by Edward Lee
Brock did not understand. All he understood was that a devil stood in his midst. “Demon,” he croaked. “Get thee behind me.” Then he raised his Colt pistol.
The man in the cell smirked. “You’re not listening. I’ve just told you that time can be manipulated. Hence, so can energy. See? Brainwaves function via energy, and that colloquial force we think of as human will is derived via the function of brainwaves.” The man’s shoulders shrugged. “Time travel, immortality, physical transfiguration—it’s all elemental physics. If a proton ceases to move at the speed of light, the proton ceases to exist.”
Brock’s finger began to squeeze the trigger, but before the action could be completed, the pistol turned into something like black vapor, and had disappeared in a fraction of a second.
Then the cell’s iron bars disappeared too.
Brock stuttered, “Yea, though I walk in the valley of death, I fear no…”
“What you perceive as sorcery is actually only simple science,” the prisoner said. “But all beings evolve at their own rate. You’re right about one thing, however. Evil, though you pray not to fear it. It’s the only one thing that’s relative everywhere.”
Brock swallowed hard.
“Evil,” the man said. He stepped out of the cell. Brock wanted to run but now found himself completely immobile.
“God, save me,” he prayed.
“Not God,” the man said. “Yog-Suthoth.”
March 15, 2000
Cooper looked down into the opened coffin and saw—
The fuck?
—nothing.
The coffin was empty.
“It’s true,” Fichnik said. “It’s all true.”
Cooper was pissed; he didn’t like not knowing what the fuck was going on. Empty coffin? Big money paid to move it? Where was the body?
He crawled up in the dirt. Hadn’t Fichnik said he knew something about the deceased? Cooper, in his lackadaisy, had forgotten the name of the decedent. He kneed back over to the stone, and began to push the machine-tilled dirt away from the base.
Dates began to appear in stark gothic numerals: 1890-1937.
Then he brushed more of the dirt away, and letters appeared: HOWARD PHIL—
But Fichnik’s next outburst tore Cooper’s attention away from the stone before he could read it all.
“It worked! It worked!”
Cooper stood up from the dirt and glared. “What are you talking about? There’s a body missing from this box…and I got a funny feeling you know something about it. So start talking, or start getting your fat ass kicked.”
“But of course, you don’t understand,” the portly man asserted. “He was the senior envoy of our plight. It’s not a plight by choice. It’s by design. Don’t you see?”
“All I see,” Cooper said, “is a fat Twinkie about to get his cream filling knocked out of him.”
Was it a sudden movement of cloud cover, or did Fichnik’s face physically darken? “Your God seeks reverence. Ours merely seeks experience, the excitement of the spectacle of agony, or horror and despair—the human species at its truest. They’ll be here soon, and they’re using us to scout the land, so to speak.”
Cooper cocked a funky brow.
“Our gods want to taste your world,” Fichnik said, “…and we are the tongues.”
“I’m calling Providence PD,” Cooper assured. “Let them figure this out, ya fat whack.”
“No, son,” Fichnik said, casting a revered glance down to the opened grave. “All times, all places—that is our sojourn. It’s all about this: the exploitation of a particular atom with the capacity of forming a single bond with hydrogen, which then allows a transposition of time with regard to a selected physical mass—such as a human body.”
Cooper stared—
—and suddenly he was being strangled. Just as his breath ran out, he calculated what he’d seen. A great trunk-like thing had ejected from Fichnick’s mouth and had wrapped around him, and now that same thing was slipping down to Cooper’s waist.
No more death metal rang in his head. Just death.
His final thought was that the trunk-like mass seemed like the tail of a demon. But as he died, vomiting and defecating his internal organs—and was then thrown into the opened casket—he realized it was more like a tentacle.
CHEF
It tastes kind of like pork, if you cook it right. Low heat in the oven, or else it dries out. Pan frying depends on what you’re cooking; like with venison, you have to add a little light oil or you’ll wind up with a chop that’s sinewy.
And when you’re broiling? Six, seven inches from the element at least. Any closer and all the fat drains.
Come on in, don’t worry. Nobody’ll see you back here with me. Just come on in through the back door. Ain’t nobody uses the back door but me, lemme tell ya.
Living on the street, huh? Well, I can relate to that, partner. Lived on the street awhile myself before I lucked into this gig. Give me a sec and I’ll get ya some grub. Plenty of it around here, lemme tell ya.
Call me Chef. That’s what I’ve been called for years because, well, that’s what I am. I was executive chef at the Emerald Room, eight goddamn years. Best restaurant on the City Dock, and, man, could I do it up. You ever been there? Like from eighty-five to ninety-three? If you ever had the pan-fried Louisiana shrimp cakes, the Jack Daniels shrimp, the bay scallops in whiskey cream—well, that was me. I about invented Eastern Shore lobster fritters; the reason mine are best is the dipping sauce, a little sweet-baked garlic and about a teaspoon of poached roe from the carapace. Nothing like ’em. My filet mignon will melt in your mouth, and if you’d ever had the chance to try my Flaming Mad Nero Crepes or my veal porcini, you’d shit your pants. Four-star reviews three years in a row, babe, and, no, we didn’t grease the critics like a lotta these busted humps. It was me that made the Emerald Room famous for the finest cuisine in town.
And now…
You should try my stuff now.
See, I’m a grub. You’ve heard of us.
People call us grubs same as they call blacks niggers and Pakistanis towelheads. Oh, sure, everyone says they respect our rights as human beings, but that’s just the same old shit. I read in Newsweek there are over ten thousand of us total. It all started with that ramjet thing, I don’t know, a year or so ago? Don’t tell me you never heard about that. NASA and the Air Force were testing some new kind of airplane, remotely piloted, they called it, flying it a hundred miles off the coast over the Atlantic. They called it a nuclear ramjet or some shit, could fly indefinitely without fuel, no pilots, run by computers. The idea was to have these things flying around all the time real high up. Cheap way to defend the nation. “The ultimate deterrent,” the President said when they announced that they were gonna spend billions developing this thing. First time the Democrats and Republicans ever agreed on anything. The Senate got this thing passed in one day; everybody from Trent Lott to Ted Fuckin’ Kennedy said it was gonna trim a hundred billion a year off the deficit. Was gonna create jobs, lower inflation, reduce the federal budget, blah, blah, blah. What they didn’t announce was that plane kicked out a trail of some off-the-wall radiation wherever it flew. The government wasn’t worried about it cos it flew so high, the shit would go right out of the atmosphere. Well, something fucked up during one of the test flights, and one of these ramjet planes wound up flying up and down the East Coast at treetop level on something they called an “emergency urban alert bomb mode” for like five days before they could veer it off course over the sea and shoot it down. Thing was flying over cities, for shit’s sake. And I was one of the ones lucky enough to get zapped.
Anyway, it was about one a.m. and I’d just gotten off shift at the Emerald Room. A good night, we’d served about two hundred dinners, and all the customers were raving about my specials. Some critic from the Post said my chateaubriand was the best he’d ever had. Like I said, a good night. So I’m hoofing home down West Street, and then there’s this rumble way
down deep in my belly and this sound like slow thunder, and I look up and see this ugly thing flying about a hundred feet over my head. Didn’t know what to make of it. It looked like a big black kite in the sky, and when it passed, I could see this weird blue-green glow coming out of the back of the thing, its engines, I guess. I died a couple hours later, and the next day I woke up a grub.
There was a big whoop-de-do for a little while. All of a sudden there were ten thousand dead people walking around and not knowing what the fuck hit them. President called an emergency meeting or some shit. Oh, you should’ve heard all the fancy talk they were spouting. At first they were gonna “euthanize” us is what McCaine said, “to safeguard the societal whole from potential contraindications,” until some egghead at CDC verified that we were weren’t psychotic or contagious or radioactive or anything. Then that asshole Helms made a big pitch about how we should be “socially impounded.” “Protean symptomologies,” see, that’s what they were worried about. These shitheads wanted to round us all up and put us on an island somewhere! It all blew over, though, after the activists started gearing up, and they let us be. Then the Senate wanted to prove they were sincere—it was election year, see, and they needed more seats—and they got a special bill passed, the Ramjet Anti-Discrimination Disability Bill, they called it, so all of us grubs get a couple hundred per month to make up for things. There’s also an Anti-Discrimination Act, and a Ramjet Victim Affirmative Action Act. It’s against the law for employers to not hire us just because we’re grubs, but you know how that goes. They’ll just think up some other reason not to hire you, and all we’re left with are the really shit jobs.
I don’t need the disability dough myself—I was one of the few who got lucky. The Emerald Room fired me right away, made up some shit about me being late. Real reason is they didn’t want word getting around that a grub was working the range. Bad for business. I mean, who’s gonna drop a three-hundred-dollar check when they know it’s a dead guy cooking their entrees? And—
’Scuse me a sec. I just got an order for Three-Flavor Ceviche and a Clam Panzerotti…
After the Emerald Room gave me the boot, I had to rough it for a while. Lot of us were living in the street, but there wasn’t no way I was gonna let this shit drag me down. I applied for jobs everywhere. I mean, Christ, with my credentials and experience? I’ve been reviewed in the Washingtonian, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been interviewed in every goddamn cuisine mag published, and one time Gourmet did a feature on me, and ran a lot of the recipes of my specials.
Of course, I got new specials now.
’Scuse me again. My blackened prime rib is up.
Look, all I ask is you wait a minute before you judge me, okay? The way I see it is grubs got rights too. Just because we’re dead don’t mean we ain’t people. We got hopes and dreams just like you. We want the same things everyone wants, and we work just as hard as the next guy but we get the shit-end of the stick every time cos we’re grubs. If you were a grub you’d know what I’m talking about. Now I know what it’s like to be a minority. Never much thought about it back when I was alive, but now I can relate to what it feels like to be black, Hispanic, Vietnamese, gay, whatever. People are just so fuckin’ phony. They put laws on the books to protect our rights but it don’t mean shit. Try being a grub and just walk down the street. People gape at you, people get out of the way. They’ll cross the fuckin’ street so they don’t have to walk the same side, like we’re lepers or something. And there’re plenty of scumbag bigot bozos out there who just plain hate your guts because of what you are. They’ll spit on you, they’ll drag you in an alley and kick your ass, they’ll try to run you down if you’re hitching a ride. Sometimes you just get sick of it.
And you wanna do something about it.
I guess I got a little off track, huh? Back to what I was saying. I really lucked out, I gotta decent job again, cheffing at a good restaurant. I gotta come in and leave through the back door, but what the fuck, a job’s a job. The management is real good about keeping a lid on me—the customers don’t know I’m a grub. And this new joint I’m cheffing in?
Rave fuckin’ reviews, man. The place was no big deal before I came on, but now it’s got a rep and a half. The reviews are even better than when I was at the Emerald. It’s a packed house every night. You wanna eat here, brother, you better make a reservation a month in advance, and I don’t mind telling you it’s all because of me, my expertise as a world-class master chef. They sure as shit ain’t filling the house every night because of the pretty table cloths. They want the best food in the city and they know they can get it here. My menu, my specials.
And…you know the old saying.
What people don’t know won’t hurt ’em.
Shit, give me another sec. I gotta get this pot-au-feu of cured duck off the line, and this order of Michelangelo peppers. Try ’em some time. Primo, chief. You’d write home about my Michelangelo peppers.
Anyway, back to what I was saying before. When people put you down long enough, you just get sick of it. You just wanna rise up and take back what they’ve ripped off of you. But I’m just one grub—what can I do? What, start a secret militia? Start a grub revolution? Don’t make me laugh. They’d snuff my ass in two seconds if I even started talking shit like that.
Hey, pass me that little dish of thyme, will ya? And that bucket of mustard vinaigrette. Thanks.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. You get shit on long enough, you wanna do something about it. But one day I realized there was nothing I could do outside of myself. I ain’t gonna form some grub union. I ain’t gonna start some terrorist organization. They’d chuck us into the grub slam faster than it takes you to wipe your ass. I realized that if I wanted to rebel, I’d have to find a way to do it secretly, by myself…
That first fucker, let me tell ya. I’m walking to work one afternoon, crossing First Street, and this redneck motherfucker gets right up in my face. Shoving me, pointing his finger at me, shouting all kinds of shit, man. “Get your dead ass out of town, grub!” he yells at me. “You stink! You’re dirty! Nobody wants your kind here!” And there’s other people standing around him, and you know what they do? They start clapping, like this guy’s some kind of hero for breaking my chops. Then the fucker spits in my face, and I know I can’t fight back cos if I do, I’m in the joint just like that. If you’re a grub and you hit someone, your ass is grass. They have special cellblocks for us is what I heard. Anyway, this chump hocks the lunger in my face, laughs, and then he crosses the street and gets in his car and drives away. Just like that.
You wanna know what I did?
I got his fuckin’ tag number, that’s what I did.
I kill them, that’s right. You would too if you had to take the shit I take every fuckin’ day. Of course, I’m really careful about it, I’m no dumbbell. Some asshole gets on my case for being a grub, I’ll wait a week, then I’ll punch his ticket when the time is right. One day the resident manager of my apartment building stops by, says he’s gotta triple my rent cos me living there is making other residents move. Well, I let it slide. And a week later the guy disappears.
I walk into the gourmet shop on Wisconsin Ave one day, and the fat shit behind the counter starts raising hell, tells me to get out of his shop, doesn’t want me stinking up the place. I’m gonna drive customers away if people see a grub shopping in his two-bit joint. I just smiled and left.
And about a week later the Jabba-the-Hut-looking fat fuck disappears.
I’ve checked out about a dozen of them so far. That’s right, my own little revolution.
Ooo-la-la. Waitress just gave me an order for tartar provencial. I serve it with ossetra caviar, capers, green onions, and chopped egg whites. Stuff’ll make your mouth water, bub.
What was it I was saying?
No, no, and I don’t just leave the bodies there—I told you, they disappear. And I sure as shit don’t bury them either.
I guess by now you’re figuring out exactly what I do with th
em, huh?
A good chef can make anything taste like something else. Out on the dining floor, we got our regular menu, but in my head, see, I got my own menu.
My vinegar-accented lamb vindaloo—it ain’t lamb, brother, I can tell ya that. Try my foie gras pastry or my pâté on toast points. Who needs goose liver? My spit-roasted chicken in tarragon jus? Guess where the jus comes from.
The muscle meats taste like pork, great for stews, stuffing stock and andouille sausage, flaming stir-fry. I’ll grind up some biceps and blend it with bay oysters and my special garlic croutons, and that’s the way to stuff braised duck, man. When people order my fabulous Lebanon kabob, it ain’t no tender chunks of lamb on that spike, and I can tell you something else, too. The human abdominal wall makes for the best brisket of beef you ever had in your fuckin’ life.
So you see what I mean when I said I’m doing my own little revolution. I’m feeding these assholes to the assholes out there, and they’re loving it. You should see them coming in every night with their eight-hundred-dollar suits and their smug faces and distinguished gray temples. When these fuckers order the roast tenderloin of lamb, they’re really getting my roast tenderloin of scumbag. And the crusted flaky baguette of rabbit? Try crusted flaky baguette of Clyde. And my dry-baked ribs? I’ll bet you’d swear they were the best ribs you ever had.
And don’t even ask about the black truffle risotto and veal sweetbreads.
Yeah, you name it, I got it. Butt-meat brioche with saffron. Tagliarini ravioli stuffed with chopped bowel and roasted pearl onions. Sliced tongue in bell pepper curry sauté. Eggplant and testicle puree, bacon-sprinkled poached brain pudding, and crispy dick skin cordon bleu.