Authors: Edward Lee
Phil never tasted his ten-dollar beer. The grotesqueries onstage chained his gaze; repelled as he was, he couldn’t look away for the life of him. More dancers came and went, each harboring accelerated genetic deformities, which, if anything, exceeded even Eagle’s previous descriptions. One girl had three arms (two of them normal, but a third tiny arm sprouting from her armpit like a dead branch), another none, and a third possessed arms that appeared totally boneless—slack tubes of flesh swaying this way and that, with shriveled fingers at their ends. Another dancer displayed multiple breasts, four per side, stacked like pancakes, not to mention a head that seemed clovened.
Each girl finished her set with an obligatory—and masturbatory—floor show. The three-armed woman openly caressed her pubis with two hands, while the third hand—atrophied at the end of the shortened arm—plucked at her nipples.
Phil thought he might vomit any minute.
The evening’s progress seemed to drip. The dark grew more murky as cigarette smoke thickened, and eventually the room became sweltering. Phil felt narcotized, shocked to numbness, as though in the aftermath of being bludgeoned in the head. On a few occasions, his eyes had acclimated sufficiently to see that every seat in the back room was taken.
What a show,
he thought despondently.
A packed house.
Eagle was right; this was where the denizens came. People who found arousal in the tragic misfortune of others. The kinks. The sickos.
One thing he noticed right off was that each dancer wore a garter, and attached to the garter was a small white card with a number on it.
What’s with the numbers?
he managed to wonder. What purpose could they serve?
When the show was over, Phil felt winded.
I thought I’d seen everything on Metro. Boy, was I wrong.
Stepping outside, into the fresh night air, made him feel released from a long sentence in jail. But he couldn’t let on how revolted he was; he must maintain the pretense to Eagle, and to everyone here, that he was just another busted, bent-out-of-shape redneck looking for kicks. Obviously the back room was a magnet for Crick City’s most jaded, and would provide a very serviceable fuel for his investigation. To infiltrate a crowd such as this, he must pretend to be a part of it.
“Happy now?” Eagle asked.
“That was pretty wild, man.”
Eagle shook his head. “You’re
into
that kind of shit?”
“These days I’m into anything that’s not dull. And that show definitely wasn’t dull, you gotta admit.”
“Christ, man, I couldn’t believe that one chick with no bones in her arms.”
“The gal with the eight tits was a kick, too.”
Eagle gaped at him. “Man, I never would’ve guessed you’d be into that. Lookin’ at those girls makes me wanna blow chow.”
Phil feigned a nonchalant shrug. “Different strokes, like they say. One thing I didn’t get, though. Why did they all have numbers on their garters?”
Eagle’s smirk creased his face. “Why do you think? They ain’t just dancers, Phil. They’re hookers. A guy sees one he likes, he gets the number and talks to the pimp after the show.”
“Who’s the pimp?”
“That Creeker kid at the door, Druck. He makes the arrangements. All the money, of course, goes to Cody Natter. That fucker’s something; he’s got himself a gold mine here. The girls who work the front stage are hookers too, but I guess you figured that. Anything for a buck. Ain’t that the American way? Natter’s even got his wife turning tricks. You did know that Vicki’s married to him, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Phil said. “I heard all about that.” His next question, however morbid, wouldn’t let go. “How much you think she costs?”
“Vicki? Shit, she’s the prime beef of the front room, probably a hundred at least. Natter’s pretty selective about who he lets buy her.”
Buy her.
The two words hit him like a kick in the chin.
Probably uses her to finish off deals with his point men and dope distributors. Typical.
“What about those Creeker girls?”
“From what I’ve heard, they’re even more expensive, ’cos this is the only place you can get ’em. Hard to believe guys would want to pay to fuck a Creeker.”
“But where? Where do they turn their tricks?”
“Right in the parking lot, in your car mostly. For a little extra, they’ll go home with you.” Eagle looked at him. “You’re not thinking of—”
“Naw, I’m just curious. This town’s changed since I been gone.”
“Yeah, man.” Eagle laughed. “And so have you.”
You got that right.
Phil fished in his pocket for his keys. He’d made a lot of headway tonight; Eagle was a veritable tap of information, and he seemed to know a lot about Natter. Phil wanted to hit him up for more info but—
Don’t push your luck. You ask too much too soon, he’l1 get wise.
Taking it real slow was the name of this game.
One day at a time,
he told himself. “You coming here tomorrow night?”
“I got a late job tomorrow, so probably not,” Eagle said. “But I’m sure I’ll be in the next night.”
“Okay, take care.”
They branched off to their separate vehicles. Phil was thinking.
Late job?
Eagle said he did construction work, but then Phil remembered his rap sheet; he’d done time for dealing PCP.
Maybe he’s bullshitting. Maybe he really runs dust for Natter.
These considerations were pertinent, but there was no point jumping the gun. Only time would tell. Phil knew he’d need to work on Eagle with great care, or else his cover was gone. He also knew it would take a lot more than a couple beers in a strip joint to gain complete trust.
Dust rose in billows as the parking lot began to empty. Following Eagle tonight would be a dumb move, but he thought it might be a good idea to tail one of the regulars for a while, just to see which direction he was headed. He set his sights on one of the pickups that frequented the lot, waited a moment, then pulled out. The pickup turned north on the Route, away from town. In fact, most of the vehicles pulling out headed north.
And another thing occurred to him.
Natter wasn’t at the club tonight. His car wasn’t in the lot…
But before Phil could contemplate that any further, a shadow rose up behind him from the back seat.
««—»»
The dream was a proffering, a blessing…
It was a gift.
In the dream, he was vapor, an unholy ghost. Bodiless. Perfect. Spiralling down perfectly into perfect black.
But it wasn’t really a dream, he knew that. They were never really dreams…
They were summonings.
Ona. Oh, blessed flesh of Ona,
he thought.
I am so unworthy…
He ascended, somehow, downward.
He soared.
Bereft of the flaws of his curse, he was perfect now, the vessel of his being light as air, his wisdom heavier than all the earth.
He knew where his wisdom had come from.
The darkness smeared, soaring past. He felt terror at first—so
quick
was his flight. He breezed through massive stone channels pocked and blackened by the age of all of history. He wisped through crevices no more wide than a fraction of an inch.
On and on. Down and down.
Into the blessed black.
Soon the great ebon wall approached. He soared right into it—
—then through it.
Greater blackness bloomed beyond the wall. Blackness that was brighter than the sun. He could smell the sound of screams. He could taste the dense stench of burning human muscle and bone. He could smell pandemonium, a scent sweet as fresh-cut roses.
And with his ethereal eyes, he saw the field.
A field of flesh, of
people.
Acre upon acre, prone humans lay naked and alive, awaiting the field’s noxious attendants, its pious harvesters. And they squirmed in their wait. Screaming. Shrieking. Convulsing in spastic tremors.
Soon the harvesters arrived: squat, rough-skinned figures plodding forward into the screaming field. Above them, a blistering black moon shined, offering light to their sacred tasks. Dutifully, then, and steadfast, they began to farm the field.
With unholy tools, they plowed and tilled; great blades and hewers, twivels and trowels, rose and methodically fell to turn the hearty human soil. Skulls burst under the blows of mallets. Breasts, buttocks, and faces threshed raw. Bellies riven open by scythes which swept this way and that like clockworks, baring fresh, fertile entrails, ripe organs, and rich, fecund blood. Some of the harvesters worked barehanded, crawling along the squirming horde to punch out eyes with stub fingers, twist genitalia out of shivering groins, crack bones and unseat limbs. Hands and feet were bitten off by glassine teeth, then spat out. Talons raked throats. Palms and heels crushed bodies and heads like grapes in a wine vat.
Hard work.
Eternal
work.
Tending the fields of the father!
he thought in utter, rushing joy.
Acres and acres, miles and miles, he continued to soar above the wondrous spectacle. Oh, how he prayed that on some great day he, too, would join the harvesters in their divine and hallowed labors.