BLOODBATH

by James St. James

  But no.

  It’s already happened.

  You have no choice but to play it out.

  And they see what’s happened.

  Roll the film.

  There is blood everywhere and Angel is down. His head is open.

  In one of Michael’s versions of the story, Angel does not go quietly into the night. The dead man made a reluctant corpse. He seizes, he seizures, he tries to make it to the door. He looks to Michael for help—He looks to Michael for help!—even utters those words. He is confused, hurt … Does he know that it is about to end? Can he think clearly, can he comprehend the enormity of what is about to happen—or has his mind short-circuited with the last blow?

  (In a later version, he screams and they muffle those screams with a pillow. This may or may not have been true, although it is important to remember that he mentions doing this only later, and then just as an aside. Neither one of them knew that asphyxiation was the official cause of death. They learned that with the rest of the world after the body had been examined. Which means, they were operating under the assumption that he was still with us when they … when they …)

  He’s down. He’s hurt. Not moving now. Call the police? Call an ambulance? Ah, but the need for self-preservation is stronger than you think. Angel is over. Angel is no more. If he lives he will most likely be brain-damaged or a vegetable. He may be paralyzed, comatose—something is very wrong. Will somebody please pick the brains off the floor? Something awful, something irreparable has happened to him. If he were to live, if they were to call the police—he may be in a coma for the rest of his life, for the rest of their lives. They would be responsible forever for what has happened.

  It is far easier to rationalize, in that state of mind, that they are doing the humane thing. They are putting him out of his misery. He is in pain. Let’s get it over with.

  And it will save all of us, the rest of our lives, having to care for this vegetable, cripple, or whatever.

  So how do we do it—

  I’m not going to do it—

  Well, I’m not going to do it—

  You do it—

  You’re the one who hit him over the fucking head—

  I was helping you, asshole—Goddamn it, we are in this together—

  This is what is happening now—this is how it’s playing out.

  Not me, not you—I’m not going to do it. We’ll both do it—

  Now this is how it’s done, this is how it’s done in the movies, on TV. Anyone who has ever grown up watching Columbo, Quincy, Cannon, Charlie’s Angels—this is what murderers do …

  They make a pact. They will do it together. They are bound together forever.

  How to do it? There’s a needle:

  “Maybe a heroin overdose?”

  “Good God, man, how could you even suggest such a thing?! We’re going to need that. In fact, let’s all do a bit right now, just to think clearly.”

  They do, and a method crystallizes.

  OK, now get the Drano.

  From the kitchen.

  Find a vein, and insert your needles. At the count of three, I want you to push into Angel’s body the steaming, acidic mix of caustic lye and sodium silicates. Try not to look at his eyes, and notice not the tears that flow down his cheeks. Never mind the terror and the pain and the confusion he feels. Look away from the betrayal and the death. Never mind the future, never mind yourselves.

  One,

  Two,

  Three.

  There is a final flash of pain; his body arches, leaps upward, eyes open, accusing.

  And it’s all over. For Angel it’s all over forever. For Michael and Freeze—only five minutes have passed but five minutes that changed who they were forever.

  What next? How now?

  Unfolding in front of us is a scene so chilling, so horrific, so utterly bizarre that if you look real close and real fast—you can actually see Alfred Hitchcock in the background, cleaning the windows.

  Look at this. Look at them: Two wild-eyed dope fiends huddled around ye olde corpus delecti, needles poised, Drano drained.

  Blood is everywhere. Torrents of blood spilled into the hallway. A trail that starts in the living room pushes its way into the hall, past the kitchen. Almost to the door. He almost made it out the door, almost free, almost lived, but he was stopped, a third blow to the head, or a pillow to the face. Whatever.

  Sticky red footprints in a grotesque dance pattern—left foot, left foot, right, right, right … Handprints smeared on the wall … little blue clots of something like jelly, stuck in the floorboards …

  As the horror dawns, as they realize what they’ve done, a vague unease settles upon them … far off … not yet formed … not yet understood, are the troubles they face … But for now, one thought, one voice:

  “How easy it was.”

  How simple. Anybody could have done this. There is no mystery to death. No complicated pattern, nothing difficult. They are not special. It could happen again. Anytime. Anywhere. Of course. A slight miscalculation, a simple mistake—it didn’t take a special kind of person. Death was easy. A piece of pie. That is the true horror.

  So now: action. A call to order. A caucus. Murderers unite.

  The exact words, the exact blocking, is blurry. The minutes of that meeting are lost forever. I do know that Michael panicked and called Peter, his boss, for help—Peter who has always helped, who was magic that way, and pulled strings that don’t exist for the rest of us—he called Peter but was denied access by Peter’s girlfriend, Alexandra.

  “Leave us alone,” she said. “Click,” she said.

  Three times they called, and three times they were denied.

  What to do? What to do?

  I know Freeze became unhinged, going on a crack binge of superhuman proportions.

  Watching at the window.

  Waiting.

  For the police. For Angel’s ghost.

  For a long time he was silent, watching the snow of that terrible winter sweep along the terrace.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re fucking crazy.”

  This, whenever Michael tries to talk about what happened. Whenever Michael starts complaining about the smell, the body.

  But horror fades whereas comedy endures.

  Michael bounces back with breathtaking elasticity. Within hours, it is business as usual.

  He stashes the body in the bathtub—to let fluids drain. They go shopping. Invite friends over. Many friends. “Nevermind the stench, pass me a straw.”

  Like a lousy, lopsided Lucy episode, a girl goes in the bathroom to pee, and a mottled arm tumbles out from behind the shower curtain—“Oh, excuse me!” she says, “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.” And she quickly hurries back to the party.

  Needless to say, that bathroom is blocked off—a mattress is leaned against it—and that smell? Plumbing problems …

  Finally, how long has it been—a week? almost two?—and something must be done … That bloated, gaseous, purple corpse must go!

  Freeze is no help: “This is your problem, Michael.”

  I suppose they argue, but finally it’s up to Michael to chop off the legs. It’s the only way he’ll fit in the box.

  A bargain was struck: Freeze would go to Macy’s and buy the cutlery required to dispose of the remains. He would also provide Michael with enough heroin to do the job.

  “Fuck you, Freeze,” Michael said as he inhaled an unprecedented ten bags of heroin, “I hope I overdose and die and then you have two bodies on your hands. I hate you for making me do this.”

  But once the inevitable is accepted, this, too, is not so bad. Fortified by the warm blanket of dope, and swept up in a Technicolor B-movie fantasy, he takes to his task like Leatherface at Thanksgiving.

  “Was it hard to do? Did you have to hack at it?” I asked.

  “No, nor no. It was like cutting chicken. The meat just fell off. And the bones snapped really eas
y.” Then he showed me the ordinary kitchen knife he used.

  Who was this person in front of me, I wondered yet again, but I reminded myself that person is me. There but for the Grace of God … opposite ends of the same stick … and all that …

  And that was the story as he told it to me that first night, except for a few loose ends.

  Like instead of taking the almost always empty service elevator at Riverbank, they take the trunk down the main elevator, sharing it with an older gentleman who couldn’t help but comment on the smell.

  … past the security guards and doorman, bless ’em …

  And then, via taxi, to the pier across the street from the Tunnel. After both bags of legs sank nicely to the bottom, they tossed in the box. But, of course—oh those wacky club kids—comedy ensues when they realize the trunk was lined with cork.

  They couldn’t do anything except watch as Angel floated off to his sweet reward.

  Yes, kids, Angels float, and that was his ultimate revenge.

  Of course, as he was weaving this tawdry little tale, my world was ending.

  My head fell into one of those spinning cartoon vortexes …

  The room was lurching and heaving about, the floor would drop, the ceiling cave in. Spikes popped out of the walls and the walls inched closer together …

  I was frozen in an adorable Macaulay Culkinesque pose, with my mouth wide open, throughout.

  No, I did not respond to all of this with my usual élan. Nothing could ever be the same. I was no longer the same naive waif blowing sideways through life. My wide-eyed innocence was gone, and within the space of that half hour, I was transmogrified into the bitter, broken hag you see before you.

  Michael had finally gone too far. In one fell swoop—no, make that three fell swoops— he destroyed everything … everything he had worked so hard to create. And now: the party was over. The ride was through. It was the end of an era, MY era, and, damnit, that meant I was about to become “dated.” Talk about adding insult to injury!!

  “My goodness,” I finally managed, as I collected the clumps of hair that had fallen from my head, “that’s quite a story.”

  “Does this change your opinion of me? Do you love me less?”

  (A difficult and, well, rather unexpected question, given the circumstance. Really best to sit down and think about it another day.)

  “Of course I love you, darling,” I replied automatically. Then: “It’s just that, well, you’re Michael Alig, I’ve always known you were capable of really big things … monumental … historical … things—”

  “Oh—that is so sweet!” He air-hugged me, then added: “And you’re James St. James, don’t forget!”

  “I know, dear …”

  And we gave each other a quick social peck.

  “My point was … I just … I mean, why waste your big chance at immortality on Angel? He was so inconsequential. He wasn’t worth it! You couldn’t have taken out Bianca Jagger? Rubbed out Courtney Love? You realize that everything from now on is changed—because of Angel? What a waste.”

  He looked almost humble for a moment.

  “I need a bag rather desperately, Michael.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re finally addicted …”

  “Oh, I’m not. Blech.”

  Heroin is such an ugly drug. Everytime I do it, every day of my life, I’m reminded just how unattractive it is, and how happy I am that I’m not addicted.

  I sniffed one bag, just to get a grip on the situation. Disgusting stuff!

  First of all, it tastes filthy. Like powdered pavement. Like your mother’s disapproval. Then there’s the gag and the drip, followed by … nothing. So of course I did more. This news was a lot to deal with.

  And I just never learn when to stop.

  My eyes won’t stay open, but they won’t stay closed, either. So it’s a tic-toe thing, jerking, then slumping, heaving and sighing. Moaning and groaning.

  No, no, no, I think. This is all wrong, I think.

  None of this is right.

  I’m nasty. Nauseous. Groggy. I can’t pee. For the life of me. Pretty soon I’ll be vomiting urine. Then I’ll need the old do-it-yourself catheter kit.

  Oh, I hate heroin.

  Maybe this time it will be better.

  Yea, maybe I’ve been doing it wrong all these times.

  I began slowly putting the pieces together.

  “So, all this new stuff … the furniture, the computer … Balducci’s … the drugs …”

  “Money from Angel’s bag.” Eight thousand, he said. Or thirteen. Or twenty. I can’t rightly recall. The heroin was kicking in and for once I was swept away in a warm current of sanguine thoughts.

  “Wait … wait a min … ute. You mean,”—it was registering—“You went on a shopping spree afterward? … Gorgeous!”

  Suddenly the whole situation seemed farcical. Slapstick. And we laughed until our sides hurt. We laughed until tears ran down our faces. “And those boots, Michael? They look awfully familiar …”

  “Angel’s.”

  And we collapsed on the pillows in peals of girlish laughter.

  “You’re wearing Angel’s boots?”

  … more laughter …

  “Aren’t they nice?”

  Then we stopped laughing as abruptly as we had begun. “Do you still love me? Really?” he asked.

  Hanging in the airspace above my head was the monstrously vain implication that I even loved him in the first place. Endured him, yes. Admired him? Yes … but with clenched teeth. And I suppose I even got a vicarious kick from the improbable life he had always led. But it was a wistful kick, and it always made me sad, like I was in the backseat straining to see the fun that was going on ahead of me.

  But if familiarity breeds contempt, it also fosters a bond—and over the years he had become family. He has been at various times my best friend, my worst enemy, my rival, my partner, my neighbor, my boss, and my worst nightmare—so buck him, fuck him, chomp at the bit to get away from him … he was still there. He was Michael. And no matter how you sliced it (whoops)—yes, I loved Michael, still.

  “Of course, I do darling.” I sighed. “Do you have any K?”

  But this didn’t mean I could ever accept what happened. I needed to understand it, pull it apart. I needed to synthesize the previous monster, who was merely annoying, with this new one, who was actually homicidal … and, more importantly, I had to look at the monster in me that could understand and love someone like this.

  To do that, I had to go back. Way back, to the very beginning. My head hurt, and the crest of dope was breaking. Where was that Special K?

  He poured some out and I inhaled a hefty line.

  I could hear the skrinkling of Michael’s new computer as the K pushed me down and carried me away. My mind splintered into a thousand fragments, then regrouped and configured as it saw fit …

  IN THE BEGINNING

  IN THE BEGINNING there was “skrinkle,” and it was good. “Skrinkle” begat “skroddle” and that, too, was good … unless it was bad.

  “Skrinkle,” and its corollary “skroddle,” were the building blocks of a strange little world Michael was building for himself. It was a language of his own, and it consisted of just those two words and the infinite variations, conjugations, and not-so-subtle shifts in their meanings.

  Either word could, in fact, mean anything—depending upon its context.

  You were either a “skrink” or a “skrod.”

  I was a “skrink-la-da” if I was good. Or a stupid “scrodlover” if I was bad.

  Oh, but I’m sorry. Unless you, too, are doing Special K, then I’m going too fast, and none of this makes any sense. I guess I need to be a bit more linear. Let me start again …

  Here’s the deal:

  I am responsible for everything that’s happened—everything!—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Well, maybe not so much the ugly. Michael does deserve some of the credit.

  But it all begins and ends with me.
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  Me! Me! Me!

  I spawned Michael Alig, and for that I will forever be damned.

  This is how I remember it happening:

  I blew into town in 1984, from some plains state, and got off the train, looking for all the world just like Shirley Jones in “Oklahoma!” I was a kicky, corn-fed lass, with a song in my heart and a rosy hue on my cheeks …

  Plucky? You bet!

  I had a satchel full of crazy dreams, and a down-home country manner that people naturally cottoned to.

  Why Andy Warhol, himself, took one look at me and said: “You there! I want YOU to be my next superstar!”

  What are you looking at? You think I’m making this up? It’s true! Go ask him!

  No, really.

  Ask anybody. That’s what happened. I came first. I was the original.

  So, anyway.

  I’m Shirley Jones, right? All sunshine and freckles.

  And if I’m Shirley Jones, that would make Michael … well … that would make him Danny Bonaduce, wouldn’t it? Little Danny Partridge, the slick-as-snot troublemaker who gets away with all the good lines.

  Oh yes, I like that.

  He, of course, has an entirely different view of things.

  To hear Michael tell it, I am Mr. Magoo—that crazy old codger, bumping into walls and talking to himself—who buys drinks for the sexy little lamp in the corner and feeds the end table a dog biscuit.

  He would then get to be Tennessee Tuxedo, the wisecracking penguin, who is looped obsessively onto his VCR.

  So I suppose somewhere in between our two delusions lies the truth:

  I guess I am a myopic old man in Shirley Partridge drag. And he must be a red-headed penguin.

  I hope that helps.

  You see, I just love analogies. Give me a good old analogy any day. That’s what I say.

  I think it’s infinitely more telling for me to say that, oh, if we were characters on The Simpsons, I would be Grampa Simpson and he would be Mr. Burns.

  Or if we were slices of bread, then he’s Cinnamon Raisin Swirl, I’m Sourdough.