As Judith was about to return to the kitchen, the doorbell rang. That was fast, thought Judith. Good old Doctor Dora!
But it was their neighbour Raymond at the door. “Hello, Judith, dear. I’m so sorry to be barging in like this, but I was wondering if I could borrow a cup of brain butter? I need it for dinner tonight, and I hadn’t realized that we were out.”
“Huh — ”
“Mmm. Is that your brain stew I’m smelling? You know, you’ve never given me that recipe.”
“I — ”
“Judith, dear. How rude of me! You must be exhausted. All those preparations for the big party.”
“Basil is . . . I mean . . . Yes, I’ve got some brain butter. Just come in the kitchen.” Judith had no time to deal with Raymond. How that man could natter! Couldn’t he see she was in the middle of a crisis, here?
On his way to the kitchen, Raymond noticed Basil on the couch. “Still the same old Basil! Napping while you run yourself ragged. You should whip that man into shape sometime, Judith, dear.”
Judith’s patience had just about run out. She opened her mouth to give her neighbour a piece of her mind, but Raymond was saved by the doorbell.
Judith had hoped to get Raymond out before the doctor arrived. She didn’t want him to gossip about Basil’s health, especially now, when all she wanted was a nice anniversary party without having to worry what people said about her and Basil behind their backs. Maybe she could shoo him out the back door?
“Raymond, dear, could you maybe get the butter yourself and see yourself out by the back? As you said, I’m so dreadfully busy, and that would help me.” The doorbell rang again.
“Of course, Judith. So sorry.” Raymond gently patted Judith’s arm; it took all her self-control not to sock him one.
As he headed for the kitchen, Judith opened the door on the third ring. This time it really was Doctor Dora.
The war between Giovanni and Basil raged on, with no victor in sight.
After Doctor Dora left, Judith’s anxiety grew. The doctor had recommended hospital care, and Judith knew that Basil would just hate that. She’d told the doctor that she’d have to think about it.
The problem was that Doctor Dora had not been able to diagnose Basil. As far as the doctor could tell, there was nothing wrong with Basil. She couldn’t explain why he was unconscious and unresponsive.
Responsive! That word sparked an idea. Basil loved her brain stew so much. There was still some left in the pot. What if she fed him some? Maybe that would bring him out of it. It certainly couldn’t hurt.
It seemed like nothing could break the stalemate. Giovanni had sorcerous might on his side, but Basil had the advantage of fighting on his home turf, his own body.
And then Judith poured some brain stew down Basil’s throat.
Basil’s favourite dish. The taste distracted him for a split second, and that was just enough for Giovanni to gain the advantage and push Basil’s conscience down into some dim cellar of the mind the two now shared. Giovanni could have obliterated Basil completely, but he was afraid of the consequences. He might inadvertently kill himself in the process.
Giovanni regained control. He stirred Basil’s body awake.
When Basil regained consciousness, Judith started asking him questions, but he shushed her, saying, “I’m just so nervous and excited about our anniversary, baby; it’s making me realize how much you mean to me.”
And then he kissed her, almost shyly, like he’d never done it before.
Well this was one change she didn’t mind. Basil had never been so romantic before. Talking about their anniversary that way, and then that tender kiss, his mouth maggots tickling her lips. Those new eyes of his had really made a difference. She hoped they’d last, or at least have a lasting effect!
Then he picked her up in his arms and led her to the bedroom.
In all his years of service to the dark lord Yamesh-Lot, never had Giovanni been called upon to do something as disgusting as having sex with a zombie in a bed of mud.
He had to admit, though, that the mud felt really good, soothing his decaying flesh. These zombies appeared to be immortal, and somehow they regenerated skin and organs just fast enough to keep most of their skeletal frames covered, but not so fast as to lose that permanent veneer of putrid decay.
When he’d pressed his maggot-filled mouth onto Judith’s maggot-filled vulva, it required all his self-discipline to keep up his role as the enthusiastically enamoured Basil.
Afterward, he’d told her how he wanted to decorate the backyard for the party “so it would be just perfect,” and what could she do but agree?
Judith couldn’t remember Basil ever having been so assertive before. At first she’d enjoyed how he was showing so much interest in their anniversary party. She fell in love with him all over again.
But then, despite herself, she started to resent him. He grew increasingly bossy, insisting that things be exactly the way he wanted them. If she showed any hesitation, he’d start having sex with her with such vigour that she found herself unable to deny him anything.
She couldn’t recognize her husband or her marriage, torn between missing the comfort of how things had always been and thrilling at the excitement of Basil’s newfound virility and unpredictability.
Of all Giovanni’s preparations for summoning Yamesh-Lot back to this plane of existence, the torches laid out in the shape of a star was the one he’d had to work the hardest to convince Judith to accept. She just didn’t like fire — was quite afraid of it, in fact. Maybe these creatures were particularly vulnerable to fire? In any case, after a weekend outing at a fleshie slaughterhouse — where, for a fee, you could watch a zombie butcher rip apart live humans and, if you were lucky, maybe even get splattered by a bit of gore — followed by a five-hour sex session next to a lake of raw sewage, she finally relented.
Judith wanted to be loved, and Giovanni was grateful that Basil had done such a poor job of it all these centuries. It made his work easier now.
So the big day was finally here. The guests had started to file into the backyard, the torches had been lit in the proper order, the animal skins had been hung just right, the appropriate mystical sigils had been painted on the available surfaces.
These abominations wanted a party. He’d show them a good time.
George and Raymond were the last of the guests to arrive. “Happy anniversary!” Raymond squealed while George handed Judith their gift.
Judith gracefully accepted the Negro curtains from George and Raymond. “Did you guess that we were sounding you out that day at the mall?” Raymond asked. “We were so thrilled that you liked this shade.”
Maybe she could “accidentally” burn these curtains or something? Maybe Basil’s torches would be good for something after all? There was no way she was going to put these up in her house.
Biting down her irritation, Judith disentangled herself from her neighbours to see how Basil was dealing with the guests.
Why was Basil embarrassing her so? Yes, Judith liked all the sex and romance in their lives nowadays, but she had to admit that, in the end, she’d made up her mind that she preferred the old Basil. The one she could predict. The one she could control. The one who wasn’t so weird.
Basil lined up the confused guests in a spiral around the torches. He asked them to join hands; he was so excited it was as if he were standing in front of an open vat of fresh brains.
Basil waved to Judith, “Come on, darling! The fun’s about to start!”
Yes! Giovanni sensed Yamesh-Lot’s presence prodding at the edge of his consciousness with increasing force. The ritual was working. Soon the dark lord of nightmares would once again roam the Earth. He would rid the world of this zombie pestilence. Giovanni would once again be free to prey on mortals to assuage his god’s hunger.
These zombies merrily chanted the invocation Giovanni had taught them, following the steps the sorcerer had marked on the ground. These fools had no idea they were summoning t
heir own doom!
The chant reached its conclusion; the dancing stopped. The sky grew dark; and Yamesh-Lot appeared: a gigantic chaos of dark tendrils that sprang from the centre of the star defined by the torches. Yamesh-Lot towered over the zombie suburb, blending with the darkness of the sky. The god’s power flooded Giovanni’s mind, and the sorcerer laughed loudly.
Yamesh-Lot’s thick, gooey substance fully materialized. He captured the gathered zombies, wrapping them in His dark tendrils, preparing to consume their essence and transform them into nightmare acolytes who would haunt humanity’s dreams in His name.
And then the zombies started to eat Giovanni’s god. They chomped ravenously on the tendrils; they chewed and swallowed the black god meat like it was the best meal they’d ever had.
Giovanni felt his god’s pain sear through him. The sorcerer screamed and fell on the ground writhing.
Berserk with feeding rage, the zombies ate through Yamesh-Lot’s body with relentless ferocity.
Giovanni felt his god’s presence fade. The ancient sorcerer — still ensconced within Basil — fainted, and then finally died, along with his god.
Basil never did tell Judith that he’d been possessed by the spirit of a fleshie animal. It was just too embarrassing. He had witnessed everything Giovanni had done with his body, but had been unable to act.
He’d noticed that Judith hadn’t been altogether displeased by Giovanni’s behaviour, and he wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of knowing that it had been someone else who had been so romantic with her. He’d never hear the end of it.
After that weirdness at the wedding anniversary party, as far as Basil could tell, the animal who’d invaded his mind was gone for good. What a relief! And the guests had sure enjoyed that unexpected snack. On the other hand, his suave jet-black eyes had turned a dull brown, and whereas they had seemed impervious to rot before, he felt them start to go mushy on him. He sighed. More spending.
No more black eyes for him, though. He’d get the cheapest eyes he could find next time; and he’d go alone. It had been Judith who’d insisted on the black eyes. That woman and all her ideas!
The funny thing, though, was that, a few hours after the party, Judith’s eyes turned black. As did the eyes of all their guests.
The next day, Judith complained about bad dreams in which fleshies hunted her down, burned her body, and dropped the ashes into a dark pit, while gigantic black eyes looked down from the sky.
Judith gouged out her eyes, but they grew back.
ROMAN PREDATOR’S CHIMERIC ODYSSEY
Already, dusk encroaches on daylight, and Luna, lushly green, hangs in the sky, its fullness announcing the hunt. Roman’s mouth waters at the thought of fresh meat. It rained on the night of the last full moon, and the one before that; the monthly hunt is taboo on such occasions. Now, the only clouds are thin and wispy. It will not rain tonight. It must not. Roman does not want to be denied again.
Exhaling pungent smoke, he passes the joint to the smiling teenage girl next to him — he forgets her name — and gets up from the grass at the foot of Mount Royal. Nearby, bare-chested young men play tam-tams, girls dancing around them, shedding their clothes.
Roman has had enough of being around people. He runs, first to the beat of the music, then gradually finds his own rhythm.
He runs up the mountain. He runs along well-worn paths, avoiding the tangle of branches, so he can go fast, faster, faster. He hopes to lose his nervous edge in the adrenaline rush. But the exertion has the opposite effect. His body yearns for the hunt.
Roman is worried that he might not be chosen as the Wolf’s avatar tonight. He has been leading the hunt for the past five years, and he’s been hunting for more than ten. That’s longer than most hunters last. Soon, he knows, the Bishop will choose another to incarnate the Wolf, and Roman’s hunting days will be over. As former pack leader, he would not submit to his replacement. Better to retire. The priests know this, and they wouldn’t call on him to join another’s pack.
He reaches the familiar lookout; some of the ancient concrete still peeks through the groundcover. The city stretches below him, stopping at the Wall, the centuries-old structure that keeps Montreal safe from the wild beasts and uncivilized peoples who inhabit the rest of the island. Once, the city was the whole island. Now the Wall defines the city’s limits.
A loud cracking thunders from the sky. Roman turns his head toward the noise, cursing this unexpected turn in the weather. But there’s no sign of rain. In the darkening but clear sky, something streaks groundward. Before he can contemplate this occurrence further, the church bells ring. Finally. Roman follows the path westward, up the mountain and down again, to the Oratory.
Night has fallen. The sixty hunters have gathered — unclothed, ready to receive the Wolf, should they be called. There are two new faces: Lyana and Paul, replacing Phil and Van. Van, barely old enough to be called a man, was killed by a chimera in the previous hunt, his first outing; Phil, an experienced hunter, died not in the hunt but in his bed, after weeks spent coughing blood.
Lyana and Paul will hunt tonight. New graduates are always chosen. Kill or be killed, a harsh lesson all hunters learn quickly. Tonight, for the first time, the youths will be called by their full names.
Naked save for giant Wolf masks that cover not only their faces but also their chests, twelve acolytes pound the hunting drums. Roman’s heart thumps in step. Behind him, unmasked acolytes in black robes tend the bonfires. Beyond the flames, behind the gates, on the streets and on the roofs of nearby buildings, people watch the ritual.
Twelve Wolf-masked priests clad in layers of wolf furs walk down the steps, their masks narrow but tall, extending a full metre above their shoulders. The priests carry goblets decorated with Wolf effigies. Each priest walks to a drummer, then turns toward the assembled hunters, holding a goblet as if in offering.
The drumming slows but gets louder. The Bishop emerges from atop the long, high staircase. She holds a leash; on the end of the leash is a muzzled wolf. A sacred beast engineered by priests versed in the arts of transmogrification of the flesh.
The Bishop is naked. She is more than two metres tall, a monument of both fat and muscle. Her limbs are twice the girth of an average man’s. Her ample thighs give way to massive hips. Her floppy breasts are held up by her belly, which spreads outward in every direction. Her neck disappears into the bloated globe of her face. She is completely hairless, from head to toe. Her light-brown skin is decorated with phosphorescent tattoos of the Wolf. She walks forward, holding the leash tight, and the wolf must step forward lest it be crushed by her bulk. The drums match her steps. She stops halfway down the long staircase. The drums grow quieter; they become nearly imperceptible, a subliminal collective heartbeat.
The first priest calls Paul Wayfinder; the second, Lyana Bloodmouth. Ten others are called. The chosen hunters each walk to their priest. In a solemn choreography, the hunters pull viscous knives from the goblets before them. Holding their left hands over the receptacles, they slice their palms, letting the blood drip into the goblets, into which they then dip their wounded hands. The drums sound one almost deafening boom and then stop. The hunters pull out their hands and stretch their healed palms toward the crowd.
There are forty-eight remaining hunters, many of them with young and strong bodies — good choices to welcome the Wolf. Roman, convinced he will not be called, can almost taste his disappointment.
In the silence, the Bishop’s deep voice shouts a name: “Roman Predator.”
Roman almost swoons as the anticipatory tension seeps out of his body. But the newly resumed beat of the drums gets his heart beating, his blood flowing.
The unchosen hunters retreat to the edge of the Oratory grounds.
Holding raw, juicy ground meat in her hands, a naked, shaven, unadorned acolyte emerges from behind the Bishop. The acolyte, almost breastless, no more than thirteen years old, is comically petite next to the massive Bishop. But Roman does not la
ugh. He positions himself facing the Oratory’s staircase, three metres from its foot.
The acolyte kneels in front of the muzzled wolf and pushes the meat in its face.
The wolf snarls and thrashes, tries to break free, but the Bishop keeps a tight, powerful hold on the leash.
Still holding the meat, the acolyte steps backward, turns, and continues down the stairs, each step echoed by the drums. The girl stops once she reaches Roman. Even without the Wolf in him, Roman can smell her. Her young, oiled skin. But Roman keeps his eyes fixed on the wolf.
The young acolyte smears the meat on Roman’s naked body, lingering on the neck, the chest, the belly, the crotch.
The wolf stares back at Roman, pulling at the leash.
The acolyte stands up and pushes her meat-covered fingers into Roman’s mouth. He licks them clean.
Amidst a flurry of chaotic drum beats, she runs back up the stairs, vanishing behind the Bishop.
The Bishop unleashes the wolf. The drummers intensify the furious beat. The muzzle falls from the animal’s face, and it races down the steps toward Roman.
To prove his worth as pack leader, to incarnate the Wolf, Roman must kill the sacred beast. He has never failed this test.
Roman waits until the wolf is less than a metre from him. Then, just as the wolf’s jaws are about to close on his stomach, the hunter somersaults above the beast, flipping around in mid-air. Stomach-first, Roman lands on the wolf’s back, grabs the animal’s head, crushes its eyes with his thumbs, then begins to twist its neck. But, for the first time in the five years Roman has been called to be the avatar, the ritual wolf shakes him off.
The blinded animal lunges toward Roman, its open mouth reaching for his crotch. He rolls away — barely in time. As the wolf’s jaws snap shut, its teeth tear a strip of flesh from Roman’s thigh.
Never before has a ritual wolf drawn Roman’s blood. Rage fills the hunter. He kicks the wolf in the throat and jumps up to grab it from the back. This time, he gets a good grip on the head and succeeds in breaking the animal’s neck.
Objects of Worship Page 14