Upon my initial viewing, I had considered the film to be nothing more than a frothy morsel of soft porn. During one of his visits, Mr. Pash assured me that this work was fraught with inner meaning. “Think of the attack on the city,” he said. “Was not Aleister Crowley incessantly mocked by horned beasts?”
“I’m not entirely familiar with Crowley’s career,” I said. I knew that the man was some sort of grim mystic, but that was all, really. “No doubt the movie’s sexual aspects overshadowed the symbolism.”
“Yes and no, Roger. All activity is sexual, as are all symbols. Sex is all that is left after one dispenses with the extraneous. What were your impressions of the Atlantean temple to Uranus?”
“Wasn’t Uranus a Greek god? Still, the Atlanteans could have worshiped him, too.” I was talking like a fool, but words continued to issue from my mouth. “Needless to say, the ancient world didn’t have fluorescent plastic. It was a very confusing movie.”
“Uranus was the Heavens and Gaea was the Earth; they were the first parents, and their children were Titans.” Mr. Pash’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “Think on this, Roger. The world’s first act of love spawned giants.”
When Mr. Pash left, Bernard took it upon himself to inform me of Mr. Pash’s shortcomings. “That Mr. Pash has his nasty side. I once spilled some coffee on a cassette and he threw a fit. The coffee landed on the label and I wiped it right off. The tape was perfectly fine.”
“What was the movie?” I had never seen Mr. Pash in a foul mood and I found this news most distressing.
“One of his favorites—Spine-Eaters. New copies haven’t been available for years.”
“Then why does he even rent it out?”
Bernard shrugged. “Who knows? I told him he ought to make his own copy, but he won’t. He just rents the store tape along with everyone else.”
In Spine-Eaters, a family of cannibals was exposed to nuclear radiation in a bizarre military operation. They became as tall as trees and all the more hungry for their favorite delicacy—human spinal cords.
The summer grew even hotter and steamier. Our air-conditioning system did little to ease the swelter. The heat reminded me of the infernal jungle dimension of Flytrap Hell, where oversized meat-eating plants held sway. Bernard developed a rasping cough. Mr. Pash and I suggested that he stop smoking, but like many older people set in their ways, he refused to take advice.
Mr. Pash, ever concerned, set up a cot in the back room so that Bernard could rest if the heat made his day too taxing.
“You never met my Mrs. Spoon,” Bernard said to me one afternoon, “but that woman couldn’t pass a flat surface without looking around for a man. Still, she fried up chicken to die for. A devil and a half she was, but I treated her like a queen. I even gave her one of those fancy cocktail rings. Now it’s dangling on a string in my bedroom window. It catches the light.”
The gentlemen rented their movies in even greater quantities. Many asked why we stocked only one copy of each of our most popular selections. In turn, I asked Mr. Pash.
His reply was rather confusing. “These movies are special, Roger. There is a concentrated energy in this specialness that should not be diluted.”
I wondered what Mr. Pash would do if someone stole one of our movies, or lost it. My curiosity was satisfied by the matter of one Mr. Trisk, who would not respond to our correspondence regarding his failure to return Liquifier III.
The news shows made much of the explosion in Mr. Trisk’s home; there was even talk of spontaneous combustion. A few days after Mr. Trisk’s interment, a lean, silent gentleman bundled in an enormous overcoat entered the store and set the tape on the counter. His face was lost under the brim of his hat. His gloved hand creaked as he clutched a display to steady himself on the way out.
For the rest of the day, Bernard complained of bits of ash on the carpet. I insisted that he had probably dropped them from his cigarette. Nevertheless, I vacuumed.
The Mr. Trisk episode left me disconcerted. Mr. Pash was a wonderful employer and an exciting individual; even so, the suspicions that swam and roiled in my mind gave me constant headaches. The heat didn’t help, and Bernard’s coughing was beginning to get on my nerves. The gentlemen were always very nice, but there were so many of them now.
I decided to have a talk with Mr. Pash.
As I have said, Mr. Pash was an extraordinarily generous man. When I mentioned that I was having difficulties with my work, he immediately suggested that we have dinner that evening at his home to discuss the problems at hand. Mr. Pash asked if a late dinner would be agreeable, since he had a number of errands to attend to early in the evening. I told him that would be fine.
I arrived at his house at eight-thirty with a bottle of wine (a truly thoughtful guest never shows up empty-handed). Mr. Pash lived in an artistic sector of the city. His brick house was narrow and very old. The bricks were dark and exceptionally large; many were broken and askew. I felt sure that my hand would come away bleeding if I ran it over a wall. The yard was completely overrun with weeds. Tongue in cheek, I wondered if Mr. Pash had allowed the yard to go wild in homage to the jungle villages of Flytrap Hell.
Mr. Pash welcomed me in and led me down a dim hall to the dining room. Our meals were already served up on our plates. The room was poorly lit and smelled spicy—like Mr. Pash, only stronger. I guessed that Mr. Pash probably did not entertain often.
As I detailed my concerns, Mr. Pash listened closely, chewing at his stringy cut of meat. Mr. Pash was a fine employer, but a poor chef. The meat was tough and flavorless and the vegetables were overcooked. I was nervous, so I drank my wine rather quickly.
“I am so glad you decided to share your thoughts with me,” he said. “I see that it is time to tell you more about myself. I hope you will not mind, Roger. You are a very special person in my life. Am I special to you?”
“You are the best boss I ever had,” I said. With a sigh, I downed a second glass of wine.
“The store satisfies more than just my financial needs, Roger.” Mr. Pash leaned closer. “Do you believe in magic? Not the kind with rabbits in tophats. Not the kind with pentagrams and candles. Do you know what I’m talking about?”
I thought for a moment, but nothing came to mind. “You’ll have to spell this matter out for me, Mr. Pash. Certainly I’ve had too much wine.”
“Too much? You haven’t had enough.” Mr. Pash refreshed my drink. I suddenly noticed that he wore a lavish ring on his pinky. A woman’s cocktail ring.
Mr. Pash followed my stare. “Do you like my ring? I took it from Bernard earlier this evening.”
“You took it from him?” I blinked like a fish as I drained my third glass. “Why did you take it from him?”
“He no longer needed it. I think I can use these stones ...” Mr. Pash shrugged. “But we were discussing the different kinds of magic. Crowley came close to the truth, but he relied too heavily on ritual. The best sort of magic—the most potent—is the kind you make up as you go along.”
I found that I couldn’t stop blinking. “Could we return to the topic of Bernard? Is he all right?”
“No, he is not all right.” Mr. Pash shook a blizzard of salt over his filet. “In fact, he tastes perfectly awful.”
I rose very slowly from my seat and walked around the room, looking for the door. It was not to be found. Mr. Pash watched me with his head cocked to one side. “I want you to be my disciple, Roger. I hope I haven’t alarmed you. Would you like some more wine?” He rubbed his new pinky ring against his stubbly chin. “Join the new Order of Uranus. Consider it a promotion, if you like. That may make it seem less threatening. Less like a religious endeavor and more like a business proposition. What do you say, Roger?”
In the basement of the narrow house, Mr. Pash showed me the four magic video players and the four magic televisions. By this time I was halfway through my fourth bottle of wine. Mr. Pash had several excellent vintages in his larder.
He explained to me that each of the
store’s four top-renting movies contained a small, growing bit of his essential tissue. These dollops of obedient flesh absorbed mental energy from our renting gentlemen. Mr. Pash would then take the movies and transfer the accumulated energy from the cassettes into the magic televisions. The power built up so far was truly incredible: the merest spark had been used to persuade Mr. Trisk, with remarkable results.
Of course, Mr. Pash was correct—about magic, that is. You have to make it up as you go along. My employer handed me an urn. Her name had been Spoon, so I used a spoon to insert her ashes into the magic players. We then plucked the diamonds from the cocktail ring and tossed them into the players as well.
“Are you sure this won’t hurt the tapes?” I said as I picked up the Liquifier III cassette, looking vainly into its little windows for some sign of Mr. Pash’s tissue. “Mr. Spoon used to mix Holy Water with the ashes.”
“You needn’t worry. Our purpose is holy, Roger,” Mr. Pash said, removing his shoes and socks. He started to unbutton his shirt. “Are we not preparing for a wedding?”
I pushed Liquifier III into its slot. Soon all four of the tapes were in place.
I looked into Mr. Pash’s eyes. It had been his generosity, his royal largesse, that had convinced me to follow his path. I knew that once the new way was in order, I would be rewarded handsomely.
“Mrs. Spoon, Wanton and Licentious One,” I intoned, making up the words, “rejoice: from this moment on, you shall be known as Gaea, the Earth Mother. Prepare to receive the seed of Uranus, the Sky Father.” Mr. Pash removed the last of his clothes. His flabby body was a miracle of the grotesque; shallow, ribbonlike grooves covered every inch of his abdomen and legs.
“From this union shall spring Titans,” I cried, taking a swig of wine. “With their Father, they shall reign supreme throughout the universe. Noble Gaea, take from the magic televisions the power of our gentlemen, our unwitting congregation ...”
Mr. Pash stood amidst the magic players, arms outstretched. The tops of the players bulged into round pods; soon these pods blossomed into metal flowers, spewing forth yard after yard of tape. The tape coiled and writhed around Mr. Pash’s body, sliding through the narrow grooves.
I continued to drink wine and rant. In retrospect, I believe that I should have set the bottle aside. “Arise from death, sweet Gaea. It is at last time to meet you. What shall you be cooking for us? We have already eaten Mr. Spoon. Arise: your new husband awaits.”
A cloud of ash rose from the players and formed itself into a translucent gray succubus. Sparks danced through the apparition as it lavished its affections on Mr. Pash.
On the screens of the magic televisions, scenes from the four tapes played—but with a difference. The prodigious creatures now wandered from movie to movie. Hulking cannibals stormed the Atlantean city. Immense carnivorous plants tried to steal a cocooned victim from the Liquifier. Outsized winged goats trampled helpless villagers in the jungle dimension.
Mr. Pash groaned and shuddered with ecstasy. Wires snaked up from the players and plunged into my employer’s heaving gut as he consummated the marriage ritual.
The expression of rapture on Mr. Pash’s face was simply too ridiculous—or at least, so I thought at the time. Drink can turn the kindest man into an unfeeling Judas. “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, “but I’m afraid that I have overstayed my welcome. Where was my mind? What must you think of me, Mr. Pash? But then, what must I think of you? It’s dreadfully impolite to rut in front of guests.” So saying, I laughed and laughed and laughed like a mad boy.
Poor Mr. Pash—scoffed by his own disciple! The rapture on his face was replaced by a look of terrified doubt. With a cry of triumph, the ash-temptress fled through a crack in the basement floor. Undone by his own momentary uncertainty, Mr. Pash was at the mercy of reality. I watched helplessly as wires in his belly fried him alive. A horrid, oily steam rose from his body. I ran up the stairs and out of the house.
Bottle in hand, I wandered the streets of a changed world.
Mr. Pash had perished, yes; but not before he had consummated the union, passing the magic on to Mrs. Spoon. I’m sure that his sacrifice had only served to strengthen her.
A winged goat larger than any ocean liner soared across the moon, bleating odiously. A monstrous Venus flytrap shot up from the turf of a children’s playground and snuffled ravenously at the swings and slide.
Screams of pain and horror echoed through the city. The earth thundered as impossible monstrosities lumbered through the night. From the shadows, I watched giant cannibals tear the heads from policemen at a doughnut shop. With great slurping noises they sucked the spinal cords from their victims. A few blocks down the road, a Liquifier slathered its web into a parked car and trapped a pair of lovemaking teenagers. Another Liquifier drew near to watch its sibling feast.
The Titans are everywhere. Spider-demons, cannibals, winged goats, vile plant-things. They see me, but leave me be. In fact, they regard me with trepidation. And why not? I am the usurper of their father’s throne. In their eyes, I am capable of unspeakable devastation.
I am writing this in a luxurious penthouse apartment. I had to walk up sixty floors. Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash—all of this should have been yours. I am sorry that I laughed. So terribly sorry. I had planned to throw myself off the balcony, but in the end, I could not.
Just as I was about to jump, an enormous pair of snarling, oddly inviting lips opened up in the pavement below.
CITY IN THE TORRID WASTE by t. Winter-Damon
The air heatshimmered. The persistent wind moaned longingly. Spiraling dustclouds and fragile pinnacles of metal oxide salts, pigmented in a harsh, dusky rainbow taunting of empty promise, surrounded the smoky bronze, UV-screening bubble-dome that crouched above the City in the Torrid Waste. Ghosts of long-dead millions howled outside its gates.
Once, the festering pit in the alkaline earth nearby had disgorged a wealth of varied ores, copper its primary vein. But that was before payload dwindled and the peons of the ascian latitudes slaved it forth far cheaper. Before the acid rains swept westward. Before the Hole in the Sky ripped wide. The once-beautiful, fertile flesh of Mother Earth ravished, defiled, and corrupted. Made barren.
Now, the minds of the City’s denizens mirrored the nature-twisted configurations of the landscape. As it is without. So it is within ...
The grass-green sheers billowed and swirled in the sweet-scented gusts of synth-breeze. The air was crisp, cool, and tinged with a whisper of magnolia blossoms and jasmine, a deft mingling accomplished by the dome’s air-conditioning plant. The total power consumption of the city must graph-out into stratospheric levels of mega-kilowattage, but the enormous pull, even at the summer’s ferocious peak temps, never caused a black- or brownout status. The solar collectors outside the dome, concealed beyond the nearest ridgeline, swallowed the sun’s fierce rays, collecting, storing, and assimilating the almost limitless energy. They were also virtually indestructible, built to last as long as the dream of humankind survived, and longer ...
But the hidden machinations of tech-support were the farthest thing from this dark-maned nymph’s far darker mind.
Her long, delicate fingers caressed the gentle slope of shoulder, raising gooseflesh at the electricity of awakened desire. Her fingers trailed the sensuous curve of spine, the ripe, melonlike swell of lushly rounded buttocks, massaging the so-sensitive flesh with feather-tingling strokes. The taffy-haired girl giggled musically in Morrigan’s ear, letting her pink, warm tongue flicker into the shell-like orifice, seeking to return measure for measure every exquisite, eternal-moment of pleasure-torment she received. “Ooooohhhhh,” she cooed in ecstasy, “yes, yes, touch me there—” as Morrigan’s other hand splayed out, trailing down the soft taper of the girl’s lower belly, her fingers grasping the stiff penis jutting from her groin, encircling the thick shaft, stroking and toying with rigid gristle. The girl moaned, wriggling her hips in desire. “And there,” she mewled, as the ravenhaired woman cuppe
d the swollen sac of her testicles, squeezing them ever so gently, savoring the wicked sensations as egglike glands rolled about within the hairy, wrinkled flesh of her scrotum. “Ohhh, yes, and there!” the girl groaned, as Morrigan explored lower, pushing her fingers into the wet heat of the girl’s sex-grotto ...
The glistening mask of jet-black feathers betrayed no hint of emotion, save for the terrible hunger betrayed in the slits of the eyeholes, emeralds that sparked with a cold, unquenchable fire. The dark vision of the Raven’s mask with its cruel beak poised above her only served to whet the taffy-haired girl’s excitement. Her own elaborate mask of feathers was a bizarrerie of bobbing plumes and downy tufts the same color as her hair, but with bold accents of black and crimson.
Morrigan lowered her sleek body onto the girl’s lap, impaling herself on the upthrust phallus ...
They were both bathed in sweet, trickling perspiration, reeking of pleasure-pheremones, as were the forest-green sheets rumpled beneath them. Two roses and a thorn all intertwined.
“When will you next bleed?” Morrigan whispered in query. “I desire the bright poppy blossoms of your flux ...” Her teeth glittered whitely in the luring darkness of the mouth-slit.
“The delights of Yang. And Yin. These I can provide.” The girl answered. “But what you desire—this I cannot give, I regret. My flow, never more than a pain-ripe bud, withered by my late teens to an echo of misery, and by my majority was but a dessicated memory ...”
“If all you can offer me, My Dear, is the pleasure of your flesh and soul, then I regret ...”
Framed by heavy drapes of rich purple velvet, the filmy fabric billowed like clouds of lilac-tinctured smoke. Now, the sweet breath of unnatural breeze was scented of hyacinths, mountain laurel, and Persian lilac. Morrigan turned her Raven-masked face to stare into the eyes of her newest inamorata. The eyes behind the mask were vivid violet. The mask was an extravagant fantasy of rare feather tufts tinted in a rich palette of purple hues, stranded with ropes of tiny seedpearls and sparkling with faceted dangles of amethyst crystal. Her mouth was bare, lips glossed in matching pigments. Even the short spikes of her hair were dyed a coordinating shade.
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