Blood & Gristle

by Michael Louis Calvillo

  He wanted to quit and stay home, but there was a feeling deep down that wouldn’t let him give up. It pushed and played at the corners of his brain and wouldn’t let him sink. It squeezed personality from his eyes. It forced friendships, but forced friendships fizzled fast and Peter floated along as alone as before. Old impulse flittered. Razors called.

  But Jimmy Segona, the future career criminal, saw something special in Peter. He didn’t know what exactly, couldn’t comprehend the strange pull in his gut, didn’t understand the not-there voice that implored him to partner up with the weird loner in Biology class, but this new kid was intense, had an intensity about him, and given the racket he was running, Jimmy saw lucrative potential, so he heeded the odd urgings, befriended Peter, and told him what was what.

  He explained that though he looked like one of the fruity Goths, not a fourth century Germanic tribesmen, but one of those idiot teens that cavorted in black and moped about with razor blades stuck into the soles of their Doc Martin’s, smoking weed behind the gym, he was actually working undercover. He was manipulating the drama queens and milking them for everything he could get. You see, Goths took care of Goths. Jimmy picked up on this when he noticed how they bought one another’s lunches at school. He paid attention and watched them treat each other to movies and buy alcohol at parties, so he put two and two together and started wearing black lipstick, painting his nails blue and pretending to like a bunch of faggy bands. He wormed his way into their fragile, little lives and then demanded they take care of him. The weak willed freaks were needy and eager to please. They happily bent to his every whim.

  Jimmy knew the Goths would eat up Peter’s suicide story and with a little emotional terrorism they would worship they guy and in turn do anything he asked. Jimmy pictured a black clad army stealing whatever he desired. He pictured an empire at his command. Besides he was bored with the sheep buying him CDs and frappuccinos, he was bored with the game (and unable to fight the internal, wordless push hammering at his core), so after about a month of getting to know one another, Jimmy brought Peter on as a “full partner” and taught him how to swim.

  Peter listened to the throb inside and embraced the criminal friendship.

  Not that he had a choice.

  Embraced it.

  Because his internals told him to.

  Embraced it.

  The freaks all dressed like vampires and worshipped Bauhaus. Most of them never even heard of Bauhaus (Peter included), but they worshipped them anyway. They watched Italian splatter films. They wore make-up. They did acid and smoked cloves. Jimmy got them to ante up and welcomed Peter to the fold. He got them to buy the newbie a fresh wardrobe. He got them to listen to The Saddest Teen in the World.

  And Peter ran with the new lifestyle, the dark thing inside him pushing, pumping, pushing, until his system pushed shit to the limit. The suicide stories earned him a place, a voice, and he used it and demanded:

  No more Italian splatter films, only snuff films.

  No more weak acid, only vials full of pure LSD.

  No more half ass posturing.

  The Goths clamored around. They fell at his feet. Peter lorded over them but he wanted the real thing. Not twelve, measly disciples (and one ambitious henchmen if you counted Jimmy). He wanted power. He wanted popularity in excess. He wanted to eat the dark.

  There was strength in numbers and with a little finesse their clan grew and grew. Esoteric purpose drove them on. Jimmy handled logistics, numbers, recruitment, marketing, and Peter stepped up and played the messiah role perfectly.

  New members and old members alike were fascinated with Peter’s dead stare and the things he claimed to know. They fawned over his scars with admiration. They listened intently to his stories (D&D paid off after all). Idiots, one and all. But that’s why he ran with them. That’s how Jimmy booked the local community center and charged fifty bucks a head to listen to Peter speak. Their friends paying to listen to him speak. That’s how the word spread. That’s how he could get away with wearing velvet pants.

  That’s how Peter became Pyrus, and Pyrus, well, everybody knows Pyrus

  The body was less than a day old. A few of his minions had stolen it from Valley Hospital. Pyrus didn’t know how he knew that the corpse would be on a gurney, unattended, just outside of the Emergency Room, or how he could describe the tiny tattoo on her stomach (the burning symbols hovered in the back of his mind), but she was there, tattoo and all, just like his head told him.

  And beneath him, ready, she was beyond stunning.

  His first.

  Pyrus imagined her cheeks with a little color. He imagined her out there, amongst his people, worshipping, watching him upon this holy slab. He bet he looked awesome in his red velvet cape.

  Jimmy flashed the flashlight three times.

  Showtime.

  A Skinny Puppy song blared from the PA system.

  The tattoo on the girl’s stomach seemed to burn.

  Pyrus hiked her legs higher and drove his penis home. He fumbled a little, got it in and then humped in time to the anti-music.

  Three pumps was all it took.

  Orgasm shook his frame and he exploded inside her. Spent, he collapsed and rested his cheek upon her cold, rigid breasts.

  The crowd went wild. They pumped their fists and screamed. Swimmy from climax, Pyrus’ vision waved and the auditorium of acolytes undulated in a sea of black and red. The music swelled and pounded in his ears. He thought he heard Jimmy screaming something.

  Sighing, he pushed up and readied to remove his withering dong from the corpse. Hopefully he could swing the cape just so and cover himself up. His confidence deflated in time with his waning erection.

  Icy fingers touched his back and shattered his thoughts.

  A chill ran the length of his spine.

  Pyrus pushed himself up quick.

  The dead girl’s eyes were open. Not just open, but open and staring, not just open, but open and devouring, not just open and devouring, but open and devouring him.

  He jumped from the slab and landed on the stage in a crouch.

  The dead girl sat up. Her frozen breasts stiff as winter. No jiggle.

  The crowd stilled. The music thrashed and clanged and warbled on.

  Pyrus got to his feet and pulled his cape close. He swallowed a lump and looked to the side of the stage for Jimmy. He was gone.

  The dead girl’s feet smacked down to the stage with light slaps. She walked toward him, her movements a little firm, but almost natural, almost sexy (okay, a lot sexy). She got within a few inches and stopped. Pyrus opened his mouth unsure if he should say something or scream or run or what. The dead, not-so-dead girl kneeled before him and bowed her head.

  The silent crowed erupted. Only five hundred strong, but the cheers were deafening.

  King Pyrus smiled.

  He raised his hands high in to the air and turned to survey his subjects. His velvet cape fell open, but he let it alone, giving his people everything he was and everything he would be.

  THE PLACEBO EFFECT

  The environment as destruction.

  The world as infection.

  Spores everywhere.

  Seeds.

  Inside, outside, beneath the skin, pushing their way in.

  Dr. John Stall staved off the invasion as best he could. He’d taken massive, pharmaceutical sized doses of antihistamines, decongestants and analgesics, the three active ingredients served to the general public as over the counter allergy relief. These amplified counter agents, graciously supplied by Chuck, the pharmacist, corked the incessant flow of free running mucus, but they did little to eradicate the microbes wreaking havoc upon John’s buzzing sinuses.

  He poised his scalpel with exquisite precision and pushed focus to a point. The meds kept his nose dry inside his surgical mask, but the sinus backup turned his head into a giant, helium filled balloon. He fought off the dizzies and then pressed the scalpel home. Its razor sharp edge sliced clean, parted the flesh o
f patient 337685, and opened her up wide. Blood welled, glistening. Suction whisked it away.

  The flora and fauna attempting to turn his nasal passages into their own private breeding ground responded to the freshly opened body. Everything tingled. John imagined pulling down his mask and burying his true face deep into patient 337685’s flayed abdominal cavity.

  Would those little fucking breeders abandon his membranes and passageways?

  Would they leave behind the succor of his moist, yet defiant sinus tracts, for the orgasmic heat and limitless contagion inherent within the human body?

  Wishful thinking.

  Pointless (though if it worked, he’d dive right in).

  Alas, this was the way of the world, everything infectious and malignant hiding safely behind tidy, efficient masks. Hell, an army of plants, a regular hot house orgy, copulated in his head and nobody even had the slightest notion (save for Chuck). Nobody even cared.

  And why should they?

  What were they hiding behind their masks?

  Allergies be damned, the operation went smooth, smooth, smooth. After nearly four and a half hours, John was glad to be done with it. Routine heart work, true, he could do it with his eyes sutured shut and one of his arms chopped away, but four hours was four hours and despite the ease of the procedure he was still tired as hell. He didn’t get much sleep the night before and to make matters worse his blood was itching something fierce. John cleaned up and prepared for home.

  On his way out he checked on patient 337685 (A-OK, circulatory systems running like clockwork) and peeked in on patient 332562, a new arrival suffering from a bout of mysterious heart murmurs. She slept soundly.

  Quite lovely, he thought.

  Full, full lips.

  Marissa?

  Wait, no, Madeline?

  John never learned his patient’s names. Oh, he called them by their names in consultations and throughout the course of their medical care, his bedside manner every bit as impeccable as his surgical skills, but the designations weren’t stored, they were read from a chart, glanced at and quickly retrieved for the moment. He preferred to think of them as numbers. Perhaps he’d take note of patient 332562’s name.

  Such full, full lips.

  Pretty.

  Crack Whores were strangely telepathic. They could sense John’s presence from blocks away and by the time he reached Sky West Apartments, the run down, section eight, hop house where he scored, the vamps were already congregating by the dilapidated building’s gaping mouth of an entrance. They smiled lewdly and struck the sexiest poses their worn out frames could muster.

  “Hey, doc, wanna have some fun?”

  “A blow for some blow, doc.”

  “You make me feel good, I’ll make you feel good, doc”

  John stopped driving his Porsche through the neighborhood years ago. He parked four blocks away at a McDonald’s in a well-lit commercial shopping center. He wore a ratty jacket over his dress shirt and a pair of stained sweatpants over his slacks and when he walked he hunched and tried to affect a limp. Gimping along incognito, he hoped blending with the dregs would make him less inconspicuous, and it did, nobody hassled him, no thugs tailing, no violence, each trip (and there were many) quick and easy, but unfortunately, car or not, disguise or not, there was no shaking the crack hoes.

  He kept his head low and his eyes down, but they recognized him every time, instinct dancing in their blood, his doctor vibe working them up. Despite their wild, unfocused eyes and wilder, stutter-stop brains, they seemed to know exactly whom to ignore and whom to haggle. John never saw them begging or propositioning the genuinely homeless (unless they had cash or rocks). Their internals screamed out “Doctor, Doctor, Doctor,” when he breached their radius.

  “Suck ya dick, doc.”

  “Nice costume, doc.”

  “Take my temperature, doc?”

  He never heeded their cries, not once, although there had been brief moments of temptation. A particularly striking whore here, a dirty attraction there, a pair of lips wrapped around his member for a pittance, a measly rock. As much as the image pleased, John knew better.

  Ignoring the rise and fall of their desperation songs, he rushed passed and into the lair of the beast. His beast. The animal magic that kicked started his heart each and every night: crack cocaine.

  Cocaine was nice. John used to dabble in it pretty regularly. It kept him afloat in college and did wonders for his social life. Since, his studies had become his work, socialization unimportant, and the cocaine no longer seemed to make much sense. It was boring without the accompanying party.

  So, he tried crack on a whim.

  Something new.

  Something fresh.

  He’d already mastered cocaine (less a high, more a way of life) and thought, what the hell, let’s spice things up a bit. The health risks, the dangers, all that worrisome bullshit worried him not. John understood his body and was well attuned to his limits. What he failed to consider, though he’d been warned, though drug history was brimming with addicts, was that those limits, the control that he thought he had, could be shattered with a single puff. He and addiction became fast friends.

  Once inside the apartment building his nerves evened out. He was safe here. His business was consistent, guaranteed, and well worth Mr. Dopeman’s time. He was a valuable commodity. Here, he was as good as his money. Should anybody fuck with him, they’d have some mean bastards to contend with because any fool knew better than to fuck with another man’s money.

  His dealer smiled. Big, gold veneered teeth welcome.

  John grinned back, handed over some cash and kept the proceedings short and sweet. He knew the man’s name once, but like his patients he failed to retain it. No use for it, no consultations or kind words here, just an understanding between pusher and addict. John pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket, removed his pipe and lighter, took his drugs and hit it right then and there.

  Consider the probability of a Cardiologist on crack.

  Consider the probability of the world knowing who and what you really are.

  John knew what the world expected of him. He understood the façade he was expected to maintain and he paid close attention to its upkeep. He kept his weight up and his work schedule straight. The rest of the time he freebased until his mind ticked like lightning.

  And so it was, John fell in love and he fell hard. He found heaven, lips upon glass, feverishly working a lighter, watching as that which was solid melted and unfurled, weaved and twisted, the smoke of rapture in and down and throughout his entire being. The rush was instantaneous: clarity so clear it felt like insanity gone sane, good, too good, better than good, better than anything real or imagined, better than dreaming.

  The rest of the high paled in comparison to that initial drag, but there was still electricity, tons of it, coursing throughout his veins, intermingling with his makeup, building him up and tearing him down in restless fits of pleasure and frustration.

  This was all good, still good, still something, but beneath, never ever letting up, was that unceasing, undying want.

  The need that never stopped needing.

  The need that sent him out into the night, three, four, five, ten times more, until he finally had to plead with himself to stop spending money, to stay in bed and wait for exhaustion to sink its teeth in his brain and take him down.

  After all, he had to perform a few surgeries the next day.

  And this is how it went for the past five years.

  Day in, day out, nearly the same routine.

  Sure, there were variations. The allergies were seasonal. His work day went differently. Maybe once a year, on Christmas or something, he’d have to visit his family (who lived a long distance and like him were distant by nature, so once a year was plenty). But the evenings belonged to crack. The all-night bingeing never ceased.

  No friends; the crack had become his friend.

  No entertainment; the crack had become his distraction. />
  No sex; the crack had become his lover.

  The crack had become his god, his teacher, his ever burning sun and his ever shining stars. John swallowed hard and shook harder when he thought about the immensity of his problem.

  Like this, cruising along, thousands and thousands of dollars a week, there was no way out.

  He was trapped.

  Escape plans formed nightly, and nightly they fell away. Nothing could save him, nothing but the silencing calm of death or the heart rending power of love.

  So then the choice wasn’t really a choice. He did crack or he died.

  Love?

  Maybe.

  Love?

  If need be.

  Love?

  Love then.

  He didn’t want to die; he didn’t spend half of his life fighting through medical school to just throw it all away. So if he wanted to get free (which he did, but he didn’t) he needed someone to love, someone to save him, someone to keep him high. That seemed to be the general consensus anyway. Each and every one of his coke addled college peers kicked their nasty drug habits for love, for a wife and a family. And as beautiful as these things were, John struggled with emotion and regret; he just didn’t see it happening to him.

  Crack was his wife, his confidant, his education, his destiny. It was the only thing in this world that he could fully trust.

  So why quit?

  Nobody even noticed. Not that John could tell. After a particularly bad bender (ten trips to the dopehouse or more) his colleagues often commented that he looked tired. John shrugged them off, smiled weakly, and commented the same. There was never a follow up comment because everybody was guilty of something. Everybody was snorting coke or smoking dope or having an affair and they were all too afraid to press the issue for fear they’d be found out. As long as John didn’t hit rock bottom, stealing VCRs or offering to blow his surgical assistants for cash, he wasn’t suspect.