The Devil Delivered and Other Tales (26 page)

4.

the dance of dances

Sool Koobie kneeled close to a wall of his cave, a bone tube in one hand, the fingertips of the other red with paint, his mouth full of spit and charcoal. The wall’s red bricks were smooth with age, shiny with the greasy smears of Sool’s shoulders in constant passage, and now crowded in painted images of the various spirits Sool had freed over the years—freed being Sool’s unconscious euphemism for murdered in cold blood. Overhead, the cave’s roof, consisting of woven detritus and misshapen pieces of corrugated aluminum, drummed and rustled beneath the night’s light rain. The occasional rivulet dribbled down onto the smeared cobblestone floor, pooling close to the manhole cover, which led down into Sool’s own private world of nether spirits and odd, bloodstained tubes of gauze that Sool threaded together to make his dancing cloak of death, which he now wore in homage to the god who was art, the gifts that were red ocher and charcoal paint, and the demonic angel who raced inside his head and gave painful birth to the images he now fashioned on the wall of his cave.

His was a world of magic, of gestures that were sacred, of dreams that were stories, and memories that were truth. In his propitiations before the hunt, and in the images he painted now the hunt was done, Sool had no sense of past or present, for each belonged to the central, tactile, physical truth that was the hunt itself.

Setting the tube to his lips, Sool leaned close to the wall and softly sprayed the wet charcoal, outlining the curving sweep of Don Palmister’s back, then the heart-line—the perspective a perfect rendition of what had met his eyes moments before he’d driven the spear home. With the red ocher paint in his other hand, he daubed on the flesh, the hint of muscle beneath the corduroy hide, the color that was life and earth. In moments he was done. He spat out what was left of the charcoal, wiped the paint from his hand on his thigh and buttocks, adjusted the gauze-tube cloak, then cocked his head with a tense, febrile motion.

In the air, in the wet wind that drifted in from outside! A herd of vegetarians! A herd so large, so close! Sool Koobie’s flesh quivered. A low whimper escaped his blackened lips. He spun into a flurry of gauze and beads and braids, the world in his perfect mind plunging into a dance of exaltation, communal propitiation, perfunctory mass extermination. The dance carried him into ecstacy, as he felt the spirits gathering, joining his flesh, surging through his veins and arteries.

And the sky blackened overhead, and thunder rumbled, and lightning flashed, and a Neanderthal turned his glittering, narrow, red-rimmed eyes upon the world outside, and thought of death.

5.

discoveries

Annie waited below with her three bodyguards and the limo, but Andy “Kit” Breech gave little consideration to their likely impatience with this delay. He kneeled in the closet, the door open, the shoes flung out and lying on the living room rug behind him, the secret trapdoor pried open, and the strange, mysterious electronic array spread out before him. Headphones, with an impossibly long headband between the speakers … Who the hell makes headphones for octopods!? A flat box, a round keyboard with strange symbols imprinted on each key, dials, switches, VU meters, frequency-finders. An aerial, wireless, made and sold by Radio Shack. A calculator, Texas Instruments, with trig functions and expanded memory, a diagram with penciled arc calculations, tensile strengths, velocity projections, angles, stress factors for some kind of mineral. Jottings, obscure notations, my God, what is all this?

“ASAP, give me a memo, please, help,” Andy babbled, pulling at his lower lip. He found a second diagram, illustrating—with a precise hand—no, tentacle—a condom. What? Stress calculations, elasticity factors, probability curves. He clambered out of the closet, realizing he was gibbering wordlessly but not caring, and crawled up to the aquarium. Kit wouldn’t meet his eye. The octopus lounged under its rock, glutted with a half pound of calamari, and slowly twirled one tentacle tip with another; still another tentacle tapped slowly in time on the gravel bottom, and still another held up its huge … head, or body, or whatever that blob’s called. I used to know. I used to know everything about octopods. I used to ooze confidence when detailing my wonderful pet to each and every woman I brought up here—they’d see the incredible sensuality octopods exude, the strength of their sinuous limbs, the quiet awareness in their eyes, their startling explosiveness when they pounced—and they’d all damn near drag me into bed, wrapping themselves around me and grunting and gasping and begging—but now, but now I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything. I feel weak, sucked clean, impotent. What can I do?

Then suddenly he knew exactly what he was to do. “Kit,” he hissed darkly. “When I get back, it’s down the toilet with you. You brought it on yourself, Kit. You’ve left me no choice. You’re pike-meat, Kit. Sorry, old friend, but this is what it’s come to, after all these years.”

The intercom buzzed again, and Annie’s tinny-squeezed voice called out, “Andeee! Please, lovemuffin! We’ll be late! And Stubble needs to pee! Why didn’t you go with the minister? We weren’t expecting this detour, Andeee. Hurry down, please!”

The minister. Ride with him? With those pigeons trying to nail him every minute? You must be insane. Oh no, no way. He scrambled to his feet and stabbed the intercom button. “On my way, darling,” he said.

At the door he paused one last time to glare at Kit. The octopus had edged to the corner of the aquarium and was watching him, waiting for him to leave. It’s all connected. I know it is. I just thought my underwear were stretching, but that wasn’t it. My penis is shrinking, my testicles are withdrawing, the hair’s all falling out. I think you’ve been poisoning my condoms, Kit. Is it jealousy? Are you, uh, gay? This can’t go on—I didn’t even notice the last time I had a hard-on—I can’t keep making excuses, my answer-phone’s full, the bitches are getting nastier with every message they leave. I just hide in here, staring at you. I can’t think. I can’t do anything. You’ve got to be … removed, Kit. I never thought you’d be the one to betray me. The fatal kiss, the taste of your salty beak on my lips. E tu, Kitay?

Heartbroken but with a new resolution, Andy left the apartment.

6.

escape!

Jojum was the biggest bruiser Joey “Rip” Sanger had ever seen. Of course, size was irrelevant, but it looked like the man could back it all up—he had fists that looked like stone mauls, and damn near the same color, too. And yet, there he stood, delicately, beautifully guiding the steam engine through the darkness, his touch a caress on the controls, his piggy eyes squinting into the darkness ahead.

Joey had been tied to a grab rail opposite the control station where Jojum sat. The knots were secure, the ropes unyielding. Gully and the other two scrubs had gone back to one of the other cars, leaving Jojum, just Jojum, but Joey knew it’d be enough. In any case, he was trussed up so tight, he could barely breathe.

Joey tried talking. “Ain’t no point in holdin’ me, if ya think about it. Gully’s got a problem, and it’s me, and sooner or later he’ll have to drop the black glove at my feet, and then the short straw will need picking. But I know Gully—I know people just like him. All heart and fairness to keep you sops in line, nodding your heads to whatever crap he delivers, but picking that straw won’t be blind chance, Jojum. He’ll have squirreled the whole thing, and it’s my guess he’s already picked you out to do the job. You’re big, and dumb—as far as he’s concerned. He’s the brain and you’re the meat, and the meat does what the brain directs. You’ll end up with a murder rap, Jojum, and Gully will be clean grease sliding off into the sunset. You’re young, boy, but I ain’t. I seen enough in my day to know what I’m looking at—this here cozy world Gully’s devised, well, he’s the emperor, ain’t he? King Shit of Turd Mountain, right? You’re here to stroke his ego, all of you, and t’make him feel virtuous. So he’s cleaned the homeless off the streets—that’s exactly what the powers that be want—to not see you, so they don’t have to think about you, so they don’t have to do anything about you. If Gully’s rich, it’s cause he’s being paid outa the premier’s pocket, mark my words.”

Jojum slowly slid his flat gaze over at Joey. He blinked. “You say something, bud? My hearing ain’t too good. Say, that’s two nice shiners you got there, bud.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Joey swore.

There was a shout and all of a sudden Wild Bill Chan was clambering up Jojum to batter at the man’s head, and the redcap was clambering in through the entranceway, knife in hand, and slicing at Joey’s bonds.

“Hot damn!” Joey laughed.

Jojum and Chan were having a real set-to, grunting and grimacing and clobbering at each other, staggering back and forth, crashing into things, breaking things.…

The ropes fell away and Joey leapt to his feet. “Hey!” he yelled at the two fighting men. “You two! Cut that out! Quit it, or you’ll—”

Jojum slammed into the controls, snapping the handles at the far forward position. The train jolted, its wheels screaming, the dark scene outside quickly sliding past in a blur. Then Jojum, Chan clinging to him, caromed into the redcap, then Joey, and the fight got interesting for a while. Eventually Joey managed to pull himself away—he looked at the broken controls, then out the window. The redcap crawled to his side.

“Now we’ve gone and done it!” Joey swore. “We got ourselves a runaway train, and we’re all dead men!”

Jojum and Chan stopped fighting briefly to look over at Joey and the redcap—the boy’s face was white with fear, since the train was already going too fast to jump off—then the two men resumed their battle royal. Joey thought about joining in again, but Chan and Jojum seemed perfectly matched, and looked to be having fun besides.

Joey sighed. “Cheer up, redcap,” he said, patting his pocket. “You’re as close to earning your fiver as you’ve ever been.”

7.

revelation!

Arthur Revell stumbled down the dark, wet street, alternately groaning and cursing. He’d swelled, burst through his clothing, and was now able to glare in through the dimly lit windows on the second floor of the buildings he staggered past. Just for fun he punched out a few, leaving a wake of ringing alarms. His horns had grown long and they itched, as if eager for goring, for rending flesh in a splash of fatal blood. “Gimme a Glenlivet!” he bellowed at the storm sky overhead, then kicked a parked car across to the other side of the street. He paused to stare at its crumpled remains, then grinned. “Cheap, smelly cigars,” he rasped. “Days without bathing, picking my nose in public, farting in restaurants, aargh!”

What’s happening to me? What am I becoming?

He heard sirens approaching from behind. Arthur spun around, spied the flashing lights. He picked up a garbage bin—the kind that trucks hoisted up and tipped into their backsides—and flung it at the patrol car. There was a huge crash, then an explosion. “Aaargh!” Arthur crowed, shaking his fists. He threw his shoulder against an old brownstone building, felt its foundations crack, heard all the crap inside rattle, shatter, and tinkle.

I am the ills of the nation! Awake with sour, deadly disposition. You all asked for it, every damn one of you, whoever you really are. Walls? I’ll smash down your walls. Barricades? I’ll crush them underfoot. Armored personnel carriers? One slash of my serrated tail and you’ll be flying in ruin. Welfare cuts? I’ll take what I need. Taxman at the door? I’ll rend him limb from limb. Budget cuts in every social service left to us? I’ll devour the banks—crunch crunch crunch—I’ll incinerate the legislative assemblies, the house of parliament, the cronies on the Boards, the bloodless technocracts and vampire lawyers, the money-hoarders, the multinational forestry companies, oil companies, insurance companies, chain restaurants, mall designers, pharmaceutical companies, cut-price food stores, trucking companies, corrupt unions, reformers, liberals, conservatives, separatists, unionists, lobbyists, bureaucrats, puritans, fanatic joggers, anti-smoking groups, anti-drug groups, bad television shows, the cynical, blood-hungry media. You’ve all made me ill. Terribly ill. I’m at the end of my rope, choking for want of compassion, humanity, common sense, and the end—God, the end—to lies!

Arthur now towered over the core’s turn-of-the-century buildings. He could see the dome of the legislature, he could see the peak of the Unified Cultural Workers Assembly Hall, and the skyscrapers housing the multinational companies and their tons and tons of useless paper and files and statistics and rules and prohibitions and secret codes—the reams of supposed authority, the chains of a dubious civilization, the bullshit breeding flies of misery and despair to a downtrodden, self-destructing species.

“My God,” he breathed. “I know what I am. I know what I’ve become! It’s all clear to me now, at last. I’m awake, at last awake, and the world will shake! The towers will topple! I am the monster you created, the one whose awakening you dreaded, sought to impede, tried to ignore—but it’s too late! Aaargh! And aargh again! What will you do now that I’m awake, eh? Eh?
Eh? Eeehhhh!
You see, I know what I am now! Finally! I’m an artist!
Aaarrghhh!!!
”

His sights set on the legislature buildings and the corporate castles, Arthur Revell began his rampage of destruction.

8.

liberation at last at last

In the way of octopods, Kit squeezed through the last keyhole and flopped out down onto the floor. He raised himself up on his eight legs and looked around. Silence, an apartment asleep in the absence of its owner. Outside the wind howled, thunder boomed, lightning flashed.

Kit slimed his way into the bedroom, moving from one cover to the next, darting and sploshing and oozing, and arrived at the dresser drawer. He opened it and extracted the large box of condoms. The box tucked under one arm, Kit returned to the living room.

The radio equipment had proved a perfect decoy. Andrew was confused. It was important that Andrew be confused, allowing Kit to complete his preparations. Squatting in the sunken living room, Kit opened the box and began ripping open the plastic envelopes of condoms, one after another, until he had on the rug in front of him 632 slippery, rubbery, multicolored tubes. Then he began tying one to the next, fashioning a rope of remarkable elasticity.