by Jason Michel
Lily gracefully held out her hand towards Bamboozle who, as commanded placed another nail into her palm. She brought each successive nail down into his legs, feet, knees, chest, fingers, arms, shoulders. Little stabs here, deep gouges there, always expertly missing the veins or the major arteries. Just enough to keep him from blacking out. She knew that the human body can take a lot before it ceases to function.
The frightful pain. It told him that he was still alive, every nerve ending woken in shock informed him that it was only pain. He knew what it was to die and so now he waited.
Lily had made her way up to his face, her dreadful journey had left macabre signposts scattered along him. She scratched at his eyeball with the now bone-blunted metal point. Then slowly and with precision, she pierced his submerged globe and he felt one side of his face become wet with vitreous humour as the translucent liquid mixed with dark crimson and seeped out onto his cheek, his involuntary head movements helping the nail rip on its journey inside him as all went dark.
The plant creature still hummed as she turned her attention to the other side of his face with violent scratching caresses and there was suddenly a thump thump thumping to his right and a loud crack of a noise. It cut through the air like lightning as Lily's head imploded in a bubble of thick white fluid, covering Lime's face with the pungent smelling cream and her body went limp and collapsed backwards like a rag doll as another flash hit her where her heart should be. Staring down his body Lime saw her lying on him legs akimbo. Her sex petals were pulsating frenetically, until they too were still.
Lime heard Bamboozle cry out as he hurtled clumsily at something only to hear a softer thump and then a crack then the sound of something not hard being discarded on the floor and he too fell at Lime's ruined feet. His jaw had been removed and his tongue lolled, his saliva and blood gushed into the hungry floorboards. It had certainly been a feast.
*
“Lime, old boy”
It was Blake.
“Where do you think you're going?”
Lime coughed and twitched as Blake gingerly undid the binding from Lime's mouth.
“Resolution. Kill me”
Blake knelt down on one knee and cradled the big lug's head in his arm. He looked down into Lime's one good eye with his one good eye and produced the old Luger from his pocket. Blake placed the cold hard muzzle to Lime's temple.
“Curtain's comin' down now. The End”
Then the splattered white suit bit down hard on his cheroot and, from the corner of his mouth, whispered something into Lime's ear. Then he gently pulled the trigger and poor old Alfie Lime died for a second time.
Die well, Alfie Lime.
Chapter 19
Vincent Blake sipped at a small cup of Japanese green tea.
I sipped at a small cup of Japanese green tea.
I was gazing out of my window of the penthouse apartment in Blasphemy Towers, where I live in Old Lurk.
The city that every city dreams of.
The Somnambulopolis.
The Nowhere Town.
As I gazed out through the massive windows down upon the myriad of imaginary streets and alleyways, I was thinking that this was not finished. Not by a long shot. A fucking long shot. My black cat and familiar, Dave, purred serenely on my lap, leisurely digging his claws into my chest as he tortured ghost rats somewhere out there and I thought and plotted what should be done to clear this mess up.
I should have seen it coming, I told myself.
How did I not sense that Lily was an Other?
She had covered it up well.
Her misleading scent.
Rotten peaches, indeed.
How could I have been so blind?
It was Rocco, that musical mute, who had spotted Bamboozle going into the Bordello. I had asked Rocco to keep a lookout for any unusual activity, or new guests going in or out of the Bordello. The speechless vagabond knew who Bamboozle was and found it unusual that he should have found his way into Death Street. Nobody finds it without a damn invitation.
The Street won't stand for it.
Rocco and Maria were already sure that the inner circle of the Tenebris had a safe house out there on Rue De La Mort. They are too good at what they do. It was them who got on the mind-blower and warned me and signed me and guided me to it. A ramshackle shit-hole atop of one of the seedier un-fixed edges of the street. A nearly not-place. It was almost on the border of Old Lurk, and as nasty and treacherous as all borders tend to be. Populated by blurs and scarab tattoos and scribble junkies. The perfect place where screams ring out as if by habit.
Well, let me tell you the Citadel and their maggoty lords and masters will be pissed at what I've done. They should know the rules though, eh?
Seems we'll be gunning for each other.
*
Rocco played me a song the other day and the syncopation informed me that Death Street's Occult Parlour has got itself a new resident. Appears a snowflake is seen nightly whirring and fluttering itself around the old Santa Muetre altar. Keeps whistling this sweet song as it goes. Whistling all night then disappearing through the keyhole as soon the light gets up.
Makes you wonder, eh?
It's a funny old world.
*
Not The End.
###
Author's Bio:
Pushcart Prize nominee Jason Michel is the Dictator over at the irreverent and downright antisocial Pulp Metal Magazine :
http://pulpmetalmagazine.wordpress.com/
More Vincent Blake stories from Old Lurk can be found at :
http://storiesfromoldlurk.blogspot.com/
*
Many thanks to Chris Rhatigan for his journalistic insights.
Cheers, buddy.