Chuggie and the Desecration of Stagwater

by Brent Michael Kelley

  For the first time, Chuggie noticed the black tattoo on her hip. When she noticed him staring she turned away.

  "Wait, what was that?" he asked.

  The hurt returned to Shola's eyes. Any second she'd break into tears. Chuggie mentally kicked himself for blowing it. Her clothes should be going back on in five… four… three….

  But Shola neither cried nor dressed. Instead, she turned her hip back, so he could see and slowly pulled her hand away. There Chuggie saw a faded black spider, symmetrical in design and blurry on the edges. All fine detail had long since faded away.

  Her slow dance resumed. Chuggie's head spun as he tried and failed to form a rational thought.

  Above Shola, clouds like silver ships sailed the sea of the sky. It could have been his intoxicated imagination, but he swore the clouds danced along with her. The way she moved her hands over her body made it difficult for him to confirm the phenomenon.

  He needed to say something. He reached into the depths of his mind for poetry, for words of passion and longing. He opened his mouth to release the words.

  "Someday I'll name a boat after you." Embarrassed, he added, "Someday… I'll name a boat Shola."

  She smiled and gestured that he didn't need to speak anymore. Humming a tune he knew from somewhere, she lowered herself to him. They made love in the tall grass for hours.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Fey Voletta wore her hood so its shadow hid all but her lips. Her robe closed tight around her, showing only her hands. Today, she even wore clothes beneath the robe, something she hated to do.

  The weekly meetings Haste insisted she attend so she could deliver her reports on criminal activity demanded such wardrobe choices. His unabashed leering made her sick. He licked his lips constantly while eye-groping her. There was absolutely no reason she had to attend these meetings, except that Haste was a disgusting old letch. She could only grit her teeth as she pondered the hundreds of different ways she could kill him.

  Entering Haste's office made her sicker still. It stunk of old tobacco, long-forgotten liquor spills, and the sweat of a fat man. The animals on the wall were supposed to be intimidating trophies, but she found them comical. She'd seen enough in her short time in Stagwater to know they were nothing more than 'average' specimens.

  "Ah, Fey Voletta," Haste said, raising an arm in welcome. The fat jiggled like half-congealed gravy. "You're looking lovely as ever, my dear. Won't you have a seat?"

  He lit a cigar, as he always did when she met with him. Apparently, he thought it impressed her, but his cigar sucking made her think he secretly wanted to wrap his lips around some guy's cock. The thought of Haste with a penis in his mouth made her laugh at first. Now his cigar, his mock cock, made her want to puke herself inside out.

  "Fellas like that, don't they?" she asked as she tossed the folder with the criminal reports in his direction.

  Haste's smile vanished. His lips unwrapped from the cigar, and he asked, "What?"

  "Smoking cigars," she said as she took a seat. "Fellas like smoking cigars."

  "Hmm," he said. "Apologies, my dear. You've just caught me about to eat lunch. I hope you don't mind, but I prefer to eat before it gets cold."

  He placed his cigar in the ashtray, leaving it to burn slowly on its own. A covered silver platter sat on the desk in front of him. He removed the lid and sniffed at the billow of steam that mushroomed out. He waved the vapor away, revealing a whole fish.

  "Caught fresh this morning," he told her. "If I'd known you'd be here, I'd have ordered the same for you."

  She narrowed her eyes. He knew damn well when she'd be coming. He was the one who scheduled the meeting. Watching him lick his fat lips, she wanted nothing more than to slash him to ribbons.

  The fish raised and splayed a fin. Its mouth gasped for water that wasn't there.

  "You're eating it alive?" she asked.

  "Fresh." He whiffed more of the fish-steam. "The chef scales it, cuts some ribbing down the side, and seasons it. It's truly scrumptious. You'll have to try it sometime."

  "So you skin, slice it, and dump salt in its wounds?" she asked with a voice full of disdain.

  "Yes, and then we eat it." He smiled as if pleased by his own refined tastes.

  "Did you want to discuss the reports? Or have I been summoned so I could watch you eat a live fish?" She hoped he'd spill his guts quickly so she could leave.

  "What's Non up to these days? I rarely see him anymore," Haste said with a sneaky oily-looking smile that said he was trying to evade her question.

  "Non? He's around." She'd have to change tactics to get information out of this fat fuck. Non would owe her after this — owe her big.

  Fey Voletta stood and walked around the desk.

  Haste didn't look up from his meal.

  She allowed herself a shudder before she sat on the arm of Haste's chair.

  Finally, he turned. He licked his lips frantically, bits of fish stuck to his tongue. A dopey grin spread over his face as she began rubbing the back of his neck. She didn't know if it was the fish, his breath, or his body odor, but some foul smell assaulted her nose. Hidden in shadow, her left eye twitched. She leaned close.

  "You have a lot of tension in your neck. Under a lot of stress?" Her voice purred, but her mouth frowned.

  "An ounce of gold weighs a ton when you make it into a crown," said Haste. He shoveled his mouth full of fish.

  "I'm listening." She leaned a little closer.

  Haste chewed like a starving man, making grotesque, wet sounds and breathing through his nose.

  Fey Voletta imagined smashing his face into the platter, mashing it into the gasping fish. Instead, she kneaded the muscles beneath the fat of his shoulders. She couldn't feel any muscles, knotted or otherwise. She only felt fat.

  Haste groaned. "Oh, it's nothing really."

  She tried not to think about the erection Haste more than likely hid under the folds of his belly. She closed her eyes to ensure that she didn't accidentally catch a peek.

  "Come on," she coaxed. "I can see something is bothering you. It's my job to help where I can."

  She imagined the sound his nose would make as she smashed it against the silver platter.

  "Some drifter dared to threaten our security," Haste said through another mouthful of stinking fish. "But I made sure that was taken care of." He puffed out his chest like he'd just been awarded a medal.

  "Of course you did," she cooed. "And you didn't even need the Steel Jacks' help, did you?" Maybe someday she'd poison his fish. Only, she decided, if she could find a suitably horrific poison.

  "I didn't." Haste beamed.

  "Who is he?" Fey Voletta held her hands still hovering over Haste's shoulders.

  "Don't stop." Haste pleaded.

  "Tell me about the drifter."

  "Some fellow wearing a chain. Ahh that's the way." Haste sighed as Fey Voletta resumed her massaging.

  "And…"

  "Fellow with a chain and five horns on his head." Haste leaned his head down, so she could massage him better. Apparently, he'd forgotten the now-dead fish.

  "He's a troublemaker?" She made her voice velvety smooth. "The drifter?"

  "Ahh, yes. Something like that."

  "But you took care of him." She took her hand away and examined her fingernails.

  "Not yet," Haste said. "But soon. Deep in the forest, where no one will ever know."

  Fey Voletta hopped up from the arm of the chair and walked back around the desk.

  Haste's looked at her like a child whose favorite toy had been taken away.

  The idiot was just now realizing he'd said too much.

  "Was there anything else you wanted to discuss with me?" Without waiting for a reply, Fey Voletta turned and walked to the door.

  Haste sprung up to open the door. He held his arms wide and offered his cheek.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and nodded her good-bye. She'd cut her fucking eyes out before she'd let this sweaty swine touch her. />
  Haste's frown made him look like a mutt. She squeezed past him, stepped through the door, and pulled it shut behind her.

  The lock clicked.

  Fey Voletta shuddered at the thought of Haste twitching and convulsing with pleasure to the image of her in his head.

  Non would be hearing all about this atrocity and her deep, painful sacrifice. He owed her — he owed her big.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The witch and the wanderer enjoyed a cliff-side luncheon of grilled pork. The little table overlooking the swamp nearly overflowed with food. Chuggie ate heartily while Shola hummed her tune again.

  "What is that song? I know I know it," said Chuggie.

  With the voice of an angel, she sang: "Let a woman not ever be suffered to beg/ But a man may chew off his very own leg/ Where they can find peace, O let them dwell/ Though first they must walk o'er wide fields of Hell."

  "I'm taking you with me," he said, looking into her eyes.

  She didn't answer; only stared at him in confusion.

  "I can't stay here. We both know that. And I can't leave you."

  "But, Chuggie, I can't leave." She looked wounded.

  "I can't stay, you can't go. What if you could leave though? What if I got you the goat-face purse?" He pulled some meat apart with his fingers. "I need to know more about it, though. Is there anything inside?"

  "Madness." She looked at him with serious eyes. "Chuggie, you can never look inside it. Not ever."

  "Is it cursed?" Chuggie stroked his chin.

  "I don't know. I think it just is what it is."

  "Would folks kill over this purse?" Chuggie's other hand caressed his anchor.

  "Folks kill over anything. I think you know that."

  "Guess I'm goin' into town." He wished he had other choices to pick from. "Lucky thing you just gave me these fresh clothes and boots."

  "While you're there, you'll live like a king. I have plenty of currency that's good in Stagwater."

  Chuggie was about to ask her where she'd gotten the money, but he saw the tear rolling down her cheek before he got a chance.

  Chuggie to reached over and took her hand. "I see a grass hut on a sandy beach. Not another person in sight. Just you, me, the rollin' ocean, and enough coconuts to make you sick. Seagulls flappin' around all day, hollerin' at us to throw 'em crab meat."

  "You'll really go after the purse?" she sniffed.

  "I will."

  "For me?" She wiped another tear.

  "And for me. You're crazy, but I think I like that."

  A spindly scarecrow with red eyes painted on its pumpkin head lumbered around the side of the house. It looked old, like its limbs could snap off with each jerky step. Holding its arms straight out in front, it carried a dusty satchel that jangled as it walked. The scarecrow threw the satchel in Chuggie's direction, then stomped away.

  Chuggie looked inside. Coins and paper notes filled it halfway up.

  Shola jumped up and trotted away without warning. She disappeared into the house.

  Chuggie took stock of his possessions, deciding which he wanted to take on his trip. The anchor, of course, would be going. His boar-tusk pipe went into the satchel. He rummaged through his pockets and junk bag, finding little that might be useful. Just a church key, the whittling knife, and his tobacco pouch.

  Shola returned holding what looked like a short piece of black rope. He recognized it at once as a length of her knotted hair. The hair smelled like pure magic, like autumn itself, as she wrapped it around his neck and tied it.

  He beamed at her. "I'm leaving now."

  "This minute?"

  "I wanna get this over with. I'll get into town, get a room for the night, and find that purse first thing in the morning. This looks like a lot o' currency. Might be able to buy the purse off this Arden Voss character. With luck, there'll be enough left to buy an old skiff. I can float back down the river and get you. Then we can float downstream as far as the boat'll take us. How's that sound?"

  "I think you should stay tonight," she said as her clothes started sliding off again.

  Chuggie pecked her lips with a quick kiss and gathered up his gear.

  "How'd you get all this money, anyway?" he asked.

  "Make no mention of me in town," she said. "If the wrong person hears my name everything could be ruined."

  "Don't worry. I'll say my grandpa made a bunch of purses years ago out of animal faces. As he sits on his deathbed, he wishes he had them all back to take with him to the next life. My grandma, sweet angel of a woman, asked me an' my brothers to bring the purses back before he passes on. My one brother, his name's Jamick, went —."

  "I think the less said about the purse the better," Shola cut him off.

  "Really? Cuz I can blabber on like that for hours."

  "I'm sure you can. Are you sure you won't stay tonight?" As she finished, her garments fell to the ground. Her hair, tied back this time, didn't cover her breasts.

  Chuggie froze, staring at Shola's nudity. A moment later he shook his head and looked back up to her eyes.

  "Her left eye's white, and blue is the right." He touched her cheek.

  It pained him greatly to do so, but he left her standing there naked under the afternoon sun. He wanted to remember her just that way, to use that memory like fuel. She'd told him about the route along the river that would take him to town much faster than going through the swamps. With a satchel full of cash and a nude woman behind him, Chuggie marched toward Stagwater.

  He held her hair to his nose and inhaled her scent as he left.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Dustiv Dawes wanted Fey Voletta more than he'd ever wanted anything else in his life. He always saw her around town looking miserable. Men with chiseled features and heavy wallets courted her in a seemingly endless stream, but gossips said she turned them all away. Dawes knew why. They weren't true men of action. Of course, neither was he. Yet.

  Fey Voletta had spoken to him on two separate occasions. The first instance occurred at the summer festival. At the crowd's edge, she'd looked him dead in the eye and sighed, "I need to get out of this place." Then she swept out of the square like the wind.

  The second time, he'd seen her walking down the street next to a Steel Jack. He jogged to catch up, hoping there'd be an opportunity to gain her attention. He couldn't hear her words, but she spoke angrily to the Steel Jack, something no one else would ever dare to do. Dawes had yet to catch his breath when she stopped without warning in front of him. He nearly ran into her when she turned and pointed a red-tipped finger at his chest.

  "How about you? Would you like to get me out of Shitwater and back to civilization?" Again, she looked straight into his eyes. Then, before he could manage a response, she turned and walked away.

  A woman like Fey Voletta, with her exotic mystique and dangerous beauty, needed a man who'd had great adventures. She needed a man who'd laughed in the face of death. A man, damn it all, who would take her away from Stagwater.

  Dawes wanted to be that man more than anything. No, Dawes was going to be that man.

  Dawes liked Carnietown better than the rest of the city, even though he was a Stagwater native. Natives were supposed to hate Carnies, but they fascinated him. Their romantic, nomadic lifestyle outshone Stagwater's stogy and boring daily grind like a sun next to a moon. The Carnies were like beautiful caged birds stranded in Stagwater.

  A Carnie woman named Faben Brassline interested Dawes above all other Carnie-folk. He thought of her as the key that would open the door to the rest of his life.

  Faben Brassline had once been a summoner in the Woodsmen. Their Lodge held her in good standing. If Dawes could get Faben's endorsement, he could go to the Woodsmen's Lodge and begin training. In no time at all, he knew he'd excel and become a full-fledged Woodsman himself. Then he'd find Fey Voletta, declare his love, and carry her away from Stagwater. He'd spend the rest of his days pursuing high adventure in the wilderness with a beautiful and deadly wife waiting at home.


  Of course, Dawes never told anyone about his love for Fey Voletta. So far Faben hadn't asked why he wanted to be a Woodsman. He didn't want to lie, but he suspected she wouldn't endorse him if he told her the truth. Dawes thought and thought, but so far he hadn't been able to think of what he would tell Faben when she finally asked him the question.

  Today, Dawes had books to exchange. One was a field guide to large predators. The other discussed the philosophy of the Woodsmen. Dry reading, certainly, but he'd read them cover to cover. He planned to trade them for others if he could ever find Faben's place. Dawes had been there plenty of times, but he always got turned around in the chaotic geography of Carnietown. His method for finding her house involved going toward the center of the ghetto until he got lost, and then wandering in circles until he spotted Faben's canary yellow door.

  He strode through the bustling slums, nodding at the residents. Most smiled at him and nodded back, which always impressed him. They had little reason to be happy, given their situation, but they were.

  Just a few minutes after he was sure he was lost, he looked to his left and saw the yellow door. A miracle! He had located Faben's place in record time.

  Mismatched sheeting formed the outer walls of Faben's home. It looked like all the other Carnietown hovels. The entire district looked like a heap of garbage with windows and doors thrown this way and that. As he knocked on Faben's door, Dawes felt a wave of pity for the Carnies who had to live in this mess.

  "Come in, Dawes," Faben called.

  "I finished reading these." He held up the books.

  Faben scrawled one last word in her summoner's manual and looked up at him.

  "Set them on the pile there." She pointed.

  The shanty was big enough for a bed, a table, a stove and little else. Faben kept the place clean and tidy, but Dawes doubted she'd be hosting a dinner party anytime soon.

  From the floor to the ceiling, stacks of books, thick enough to form an insulating layer, leaned against the walls. Every space that didn't hold books was crammed full of boxes. Dawes found an empty crack and stuffed the books in.