People keep female baboons at the tops of tall Rippington buildings to scare away scorpion flies. It all started last year, when a swarm of them migrated through the walm and took up residence in our sky.
Along with the prowler beast, a scorpion fly is one of the most dangerous species to come out of the walm. The scorpion fly looks half dragonfly and half scorpion, but is about two feet long. You’ll never find one by itself, only the mass, like a violent cloud in the distance. They feed off of whatever animal they can find, but humans are the most common meat besides bird. And, since they’re allergic to the ground, they live, sleep, and breed in the air.
A common warning in Rippington is: “Be cautious in high air.”
I’ve heard they are silent, stalking very furtively, sneaking up on you from above without your notice. Then they use their stinger in the back of your neck, and the poison is enough to paralyze you for a good three hours. During that time, the swarm devours you with limbs that resemble tridents made of corn-patterned bone. And they secrete digestive fluids from glands on their faces, to make your meat soft and easy. Nobody survives an attack from the swarm, unless in a large crowd with plenty of luck. They are too many to dodge or kill and they are too quick to run away from, but their victims are usually unaware of the scorpion flies and do not own time enough to react.
The only defense against them is a female baboon with nyminits, which are parasites that live within their female sex organs, and are fatal to the scorpion fly if ingested. Since the scorpion fly has no predators and is immune to almost every disease, the nyminits brought an unusual scare into its beady intellect. Now scorpion flies are too frightened to go within a mile radius of any female baboon.
Of course, they’ll eat the baboon’s husband if she isn’t nearby. And I bet the wife baboon thinks that this is funny sometimes, because if they get into a fight she can threaten to leave. Then the male baboon has to apologize immediately.
She says, “I’ll let the scorpion flies get you then.”
Into my God’s Eyes:
I see Christian and Leaf munching greasy burritos at a crispy table. Staring down from the pole which holds a tower shops flag — patchworked together from scraps of cloth. Slobbering and smacking sounds orchestrate their environment before a word is spoken.
The baboon squawks and slaps at herself.
Christian gorges into his burrito, squeezing green sauce into his throat, and some leftover gravy, washing it all down with Fool’s Gold.
“These are always Mr. T, guy,” Christian says with his mouth full. He always speaks with food in his mouth, and not just because he has lousy table manners, but because he thinks talking is much more fun when you can taste the words. “I wish they’d hire me as a fulltime burrito-eater.”
“That’d be a super Mr. T job,” I say.
Mr. Tis the word that replaced cool and dudical. It’s based on the guy from the television show called the A-Team and the movie Rocky III (getting the role by winning a bouncer contest, which included a midget toss). Back in the eighties, Mr. T was the epitome of cool and dudical.
Christian continues, “Even though they make them out of dog meat.”
My head is shaking no. “I bet it’s only cat meat.”
“It’s gotta be dog. Cats wouldn’t taste this good.”
“What have you got against cats?”
“They suck. I fucking hate them.”
“Doesn’t mean they taste bad…”
“I don’t care. They fucking suck.”
Leaf says, “I bet the carne asada is the dog and the carnitas is the cat.”
“No, carnitas is pork.”
“No way. I tried making a burrito with pork at home and it tastes nothing like the carnitas meat here.”
“Was it good at all?”
“It blew.”
The baboon squawks.
Christian asks, “Well, if carnitas is cat and carne asada is dog, what do you think chorizo is?”
“Guts and intestines and all that good stuff.”
“Really?”
“Sure. The man who invented it was a damn genius.”
“Well, you’d have to be a genius to make intestines and tongues taste good.”
“And rectums too.”
The baboon slaps.
I let God’s Eyes wander:
They go to a small bookstore at the bottom of the Tower Shops where the only popular author in the world is signing books. Yes, people still read books. But only out of habit. And they’ll only read the one extremely popular writer. Nobody cares to look for new ones, because they think: “He must be good if ten billion copies were printed and the cover says bestseller.”
Even if the book is terrible, they’ll buy it. Because people must read something for every last hour of every day, right before going to sleep. It doesn’t have to be good reading. It doesn’t have to be educational or enlightening. It doesn’t have to be imaginative or even entertaining. It just has to be common to the rest of the world — a book by an author everyone has heard of, so novel conversations can be more convenient.
Everyone who reads artistic novels — and there are very-very few — calls this BIG author the mega-sellout. This is what I call him too, but I don’t read novels. My eyes roll so much that I can only read comic books.
Eventually, reading altogether will be forgotten as a habit and then become nonexistent to the human world.
Writing is not an art, it is a business. It doesn’t matter what the author writes, as long as it is written quickly and is something everyone can relate to. Actually, the mega-sellout can be long-long dead already and some twice-as-terrible author can be writing books under his name, and the world will still buy the imposter’s books, even if it is completely obvious that he’s a fake.
And nobody cares. Not even me.
There is a line that goes from down the street, through the store, to the mega-sellout’s table. He’s signing a book for a nerdy wearing magnifying glasses. The nerdy doesn’t actually need glasses, but since he’s a nerdy it is his obligation to wear thick-thick glasses, even if they are fake. The author hands the book back to him.
“Thanks,” says Nerdy. “You’re the best author in the whole world.”
“Of course,” says Mega-Sellout.
Nan is the next in line. She wears dark long-limbed clothes and she’s bald with the words blonde hair tattooed on her head where the hair should have been. She drops a red book onto the table.
“This isn’t my book,” says Mega-Sellout.
“So?” Nan replies. The author bearing a suffer-dazed face. “This is a book signing, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but for my book. Not…” he glances at the cover, “Mark Amerika’s.”
“But I didn’t like your book. This one’s way better. Sign it.”
“Why should I? It’s not mine.”
“You always sign your own books. Why can’t you sign someone else’s for a change?”
“Go away you weird person.”
“R. Kelly signed my Ratt CD.”
“GET OUT!”
Nan leaves the store.
She’s a friend of mine. Well, sort of. She is the girlfriend of one of my friend/roommates besides Mort and Christian. She never talks to me, probably because I never talk to her, but I still consider her a friend. Christian doesn’t really get along with her either, but they consider each other friends too. Girls find Christian disgusting and creepy, probably because he is.
We meet her outside the tower shops, Christian still drinking gold flakes. The proper greetings are exchanged and we get down to business. I call it business, but what I’m really meaning to is: finding a way to fight boredom. It’s hard to find anything interesting to do in a world that has gone boring, but every day we try to do something exciting, always keeping busy, so that we don’t end up like the world outside of Rippington. It is necessary.
“So what’s going on tonight?” Nan asks, scratching at a hole in the armpit of her shirt.
“We got the show,” Christian says, “but there’s not much else to do.”
“There’s always something to do. You just got to figure out what that something is.”
“We could go drink…” Christian says. “I’m already buzzing, but I can get you something.”
“I don’t have that much money.” Nan squeezes her face inward like she always does. I think it’s her poor attempt at being cute. Nan is rather attractive, even though she’s a skinhead girl, but she’s too much of a tough guy to be cute.
“Are you kidding?” Christian chuckles. “You’re the richest bitch I know.”
She punches him. A common thing for Nan to do and Christian never punches her back.
I decide to speak. “We could go see Satan.”
Nan sneers at me as if I did something wrong.
I continue, word-staggering, “He moved into the empty room… behind the warehouse… by John’s.”
“I thought Mortician was just joking about that, guy.” Christian drinks some gold.
“No, it’s really Satan, the devil.”
“What is he doing here? Trying to lay the world to waste?”
“He’s opening a chain of fast food restaurants called Satan Burger, home of the deep-fried hamburger.”
“Sounds good,” Christian says.
“Sounds disgusting,” Nan says.
I say, “The first one opened up in the village. I want to go.”
Christian complains, “We can’t do that now. We just ate. Not to mention the village is too far to walk to. Maybe after the show.”
Then the three of us realize the boredom sinking in.
I stare down at the jambling carpet-sidewalk, warding off a shrug.
This is what I can see with my other eyes:
Mort is with the third of my roommates, who is Gin — a rattle-lofty fellow with hippie dreadlocks and shoes that don’t match, and he wears a shirt that says Nan’s Boyfriend. Mort is trying to set up the stage, getting little help from Gin as he never gets help from anyone. Gin just stands there, watching Mort set up the drums, drinking from his mega-drink.
“Arr, help me ye glimey bastard!” Mort says.
“I’m on break,” Gin responds.
“Hand me that cymbal.”
Gin slurps his mega-drink.
“Oi!”
The cymbal is tossed near Mort, crash-smashing.
There are five taps at the door.
“There he is,” Gin says.
“There who is?” Mort asks.
“Didn’t Nan tell you?”
Mort shrugs. Five more taps.
“I finally got you a piper.”
“Your brother’s back from Germany?”
“Yeah.” Five more taps. “The psycho looks like a techno-goth now. He says he’s ready to release his soul into the body and shaft of the music or some weird shit like that.”
Taptaptaptaptap.
They stare at each other. Gin slurps his mega-drink.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Mort asks.
Gin slurps his drink.
Pause.
Taptaptaptaptap.
Slurp.
“I’m on break,” Gin says.
“You tit.”
Taptaptap…
Mort staggers from the drum pieces, across to the door and opens to the tapper, who is Vod — a depression-faced, robot vampire of a man, dark clothes, pale skin, and… a bagpipe.
“Hello. I am Vodka.” His voice an emotionless, fake German accent. “But people do not call me Vodka. They call me Vod.”
“I’m Mort.”
“Yes, but people do not call you Mort. They call you Mortician. That is very amusing.”
“Come in then.” Mort swells with boredom in Vod’s immediate presence.
Vodka creeps into the warehouse with his fingers stretched out like batwings. Dracula-eyes scoping the details of the warehouse. Then he freezes in mid-step when he sees the toilet situated in the middle of the room. He turns to Gin and raises an eyebrow, then glances back at the toilet.
“I find your toilet most delectable,” he says. “It beckons me to sit upon it.”
Without asking permission, he sits, slowly, preparing for ultimate gratification… and a satisfying smile cracks the corners of his face. “Wonderful.”
Pause.
Mort says, “So you’re the lad with the bagpipes?”
“Ja,” Vod says, “and I’m so excited to release my soul into their shafts, and to become one with my music, that I cannot resist an erection.”
Mort’s face contorts, turning to Gin. “Wanna come with me to get the rent from John?”
“Get it yourself,” Gin says.
“I’m not going to John’s by myself. He’s… old.”
“Then take Vodka.”
Vod exclaims, “I DO NOT WISH TO LEAVE THE TOILET SEAT.”
Gin, sipping at the mega-drink, scratching a soft spot on his hip, and Mort, swinging a saber, pass an Abraham Lincoln midget as they stroll behind the warehouse.
They get to a fire engine red door in the back of the warehouse. A BIG doggie door covers half the entrance, with a sign reading, “Beware of Doggie.”
A questioning face emerges from Mort’s neck.
“That’s a big doggie door,” Gin says. “I didn’t think there were doggies that size.”
“Thought I told John he’s not allowed to have pets,” Mort says. “Arr.”
Mort hums the door buzzer.
Gin says, “Maybe it’s to scare away burglars and Mormons.”
Mort buzzes again. “He’s not answering.”
“But he’s always here.” Gin buzzes.
Pause.
Gin rubs his neck, sipping the mega-drink. “Look through the doggie door.”
“No, thanks,” says Mort, “I don’t want to see the doggie that needs a door that big.”
Gin laughs. “Afraid?”
“Arr!” Mort flips him off. “You do it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Go ahead then.”
“I will.”
“Then do it.”
“I will.”
Gin bends down, scratching a breast.
“Then do it.”
“Shut up, I’m doing it.” Gin throws open the doggie door and looks inside.
But first:
Spin-feelings rush into Gin, giving form to a large orange structure in Gin’s head which is a living being quite like the cross between a tapeworm and an apartment building. This creature is the offspring of Gin’s hangover, and Gin’s head is the incubator, pulsating warmth. It takes twenty-four hours before it will leave into the outside world, and Gin will have to bear its pain until then. He gets this infant in his head many times a week from drinking too much hard alcohol — which, of course, is gin.
And with the infant/creature handing him a blood-rushing of the head, Gin doesn’t realize the doggie on the inside of the doggie door. The doggie being of a certain breed that no one has ever seen before. It is the John breed. Well, it is actually just John himself, naked and on all fours, growling with foam. A fat, bald, middle-aged man that thinks he is an attack doggie.
Then, just as an attack doggie would, John flies toward the intruder, splashing the mega-drink between them. And Gin screams out, flap-dashing down the street with the human doggie chasing him, barking.
And Mort bends down to pick up the rent money settled on the ground just within the door, inside of an envelope with two flowers and a pencil and four paper clips and some breakfast, and the bills have little smiles drawn onto the president faces in blue ink.
The naked doggie springs at Gin’s legs, thumping him to the ground, handing him a large number of claw-scratchings.
The Abraham Lincoln midget comes to save the young man from further injuries, rapping John-doggie on the scalp with a rolled-up newspaper, which angers the wannabe doggie, turning to Lincoln midget and biting his pant leg, thrashing it about.
Gin darts
away.
Mort, from a distance, gives a cluttered face — a confused spectator watching John chase Lincoln down the street, barking and biting at his ankles.
Back to me:
I find myself reading a Mutilation Man comic book at a corner store/liquor store, and I’m not positive how I got here. Mutilation Man swirls off the page and hides under the magazine rack, which looks more like a transformer in my eyes.
Christian and Nan are searching the shelves for nice cheap liquor.
“What you want?” Christian asks, swarming his arm around Nan’s stomach.
“I don’t know. They’re all too expensive.”
“Just pick one. You can afford it.”
“Well, you’re hasty all of a sudden.”
“Bite me.”
She bites him on the chubby part of his shoulder and he screams a laugh. Then she grabs a bottle of Fork’s Gum for him.
“Whiskey?” amazed at her choice. She usually drinks butter almond rum.
Christian takes it to the cashier, a brown-haired, blond mustache-bearing man, who has never slept with a woman under the age of forty, who is now reading a newspaper.
Christian puts the bottle and his ID onto the counter.
The cashier looks up from his paper. “Eight even,” he says.
Nan throws some crumpled bills. The cashier glances at the cash and then tosses them back. “Sorry, I can’t accept this.” He goes back to his paper.
“Why not?”
“I don’t accept American money.”
Christian and Nan stare at him for a few minutes.
“How can you not accept American money in an American store?” Christian asks.
“For your information, this store isn’t in America. It’s in New Zealand.”
“No, it’s not. It’s in America.”
The cashier slams the newspaper. “Didn’t you read the sign?”
“What sign?”
The cashier jumps over the counter to the glass of the door and picks up a small piece of notebook paper with four words written in magic marker.
It reads:
WELCOME TO NEW ZEALAND
The he tapes it back to the glass.
Satan Burger Page 3