by Rhys Hughes
“Time to get on with the task at hand.”
Getting on with the task at hand is something directors keep shouting at me to do. At hand is usually a dick. Sometimes two, three, maybe as many as ten or twenty. I’ve seen it all, done it all, swallowed it all, returned in one piece with my mind not too messed up, because I’m a veteran, a professional, or so I thought before Twisthorn revealed what was expected of me. Then I realised how shallow were the depths I’d already plumbed. But he didn’t tell me just yet. Patience.
He held open the door of the coffee shop and I passed through and stood blinking in the sunlight. Then he lifted one big clay hand to provide shade for both of us. Maybe he thought I needed a cooler head before I was ready to know the rest. If so, he was right.
* * * * *
King Sciron of Nekrotzar never gave the order to stop building. Blocks of stone were cut from the ground and added to other blocks continuously. The walls kept rising and rising. Towers were completed, turrets, domes and chambers, only to serve as the foundations for more towers, turrets, domes and chambers. Because the planet had no magma under its surface, the builders could dig it all up and shape it into blocks if necessary. That’s what they did. Eventually the total mass of the planet was converted into the palace. One of the wonders of the universe.
A giant palace adrift in space. King Sciron had his personal chambers at the centre. But he often liked to ascend the spiral staircase to the tallest turret. There was a balcony there without a rail that looked over the stars, comets, pulsars, other lost planets. Whenever he wanted to punish someone for an offence, he invited them onto the balcony of that turret and ordered them to kneel before him. Then he kicked them over the edge. The bodies are probably still falling, if they haven’t already been burned up in younger suns.
* * * * *
Life is weird. I walk down the street with a big grey golem and who’s the one that attracts all the attention? Yeah right. Car horns blared. A grinning fellow came up, tried to shake my hand and didn’t look abashed when I refused. “Excuse me, but are you Breath O’Dicks? Man, I love your flicks, loved what you did to that cyclops in A Good Hard Pluck. Never saw anything like that before!”
To my annoyance Twisthorn leaned into the conversation. “What exactly did he do? I missed that film.”
The grinning fellow grinned more intensely. “Levered the chump’s eye out with his purple throbbing man meat. Best brow-job I ever saw in any flick and I’ve seen all of his . . . ”
I held up my hand to prevent further gushing. I’ve done the same in my few straight porn films too. “For a cyclops a blink is the same as a wink,” I said in my most profound voice.
Both Twisthorn and my fan were bewildered. “Huh?”
Truth is, so was I. Why had I uttered that weird maxim? As the blind elk said when he looked in the mirror: no eye deer.
There I go again. Rambling.
* * * * *
It’s mostly the drugs, all the painkillers they pumped into my veins after Twisthorn knocked the crap out of me. I’m still flooded with that liquid junk. But I was a bit vague before my beating. Disorganised aspirations and weak fanaticism, that’s how they defined me back in the days when they thought I might be team material.
Which reminded me: I still wanted to know where Hapi and Abortia were. Up north was too vague an answer to satisfy me. I can’t say I ached to see them, I don’t ache much emotionally, just physically and a lot of that, but they had been friends, to a small degree at least. Neither ever tried to stick objects up my rectum. That’s my definition of polite behaviour. I was still grateful, always will be.
“Mount Snæfell,” said Twisthorn.
“Iceland, you mean? What are they doing there? It’s a bit weird: you mentioned Jules Verne in the coffee shop and I remember that he wrote a book about two explorers . . . ”
Twisthorn just smiled. “Coincidences happen all the time.”
“What other monsters are working for the Agency? Did you manage to persuade any to sign a contract?”
Twisthorn shook his head. “We tried for years but it came to nothing. Guttersnipe Chutney is dead, Upside Downey Jr isn’t interested, Ruby dubDub and Snagtooth Toasta can’t be contacted . . . But the professor did make a foot before he died.”
“Yeah? I’d like to meet a man-made foot.”
“Dancin’ Daze is her name, she’s Hapi’s wife as a matter of fact, but she’s off on a mission of her own—infiltrating the Glastonbury Music Festival with orders to kill as many attendees as possible while they are stoned or drunk or sleeping.”
“That’s marvellous,” I said dubiously.
“I hope the owls don’t peck her,” Twisthorn sighed, “in the middle of the night, when she’s about her murderous business, hopping from tent to tent, stamping and crushing.”
“A dreadful thought,” I mumbled.
“There was a giant radioactive Belgian ant I wish I had working for us, but it didn’t happen. He was against us and I had to kill him. His name was Billy Them and he was named after a film. Can you guess which one? Billy. Them. Any ideas?”
“Not one of my films, that’s for sure!” I babbled.
“Correct. Billy Liar is the answer.”
“This has nothing much to do with Nekrotzar, does it?”
“Nope,” admitted Twisthorn.
“So what part do I play?” I wondered. “What does the Agency want me to do? You know my talents. I’m the ectoplasm guy. Fill me in properly, will you?”
“The book found by Marvin Carnacki outlined many rituals connected with Nekrotzar. Where did this book come from originally? We’re still working on that. Marvin himself doesn’t know. The rituals are sex-magic oriented. A special kind of sex. Gay sex. Rampant gay sex.”
“I’m not the only one ploughing that furrow,” I protested.
“Extremely peculiar rampant gay sex, to be perfectly candid. We needed an expert. Believe me, you’re the only one who can do what’s required. The Agency never lost interest in you. It has all your films in a locked archive. I watched one last week for research purposes.”
I was dubious. “Really? Which one?”
Twisthorn winced. “The group sex zombie flick, I Spit-Roast on Your Graves. Not really my thing. But nice plotting.”
“Thanks. Early work but mature enough.”
He rubbed his glazed chin. “What do you think of Marvin Carnacki?”
“Nothing special. An old fuddy duddy. A typical amateur investigator of the paranormal. Fusty, musty.”
“No, I mean, how would you rate his appearance?”
“Very bad. Why do you ask?”
“Could you ever consider doing with him the sort of things you get up to in your films? To save the world . . . ”
“Is this a hypothetical question?”
He said nothing, twitched not a facial muscle, and I suddenly knew why the Agency wanted me. To be their stud. With that horrible old man. I was too shocked to utter any word of protest. I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes and laughed sourly. Twisthorn rested a hand on my shoulder in a sympathetic manner. Maybe he thought I needed some obvious sign of support before giving my considered reply, but I was actually struggling for adequate words to denigrate the physical, emotional and intellectual appeal of Marvin Carnacki. Wrinkled geriatric, mouldy antique, sagging drooler!
As if reading my thoughts, Twisthorn nodded. “Yeah, he’s not much of a looker. I don’t envy you. Sorry.”
“We all have to make sacrifices. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. You’re one of the heroes.”
Smiling, I acknowledged the compliment, but I was furious with myself. Why had I said that? Was I going soft?
But I’ve always been soft.
I’m the ectoplasm guy. Remember?
* * * * *
Twisthorn’s no prude but he’s no swinger either. His mentor was none other than the Director of the Agency, Professor Shylock Cherlomsky, and courtesy and discretion were part of h
is upbringing as well as his nature. Yet I kept fretting over what he was really thinking about my involvement in whatever was about to happen.
Did he regard me with disgust, as an abomination hardly better than the vampires and ghouls he had to smash? I don’t think so. He never made me feel ashamed about what I did for a living. On the other hand I didn’t detect approval in his attitude either. I had to satisfy myself with the answer that he was an absolute professional.
I watched him killing moths late that night when he thought nobody was around. French moths they were. He couldn’t entice them with a naked flame in case he exploded, so he painted one of his fingers the colour of fire and wiggled it like a blazing tongue lick, and those devious moths came and he crushed them with his other hand.
Such a dedicated and ruthless golem!
* * * * *
A special room in one of the least visited parts of one of the Agency’s old auxiliary buildings had been prepared for the ritual. I wore a white dressing gown, one of my own. When Marvin Carnacki entered I felt sick. He was dressed like a pasha from an obsolete eastern empire. Green curly slippers, loose scarlet pantaloons, a billowing orange blouse, an elaborate turban of blue silk. His fingers glittered with silver rings. I thought I heard whistles of disbelief from the shadows, from behind the screens where Twisthorn and the other Agency officials waited.
I muttered, “Do there have to be so many observers? I don’t see the necessity for it. Rank voyeurism!”
“All the systems in place are there to accord with regulations,” replied Twisthorn in an apologetic tone.
“Sure,” I snorted. “Let’s get it over with.”
Marvin Carnacki batted his eyelashes and I’m sorry to say that I forgot my heroism and actually retched. But nothing solid or liquid came up. I had deliberately starved myself for twenty-four hours, an important part of pre-ceremony purification.
But Marvin decided to take offence. “No need for that. I’m swallowing my pride as well.”
“Now you’ve raised the issue,” I remarked, “I still don’t understand why you came to us in the first place. Descendant of the famous ghost finder! The first Carnacki would disown you if he knew. Why can’t you handle the crisis back at your own Institute?”
“Can’t you guess?” he sneered.
“You discovered the existence of Nekrotzar and diverted it onto collision course with Earth. You knew that astronomers would detect it soon enough and warn the governments of the world. You gambled that the Agency would get involved but be powerless to prevent the catastrophe. Then the Carnacki Institute would step in and put everything right, because only your group had the necessary rituals at their disposal. It was supposed to be a way of showing the Agency you were a force to be reckoned with.”
“The boy has some brains,” sniffed Marvin.
“That’s right, buddy,” I said.
“Time to disrobe, gentlemen!” called Twisthorn. “Clothes are a disgusting abomination anyway!”
Marvin began to unbutton his blouse. “Nothing turned out the way we planned. We performed the sex ritual to divert the course of Nekrotzar but there were errors in the procedure.”
I shook my head. “Sloppy work, my friend.”
“How right you are! A few small mistakes with big side effects. There was a blast that destroyed the antique furniture and killed the membership of the Institute, all except me. I survived because I was at the bottom of the pile of squirming, thrusting bodies . . . ”
“An explosion. Any other side effects?” I asked casually as I cast off my dressing gown. I’ve always found that indulging in light conversation helps to reduce the embarrassment. Not by much, true, but we take what little we can get in this world. And in the next.
“Nothing major. One random dead person from Earth has possibly been resurrected on Nekrotzar.”
“Must learn how to hold orgies more carefully.”
“I can’t argue with that,” he said as he removed his pantaloons. I smiled mirthlessly at the irony of the situation. Diverting Nekrotzar onto collision course with Earth had been the easy part, achievable from a distance, but diverting it a second time, away from our own world, was a far harder task. Somebody had to actually go there and physically steer it.
The book had mentioned a rudder in the throne room of King Sciron, unbelievable as that sounds. Twisthorn was the only one capable of doing this. Marvin and I were just there to open up a doorway.
“There were twenty others involved in the first sex ritual,” pointed out Marvin, licking his lips in a disturbing manner. “You’ll have to mimic the roles of them all. Can you do that?”
“Just watch this,” I bellowed.
Then I bared my naked body to the glare of the spotlights. Twenty ectoplasmic nematodes sprouted from between my legs. The sight of these phantasmagoric trouser-snakes all willing to spit venom in his eye goaded Marvin into action. He held up a book and began reciting in an unintelligible language.
A mist thickened in the air, dimmed the spotlights, plugged my nostrils with a foul stench, a mixture of rectum juice and crushed fungus. Half my ectoplasmic extensions became nooses, snared Marvin, pulled him into a tight embrace. Young tongue moist as ham meshed with old tongue dry as slipper. False teeth rattled in eroded jaw. A seventy year old burp rose from shrivelled gut and passed into my own mouth, tasting of rotten cabbage and unwashed diaper. I disengaged my lips but my remaining ectoplasmic extensions sought out available orifices, plunged.
He shouldn’t have enjoyed what I did, but he did, I don’t know how. At the same time he kept chanting.
I used more force, to teach him a lesson, but the lesson wasn’t learned. I realised he was more perverse than anyone I had encountered before. Now I knew what Twisthorn had meant when he referred to the Carnacki family as decadent. The mist began congealing into blobs and falling to the floor. On the floor those blobs ran about like drops of mercury before flattening into discs. Then the discs slid together.
“The doorway to Nekrotzar!” somebody shouted.
“Get ready!” was the response.
“Another few minutes!” cried the first voice, and I was aware of the big face of Twisthorn looming through the remaining mist. He had stepped from behind the screens. He was coming. So was Marvin. My throbsters were so far up his chickadee they had poked out of his cakehole and were glaring at me like a nest of serpentine cyclops. Something to do with the reference I’d made earlier about winks and blinks? Probably not. Time seemed to slow. Then a sudden thought made me shudder. If Twisthorn crossed to Nekrotzar, how the hell would he get back?
It was too late to voice my concern on this matter. The big grey brute was already standing on the edge of the emerging doorway. But time seemed to pass at an even slower rate. I was aware of Marvin leering at me in a way that had nothing to do with lust.
“That’s right,” he panted into my ear. “Keep going.”
“Don’t have any choice,” I groaned.
“Listen carefully,” he continued. “I’ve got a proposal. How much are these Agency creeps paying you? Well I can offer more. The Carnacki Institute has many bank accounts and now the other members are dead. So I’m extremely rich. You want half this money? It’s yours if you perform one simple service.”
“You think I’m so cheap?” I spluttered.
“Yes I do. The Carnacki family was big and influential. We had a finger and eyelid in every pie. All I want is to rebuild some of my destroyed pride. That’s not much to ask. My Institute diverted Nekrotzar onto a new trajectory but couldn’t put it back on its original course. I don’t mind admitting I’ve lost face.”
“State your terms,” I growled, believing myself beyond temptation, but none of us are ever that, truly.
“All you have to do is enrol as a member of my Institute. I can formally welcome you aboard right now. There’s nobody left to veto my decision. I am the Carnacki Institute.”
“What good will that do either of us?”
“Cross ov
er to Nekrotzar with Twisthorn. He’ll have to make the perilous trip through the palace to the throne room. The instant he arrives near the throne, you can jump forward and take hold of the rudder. The credit for saving the world will belong to the Institute again! You agree? By the power invested in me I accept you as a full member!”
I arched my eyebrows. He accepted me as a full member? How true that statement was! But I wasn’t in a mood to enjoy the innuendo. “How can I persuade Twisthorn to let me accompany him on the mission? I’m not a field agent. I’m just here for this.”
“Don’t give him a choice. Hitch a ride all the way!”
And he whispered into my ear. His idea was outrageous, so weird and gross I still don’t understand why I didn’t break his evil jaw with my fist. Maybe it was the hypnotic quality of his eyes. Whatever the reason, I was infected with his madness. I howled and disengaged. The mystic doorway was ready. Twisthorn was preparing to leap through the hole. I transformed myself entirely into ectoplasm, wriggled over the surface of the floor, up Twisthorn’s left leg, between his buttocks.
I was inside his gut before he even looked down. Smug as a tapeworm I held tightly onto the lining of his intestine with little adhesive claws. In a few minutes the doorway would close. The sex magic ritual generated a temporary force only. Twisthorn had no time to have me removed by surgery or with the aid of worming medicines. He had to cross over now, with me inside. And I planned to stay exactly where I was for as long as possible. I was drunk with a feeling of transgressive power, far more drunk than I had ever been on mortal beer or wine.
Half a minute later I was totally punch drunk . . .
We had underestimated the big grey lunatic. No mortal man could thrust his own hand down his throat, into his own stomach and past it, to grab the elongated parasite inside him and wrench it out. It should go without saying that Twisthorn wasn’t a man. What I’ve just described is pretty much what he did. He used his left hand for the operation, I don’t blame him for that. First he snapped me like a whip against one of the screens, forcing me to change back into a man . . .