Robin wept. The people closest helped the shaman to his feet. Laura and Baron and Markus Bloom tended to Robin, who was limp, and sobbing something Laura didn’t understand at first.
“Asmodeus in me, Asmodeus in me... in me! in me!”
XXI
Running into the Future
I woke up screaming in my head, with everybody dead. There was a monster in the room, and it was me. Me breathing like a monster, my tongue licking like a monster at the dry roof of my mouth. Monster me, monster mouth.
I was scared big time, but I don’t dwell on things. Just make the next move. I had to take a morning crap but not in that bathroom. I had no heart to smell my stink mixing with the smell of Dollar’s death stink.
So I packed my duffel and put the K. Farouk pistol in my pocket and left the Hotel Napa burning.
You know how it is when you don’t feel like cleaning up. The room was a mess with blood all over the place and the bed like Custer’s last fucking stand and bodies in the bathroom. I didn’t feel like explaining it to anyone who might want to put me away. I found bottles of nail polish remover and alcohol and matches and made a party with some newspapers I threw on the bed. Just let the laws of physics take care of the rest. Then I took off down the back stairs and was history before the first alarm sounded.
The streets of the Tenderloin were nasty. I walked around looking at people’s faces and getting more and more depressed. Every face I saw needed shoving in. Ugly faces that didn’t see me.
Maybe I killed a guy. Maybe he was still alive and burning up, I didn’t give a bat shit. But that didn’t give them the right to look at me like that. Like I was nothing.
I headed up to Chinatown past its fruit stands, and then to North Beach with its fruits. I could hear fire engines.
Then I did feel looked at. I stopped before a store window selling leather jackets and cowboy hats and saw a cop car reflected in it, with the cop riding, shotgun staring hard at me. I walked on fast, and when I turned a corner they were gone, but the hairs were still standing up on the backs of my hands. Like a fucking werewolf, I wasn’t used to being out in daylight, in the bright sun.
On the next block a line was forming at a bus stop. I looked around and there was the cop car, so I joined the line and kept my head down. The old lady in front of me on line said the bus would take us to a television studio, and I gave her the old ten carat smile. Television? Me? We were made for each other. The show was offering free tickets. I didn’t recognise the name of the host, but I knew that inside the bus, inside the studio, there wouldn’t be cops. It was funny: it took a hell of a lot to get on television, and nothing at all. I laughed and got on the bus.
It was a new talk show, one I didn’t know about. They packed us in on tiers of chairs looking down at the set where the host would interview people. One of the cameras was right next to me.
The host was a porky guy who looked like he was pissed off at everything. He came bouncing on the set, the applause sign flashed, we clapped, and the cameras turned to the studio audience to look at us looking at him. I knew a camera had shown my face on local TV before, but it wasn’t a thrill. This was rinky-dink.
The theme of the programme was ‘Predictions for the Year 2000’. If they asked members of the studio audience about that, and they came to me, I’d tell them the truth: the future’s going to happen anyway, no matter what we say. The future’s got it all figured out.
I watched for a while, and then I tuned out. The fat lady sitting next to me had an elbow in my ribs and I turned to tell her that. When I looked back to the set, there was my friend Anyguy. Dressed up, but it was Anyguy.
What was he doing on television?
The host said, “This is an honour, Chief... Inigahi?”
“I’m not a chief. I told you not to call me that.”
“But you’re a descendant of chiefs.”
“My grandfather called himself a healer.”
“And, I believe, your tribe lived around here. Isn’t that what you told us?”
“I am descended from the Ohlone people, who lived here in peace until they lost their luck. Now there are no more full blooded Ohlones — my uncle was the last. I’m part Welsh, myself.”
“Can you say a few words in your language?”
“I can’t speak it. No one’s alive to speak it.”
I could tell Anyguy didn’t like the host or his questions. I thought he’d probably pull out his knife and scalp the fat bastard if he wasn’t treated right.
“They say that you have powers other people don’t have. Some even say that you’re a shaman.”
“I can see into the future,” Anyguy told him. He said it matter-of-factly, like “I have to go take a piss.”
“That’s a pretty big claim, isn’t it?”
Anyguy had that ‘look-out’ look in his eye.
“Look, asshole, (they bleeped that, I’ll bet) I don’t say anything that’s not true. You asked me to come on your show.”
“Right chief. Suppose, since we’ve got a new century coming up, that you tell us a little bit about what we can expect.”
“You’ll lose your show,” Anyguy said. He was sour.
“What?”
“I’ve said what I know.”
Watching Anyguy on the set was just like talking to him on the street. He was mean-tempered and bull-headed. He could go toe to toe with Daddy, I think.
“Well, we’ll worry about that later,” the host said, but he looked nervous.
“It’s gonna be bad. Worse than this century. A lot of hungry ghosts riding straight at us.”
“What do you mean, ghosts?”
“Dead people walking. Blinking their eyes. What do you think I mean? All kinds of evil things are coming.”
“Sounds like you agree with a lot of fundamentalist Christians.”
“I don’t agree with those bastards about anything. I said ghosts will be coming — not angels.”
“Well?”
“What?” They were practically yelling at each other.
“Is that it? Ghosts are what you see in the future?”
“I said lots of them.”
There was a break and they hustled him off. I hurried to catch up with him. He was surprised to see me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Staying off the street. What the hell were you doing on television?”
“They paid real folding money. $500 to talk to the old Indian and make fun of him. I guess I set them straight.”
“Jesus. You were only on five minutes.”
“I told them something for their money, didn’t I?”
“Ghosts. Jesus Christ.”
The sun was bright on the sidewalk outside the studio. A limousine pulled out of traffic and stopped at the curb in front of us. He opened the door just like he owned it, but I figured transportation for him was part of the deal. He waved me in, and climbed in beside me. He leaned forward to rap on the partition and we took off. He sank back into the leather and closed his eyes. “I hate television.”
“Television is God.”
“Shit you say, boy.”
“I want to see my face spread across the biggest television screen in the world. Someday — this is my prediction — they’re going to hang one in space, maybe from the moon, so the whole world can watch it. And you know what? It’ll be my face that’s on that big screen, and everybody in the world will see it.”
“Let’s say that happens...”
“It has to happen. Don’t forget, you’re watching out for my luck. That’s what the future holds for Buddy.”
“But what would you say?”
“You mean once I’m up there? Once I’m famous?”
“Tell me.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got ideas.” But I knew I didn’t.
He just looked at me a long time, like he was reading in my eyes what I hadn’t said to him yet. He was waiting, and he had the time.
“You remember that hot girl, Dollar?
”
“I guess I do.”
“I found her cut up in the bathroom at the Hotel Napa. Somebody cut her bad.”
He groaned. “Is she dead?”
“She’s way past dead. He cut out her cooch.”
He groaned again, like there was a creature inside him.
“Who’s he? Who’s the son of a bitch who did it?”
I told him about Dollar’s brother then, and what he’d said.
“Flood.”
He shook his head. Shook it again. “That preacher?”
“I got to kill him, Anyguy. That’s the way the future has to go. It’ll be like stepping on a big bug.”
“She wants you to do it, doesn’t she?”
“I’m sure if Dollar could talk, she would want me to.”
“I mean Robin Flood. She wants you to.”
“How’d you know about that?” I felt a chill run down the back of my neck and I sat up straight on the plush leather seat. We were driving through a park, past a giant old building with marble columns. I didn’t want to hear his answer. He had me spooked. He had my head turned around the wrong way.
“She told me herself.”
“And just when did she do that?”
“Last night, up in the mountains. That’s why I have this limo. I’ve been travelling.”
“Tell me where she is, and I’ll go talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to see you, Buddy. I don’t know where she went.”
I knew it didn’t matter to him if I didn’t believe that. He wouldn’t tell me no matter what I did. I knew he had made up his mind.
“So that’s the long and short of it? She wants to stay clear of me?”
“She’s got something holding onto her insides. I tried to get it out, but it is very strong.”
“Her father.”
“That’s the way I see it.”
“I guess there’s no way around that, is there?”
“You’ve got blood in your eye, Buddy.”
“You want his scalp as a souvenir?”
“I want his dick in a mayonnaise jar.”
I was ready as I ever would be. He dropped me off at the bus station and I took the next bus south, headed into the future.
XXII
Pagan Goddess
Look out, Thomas Flood, Buddy Tate’s comin’ at you.
Knowing you’re going to kill someone that everyone wants killed is a very pure feeling. Figuring out exactly how to do it is confusing. In LA I took a taxi to North Hollywood, which is where the Parousia Foundation had its offices and church and television studio. We drove around until I found a cheap motel not far from Thomas Flood’s stomping grounds. It was a semi-sleazy neighbourhood with a lot of bars and pool halls, but when you walked by the buildings of the Parousia Foundation, there everything was kept up just right. The grass was clipped, the hedges were trimmed, and everything was freshly painted.
I walked around the whole operation a couple of times and didn’t have a clue what to do next. Then, outside a building I spotted a big sign for ‘TV Studio’ and followed it to what must have been the entrance. It was closed, but there was a big board with announcements on it — signs telling about the Crusade for San Francisco that was coming up, and signs for classes and workshops, and then a schedule for the Evangelical Evening News. Flood was going to be in the studio tomorrow afternoon. Free tickets were offered, so I went to get one. At least tomorrow I could go see what would be involved.
I went back to the motel and took a nap, and dreamed about Robin. She was kissing me and turning me on but when I reached down to feel her pussy she was cut up like Dollar. I woke up with a hard-on I felt bad about. Even after a cold shower it wouldn’t go down all the way. I got dressed and went out to take a walk, led by my dick on a midnight prowl.
I don’t like bars because boring people get drunk in them, but where else do you find girls in a strange neighbourhood? The first and second places I walked into were Spanish, and the next one was full of faggots, but then I got lucky. The guys sitting around the bar drinking and talking looked like Christmas was coming. Maybe they were just happy it was pay-day, but they were grinning and punching shoulders like high school kids. Even though I didn’t see any women, I ordered a beer and sat down. You could tell something was going to happen. It was the way the bartender was nervous about giving me a beer. Everybody was expecting something.
When she walked in I knew right away she was what they were expecting. She was something all right. Every man in the place watched her strut down the bar. They each said hello, or whistled. She was probably Spanish, but she was wearing a red wig. She had a narrow waist, big ta-tas, and an ass to file in your memory book. You could tell she was a hooker by the way she looked at them, as if she was figuring how long this business would take. She was dressed for action: halter, skirt, boots.
“Hey, Marcy, me first!” an old guy at the end of the bar yelled, and everybody laughed. It was a party and she was the cake.
I wondered where it would happen. There was a dark room off the bar with a pool table. That would do.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said impatiently. “My babysitter’s on overtime now.” She took off her little red jacket, put it on the bar.
“Maybe we should draw straws,” one guy said, like we might go one at a time and wait for our turn. Dweeb didn’t get it.
“First, I want my money,” she told them. “First things first.” Wallets were out in a flash. The bartender headed for me, but not to ask if I wanted a refill.
“This is kind of a private party. I’m closing up.”
“How much to join the fun? Or maybe just watch?”
“You have to ask Marcy.”
“Here’s a twenty to put in the pot. That’d be about it, right?”
“Yeah, I guess so. But you have to be a gentleman. And wear protection.”
Gang bang. I know that PC lesbofems are horrified by the thought, but it’s just a woman’s power, natural and inborn, being used to raise some cash. A fair deal for all. With a gang bang with a whore, not only is the price right, but the woman’s right. She has got to be hotter than a pistol and cooler than a rock if she’s willing to take on fifteen guys — that’s how many I counted heading into the dark pool room — at the same time. Everyone knows what it’s about, and the schedule is pretty strict: get on, get off, no bullshit, here’s your twenty, thank you ma’am.
Of course there’s male bonding. Guys like teams. Makes them feel secure to have their best buds with them on important occasions, sharing life’s little joys — like Miss Marcy. With Marcy, they could play a team sport again. It says something when you think that one woman is the equal of fifteen horny guys.
They could be boys together again enjoying a woman the way she was built to be enjoyed. No romantic muss and fuss, just the old in and out. She would strut home with a good day’s pay.
Someone turned the light on. A bare bulb over the pool table.
The bartender locked the door and it was quiet. Marcy counted the money on the bar slowly and methodically, putting it in piles. When she was satisfied she had enough to make it worth her while, she said, “Three at a time only. Everybody has to wear protection. No kissing on the lips. And I don’t like pain.” She bent over to unzip her boots and I saw her bare ass.
I joined the dog pack following the bitch in heat.
Marcy climbed up on the pool table and put her knees up, bracing her feet against the edge. When one of the guys brought his rolled-up coat for her to use as a pillow, she adjusted her wig before putting her head back, and let this glazed look come over her that I remembered from my times with LaDonna, my whore back home. She was powerful.
“All right. Who’s first? I hurt my leg on my bike yesterday, so be careful of that.”
Zippers came down, and the guy who’d suggested drawing straws was first in line. He acted embarrassed, but you could see he was so hot to get his dick wet nothing else mattered to him. He was a dog, that’s all
he was. His tongue was hanging out — but it’s not easy, being first.
You could tell he was self-conscious, climbing up on the pool table with her, but he couldn’t help himself. After all, his pants were down around his ankles, his white ass was up in the air, and he was first up at bat.
Somehow he got it in. She sighed, and turned her head for more cock. A tall guy knelt on the table and was able to reach her mouth with his rod. She French-kissed his purple knob. I was standing close to them, enjoying the sounds she made: the guy rooting in her cunt, big hand on her boob, jiggling it, the beautiful wet sound of pussy giving and taking, and her slurping as she sucked the tall guy — she was amazing.
It was like a race to see who’d be in the old swimming hole first after that. Shoes clunked to the floor, pants came down, guys stood around rolling rubbers on their weenies.
The guy who went first grunted and got down, and somebody else climbed on. I couldn’t see Marcy’s tits because hands were constantly squeezing them. Everything flickered and flowed. I’d concentrate on one scene, stroking myself, and then something else would happen. Marcy worked hard and gave value for her money.
I had something special in mind, so I waited my turn with her. Watching’s not fucking, but it can get you hot. Fifteen guys, young, old, fat, thin, in between, going primitive over a hot slut on a pool table is not a scene you’re ever likely to forget. Just the sounds and the smells made you happy to be alive, a man with his dick in his hand.
She said only three at time, but I watched her take on six at a time and barely work up a sweat. She was on her knees on the green table on top of a hairy guy with his dick up her cunt, while a muscular black dude knelt behind her with his meat buried between her cheeks. She had a dick in each hand and was giving head to two more at the same time. She was sweating and breathing hard when they let her breathe, but you could see in her eyes that it was touchdown time.
I wanted her ass so bad I thought I’d snap the condom waiting for it to be free. When the black guy climbed down from the table I saw the brown target of opportunity winking at me and I couldn’t stand it. I climbed up on the table, put my arms around her waist and grabbed her tits for grips so I could shove my johnson into glory.
Dark Matter (Modern Erotic Classics) Page 14