Reanimatrix

by Pete Rawlik

  That is not to say that I did not appreciate the finer things. As a woman reveling in her freedom, I decided I would no longer rely on taxis and the idea of a chauffeur revolted me. This was solved by the purchase of an automobile, a burgundy-paneled Heron Silver Wing, and an instructor to teach me how to handle her. Benjamin Duke was a rather charming man, in a folksy way, born and raised in the backwoods of Hazzard County, Georgia. He had a woman down there and a son named Jesse. He was in Arkham to make money, he was a moonshiner and damn good at it, but all he wanted to do was go home to his darling Jessica Hogg and make a respectable woman out of her.

  He was a good driver and a good teacher, and when he discovered that I was also interested in learning how to shoot he helped me pick out guns: two surplus Colt 1911s with mother-of-pearl handles. What can I say, I’m a girl, and I like pretty things. I also like things that make loud noises and can make very large, very angry men fall to the ground and stop moving. I like that, and given what I was planning to do with my life, having a weapon like that was exactly what I needed. Not that I told Duke that. When he asked what I wanted the guns for I told him that I planned on doing some target shooting, after all, isn’t that what the rich tend to do with guns?

  Ben Duke looked at me and nearly laughed. “In my experience,” he said, “I’ve learned that the rich tend to use guns for a lot of things; shooting skeet doesn’t rate high on the list.” He never said much else about it after that. He taught me to drive and to shoot, and he never laid a hand on me, never even said anything that could be considered provocative. He never even looked at me cross-eyed. He may have been the most decent man I had ever met; it pained when the state cops caught him driving a load down out of the mountains and then sent him packing back to Georgia with a broken wrist and one less eye.

  That had been June, and the first part of July, and I spent the rest of that month and all of August practicing out by Satan’s Ledge. I learned how to shoot with one gun in each hand, and how to roll my shoulders to absorb the recoil. It took me a lot of time and money and bullets but I eventually became rather proficient. I wasn’t going to win any awards for my marksmanship, but I could do better than just hitting the broadside of a barn. When my holsters finally came in, one for the outside of my thigh, and the other for under my arm, I felt truly invincible, but knew that Ben would warn me about being too cocky. Still, I had a right to be. I was very good with the guns, and it was a talent I suspected I would need if I planned on finding my mother.

  It was in that quest to find my missing parent that in early September I climbed into the Heron and drove toward Essex Bay, hunting for the unmarked dirt and gravel road that led into the salt marsh that was the fringe of the estuary. Saltonstall had refused to tell me anything about it, but one of his associates had been less discreet. It took me half the morning, and I went down too many dead ends, but I eventually found the immense gray barn with the tin roof that sat on massive wooden pilings above the high water line. A handful of cars were parked in front, and I could see a bevy of boats moored on the far side. Gulls lined the peaked metal roof, squabbling over territory like widows over a widower. It didn’t matter that in an hour or so the roof would be too hot to perch on; right now it was something to squawk about.

  I didn’t get three steps onto the stairs before a porterhouse steak of a man stepped out of the shadows and warned me off. “This here’s a private club, miss. I suggest you get back in your fancy car and go back the way you came.”

  “A private club,” I retorted. “Is this Porgy’s Fish House? If so, then I am a member, and I would like to talk to Mr. Porgy.”

  The walking slab of meat chuckled as I handed him the membership card that I had found amongst my mother’s things. “You ain’t no member, we ain’t used these cards in more than five years.” He flipped it over and looked at the name typed on the back, and then looked me in the eye. “Elizabeth Halsey.” He let the name roll around on his tongue. “I knew Elizabeth Halsey, and you ain’t her. Now get before I have to hurt you.” He pocketed the card.

  I slipped a hand inside my jacket and felt for one of my Colts. It was cold and heavy, and it made me feel powerful just touching it. “Elizabeth Halsey was my mother, my name is Megan, Megan Halsey-Griffith.” I had hoped by using my hyphenated name a sense of authority would be invoked. “If I could, I would like to talk to Mr. Porgy.”

  Porterhouse huffed, turned, and told me to follow, all the time chuckling to himself. “Mr. Porgy, that’s rich, ain’t never heard that one before.”

  The inside of the building was dim, but even with just a few lights burning I could tell it was cavernous. An old man was pushing a broom, while his twin stood stacking glassware behind an ornately carved bar easily a hundred feet long. A man in a suit was in the corner cuddled up with a young woman less than half his age. She was smiling, keeping her eyes locked on his and stroking his ear with her right hand. Off to the side, at one of the larger tables, three men and another young woman sat going over a ledger. Two of the men, both dressed rather casually, flanked the third, who wore a rather smart charcoal suit. Charcoal was bigger than Porterhouse and seemed enraptured by the woman who was making notes in the ledger. She was not much older than me, with her dark hair cut in a bob that accented her round face. She wore a man’s pinstripe suit that failed to hide her ample bust. While she wrote with her right hand, she held a cigarette in her left.

  Porterhouse sat me down in a chair and told me to wait quietly. He then careened across the floor not so much like a bull in a china shop, but like a bull who had been fed nothing but beer for three days and then shoved into a china shop. I was absolutely stunned that anyone could be so obviously sober and still have so little grace. Perhaps this was why he had been relegated to standing guard outside.

  He handed the card I had given him to one of the casually dressed men, and the three of them passed it back and forth, like it was something they had never expected to see again before tossing it onto the table next to the ledger. The smartly dressed woman finished what she was writing and then nonchalantly picked the piece of cardboard up. She looked at it, flipped a few pages in her ledger, confirmed something, and then nodded her head. She never once looked at me, or any of the men that were around her. Porterhouse waved me over and as I crossed the floor he lumbered away.

  When I got close enough one of the men spoke. “Don’t sit. You have one minute to explain what you’re doing here and why we shouldn’t take you out in the inlet and make sure you never come back.” I don’t know which one said it, and it didn’t seem to matter.

  “Mr. Porgy,” I was trying not to stammer. “My name is Megan Halsey-Griffith, I inherited my mother’s estate back in March. There was a request for payment of annual dues to Porgy’s Fish House. I came to see what exactly I was being invited to join.”

  Charcoal looked me up and down with big watery eyes. “You want to be a member, what are you, eighteen?”

  “Just,” I snapped back. I thought they were going to bust a gut, or at least fall out of their chairs in hysterics.

  The woman in the pinstripe suit closed her book with a snap and in doing so shut her three compatriots down. “Give us some space, boys.” Her voice was smooth and when she spoke smoke poured out of her mouth like molasses from a barrel. She didn’t have to ask twice, and as the table cleared she motioned for me to sit.

  “My name is Maris Fiske, my father was George Fiske, they called him Porgy, as in Georgy Porgy, this was his place. He’s been gone almost ten years now, I run it now, didn’t seem like there was a reason to change it, and I much prefer being called Porgy over Maris.”

  “What’s wrong with Maris?”

  “Where I come from, up the coast, in Innsmouth, half the girls are named Maris. It’s a thing, you know? It’s either Maris or Octavia, one or the other; folks up in Innsmouth aren’t too creative when it comes to naming their kids.” She took a drag from her cigarette and let the cherry burn bright. “Now, what can I do for you?”r />
  “I was wondering what you do here, what my mother was doing here, and why she seemed to keep a membership to a club even after she disappeared.”

  She smiled. “Porgy’s is a social club for men with refined and unusual tastes. We provide dockage for private vessels, we host fishing tournaments, in the fall we go duck hunting, and we have a thousand acres of forest where our members can hunt deer, pheasant, and wild boar, even raccoons if you are so inclined.” She took a final drag of her cigarette and then crushed it out. “Do you hunt, Miss Halsey-Griffith?”

  “No,” I said, “but I would be interested in learning how.”

  She nodded ominously. “A word of advice, then. Next time, leave the gun behind. The holsters you bought are cut for a man, not a woman, and you’re not only walking funny but that bulge in your jacket is making everybody in here twitchy. We’re a friendly bunch, you be nice and honest, and we’ll be nice and honest. Is that clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Good.” The way she said it, there were at least three syllables. “Now honestly, why are you here?”

  I took a deep breath. “My mother is missing, I intend to find her. I thought perhaps you, well, someone here, might know something, give me some clue as to where she might be.”

  She shook her head slowly and deliberately. “I wish I could help you, I truly do, but I haven’t seen your mother in years. We do sorely miss her; she was very . . . popular with both the club staff and the members.”

  “This isn’t really a sporting club, is it? What really goes on here?”

  “Everything I’ve told you is true.”

  “But what haven’t you told me?”

  “Would you like to know?” There was a hint of excitement in her eyes. “You’re Liz’s daughter, if you want to know, you only have to ask.” I leaned in across the table. “I want to know.”

  “Then follow me.”

  We didn’t go far. The room she led me to was rich in décor, all satin drapes and velvet curtains. There was a lounge to one side, and it was here that Maris had me sit and then found a spot for herself that was too close for my comfort. The center of the room was occupied by a sumptuous circular bed covered in red satin sheets, turned rich like a dark cherry by the warm light of the candelabra. Lounging there in the flickering light were two bodies, one male and one female, a nude couple, unashamed by their exposed state.

  “Alex, Amber, would you be so kind as to entertain us?” It wasn’t really a request. “Miss Halsey-Griffith, I must warn you to remain very still. Amber can be quite unpredictable when she is aroused. If you must speak, whisper softly, but only if you must.” Her hand was suddenly on my knee.

  The man slid back into the light, exposing himself completely; he was a magnificent specimen, with dusky skin, well-defined muscles, dark hair, and piercing black eyes; I though him an Egyptian or perhaps a Syrian, or even perhaps a Spanish Moor. As for his partner, the woman called Amber, she was a most unusual beauty. She was small, perhaps five inches over five feet, with wide hips and shoulders, and small, firm breasts with points that sat unusually high. Her hair was cut short, shorter than that of her partner, and this accentuated her large, wide-set eyes and her broad, flat nose. On her neck, on both sides, behind her jaw and below her small ears, there were large semicircular scars that caught the light and glittered with an alluring beauty.

  She was smiling and moving rhythmically; her hands were wrapped around Alex’s phallus and were gently rubbing and massaging the growing member. I have already said how attractive Alex was; what I have not mentioned was the sheer size of what sat between his legs. I may not be the best to judge, for admittedly my experience in such matters is limited, but I was simply astounded by the length and girth of the wand of flesh that hung there. What was even more startling, was that under Amber’s expert hands it was growing larger, swelling into something akin to a small baseball bat, straight and stiff. Even from a distance I could see the fat pulsating vein that snaked up the side and beat in time with his racing heart.

  I watched as she ran her hands over Alex’s body, teasing and tempting, drawing him slowly toward the brink of total satisfaction. I watched his legs tense and his back arch; he was suddenly thrusting against Amber’s hand, but she was having none of it. With thumb and forefinger she wrapped around the base of him and applied pressure to a critical locale. With her other hand she forced him back down to the bed, calmed his thrusting pelvis, and in mere moments coaxed him away from the edge. He whined in disappointment, but only briefly, for he knew what was to come next.

  Amber leaned forward on her haunches and laid her head down in his lap. I watched as she opened her mouth, saw the small, translucent teeth that dwelled there, and then let loose her tongue. It was large, preternaturally so, longer than the member that it flicked and teased, and then coiled around. It squeezed and danced around that stiff pole, drawing him up toward Amber’s mouth. I watched as she engulfed the head of his cock, her lips stretched thin. I thought it impossible, for he was so large, so thick, but I could see the bulge of him as he pressed against her cheek from the inside.

  I swear I heard something crack as Amber shifted and suddenly pulled back slightly. She arched her back and brought her throat back in line with her mouth, and then surged forward, forcing a few more inches down. On the side of her neck those weird, glittering semicircular scars cracked open and revealed something red and wet inside. Those flaps of skin found their own rhythm and with each beat Amber inched forward, and I could see her throat swell as it filled.

  I remembered Maris’s warning but couldn’t resist asking, “How can she . . . ?” But I didn’t know how to finish that question.

  “Breathe?” added Maris. “Those slits on her throat are primitive gills, they oxygenate her blood. She doesn’t need to breathe. A neat little trick, don’t you think?”

  Amber leaned forward, shaking her head like an animal and forcing herself down toward the base of her lover’s tool. In a single quick thrust she buried her face in the neat thatch of hair that he kept there. I could see the muscles in Amber’s throat contract and release, massaging what was inside, driving her lover once more to the brink of ecstasy. He wrapped his legs around her shoulders and drove himself even farther inside, as if that was even possible. His hands clenched down into the sheets and his head arched back, opening his mouth in an agonizing cry of unfettered pleasure. He was thrusting against her face, once, twice, thrice. And then he shuddered, fell back, and lay still.

  Alex may have finished, but Amber still had to extract herself, and she did so slowly, taking exacting care to maximize the unendurable pleasure that the now-hypersensitive Alex was suffering. With each motion Alex gasped in terrific and unimaginable pleasure, until at last the whole of Alex’s rapidly deflating member flopped out of Amber’s mouth and came to a rest on his thigh, still oozing fluid.

  In an instant Maris was by Amber’s side, using a towel to wipe the spittle and whatever else from her lips and chin. There was a look of joy in Amber’s eyes, a look of satisfaction, a look I had never seen before, and it stirred something down inside me. Without warning Maris was suddenly kissing Amber; it was an intimate gesture, more intimate than what I had just witnessed between Amber and Alex, and I turned away, ashamed at violating their privacy. But at the same time that odd feeling deep inside was growing, blossoming, and my mind was suddenly a torrent of confused and contradictory thoughts.

  Maris was suddenly back at my side with a small snifter of brandy, and I swallowed it faster than I should have, letting its warmth fill my stomach and spread through my veins and nerves. “You’re saying my mother used to . . .”

  “Well, not that exactly. Amber and her sisters have certain anatomical gifts that your mother lacked, but yes, she was capable of similar acts. She was a master of the erotic arts.”

  “She worked for you?”

  “Not at first, she was simply a member in the beginning, but after the money ran out, before she married your stepfat
her. Yes, she worked here.”

  “My mother was a whore.” I was whispering again, embarrassed by the sudden revelation.

  “Don’t think of it that way. It is, after all, the oldest profession. Women have been doing it for millennia; only in recent years has society suddenly deemed the act unacceptable.” She lit a cigarette. “And no, your mother was never one of my girls.”

  “But you said she worked here.”

  “But not as one of my girls. I told you she was an artist, an expert. We can’t have that kind of skill employed here. None of the other girls would make any money.” She was smiling as I squirmed. “Your mother was a teacher, she taught most of the girls here. Hell, she taught Amber how to do that thing with her throat.” I saw Amber smile and nod.

  The room was suddenly spinning, and almost everything inside was screaming, “Run!”, but there was a small, tiny voice that said something else, something that leaked out in a whispering cry. “Teach me.”

  Maris turned away as those words left my lips, but Amber perked up, as did Alex. They both watched as Maris considered my request.