“Then let me take care of this,” Jane said. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Come get me tomorrow morning after Dave leaves for work, and give yourself over to me completely. After that, I’ll get everything in order and do what needs to be done.”
“What are you going to do?”
“All will reveal itself at its proper time. Tonight, I don’t want you to think about any of it. Just take off your pants, lie back, and let me bring unto you the most exquisite pleasure you have ever felt in your life.”
Janice again did as instructed. After all this time, she’d learned to simply listen to Jane, because Jane had all the answers.
When she came to the next night, everything had indeed been taken care of, and only fuzzy snapshots of the day’s events were what remained, alongside the far more tangible wreckage of what had transpired.
As she sat up in bed, wiping dried puke from her lips, the fragmented images began to compile themselves into a disjointed movie-like memory projected horribly on a cracked silver screen within her conscious mind. While nowhere near complete or even remotely sensible in terms of their modern definitions, there was enough for her to know what had gone on and, more importantly, what she would find downstairs.
It all went something like this:
Dave left for work just as he would any other normal morning. As soon as the front door closed behind him, Janice was down in the garage, drinking as much as she could in the shortest amount of time possible. Eventually she relinquished all control of her body and mind to Jane, and she went quietly to sleep somewhere deep within herself, letting Jane do everything for her, just as had been promised.
Static, blurred vision, stumbling up the stairs, pausing to puke, crawling into Austin’s bright purple room and pulling him out of bed, dragging him down into the kitchen. Even in his extreme youth and slightly challenged mental processing power, he sensed something was wrong, squirming and crying and bleating out nonsense words as Jane laid him out on the cutting board, holding him down with one hand and retrieving the butcher knife from its place on the nearby rack with the other.
More static, red everywhere, terrible hacking noises and spraying blood, thuck thuck thuck and quickly the crying stopped and there was just thuck thuck thuck and stickiness and more puking and more thuck-ing until she had a sufficient amount of meat for the task at hand, no, more than was sufficient…she had a surplus, and that simply would not do, so she gathered up the extra bits that would be too difficult to cook and carried them dripping into the bathroom, dumping them into the toilet, flushing and flushing and flushing but they wouldn’t go down so the toilet bowl was left to runneth over with chunky red water that stained its pearly white porcelain sides in grimy streaks, and Jane shook her head in frustration and stuffed some of the overflowing pieces into the garbage can and then went back to the kitchen, turning on the oven and filling Janice’s largest pot with water, setting it atop the stove to boil and in the meantime jamming the gory pieces into the big blender and then switching it on, forgetting to put the top back upon it and so fleshy scarlet goop shot up onto the ceiling and she screamed angrily and slammed the top on and then watched the meaty hunks swirl around and around and around while the blood on the ceiling dripped down onto her head. After an appropriate amount of swirling and churning, she unplugged the blender and carried it over to the stove, where she then dumped its contents into the steaming bubbles, and oh the smell, so she went upstairs and dabbed two tissues into Dave’s cologne and stuck them far up her nostrils and then went back downstairs to finish. She stirred and stirred and added salt and sugar and seasoning and whatever else seemed appropriate until…
Stew.
Into a big round Tupperware container it went, then into the refrigerator, blood everywhere everywhere everywhere on the ceiling, on the floor, on the stove, on her, more static, more fuzz, and then she passed out for a while and woke back up just in time to take the stew out of the fridge and pour it into a white ceramic bowl and microwave it, and then she went upstairs and clumsily changed into clean clothes before setting the bowl of stew on the coffee table in the living room, turning on the football game, and then greeting Dave at the door, telling him dinner was ready, and that he could eat on the couch just this once, and then leading him into the living room because of course he must must must not see the kitchen, and he sat down and absently spooned the stew into his mouth with his eyes fixed on the TV, and he commented that though it smelled kind of funny it tasted delicious, and she could tell he really meant it, and then he asked where Austin was and Jane just lost it, collapsing into a fit of giggles on the floor and saying breathlessly I got you this time, I got you I got you I got you where it hurts, the only way to really really really hurt you and then more giggles giggles as a horrified look of realization crept onto Dave’s greening face and a moan escaped his lips as he looked down into the bowl and yes oh fuck oh gawd there was a tooth, definitely a tooth, and then the moan turned into a scream that got cut off into a gurgle as red vomit started to spurt from his paling lips and he stumbled to the bathroom and when he saw what was there he screamed even louder before it all came up in a great gush of crimson bile and he puked and puked and puked and puked until there was nothing left and he just dry heaved and made awful noises that were somewhere between screaming and crying until his throat began to tear into shredded cords and he stumbled to the garage where he kept his revolver locked in a safe and he loaded it with trembling fingers as he screamed some more even though it wasn’t really a scream at this point so much as just a weak crying whisper, and he came back in where Jane was still giggling on the living room floor and he pointed the gun at her while giant tears rolled down his face and he said why why why would you do this you killed him you killed our baby you killed my boy and he waved the gun at her, willing himself to pull the trigger but he just couldn’t for one more moment stand all the thoughts of what was going on and what had happened so he turned it on himself and shoved the barrel into his red red mouth and pulled the trigger, splattering the wall with bloody pulp and slumping down against the stained plaster while Jane just giggled and giggled and giggled and giggled and giggled and
No.
Surely this had been some sort of nightmare.
No no no.
This had not happened.
Janice swallowed a few times, her mouth tasting of vomit, and drunkenly pulled herself out of bed.
Drunkenly staggered down the hall and half-fell down the stairs.
And there it all was.
There it was.
There it is.
All of it all of it all of it true fucking true so goddamn fucking true.
Awful, how tragic, really just terrible.
Things like this don’t happen, shouldn’t happen, and yet here it is and they do.
Janice lost consciousness. For the rest of the night, she enjoyed the last peaceful oblivion she would ever have.
And now here she finds herself in the horrible present, on the porch looking out at the rain, smoking cigarettes and periodically puking into the pail, and that’s that.
Worst of all, all the liquor is gone, and with it Jane.
No one left to comfort her, no one left to take it away.
Jane had fulfilled her promise, as always, but had also left Janice to clean up the subsequent morning-after mess…as always.
But there was no cleaning this up.
Some messes just can’t be made right.
That’s what they don’t tell you, what it doesn’t tell you, and what Jane didn’t tell her humanly counterpart.
So here is Janice, left just with a rocking chair, a bucket of puke, and half a pack of Marlboros.
And the goddamn grass still isn’t blue.
Objects in Mirror
“Here’s the key to your room, Mr. McPleasant.”
McPleasant blinked at the hotel concierge and swallowed audibly. He did not remember coming here, and he did not recognize this tall, bespectacled man who was holdi
ng a red keycard out to him.
“Where am I?” McPleasant asked, in a voice that was not quite his own. He looked over his shoulder at the lobby, which was spacious and cozy, decorated with a number of couches, armchairs, and minibars.
The concierge came around the front desk and held out his hand, which McPleasant did not shake. The peculiar man seemed unbothered by this, and he said, “Welcome, Mr. McPleasant, to the Hotel Empyrean. My name is Gressil, and I’m here to accommodate to all of our guests’ wishes.”
“The Hotel Empyrean?” McPleasant said, raising his eyebrows.
Gressil smiled. “Yes, the Hotel Empyrean. The owner, whom you’ll meet eventually, thought about calling it Hotel California, but decided that it was a bit too gimmicky. He opted for irony, instead. He loves irony.”
McPleasant nodded, not really understanding. He was confused and uncomfortable, and he didn’t completely feel himself.
Then he noticed the buzzing had stopped. The buzzing that had wreaked havoc within his head all his life was completely gone. There was nothing but silence between his ears.
“Relax,” Gressil said, “what you are feeling is completely normal. It takes a bit of getting used to, being here, but it’s quite pleasant…forgive the pun…once you let it all sink in.”
“Am I dead?”
Gressil’s smile widened and he pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Do you feel dead, Mr. McPleasant?”
Of this, McPleasant was unsure. He felt strange, yes, but how could he know what being dead felt like? He felt disconnected from his body, as though his mind and his soul, if he had a soul, had become separate entities that no longer pertained to his humanly self. “I don’t know if I feel dead,” he told Gressil, thinking out loud. “I don’t know.”
“Trust your instinct. Don’t think about it too much.”
McPleasant turned around and looked at the sliding glass doors which he assumed had been the way in which he had come. He couldn’t see outside; he could only see his reflection, which seemed to be growing and shrinking simultaneously. “What’s out there?” he asked.
“Nothing important. You don’t need out there, anymore. Once you’re here, there’s no reason to leave. It’s better here. All the best people stay at the Hotel Empyrean.”
“I’m not a good person,” McPleasant stated stoically.
With a grim chuckle, Gressil replied, “I never said you were, Mr. McPleasant. I said the best people stay here, not the good people. This is paradise, and while the ‘good people,’ such as the charitable, and the conservatives, and the compassionate, like to think that they are the ones who get paradise, they’re wrong. It’s the bad folks who get the fun stuff, contrary to what that Nirvana song might lead you to believe.”
McPleasant turned back around to face the concierge. “The Meat Puppets did that song first,” he said.
Gressil waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, well, Nirvana did it better. Speaking of which, Mr. Cobain is here, too.”
“He’s dead. So, I am dead, then.”
Gressil shook his index finger back and forth. “I never said that. Death isn’t something you can just attribute to any specific person, much less yourself. It’s an abstract state of being, just like anything else, really. Now tell me, Mr. McPleasant, what do you like to do for fun?”
McPleasant surprised himself by smiling. “I like to kill people. Children and women, especially. And rape people, usually after I’ve killed them, but not always. Sometimes I eat them. Parts of them. But only sometimes.” He heard himself say this, and immediately regretted it. He wasn’t supposed to tell people those things. People got offended when they heard things like that. They got scared.
Gressil, however, seemed unperturbed. “Excellent,” he said, “you’ll fit right in with some of our guests, then. See, we pride ourselves in giving a whole new meaning to ‘room service.’ All you have to do is call the front desk from the phone in your room and tell me what you need. You want a young girl to murder and rape? No problem. As soon as you make that request, you’ll promptly have one delivered to your door.”
McPleasant bit his lip, not quite trusting what he was hearing. He didn’t believe in things that were too good to be true. “This isn’t real,” he whispered.
Gressil frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Define real, Mr. McPleasant. Reality is a very thin construct that can be broken rather easily, if you know how to do it.”
“I don’t think I know how to do it.”
Gressil’s smile returned. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
McPleasant didn’t answer, and instead went to sit down on the nearest couch. Gressil followed and seated himself in an adjacent armchair, crossing his legs and watching McPleasant closely.
“I need a cigarette, or something,” McPleasant said. “This is…too much.”
“Pick your poison, baby.” This voice came from beside him and, startled, he turned to face it. Sitting next to him on the couch, which a moment ago been unoccupied save for him, was a tan young woman holding a tray of cigarettes. She was dressed only in a short grass skirt, and she had long black hair that tumbled down past her bare shoulders. Her bright blue irises were mostly obscured by her enormously dilated pupils.
With a shaking hand, McPleasant reached out and took a pack of Marlboros. He opened it and put one in his mouth, and the girl leaned over and lit it for him.
“This is it,” Gressil said, taking off his glasses and wiping them with his tie. “This is what we get, Sterling. Listen, you need to relax. How are you feeling right now?”
McPleasant took a deep drag from the cigarette and let the thick smoke waft from between his lips. He nodded slowly and said, “I feel…good. It was…strange, at first, but now it’s…good.”
Gressil folded his hands on his lap, smiling broadly. “Yes, as you should. Think about what we have going on, here. Think about how glorious it is.”
McPleasant ashed his cigarette on the girl’s tan leg. He half-expected her to react negatively, but she just looked at him, blinked, and grinned. “What is it that we have going on here?” he asked Gressil, hitting the Marlboro again.
“Everything,” the concierge answered quietly. “The ‘good people,’ they go through life with the idea that poverty is noble and that graciousness will bring them peace, but what do they get? Nothing, Sterling, they get nothing. They stagger from one event to the next, blinded by hope and faith and fuck knows what else, and then they end up buried under a mound of dirt while the worms and the insects violate their corpses. But not us, Mr. McPleasant, not us. Indulgence is the name of our game, isn’t it? You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He gazed at McPleasant expectantly over the rims of his glasses.
“Yes,” McPleasant replied. “Yes, I know exactly what you are talking about.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The paranoia, the feeling of disorientated confusion, had given way to warmth, to a sense of belonging. He was here, and it was good.
“We have something beautiful, here,” Gressil continued. “This is enlightened paradise. This is the truth.”
McPleasant felt the girl beside him gently nudge his shoulder, and he opened his eyes. She was holding out a shining red apple, her strange eyes urging him to take it. He did, and he held it in his palm, looking at it with fascination as he puffed from his cigarette. “I thought the boss didn’t like gimmicks,” he said, more to himself than to Gressil. He was transfixed by the fruit in his hand, the fruit that seemed far too glossy to be anything but wax or polished plastic but which McPleasant was sure was real.
“You’re confusing gimmick with tradition, Mr. McPleasant. What you have in your hand is a kind of ritualistic icon. It’s almost a…talisman, if you will.”
McPleasant weighed the apple in his hand, running his thumb over its smooth surface, over the reflection of his wild-eyed face that shined up at him. “Now is the part where I take a bite, I assume?”
Gressil said solemnly, “No, now is the part where you do what you fe
el you must. Do what you want, Sterling. There are no rules here. Once you figure things out, once you understand things for what they are, there is no need for rules. Rules become irrelevant. Order maintains itself through chaos.”
McPleasant raised the apple to his mouth and took a large bite. He chewed thoughtfully, and then he let the morsel of fruit sit idly on his tongue as he absorbed whatever essence was emanating from it. After a few silent moments, he swallowed, and the bit of apple that slipped down his throat felt no larger than a dime. Smaller than that, even, just a mere speck of energy and sharp sweetness.
He handed the apple back to the girl, who took a bite from the other side and held it in her mouth the same way McPleasant had.
An electronic bell chimed from the other side of the lobby, and an elevator door opened. A young man in a white uniform came out, pushing a cart with an uneven lump of mass covered by a red-stained sheet. The man had greasy black hair that fell over one eye, and his face was sallow and sweaty, with his eyes hiding deep in their shadowy sockets.
“What’s under that sheet?” McPleasant asked, his heartbeat lurching with excitement.
“Someone’s idea of a good time,” answered Gressil with a sly smirk. “Like I said, Mr. McPleasant, we take room service to an entirely new level.”
“Fuck yes, we do,” the girl in the grass skirt said, setting aside the tray of cigarettes and moving closer to McPleasant. She put her arm around his neck and blew softly into his ear, making the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. “In this place, it’s all a cycle that never gets old. It’s the same, but it’s always something new. No restrictions, honey…only gratification.”
McPleasant started to say something, then swallowed hard when the girl slowly ran her tongue along his jawline. “I…when…how long does this go on? How long can I stay?”
Just to See Hell Page 9