Squid Pulp Blues (13 page)

It took only a few seconds for Little Bing Bong to get his bearings and when he did, he stood on all four legs and let out a hee-haw that shattered windows and brought goose bumps to everyone within a half mile radius. The sound even made the remnants of
Peachy’s
kneecaps slide into the gutter where they were eaten by a three-legged stray cat.

Little Bing Bong made his way down the street, ignoring the longheads and the slaughter of the citizens of Thompson. He started up the hill and when he reached the top, he looked into the eyes of Barbara
Stanwyck
. His donkey consciousness debated the idea of jumping off of the hill and into her cleavage but his reasoning skills told him that he’d never make it. Instead, he settled on bowing his head, mentally supplicating for a boon of some kind.

After ten minutes, Barbara responded favorably to the donkey’s petition and lifted her feet up and let loose a fierce
brevibacterial
wind of snow and sole dirt. Little Bing Bong closed his eyes and inhaled through his large donkey nose, filling his lungs with the revelation and blessing of Barbara
Stanwyck
.

At the bottom of the hill, a large crowd of longheads gathered, staring up at the animal on the hill. They were silent, focusing their minds on every snippet of dialogue from the Barbara
Stanwyck
movies they had watched. Every line was not only recited mentally but was studied and meditated upon.

Barbara’s foot brought another gust of wind and the longheads watched as each and every snowflake now reflected a different scene from the very films they were thinking about. The sky before them became a holographic universe of black and white memories, a seemingly infinite array of twinkling Barbara-clones encased in frost.

Little Bing Bong shook the snow from his fur and snorted in donkey-laughter. He looked down and saw a cardboard Halloween mask. Lacking the appropriate appendages to pick it up, he kicked it instead and watched it flip up into the air and get carried by the stink-wind that was still emanating from Barbara’s feet.

And so Little Bing Bong, the Apocalypse donkey, stood on top of the hill that rose above Thompson, New Jersey, and for the first time in his young life, felt a tinge of bittersweet sorrow. He knew that something was going to happen to the world, something so massively absurd that it would erase any semblance of normality that had previously existed in any form whatsoever.

And so he watched and waited.

And waited.

Little Bing Bong was finally sucked up through the air and into Barbara
Stanwyck’s
mouth where he swam in her yellowish, gelatinous drool.

Chapter 16

Willie Packard ran out of Sara
McMadigan’s
apartment building and stumbled down the steps. While dressing, he neglected to pull up his zipper and now cold rush of air enveloped his penis, tickling it with icy fingertips. Though the feeling wasn’t unpleasant, he zipped his pants.

The street was quiet except for the always existent hum of the
Dynatox
Factory that reverberated through the town like an inexhaustible gong. Willie took a look down on end of the street and then the other.

No people.

He started walking until he got to
Main Street
and stopped when he saw all of the corpses.

“Whoa. What the fuck happened here?”

He walked slowly, careful not to step on anyone as he took a look at each person. Some people he recognized. Mike Barnes from the hardware store. Jessica Andrews from the pottery shop. John Lawrence, Willie’s mailman. Even Officer Freddy Fernandez was lying in the snowy gutter, his torso riddled with bullets. Willie shook his head. “Goddamn.”

His stomach growled so he walked farther down the street and saw that the lights were on in
Laruso’s
. Willie walked in and saw that Dan was mopping the floor which had streaks of gore across it. “Jesus, Dan. What the hell happened?”

“The hell if I know, Willie.”

“I hope it’s no trouble but you mind if I sit down? Maybe have something to eat?”

Dan gestured to the empty tables. “Sure thing, have a seat. What can I get
ya
?”

“Hmm,” Willie wondered. He knew the
fettuccine
alfredo
was delicious but he’d also heard good things about the
insalata
di
polpo
. Not being able to make up his mind, he asked for both. “Can I have a glass of your house red wine, too?”

Dan nodded and went into the kitchen to prepare the food. He grabbed a wine glass, picked up a bottle of wine and poured a full glass.
Good thing some winos left these bottles outside,
Dan thought, remembering the weird looking drunks who were hanging out in the alley next to the restaurant.

After Dan had cooked up the food, he walked into the dining room. He saw Willie sitting at the table and almost dropped the plates.

Willie Packard was sitting, hands folded, at the table wearing something on his face. Dan slowly walked closer and quietly placed the plates on the table.

“Are you okay?” Dan asked.
 

Willie Packard laughed loudly through his Halloween mask.

THE END

THE APOCALYPSE DONKEY

Chapter One

Simon Palmer swerved the car but ended up hitting the squid anyway.

What the hell was a squid doing in the middle of the road? He didn’t know the answer but didn’t care so he kept driving. He figured the thing was dead before he hit it. But how could that be? It was out of water. Squid can’t survive for long out of water, can they? Another question he didn’t have the answer to. He was getting used to that.

The car hit a pothole and Simon heard one of the boxes in the backseat fall over, spilling copies of his books all over the floor.

“Shit,” he said and reached back with one arm to scoop some of them up. He almost hit the car in front of him so he eased over to the side of the road. Looking at the copies of book, the trade paperback collection of his comic book
The Adventures of Fauntleroy
LeRoux
, Simon was reminded of the year he spent living in his car, drawing Fauntleroy
LeRoux
over and over in his notebook. Who would’ve thought that he’d get a chance to work on a new series featuring the classic character he had grown up reading? Though he was far from rich and famous, Simon considered himself lucky.

This book signing was something that Simon looked forward to despite knowing that most of the readership came from an obscure demographic. It wasn’t the usual comic book fan (male, 18-35, living with his parents) who read his work. He got fan mail from eighty-year old doctors,
meth
-addicted housewives, ten-year old orphans, and even an imprisoned priest. His publisher told him that the biggest readership came from central New Jersey and more specifically, the city of Thompson.
 
Simon recalled hearing that Byron
McPhee
, the creator of the Fauntleroy
LeRoux
comic strip, moved to the area in 1932 although whether or not there was a connection, Simon didn’t know.

Once he drove into Thompson, he stopped at a strip mall and looked for a payphone. There was one by a liquor store and when Simon picked up the receiver, his hand touched something slimy. Smeared on the phone was something yellow and gooey. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and held the phone with it. Then he dialed.

It rang twice and then a voice answered, “
Hellooooo
there!”

Simon said, “
Hey,
Chaps. What’s up? I’m in Thompson.” Chaps lived three towns away. Ever since Simon moved to Pennsylvania four years ago, they only saw each other occasionally.

“Already?
I figured you wouldn’t get there until another hour or so. I still have to eat breakfast.”

“We’ll get something to eat, just meet me at Zip Comics and we’ll go to a diner or something.”

Chaps said, “I don’t know. I think I’d rather eat at home and meet you afterwards.”

Simon sighed. “Okay, when?”

“Maybe two hours or so.”

“Two hours? You kidding me?” Simon wanted to curse but held himself back, not wanting to upset an already unstable friendship. He wanted to tell Chaps to stop being a hermit, stop being a procrastinator, stop alienating his friends. But instead, Simon just said, “Okay, meet met at the comic shop at 9:30.”

Chaps said, “Okay. I’ll be there.” He giggled nervously. “Take care.”

“Yeah, you too.
Bye.” Simon hung up.
I really should’ve told him to go fuck himself.. Sick of this shit. If he doesn’t want to hang out, just fucking tell me.
Simon felt like ending the friendship but felt like there was something there to nurture, something that was worthwhile. Chaps was unreliable to say the least but for some reason Simon liked his company.

What the fuck am I going to do for two hours? The comic shop isn’t even open.

Simon sat outside the strip mall and smoked a cigarette. He watched the cars drive by and wished he was in one of them, wanting to know what it was like to be someone else. He wasn’t discontent with his life but it would be fun to explore other lifestyle options. There might be a good story in there somewhere.

A car pulled into the parking lot, taking a space that was near Simon. The car idled for two minutes and then shut off. A man got out and walked towards him. He tried not looking at the guy but it was difficult. He was tall, freakishly so. Long brown hair and muscular, though not really that big.
Okay, I think I better go back to the car.
Simon hated being afraid but that was his instinct especially in unfamiliar surroundings where there were guys he knew could kick his ass in a minute.

Though mentally he was prepared to stand up, his body wouldn’t listen. The man got closer and walked up to Simon. He could see now that he wasn’t as scary close up. In fact, he was attractive and if Simon were gay, he’d find the guy irresistible.

The man said, “You him?”

Simon didn’t know what to reply. Was this a Fauntleroy
LeRoux
fan that recognized him? Did the guy come into town for the book signing?
No, he didn’t seem enthusiastic. He’s too casual, nonchalant.

“Uh, I don’t know. Who are you looking for?” He stubbed out the cigarette and realized right away that it might come off looking like an aggressive gesture, like a character in a spaghetti western who was getting his hands ready to go for his six-shooters.

“Don’t fuck around. You’re the only guy standing here and so I’m asking, are you the guy?”

Oh, what the hell.

“Yeah, I’m the guy,” Simon said, instantly regretting it.

The man didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look excited or disappointed. His facial expression didn’t change while he went for his back pocket and brought out a black envelope.

The man said, “Here,” and dropped it on Simon’s lap. Then he walked back to his car.

“Hey wait!” Simon grabbed the envelope and stood up, taking a few steps towards the man. He got no response and so then jogged over to the guy, wanting to say,
“Hey I was just kidding. I’m not the guy so here, sorry about that. Take back your weird, black envelope.”

He knew he couldn’t do it. So when the guy turned to look at him, Simon just said, “Thanks.”

The guy didn’t respond. He got into his car and drove away.

Simon stood in the middle of the parking lot, watching the car drive away and wondering what was in the black envelope. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.

Chapter Two

Harry Bosch drove out of the parking lot, relieved to be done with the whole mess. He was told by Terry that there’d be a
meth
-head hanging out in front of the convenience store on Washington Road and to give him the envelope. Harry did just that and hoped that it would indeed be the end of the whole fucking mess.

That
meth
-head was acting strange but who knows what the fuck those guys are
gonna
do?

He’d been in debt to Terry Silver for far too long. Harry had been sucked in the by the allure of Terry’s unorthodox organized crime family, one that was not based on ethnicity or old country tradition. It was based on money, violence, and squid, all of which Harry loved. Still, Terry turned out to be the kind of guy who’d promise the same thing to three people, never intending to give it to any of them.
Fucking asshole. I
shoulda
listened to Mike Barnes and stayed the fuck away from him.

And to top it off, Terry tried to get Harry into the
Kabbalah
, talking for hours about one mystical thing or another.
Jesus Christ the
goddamn guy thinks I’m a fucking Jew or something.
 
Harry decided that after this whole situation was settled, he’d find a way out. He was a strong guy, big in all the right places and there were plenty of jobs around town he could get.
I think
Kreese’s
is looking for a bouncer or something, I
gotta
check on that. It’d mean a cut in pay but I got savings.

Harry drove down to see if Zip Comics was open but then saw the CLOSED sign and passed it by. He normally didn’t read comics but Mike had told him that there was such a thing as adult comics. “Full of sex, and not just normal sex, I mean sex with aliens and squid and shit, guys jacking off on car engines, two-headed hookers and donkeys. Crazy
motherfuckin
’ stuff,” Mike had said, so Harry decided he just had to check it out.

I’ll go by there later. Got
nothin
’ better to do.

Hoping that his day’s work was done, Harry stopped by the Thompson Diner for pancakes, sausage, and fried eggs: sunny side up. He knew the waitress, a woman who always flirted with him, making it quite clear that if he was so inclined, Harry could take her to his car and screw her brains out. He would’ve taken that horny broad up on her offer if not for his impotence. So Harry would just have to settle for glimpses of her ample cleavage and plump ass.

When he was done eating his breakfast, he asked her for the check.

She said, “Going so soon,
hon?”

“Got stuff to do, Stella.
I’m a busy man, you know.” He couldn’t tell her the truth, that he really had nothing to do the rest of the day and he’d be happy to sit there at the diner, staring at her goodies. But if there was one thing he had learned in life, it’s that women don’t like a man who doesn’t do shit all day.

Stella said, “Oh, I bet you are. I just wish you’d get busy with me.”

“You’re a
hellava
waitress, Stella, you know that? That’s why I tip you so good.” He took out his wallet.

Stella leaned over the table, her freckled cleavage on display. “Yeah but that’s not the
kinda
tip I want.”

Harry stared unabashedly at her breasts. He had no shame in the matter. Being coy was for teenagers or romantics but it wasted time, Harry thought. So he licked his lips and imagined those milk-mounds slapping his face. In his fantasy his dick was hard and he was able to follow through with the act of love-making, something he wasn’t able to do in five years.

“You’re
terrible
, Stella.” Harry laughed and took the check from her hand and looked at it. She didn’t charge him for the side of sausage as usual.
I think that’s her way of saying I’m
gonna
owe her some of MY sausage.

He took money out of his wallet and handed it to her with the check. Tipping her above and beyond the usual amount was something he was happy doing. She made his day pleasant and she deserved it.

Stella said, “Thanks, cutie pie. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Well, maybe,” Harry said. “Remember, I’m a busy man.”

She giggled. “Oh, don’t remind me.”

Harry left the diner and sat in his car for a few minutes, smoking and wondering what the hell he was going to do for the rest of the day. The comic shop would kill a half hour tops but as for after that, he was clueless.

He started the car and turned on the radio, scanning the radio stations until he found a song he liked.

Yeah, Judas Priest.
Now we’re
talkin
’.

Harry drove away, tapping his fingers to “Ram It Down” and wishing he had stayed at the diner for a few minutes longer.

*
                     
*
                     
*

Chris woke up next to a dumpster.

The first thing he saw was a chain-link fence, behind it a field made of dirt and the occasional patch of grass. He wondered why someone put a fence around that field, why someone would want to keep people out of it.

He also wondered who he was. He couldn’t remember.

Who am I?

Chris hated that question; it sounded so existential, so cliché. But he asked it in all seriousness because he had no idea what his name was and how he ended up propped up against a dumpster. He checked the pockets of his dirty khaki pants but there was no wallet, only some loose money and a plastic baggie full of little crystals.

Okay, okay. I took some of these drugs, and it just fried my brain a little bit.
Everything’ll
come back to me soon. I just need to wait it out.

So Chris waited.

After a half hour, he started to get worried. Though he lacked the memories of his identity, he remembered other things. An old movie he had seen with John
Hodiak
playing a guy who loses his memory.
Shit. Why can I remember that but I can’t remember my own fucking name. And I remember walking up to
Krauszer’s
to get a lottery ticket and a coffee but the door was locked. I thought they opened at like six or something.

But then the memories stopped. What happened to him between trying the door to when he woke up? He had no clue. But he did know that he had a baggie full of what he took to be crystal
meth
. He looked at it again, crushing some of it between his fingers. Another memory came back to him: arriving at a house that had a green van parked in the driveway. Chris knocking on the door, asking for some holiday
meth
, envisioning the green crystals as vividly as if they were right in front of him. He remembered the guy at the door saying he didn’t have any more but that he had something brand new and it was called Squid Ink, looked just like crystal
meth
but was twice as powerful. Chris remembered asking, “What’s in it?” and then guy responding with “You really want to know?” but then the memory stopped there.

What the fuck is in this shit?

If that’s what messed him up, Chris wanted to know the details. He could picture the guy’s face but no name. He could picture the house but no address. So he knew he was a drug addict, fine. But where did he live? Or did he even have a home? What if this was it?