Part 17 (1/2)
”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 f.u.c.ker'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? s.h.i.+t, 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. .h.i.t 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 f.u.c.k 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 bulls.h.i.+tting. 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 ma.s.sive 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, p.r.o.ne 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 s.h.i.+ned, 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. b.r.e.a.s.t.s, b.u.t.tocks, 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 s.h.i.+vering groins, crack bones and unseat limbs. Hands and feet were bitten off by gla.s.sine 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, rus.h.i.+ng 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.
But even eternal farmers needed reprieve. They needed sustenance. They needed recess. So at the granted time, they set aside the tools of their industry- Such wonders!
-and began to feast.
Some took their meat raw, others preferred it cooked. Plump organs were plucked from opened abdomens as fruit might be plucked from vines. Eyeb.a.l.l.s were swallowed whole like grapes, lungs eaten like bread loaves, intestines consumed like so much robust salad. The living dirt screamed forth. Whole heads were cooked to perfection over open flames, then prized apart and picked clean of their delectable meat. Testes were roasted on skewers, severed b.r.e.a.s.t.s fried crisp, uteri and placenta, fetuses and kidneys, human bowels and human hearts-all flamebroiled and l.u.s.tily munched.
It was a hearty meal, and a well-earned one.
And once the reverent harvesters had sated themselves of the belly, they next proceeded to sate themselves of the groin. Demonic erections rose, to plunder every conceivable orifice, and some not so conceivable. v.a.g.i.n.as were routed with gusto, r.e.c.t.u.ms were sodomized raw by perverse organs sunk to their hilts. Unwilling jaws were pried wide till their tendons tore-the only way the pitiful human mouths could accommodate the tumescent girth of such netherworldly members. Trowel punctures and scythe rents, too, provided fine pockets of release, and such release poured forth in copious volume, gouts of lumpen s.e.m.e.n flooding bowels and wombs, stomachs and entrails, emptied eye sockets and cracked-open cranial vaults.
A romp indeed.
Slaked now, the field hands took up their tools and finished the dark work they'd started.
The field was tilled red. Rich, fresh blood drenched the chopped soil, the finest of fertilizers. More attendants followed behind, bearing sacks of strange seeds. The seeds were sewn liberally into the verdant, warm soil, and beneath the light of the caliginous moon, they began to spout at once. Soon stalks rose high, heavy with succulent fruit, and the fruit was then expeditiously threshed and taken away to market.
The harvest was over, only to begin again and again and again...
His vapor siphoned back, wisping fast as light through stone cracks and rabbets, back up the charnel earthworks, back from whence he came.
He didn't want to go back; he could soar here forever, and revel in these holy sights and many more.