Jim Morrison's Adventures in the Afterlife

by Mick Farren

  Jim let out a low whistle. “What the hell do we have here? Jean Cocteau meets Edgar Allan Poe?”

  As if his low whistle had triggered it, a door just within Jim’s field of vision opened and a woman came into the room. Jim instinctively ducked as the woman glanced in the direction of the window, even though he was convinced that, all other things being equal, she would be unable to see him lurking in the twilight beyond the light reflected in the window glass.

  “Maybe Jean and Edgar meet Leopold Sacher-Masoch.”

  Although she wore no furs, the woman was unarguably Venus. She was dressed—encased—in a cat suit of scarlet leather, pulled skin-tight to accentuate her decidedly statuesque figure by sets of lacings that ran from armpit to ankle on either side of her body. The ensemble was completed by a matching pair of platform spikes that elevated her height to well over six feet, long cocktail gloves with similar lacing, and a voluminous chiffon bridal veil in the same color. Her hair was jet-black with a bluish sheen, styled to recall the coifs of Jane Russell and Wonder Woman. As she turned to face the window, Jim saw from her ghost-pale face, with somber eye shadow and imperious scarlet mouth, that innocence had long been displaced by hard-won experience.

  Jim stared mesmerized as the woman glanced once at the motionless, bee-covered figure and then walked to the fireplace and halted, looking down into the flames. He was sure that somewhere, somehow, he had seen her before, either lifeside or in the hereafter, but he was unable to dredge time, place, or circumstance from his fragmented recall. His first thought was of the strange and hazily recalled woman in the hallucination during his alien sex encounter, but no, it couldn’t be her. He knew instinctively that she had been fundamentally different.

  The woman inside the room contemplated the fire for a few moments, then straightened her shoulders and turned. Jim was just able to catch the expression of weary sadness that preceded this visible hardening of her resolve. She moved with the air of a woman following orders. In the exact center of the room, she positioned herself facing the fire and stood very erect. Her hands moved in a series of ritually complex motions. The air in front of her shimmered and then a dark circular walnut table suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The table was a pretty neat trick on its own, even without the simultaneous materialization of a number of objects arranged on its surface in what looked like a symbolic pattern. All the kinetic materialization Jim had ever managed was a less than reliable ability to pluck the odd, usually stale cigarette out of thin air, and that didn’t always work. The woman in red leather was clearly a past mistress in the art of raising objects from nowhere.

  The stuff on the table struck even Jim as a little strange, although hardly out of character with what he’d seen of the place so far. A long rapier, resting on a needle point and with ornate hilt, bisected the table. To one side of it lay a coiled cat-o’-nine-tails, with a Lucite handle, made from translucent optical fibers and with a tiny glowing sphere at the end of each individual lash. A branding iron in the shape of a curlicued letter S reposed on the other side of the sword, along with three square-headed iron nails at least nine inches long, a cell phone, and a clamplike device constructed from solid chrome. Jim had no idea of the purpose of this last object, except a suspicion that it was intended to cause some manner of protracted pain, likely as not to human male genitals. An earthenware jug of the kind that traditionally contained corn liquor was set slightly apart from the other items. The woman considered these objects for a few moments, then picked up the whip and flicked it experimentally, spreading the plastic thongs. As the scourge swished in the air, the tiny spheres glowed brighter, but the effect didn’t seem to please the woman. She recoiled the whip and returned it to the table. Now she picked up the sword, and as with the whip, she swung it testingly. The cold steel seemed more to her liking, and with the sword still in her right hand, she reached for the cell phone, at the same time glancing toward the door through which she had entered. Jim could hear her clearly as she spoke into the phone. “Inform Morrison that the Lady Semple has readied herself for his attendance.”

  Jim twitched. Morrison? Was she talking to him? He quickly looked around, but no sign indicated his presence had been detected. He turned back to the window and saw that a third figure had come into the room. This one Jim recognized instantly. It was him. Out of shape, with half a beard, a flabby beer gut hanging over the concha belt of his leather jeans, and the ravages of depravity and dissolution clearly showing, it was unmistakably an older version of himself.

  The older Morrison halted beside the table and stood looking down at the floor. The woman in red put down the cell phone and flexed the blade of the rapier into a tempered steel arc. “So you haven’t changed your mind?”

  The two so clearly knew each other that Jim, outside the window, wondered if his foggy recognition of the woman was some kind of displaced front-end memory at work. Inside the room, the older Morrison raised his head and met the woman’s gaze. “No, I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “There’s still time.”

  “I know that.”

  “But you’re determined to challenge my cruelty?”

  “Do I really have any other choice? We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

  The woman shrugged slightly. “Then you’d better remove your shirt.”

  The older Morrison was wearing an embroidered Mexican wedding shirt and, as he slowly stripped it off, any doubts that Jim might have had that this temporally advanced version of himself drank too much and got virtually no exercise were put to rest by the sight of his bare torso and fish-belly flesh. The woman in red again flexed the sword. “Then you know what to do, don’t you?”

  The older Morrison sighed with almost overwhelming world-weariness and reached for the jug. As far as Jim could gather, the upcoming ceremony was now so routine it was approaching a tedious normality. “Yes, I know what to do.”

  The woman flicked the sword, creating an impatient staccato whoosh. “Then you don’t need a drink first. Just do it.”

  The older Morrison put down the jug and moved to face the fireplace. He placed his hands well apart on the mantel, his arms all but fully extended. He leaned forward slightly so his pants legs wouldn’t be scorched by the flames. In that position, the mantel came to just below his chin. He moved his feet slightly apart as though starting to brace himself. His head was lowered; he might have been staring down at the flames, or perhaps his eyes were closed. Jim couldn’t quite see. The woman put the sword down on the table again, then picked up the branding iron and examined it, turning it over in her gloved hands. “My first thought was that at last it was time for me to brand you.”

  The older Morrison’s shoulders tensed. “So brand me. You, if anyone, should know enough to follow your instinct.”

  Two Viet Cong appeared in the doorway and stood silently watching. One was wearing a THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE T-shirt; Jim could only assume it was the same Charlie he had seen in the swamp, unless X-Files shirts were a trend among the Jurassic VC. Either the woman was ignoring the two guerrillas or she was unable to see them. She returned the branding iron to the table. “But then I changed my mind. I decided branding was a little too, shall we say, final. It would constitute a fresh benchmark in our relationship.”

  “Avoid fresh benchmarks at all costs.”

  The woman picked up the sword again. “Are you being funny?”

  “As funny as it’s possible to be in this position.”

  “Then that settles it.”

  Jim on the outside and the VC on the inside watched as the older Morrison turned his head slightly. “Settles what?”

  “I’m going to carve my initials on you.”

  “You’ve done that before.”

  The woman extended the point of the blade so it was not quite touching the skin of Morrison’s back. “So it’s no benchmark.”

  The older Morrison’s flesh crawled visibly as though anticipating the slicing kiss of cold steel. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as jaded a
s he first seemed. He sighed, either in sadness or surrender. “That’s true.”

  For a moment the woman sounded almost as wistful. “It’s sad, really. The mark of the last time is all but healed. You can only see the faintest white shadow of a scar.”

  “Maybe you didn’t cut it deep enough or write it big enough.”

  Her voice hardened. “Then this time it’ll be written large, you son of a bitch. Are you ready?”

  The older Morrison lowered his head. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  The woman in red took a deep breath. “Close your eyes. Don’t look at me until I’m finished, and don’t make any noise.”

  With a swift, deft movement, she traced an arching curve with the rapier point all the way from slightly below one shoulder to slightly below the other. Blood immediately welled through the lacerated skin, holding the shape of the mark for a moment and then trickling downward. The older Morrison bit his lip but, as instructed, made no sound. Outside the window Jim felt his own spine tingle. Without faltering, the woman in red reversed the path of the blade and brought it diagonally across the small of the older Morrison’s back. Then the blade curved back once more, just above the waistband of his jeans, and she finished with a small circular flourish. It was the mark of Zorro in reverse, all in a single complex stroke.

  The second initial started with a firm downstroke, but Jim would not see it finished. As the woman in red completed the first stroke, a hand fell on Jim’s shoulder, creating an ice-blue plasma flash of time distortion. Doc Holliday’s bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes were looking into his. His face was arranged in the deceptively mild half-smile of his diamond foppishness, and when he spoke, it was with the drawl of gentlemanly decadence. “This is really not a good place for you to be, my young friend. Really not a good place at all.”

  “Zero minus five minutes and counting. All spectators must now be in their places and protective eyewear should be ready.”

  With only five minutes to go before the detonation, the onlookers were torn. Obviously they didn’t want to miss the end of the cat-fight, but their God-King’s atom bomb was calling; the outcome of the confrontation between Semple the Concubine and Suchep the Whore had looked like a foregone conclusion from the moment that Suchep had stooped down and picked up the rock. Now she stood astride Semple in primitive triumph, naked but for the tatters of her skirt, body smeared with dirt, blood, and sweat, the golden collar wrapped around her wrist like a trophy, and the rock raised above her head in both hands, ready to bring it down to crush Semple’s skull and send her back to the Great Double Helix by the most direct route. Semple could do nothing. She was dizzy and her strength was gone. When Suchep had looked around for a suitable rock with which to administer the coup de grace, Semple had seen her opening, but her legs had refused to work. Now all she could do was close her eyes, accept the inevitable, and hope that any pain would be over in an instant. Acceptance wasn’t that easy, however. A part of her was still seething, resenting that she had come so far only to fail so ignominiously. When she finally returned from the pods, she doubted that she could ever face Aimee again. That is, if Aimee even existed in whatever sector of the hereafter Semple eventually emerged. Only time would tell what might happen if one of them died a second time.

  “Zero minus four minutes and counting. Protective eyewear should now be in place.”

  At the blare of the trumpets, Suchep, rock still poised, hesitated for a split second. The crowd was now yelling, goading her to finish Semple so they could settle their bets before the bomb went off. In that instant, Semple saw the last possible chance of a reprieve and took it. With an effort she would later consider superhuman, she simply kicked straight up. Her shin hit Suchep hard and squarely in the crotch. The woman gasped and staggered, and the rock dropped from her hands. One victory was all Semple needed. The magical, last-ditch burst of energy extended itself long enough for her to quickly twist and trip her off-balance opponent. Now the crowd was really torn. The catfight had taken a new lease on life, but the main event would go off in three minutes and a diminishing number of seconds.

  Semple crawled to where Suchep lay face down in the dirt. She was attempting to push herself up on her arms, but she appeared even more exhausted than Semple. Semple grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head backward so Suchep was staring straight into her face. “So you thought you were going bash my head in with a rock, did you?”

  The tables had turned so suddenly that Suchep seemed to be having trouble grasping what had happened. “I—”

  Semple slammed the woman’s confused face hard back into the dirt and then raised it again. “Thought you were going to score points with the boys by killing me, did you?”

  This time Suchep didn’t even attempt to answer. She seemed almost as resigned to her fate as Semple had been a few moments earlier, and Semple took a perverse delight in ramming her face once more into the dirt. When Semple jerked her head up again, Suchep’s nose was again bleeding. “My name is Semple McPherson, sweetheart. You’d best remember that. You made a serious mistake when you tagged me as some fragile harem pet.”

  To emphasize her point, Semple twisted her fingers viciously in Suchep’s hair. “I could kill you right now if I wanted to.”

  Because of her bloody nose, Suchep’s breath was coming in short harsh grunts. “No, please . . . don’t . . . ”

  “Are you begging me?”

  “Don’t . . . kill me . . . I . . . ”

  “Zero minus three minutes and counting.”

  Even though she was enjoying hurting this bitch who had tried to put the hurt on her, Semple realized she had to finish Suchep or let her go. She toyed with the idea of making a theatrical appeal to the crowd for a thumbs up or thumbs down, but decided they hardly merited that much respect or display. Also, she wasn’t in the mood for murder. To remain angry with this woman for long enough to beat her to death seemed a misuse of energies. Semple leaned forward and breathed into Suchep’s ear. “Just let me hear you beg.”

  Suchep’s bruised mouth twisted. “Okay, okay, I’m begging.”

  Semple had to give the woman credit for managing to retain a shred of defiance in her tone, even while begging for her life. She lowered the woman’s head slightly. “If I let go of you, you’ll just lay there, okay? No tricks? No double-cross?”

  “I swear . . . ”

  “The damned bomb’s going to go off any minute.”

  Suchep groaned. “No tricks. I swear.”

  Semple let go of Suchep’s hair, straightened up, and got wearily to her feet. True to her word, Suchep lay face down on the ground, not moving. Semple unwound the collar from the woman’s wrist. “I fear you’re going to spend the next year on your back, earning your living the old-fashioned way.”

  Semple faced the crowd as the victor, but the crowd had no time for applause. Self-interest was their only concern as they jostled to cash in their markers before the explosion. Even though many of them had made money off her at long odds, no one thought so much as to offer her a blanket with which to cover herself. Both she and the fight were history.

  “Zero minus two minutes and counting. All monitor and bunker crews must be in place. All loose objects must be secured.”

  Semple slowly turned, totally at a loss for what to do. She was beat up, dressed only in a thong bikini, and on the lam. The remnants of her skirt lay in the dust where Suchep had ripped it off her. She gathered up the tatters, wrapping them quickly around her waist as a makeshift kilt. Most of the crowd had started to move back. With the detonation so close at hand, the air of festivity had wilted, giving way to an anxious anticipation. The majority finally seemed to have grasped that Anubis’s atom bomb might be no more efficient than anything else in Necropolis. For all any of them knew, it could just as easily set fire to the atmosphere as go off as planned.

  “Zero minus ninety seconds and counting.”

  Semple noticed the protective visor she had been given in the royal enclosure was on the ground where sh
e’d dropped it at the start of the fight. She quickly picked it up and put it on. After she’d run from Anubis and battered Suchep bloody, she saw absolutely no point in being blinded by the nuclear flash. She also looped the collar around her neck. Maybe next time around it could buy her some luck instead of provoking trouble.

  “Zero minus seventy-five seconds and counting.”

  Semple knew she must have presented a decidedly odd figure in her improvised loincloth, wild disheveled hair, and black plastic visor, wearing a gold collar that was worth a small fortune, but this was no time to worry about how she looked. Almost all of the crowd had now donned various forms of what the countdown voice had called protective eyewear, investing them with a strange zombie uniformity that reminded Semple of the audiences at one of the those 3D movies back in the lifeside 1950s. The atomic explosion obviously represented something beyond mere B-movie special effects, though. The act of putting on their souvenir visors and sunglasses seemed to have helped convince the crowd that the bomb constituted more of a threat than they had previously imagined. A low-level mass apprehension was creating a general retreat toward the barriers around the royal enclosure, and a line of Nubians—with spears tipped with functional steel instead of ceremonial gold—had moved out of the enclosure to reinforce the wood and canvas barricades against a sudden nervous rush by the lower orders. The Nubians were soon augmented by rocketeer police in full riot drag, who emerged from the enclosures at a dead run. Like so much else in Necropolis, the Divine Atom Bomb Festival was now threatening to turn ugly in its final seconds.