, unchecked sexual aggression, a vendetta against truckers or whatever. All there is to know right now is that she’s strong as an ox, famous and right here with two of the Contessa’ s ladies on each arm. She’s up for a Bundy, and all Ian gets to do is write about it. Him and Cass strain not to walk up to her. Ian strains the most, because Cass gets to be part of this world for real and he’s nothing but words.
“Is that Ian Sterling over there?” Sally asks one of her escorts. The girl, an anorexically thin Chinese girl with cuts all over her arms nods. There’s a glint of disbelief on Sally’s face for a moment.
“Good for him,” she says. The girls laugh. A trendy middle-aged woman in less-than-flattering vinyl shares the laugh and approaches her. I ask Cass if that’s the Contessa and she shakes her head “no” in disgust.
“Tell me, Sally,” the lady in vinyl purrs, “what are YOU going to do if you get a hold of this damn Mr.400 character?”
“I’m gonna do the best I can.” Sally’s attempts at being uptight and sophisticated falter when she breaks into hysterical laughter at her own ancient, Vaudevillian comeback. Careful with that joke, it’s an antique. Of course, the laughter is echoed, save by an increasingly more awkward Ian who doesn’t notice that a joke was even told until it’s too late. Or maybe the comment bothers him. Seldom have I been so curious about what somebody I respected so little was thinking. Sally takes her two escorts and vanishes with them down a hallway where dry ice smoke backlit by purple smoke is used in a baffling attempt to make the corridor look mysterious. This is when I gather that the ballroom is probably not considered the place to be.
Ian, Cass and I don’t really budge, we don’t really mingle, and we don’t think to go anywhere. The three of us are sharing a realization central to Reap cul
ture: the realization that we are all expendable. Should anybody judge their worth by their standing at a party? There is only one answer to this question: if the party is more relevant than the rest of your life. Ian’s life is Reap and Reap is here, therefore, if Ian is irrelevant in this room, Ian’s life is irrelevant. I had previously been wondering whether tonight I would kill this pathetic son-of-a-bitch or Hacksaw Sally. I can’t believe I armed myself so lightly for a chance at Godless Jack. I realize that Hacksaw Sally has knocked out bigger guys than me. If I swing that swordcane at her, she’s going to knock me to the ground, cut me in two, splay me open and turn my torso into a suitcase. Thus, from a logistical viewpoint, there is but the only one recourse. And I admit it, in spite of the bad joke, there’s something I kind of like about Hacksaw Sally.
Relief dominates Ian’s expression when he at last sees somebody he knows. He runs a desperate girlish run that attracts disdainful stares and muffled chuckles alike. His acquaintance is a chubby 20-something covered in tattoos of hearts and flowers, from her cheeks to the small of her back, and all over her fairly well-muscled arms. She dances in that way people who don’t dance tend to, the kind of dancing that acknowledges the music but politely declines to move to it. She sort of bobs her head as she leans against the wall, making it look like leaning against the wall is more pressing than dancing. One look at her trying to “dance” and you know that she’s like Ian; one of an endless network of friends of friends. He’s far too desperate to realize that she’s not at the top of the social food chain either.
“Hey, Elyse, what’s goin’ on?” he asks.
She shrugs. “Shit, man, do I look busy? I thought this would be life-affirming, but it’s all pretty dull. By the way, sorry about the…that you had to…”