Whispers From The Abyss (20 page)

“Sorry. Sorry everyone...you folks at home, too...” Charlie was speaking directly to the camera now, “Everyone, on behalf of all of us here at WDDT I want to sincerely apologize for today’s...umm...everything. Our buddy Wilbur, he...uhhh...he got a little carried away, didn’t mean to upset anyone.” For a second Charlie’s voice went acidic as he nodded to his brother-in-law the clown, “Did you, Wilbur?”

Wilbur shrugged, “Dude, I just wanna make people happy. That’s what I...”

“Shut up.”

Wilbur blinked, took another step back, legs moving like broken springs. 

Charlie turned back into the camera. Forced a smile. “Again, everyone, we’re sorry for any misunderstanding, or trouble, or offense taken. As station manager, I promise it’ll never happen again.” It was then that Charlie caught a glimpse of himself in the monitors, saw his tired eyes peering back at him. His posture was ragged, expression skeletal. Enormous pit stains bloomed under each arm. He looked like utter shit. The bottle of Dewars in his hand only enhanced the effect.
The bottle of Dewars?! Jesus FUCKING Christ!
He was holding an open container on live television! During daytime hours! On a KIDS show!

Charlie’s eyes wandered down to the bottle. The amber liquor sloshed nervously in his trembling hand. This would cost the station a minimum fine of $25,000. The FCC were real dicks about this kind of thing. “Uhhhh...Stan,” Charlie muttered, “Why don’t you take us to a commercial break. Think I’m going to go find a corner to crawl into and die.”

*     *     *

Backstage the walls reeked of stale sweat and cheap weed. It’d been a long time since Charlie had bothered to come back here. Now he remembered why. It was like stepping into Wilbur’s brain. Clown crap was everywhere—loose props, greasepaint tins, stilts, hats, giant shoes, crinkled tubes of Preparation H. In the corner rested an elaborate bong, a blown glass monstrosity which Wilbur lovely referred to as
Czar Bomba
. Charlie leaned against a rack of costumes and allowed his gaze to sink deep into the green curves of Bomba. Sure. Stare at the bong.
Why the hell not?
It was better than watching Wilbur right now. The skinny bastard was in full bullshit excuse-mode...

“...can’t you respect that?!” he cried. “C’mon, Charlie! It’s my art! It’s what I do! If I don’t sing the song in octopus, the King doesn’t wake up! And if the King doesn’t wake up, what the fuck’s the point?! It’s the rules, Charlie! I don’t make ‘em up!” Wilbur’s mouth was spewing words faster than a methhead on fire, his every word accented with a blur of hands and nervous ticks.

Charlie ’s eyes stayed with the bong. For a hunk of glass, it really was impressive. Chrome fittings. Borosilicate finish. Along its neck an intricate knot-work of tentacles was sandblasted into the glaze. The thing must’ve cost a small fortune. Charlie imagined what wonderful sounds it’d make crashing into Wilbur’s skull...
repeatedly
.

“You got a problem with my act?! Your problem can bite me!” Wilbur was pacing now, his giant shoes slapping pavement like spastic beavers. “All I can be is me! Wilbur! The clown! It’s like the robot dude on
Star Trek
! He said
‘To thyself be true!’
That’s how I roll! I keep it real! Do ya think Picasso woulda bent over if they’d told ‘em not to paint in red?! Fuuuuuuuuuck no! He woulda said,
‘Lick it, monkey!’
”

“ENOUGH!” Charlie shouted. His voice landed like a hammer. “We had an agreement, Wilbur! No more Octopus stuff! You promised! Over drinks, Wilbur!
Drinks!
You don’t back out on a promise made over a bottle of Blue Label! Only chicks and cowards pull that kind of sissy shit!”

“Dude, I gotta say, you’re being a real butt-nut about this, ya know that? You’re asking me to turn my back on the fans! My people! You want me to betray my art for cryin’ out loud!”

“Damn it, Wilbur! Your ego’s writing checks your brain can’t cash! The office phones are ringing off the fucking hook! You wanna know why? I’ll tell you why! Cuz our viewers are inbred retards! And you have a talent for pissing
them
off!”

Wilbur sighed. Looked away. “Okay...okay...I hear ya, dude. You’re mad...”

“No shit.”

“C’mon, dude...I wanna be friends...we can be friends, alright? I can fix this.”

“This ought to be good.”

“Nah, don’t be like that. I’m a professional! I got this!” An odd smile began to tug at Wilbur, the indigo smear around his lips parting into a jagged half-moon. “I’ll go out, finish up the bit...”

“No! Absolutely
fucking
not! This octopus shit? Gone. Over. Never coming back! You pull this shit again, Wilbur, I swear to
fucking
god...” Charlie cranked an angry fist, “...I will beat your painted ass!”

The smile faded. His posture sank. “Dude, you’re breakin’ my balls! Breakin’ ‘em! You know that?”

“Guns, Wilbur! These kids, their parents have guns.” Charlie gritted his teeth, peered hard into Wilbur’s ringed eyes. Hot indignation stared back at him. Or was it disappointment? It was hard to tell, the way his makeup had started to bleed. “These are stupid people, Wilbur!” Charlie continued, “
Inbred
-stupid! Religious-stupid! The kind of stupid that doesn’t think about prison when its pissed off! Seriously, do you want to die here?! Cuz that’s what’s gonna happen if...”

“Okay...okay...” Wilbur grumbled. His head bobbed like a leaky balloon. “You know what? You got me. You know my balls? They’re broken now. You happy? No more Octopus King.”

“That a promise?”

“Yeah. I can see you’re mad, so yeah...I fucked up. I went too far.”

“You aren’t bullshitting me again, are you?”

“SLAP ME!” Wilbur jerked forward, grabbed Charlie by the necktie.

“
What?!
” Charlie sputtered.

“I said slap me!”

“Wilbur, I’m not gonna slap...”

“C’mon, dude! I fucked up, so you need to slap me!”

If Charlie had been a better man, he would’ve hesitated. He would’ve kept his cool. Maintained order. Refused to play into yet another one of Wilbur’s stupid games. Sure. That’s what Charlie should have done...

“Ow!
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
” Wilbur reeled back. Fell against a stack of milk crates packed with multicolored clothes.

Charlie’s fist stung. Wet greasepaint colored his knuckles.

“See?! See?!” Wilbur jabbered, shaking off the pain. A bruise bloomed under the white of his jaw line. “We’re even now! It’s aaaaaall good!” He staggered to his feet and swiped the bottle of Dewars from Charlie’s grip. Took a gulp. Coughed. “Alright! Let’s do this! Let’s get those cameras rolling!” he cheered. The words came fast and manic, thick with the tang of warm scotch. “Let’s just keep drinking, dude, and go to work! We got a show to finish!”

“Wilbur, you better not be fucking me...”

“It’s cool. It’s cool.” Wilbur shoved the bottle back to Charlie. “You just work on this bottle and relax. Ol’ Uncle Wilbur has got the situation under control. No more fuck ups! Promise! In fact, this’ll be the best show ever! I’ll sing the kids this Irish football song! It’s awesome, dude! I learned it while was in Dublin!”

“Wilbur. Lemme make one thing clear.” Charlie’s features hardened into a stony scowl. “You fuck me on this, I
will
kick your ass. I’ll kick your ass and beat you within an inch of your miserable life. Then I will ring your parole officer and tell her all about that drug test you failed. You fuck me, Wilbur, and your butt will be back in prison so fast, you won’t know whether to shit or go blind.”

That stopped him cold. Lines of worry instantly furrowed into Wilbur’s waxy face  “Dude. Like don’t mention by butt and prison in the same sentence. Seriously. Just don’t, alright?”

Thud! Thud! Thud!
The sound of heavy feet against tile floor. The door swung open. It was Fattie. “You guys almost done in here?!” He hunched against door frame, wheezing like a dying cat. Behind him the roar of the crowd thundered. “I can’t... I can’t....do this...I just...” He ripped off the mask. Sucked in a lung full of air. “Those brats...they...know somethin’s up!” Fattie’s eyes were dilated, his skin pale. Fear and dehydration had taken hold. “They’re gettin’ evil! Totally shithouse crazy! Please!”

Wilbur stretched his neck. Smiled. “Don’t worry, dude. Ol’ Uncle Wilbur’s back on the job.” He patted Fattie on the shoulder, then shot a quick glance over to Charlie, “Ain’t that right, bro?”

“Long as I don’t get anymore angry calls, sure." Charlie snorted.

“Don’t worry, Charlie... The kids’ll love it!”

*     *     *

“And we’re on in FIVE… FOUR… THREE... TWO...”

The ON-AIR light flicked on.

Wilbur took the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are back! And you’re watching
The Afternoon Fun Time Show
! With meeeee! Your pal, Wacky Wilbur!”

The audience roared! Howled! Bounced in their seats!

During his brief time at WDDT, Wilbur had never seen the kids go quite this mad. The place was a wreck. Sets were knocked over. Seat cushions torn out. The stage was littered with crap—dead fish, loose teeth, matted clumps of hair, even fresh shit. Wilbur leapt closer to the rabid crowd. “Yeeeeeeeeeeah duuuuuuuuuuuuuuudes!” he cheered, pumping his fist, “Wilbur’s in the house and… IT! IS! ON!”

Something flew from the front row, smacked him hard in the chest. Wilbur was about to sneer. Then he saw what had hit him. A mutilated Darth Vader action-figure lay at his feet. The body had been burnt, the face melted off. Across its chest a jagged X was carved. A warm smile settled onto Wilbur’s lips. Suddenly, everything had become crystal clear. This wasn’t a mess he was standing in.
These were offerings!

“Awww yeeeah! Check this out, everyone! It’s wicked awesome!” Wilbur shoved the action-figure into the camera’s lens. Waved it like a knife. “Thank you guy so much! I needed a compliment just then! I really appreciate it! I do! And ya know what? I’ll tell ya something else! Not to sound gay, but I love you guys! You little dudes really know how to party!”

The crowd went wild. Guttural cries of “
Cthulhu fhtaaaaaagn!
” welled up out of the cacophony.

Just beyond the curtains, stage left, Charlie regarded Wilbur through hooded eyes. He stood watching, waiting, fists at the ready. A zero bullshit policy was now in force. If that fucking clown tried anything.
Anything
. Charlie was gonna drag him into the alley and bring the pain. “Yeah, laugh it up, you sad sack of shit,” Charlie growled. “Your dumb ass Octopus King is dead.” Charlie had seen to it personally. Right now, Fattie was out back shoving the costume into a dumpster. Later, Charlie planned to burn it.

“Bawhahaha! Yeeeeah! This one’s a keeper, alright!” Wilbur tucked Darth into the waistband of his black leather pants. Darth slipped. Ran down his leg. “Okay…okay…” Wilbur said,  motioning for calm. “I want ya to shut up for minute. Can you do that for me? Just shut up, okay?”

The squealing roar dropped a notch. It wasn’t much, but good enough.

“Dudes, like, we’re havin’ fun and all, but I won’t bullshank ya. It’s been a rough day. Turns out your moms and dads…yeah, well, they don’t approve of the friends your ol’ pal Wilbur keeps. They aren’t down with my bro, Octopus King. They say he can’t be on TV anymore.”

That got their attention. Instantly.

There were boos and jeers.

Stomps of anger.

A wailing and gnashing of teeth.

“Mah momma’s a jerk head!”

“Nooooo! Not da Ogtapus King!!!”

“Ahw eat thar face! Ahw eat thar face!”

“Ogdapuss King foreverrrrrrrrrr!”

Charlie’s fists tightened. Nostrils flared. He gripped the bottle of Dewars. Hard. Became acutely aware of its weight, its shape, its finely grooved neck. Charlie hefted it as if it were a weapon forged during the 13th Century, back when mashing bones had been elevated to an art form.
It was time to bust some clown skull.

“Nah...be cool, be cool…” Wilbur told the kids. “I know you’re totally bummed right now, but c’mon! All good things, right? It’s like we’ve been on this mad, rad trip for the last year or so, and I’ve dug ever moment of it. I really have! But it’s over, dude. We’ve reached the end, my friends! It’s time for Wilbur to say goodbye and move on to bigger and better things.”

Charlie stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped. Fists uncoiled. The bottle slipped from his grasp.
Holy crap! Was Wilbur quitting?
This was wonderful! Finally, he’d be rid of the moron! And Charlie’s wife couldn’t say fuck-all about it!
Sorry honey, I guess the job was too much for your chucklehead brother. He just up and quit, you know? You can’t honestly say you’re surprised, can you?
Charlie stepped back, leaned against a wall. For the first time in months knots in his shoulders began to loosen. He tilted his head, closed his eyes, and let the chaos wash over him. Fifty-plus tempter tantrums were happening all at once, and not a single one was his problem. Those kids were Wilbur’s cross to bear.
Good luck, asshole!
Charlie thought. By this time tomorrow it’d all be over. No more Wilbur. No more angry calls. Just an empty office, Pink Floyd, and a belly full of scotch. Heck, maybe if he played his cards right, Charlie could even blame Wilbur for the on-air gaffe with the open container!