The Black Dog Eats the City

by Kelso, Chris

  This girl is 18, strikingly pale, strikingly beautiful and waif. Her cheeks have a sharp angularity that looks almost lethal, but her plump lips bud outwards in soft vermillion. She doesn’t have a single trace of The Black Dog on her. The first thing she says is “I love you”, followed by “I have all your books”— which she does, even the ill-received Larry Lurkin trilogy which she’s re-stratified into a new order running favourite to least (book 2 first, then 1, then 3). The girl’s name is Claude and she has a bursting rucksack full of my material.

  I took her in and she’s been here since. This apartment is as much Claude’s as it is mine. As committed partisans of the gainfully unemployed our arrangement can only ever flourish. Claude indulges me and enjoys my nihilistic aphorisms.

  ME: Is there anything more exhausting than the enthusiasm of other people?

  CLAUDE: (smiling widely) If there is I can’t think of it.

  ME: What are your plans for today?

  CLAUDE: Reading Larry Lurkin 2, the one where he sews his daughter up inside the belly of a horse to teach her the psychosexual traumas of a man.

  ME: That was a poorly received book and a thoroughly chastised scene…

  CLAUDE: I think it’s brilliant.

  ME: (buoyant) The Galeries du Carrousel has just opened, would you care to go? They’ve also renovated the Richelieu wing at the Louvre…

  CLAUDE: I’d love to go out with you…

  During the day we go out and do things. I haven’t done things in years. She sits on my balcony all night trapped in the prison of reading, reading MY books! A sense of completeness washes over me and suddenly Claude has delivered everything I have strived for as a writer my whole career, in a mere week’s company. I am satisfied and have no desire to write.

  I believe in her.

  ~

  Claude is stretching out on my divan naked, straining a reach that exposes the jagged contours of her ribcage beneath her tight cloak of pink flesh. She tells me she is my long-lost daughter. I believe her.

  My health returns. The disease appears to be regressing, The Black Dog is heeling. I am full of life again.

  I think I know who her mother was too, I think. A torrid affair I’d had when I was 25, a French woman whose name I can’t quite recall. She was a florist and had a possessive nature that eventually sent me running for the hills. She and Claude shared a similar physiognomy only the mother had more of an artistic temperament.

  ((I realise I am unhappy. I cannot work. I cannot write. Since the arrival of Claude, I haven’t written a single word. The zine is pressuring me to complete my Bosch parody. It won’t come. Worse still, I have begun to resent Claude for the reaction she has elicited in me. My creative faculties dulled by the heady sediments of her presence, of her implicit adoration, her patience, her beauty and her kindness. I need darkness to make a living, and she is oppressing this darkness by trying to send big spotlights of sunshine into it.Love has no dominion in my world, nor should it ever!Suspicion has overcome my mind— the apartment reeks of evil, paranoid dreams where my bones are picked clean by vultures with the heads of famous literary icons. Claude has to go…))

  (((I glower at the girl as she quietly eats breakfast. Claude now feels like an intruder, a virus. Not long ago, I was so certain she was the cure. In an effort to force her out I have begun behaving like a brute towards her, unfortunately Claude cannot be deterred. I have tried beating her, insulting her, even imposing myself on her sexually, but it won’t come. In fact, it only seems to intensify Claude’s affection for me.I tell her I have an illness and that I want to die alone. But she won’t hear it. She tries to fill my life with hope and reassurances that a cure is on the horizon. I cannot write.)))

  ((((I am becoming homicidal. This little bitch with her fucking sunny disposition— makes me sick, makes me want to get rid of her the old fashioned way.))))

  Iwake up to the sound of plates smashing. Pulling myself from the sweat sated bed, I shrug on a robe and head to the source. A woman is in my kitchen dropping plates onto the floor. All the cupboards have been emptied and the drawers yanked free and voided of their contents.

  The woman is middle aged, she is faintly familiar but her presence as an intruder in my home has left me too indignant to dwell on this fact. I demand to know who she is and what she is doing in my apartment. The woman ignores me and continues to destroy my good ceramic. I advance on the woman and seize her by the wrists. Up close her familiarity becomes something else, I have known her intimately.

  It’s Claude’s mother, only she is even more emaciated and wild eyed than I remember. She seems to be suffering from some severe wasting disease. I release her wrists and she looks at me like a wounded child. I ask her where Claude is. The woman looks at me with disgust.

  —I am Claude you idiot, look at me…

  The words do not register. I tell her this cannot be. She slaps me hard across the left cheek and leaves a ringing in my ears.

  —You have hurt me… you finally hurt me just like you promised— she says, backing against the refrigerator as if I were the one who’d just struck her.

  I tell her I don’t understand. Then it hits me. Somehow, Claude has absorbed my disease. I’ve somehow transferred the Black Dog onto her.

  —I had no idea this was contagious…— she says, choking on her words while submitting to hysterical panic.

  —It isn’t…— I plead with her, begging her to believe me, but she is stubborn and her mind is made up.

  ~

  Claude passed on a month ago. The doctor said the infection had caused her bones to become brittle and her stomach to ingest itself, which explained her aged appearance.

  I handled all the funeral preparations personally and sent out letters to people who may have known her or would be able to notify her next of kin. On the day of her memorial service in the Père Lachaise there were no mourners. I placed a wreath on her gravestone and left Claude behind.

  I am still here, alive and well and writing effortlessly again. I know it won’t be long until my body and mind succumbs to even greater afflictions.

  There will be plenty more Claude’s to help me through… plenty more girls to take The Black Dog for a walk…

  Fairfax came back into waking reality around an hour or so later, the environment of microgravity allowed him to drift from his bunk to his feet as though he were weightless. At times he fell foul to bouts of space sickness. He had once been very good at acclimatising. Swallowing an anti-nausea pill, Fairfax felt The Black Dog present even in his artificial reality.

  His temporal lobes ached with the forced entry of the router. Before the introduction of silicon based cephalic attachment technology, Hollow Earth residents underwent serial sectioning. That was an incredibly primitive method looking back. They used to have to insert nano-tech cables directly into the CNS as well as the forearms. A freezing gel was then sent intravenously to the neurons inside. Young teenagers and the elderly struggled with the brief but extreme pain of such an elaborate method and so it was changed to suit.

  Gringo Gallop

  Lester was bleeding out at an uncanny rate. The map was clear enough to see but Lester was fading in and out of consciousness too frequently to make any sense of it. He could feel the course brick of the wall against his back. He was ready to pass out. The hobo took this opportunity to steal his wallet and run-off. Everything was now sodium lamped by a prism of gloom.

  —Hell is other people. Good luck asshole.

  Lester’s mouth was so dry and his heart so grief laden that he was unable to utter a response. Lester’s concern about The Cure was also disappearing. He only wanted to sleep, to evaporate, to stop thinking. If The Black Dog wanted him, he could have him. He was sick of going in a circle all the time. It was a fitting enough setting, the cul-de-sac, the eternal alley, gangway to the stinking city…

  Lester was vaguely aware of the on-going chaos around him, of the energetically insane and the viciously infected. He let his head fall limp
, his chin tucked into his chest. Tears eked out of the narrowing slits of his eyes. He didn’t really know why he was crying, Lester felt next to nothing definable— just overpowering weariness. Lester looked at his shredded wrists and couldn’t see the scrimshaw anymore. He wasn’t sure if it was no longer visible because of the blur of tears that obscured his vision, or something else— that there was never a map there in the first place. Lester realised he’d been checked out and tricked by The Black Dog. In broad daylight. He was struck by the fact it seemed to have an owner, someone who dragged it around on a leash— a man! Maybe the Black Dog was nothing more than a servant to a more human evil?

  —I have what you came all this way for. I have the cure— a voice whispered.

  Lester felt compelled to resist it.

  —What’s the point, huh? What’s the fuckin point?

  —The point is we can save a lot of people. I can save you!

  —I don’t want your cure buddy…

  —But you came all this way for nothing? You came to hell and now you’re just going to give up?

  —Once you’ve been to hell all you can do is give up…

  You just can’t win, you just can’t win, you just can’t win, you just can’t win…

  Hell is other people…

  Hollow Earth used a nuclear reactor for propulsion. A month ago an engineer working in the reactor room fell critically ill. They think it might’ve been The Black Dog. No one ever found out if the worker survived but it was enough to scare most of us into taking a more serious interest in the monthly remits.

  Going outside ones room wasn’t encouraged. Neither was mixing with other cabin mates (Unless an individual is fully uploaded they are expected to live in complete seclusion). Exceptions were permitted to families who wished to remain together. Often Fairfax had been tempted to open his door. He knew of a girl who lived across the hall. He believed that at some point she had been his girlfriend. Maintenance say that any associations made after long plug in sessions should be avoided. The remit clearly states— Mainframe inertia caused by a return to conscious dominion can alter ones state of mind. A burn out period of 20 minutes must be allowed in order for full reliable cognisance to return. By the time dependable awareness is restored it’s necessary to plug back in.

  Inner City Red

  Manuscript

  Written by

  -----?-----

  ACT-ONE

  CLUB CRIMSON

  (Opening shot— The Black Dog sits in the darkest corner of the room like a fractured spider. He leers out at the world from behind the sealed vent, cooling himself on the rising breeze that came in through the open balcony doors.)

  Narrator— Tom’s groin ached. He didn’t know it, but Paul was lying dead in the other room. The past year, an absorbing feeling of lust had enveloped the entire apartment and everyone in it. The 3 tenants all fucked each other, mercilessly. Tom fucked Chase, Chase fucked Paul, and on the occasional drunken dalliance, Tom and Paul had been known to fuck each other too.

  It wasn’t as complicated as it all sounds…

  Tom is with that girlfriend of his— no one is sure if she’s actually his girlfriend but you can sure hear them screwing a lot; canvases of pop art are forever descending from the stucco, ornaments tumbling from their mantles. Chase has had enough, gone out to listen to something else. To everyone else’s knowledge, Paul has just stayed in his room, probably jacking off with his ear pressed to the wall.

  (Tom and his girl have both just gotten out a shower together. Tom is blot drying his genitals with a towel. He tells the girl to bend over. The girl sucks her teeth and bends over in front of him. She is excited, like a young kid who hasn’t yet mastered her sexual enthusiasm.

  The girl has a tattoo on the small of her back, a ‘tramp stamp’ most people called it, but Tom likes it personally. He likes trashy girls. He grabs her by the wrist and directs her to the bed. His loins are still aching. From behind, Tom pushes his tongue into her salty hair and laps at her for a few minutes until she is suitably moist.

  He lowers his belly onto hers, pushes his penis into her.

  She moans.)

  ~

  (Tom takes a drag, holds the smoke in his lungs, then blows a plume out the window. Wire City is still loud even in the wee hours. He leans on the balcony, observes the cityscape. His toes flex. Back in the bedroom, the girl wriggles back into her jeans. Tom stares at her, thinks she looks better, firmer when stuffed tightly into the clutch of denim.

  Narrator— The girl, Susie I think was her name, an artist or something from Chelsea, rubs her stomach.

  Susie— I had too much wine.

  (Tom snorts and goes back into the room. He sits on the bed next to her. Tom is naked save for his underwear and socks. He goes to the gym every other day and has very few reservations about frolicking around in his nude— in fact, he’s maybe a little too proud of his physique.)

  Tom— I’ll get you a glass of water…

  (Tom is suddenly cut off by the girl’s piercing shriek. She lifts the embroidered helm of her t-shirt— something is moving around within the strictures of Susie’s abdomen. A worm like contour…)

  Tom— What the…?

  (Suzie stands up, runs to the bathroom and locks the door behind her. Tom tries to get her out. After 5 minutes of knocking and coaxing he gives up, decides to give her some time to collect herself. Eventually the door lock unhinges and Susie emerges looking much happier, relieved even.)

  Tom— Jesus, um… you okay?

  (The girl smiles and nods)

  Tom— Come on I’ll get you home.

  (On his way out the door Tom knocks once on Paul’s door and tells him— I’ll be back in half an hour. There is no reply but Tom figures Paul is probably asleep, jacking off or fucking a girl himself. He gathers up the keys from a ceramic bowl in the hallway and escorts Susie out the front door.)

  (Halfway down the staircase Tom and Susie bump into Chase.)

  Chase— You guys finally done suckin’ each other dry then?

  (Tom grunts and pushes past. Chase has a stack of college books gripped to her chest and she is wearing large novelty sunglasses even though it’s night out.)

  Tom— Come on, we wanna beat the crosstown traffic.

  (In the car ride back into Midtown Susie seems full of life again)

  Susie— I wanna go to a club— the girl declares stretching out, dragging her long pink fingernails across the ceiling of Tom’s car.

  Tom— Jeez Susie, I dunno. I mean you should really go see a doctor about that thing in your belly.

  Susie— Gah! Hello, I’m fine!

  Tom— I dunno…

  Susie— Hey, you don’t gotta come square. Just pull over here and I’ll find someone who can handle a good time.

  Tom— Come on Susie, you’re bein’ dumb…

  Susie— I ain’t bein’ dumb you fuckin’ fag, let me out.

  Tom— I thought you had a fuckin’ exhibition tomorra’?

  Susie— I’ll scream motherfucker!

  Tom— Okay, okay!

  (Tom pulls the car into the lot behind CRIMSON)

  Susie— This place is a dump.

  Tom— Hey, it’s a club bitch, and it’s close, now get the fuck outta my car and go start having fun.

  (Susie reluctantly gets out of the car. Enter club)

  (The Crimson club is a dingy looking edifice from the outside— the busted symbol is a neon teardrop. Inside things aren’t much better.

  Tom sees Steve from work sitting at the bar and goes over to say hello.

  Susie has disappeared into the small crush of bodies shambling around on the dance-floor)

  Tom— Steve how are ya?

  (Steve looks distracted but feigns a smile)

  Steve— Hey man, what brings you out this time of night to this shit hole?

  Tom— This crazy girl I’ve hooked up with.

  (Tom tries to pick her out of the crowd but she’s become indistinguishable)

 
Steve— How’s the job, huh?— (Tom asks, dropping onto the stool next to Steve)

  Steve— Yeah… it’s okay…

  Tom— Okay??

  Steve— Yeah… it’s okay, yeah

  Tom— Jeez Steve, no offense, but you could show a little more gratitude, huh? I thought you loved the movies?

  Steve— I do, hey, and I appreciate you pulling some strings man. I really do.

  Tom— Then perk up about it!

  Steve— It’s just… Mr. Larson.

  Tom— Okay, so what about him?

  Steve— I kinda get the feeling he, um… hates me.

  Tom— Awe shit man, Larson is tough on all the newbies. You ain’t nothin’ special. We all have to go through his bullshit.