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Authors: Patrick E. McLean
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nothing you can do will ever bring him back to you. No, all you gonna get to love is a cold man with a bitter heart. A man dead but not dead.” Marie screamed that Momma Oya was a liar and ran from the room.
That night, The Nameless Man held her in his arms and told her that he would never leave her. That Momma Oya told lies because she was old and bitter and evil to the core. He wiped away Marie’s tears. They made love again and then fell asleep.
The next morning, Momma Oya was dead. But when Marie came back to wake The Nameless Man and tell him, he was already gone. The whites of his eyes rolled back into his head. His body was still there, but Kalfou had taken his name. In his culture, it meant that The Rat had his soul.
When Marie had finished her story, nobody knew quite what to say. I looked over at The Nameless Man. He had drool running down the front of his shirt.
“I have to find some way to kill the Russian,” I said.
“I don’t care how many men you kill,” said Marie, “I just want to get The Rat. He betrayed us. He will betray you as well.”
I looked at The Nameless Man for a long time and thought about how there were things that were worse than death, worse even than the strange state I found myself in. I must have thought for a long time because Bruce kicked me and asked, “Well?’
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. For old Bob here? Yeah, I’ll get revenge for Bob, too.”
Marie didn’t smile, but she nodded.
“Are you in?” I asked Bruce. He looked at Marie and his lust answered for him.
“Yeah, man, this shit is wrong. And it’s gotta stop.” He was kind of an idiot.
“Okay,” I said, “We’re gonna kill The Rat. What’s the plan?”
* * * * *
Chapter 14
We cleared a space in the cluttered living room. Odds and ends and relics and bits were all pushed to the side. When I asked Marie what we were doing, all she said was, “We’re gwan summon a powerful spirit.” I noticed that her accent was thicker. I was sure that it was part and parcel of the mumbo-fucking-jumbo, but what was I supposed to do? Things were weird. In the words of the great Gonzo himself, Hunter S. Thompson, when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
As for Bruce, all he wanted to do was look at Marie’s perfect breasts as they rolled about in the loose cotton dress she was wearing. Had I been like that when I had been alive? Probably. How could a warm-blooded man resist?
Marie lit a fire in a bowl of hand-hammered iron, and placed it in the middle of the room. We sat around it while Marie beat out a complicated rhythm on a drum that was covered with some kind of skin. I don’t know what she was burning, but a strong, strange earthy scent filled the air. Seconds bled into minutes. Maybe an hour passed, but it might have been the blink of an eye. It was like that.
Marie began to groan from deep in her belly. The drum fell away from her hands as the rhythm of the drumming seemed to pass into her body. She twisted and writhed in a fashion that was at once painful and erotic. Bruce was so distracted that he did not notice when Bob, the comatose man who still sat at the kitchen table, joined in with a series of wordless barks.
Finally, Marie let out a loud cry and collapsed on the dirty carpet, her dress soaked through with sweat. Bruce and I looked at each other and then around the room. In a perfect anticlimax, the flame that had danced in the iron bowl sputtered and went out.
I opened my mouth and started to say, “Well that was a complete waste of time.” I was interrupted by a knock at the door, so all I got out was “wuh-” I just sat there with my mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say.
Marie motioned to Bruce to open the door. Bruce shook his head no.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” I said. “Come in.”
The door opened, and in stepped a man who was dressed like a cross between the Mad Hatter and an escapee from a New Wave punk band circa 1978. There was, of course, the top hat, a
That night, The Nameless Man held her in his arms and told her that he would never leave her. That Momma Oya told lies because she was old and bitter and evil to the core. He wiped away Marie’s tears. They made love again and then fell asleep.
The next morning, Momma Oya was dead. But when Marie came back to wake The Nameless Man and tell him, he was already gone. The whites of his eyes rolled back into his head. His body was still there, but Kalfou had taken his name. In his culture, it meant that The Rat had his soul.
When Marie had finished her story, nobody knew quite what to say. I looked over at The Nameless Man. He had drool running down the front of his shirt.
“I have to find some way to kill the Russian,” I said.
“I don’t care how many men you kill,” said Marie, “I just want to get The Rat. He betrayed us. He will betray you as well.”
I looked at The Nameless Man for a long time and thought about how there were things that were worse than death, worse even than the strange state I found myself in. I must have thought for a long time because Bruce kicked me and asked, “Well?’
“Yeah. Yeah, sure. For old Bob here? Yeah, I’ll get revenge for Bob, too.”
Marie didn’t smile, but she nodded.
“Are you in?” I asked Bruce. He looked at Marie and his lust answered for him.
“Yeah, man, this shit is wrong. And it’s gotta stop.” He was kind of an idiot.
“Okay,” I said, “We’re gonna kill The Rat. What’s the plan?”
* * * * *
Chapter 14
We cleared a space in the cluttered living room. Odds and ends and relics and bits were all pushed to the side. When I asked Marie what we were doing, all she said was, “We’re gwan summon a powerful spirit.” I noticed that her accent was thicker. I was sure that it was part and parcel of the mumbo-fucking-jumbo, but what was I supposed to do? Things were weird. In the words of the great Gonzo himself, Hunter S. Thompson, when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.
As for Bruce, all he wanted to do was look at Marie’s perfect breasts as they rolled about in the loose cotton dress she was wearing. Had I been like that when I had been alive? Probably. How could a warm-blooded man resist?
Marie lit a fire in a bowl of hand-hammered iron, and placed it in the middle of the room. We sat around it while Marie beat out a complicated rhythm on a drum that was covered with some kind of skin. I don’t know what she was burning, but a strong, strange earthy scent filled the air. Seconds bled into minutes. Maybe an hour passed, but it might have been the blink of an eye. It was like that.
Marie began to groan from deep in her belly. The drum fell away from her hands as the rhythm of the drumming seemed to pass into her body. She twisted and writhed in a fashion that was at once painful and erotic. Bruce was so distracted that he did not notice when Bob, the comatose man who still sat at the kitchen table, joined in with a series of wordless barks.
Finally, Marie let out a loud cry and collapsed on the dirty carpet, her dress soaked through with sweat. Bruce and I looked at each other and then around the room. In a perfect anticlimax, the flame that had danced in the iron bowl sputtered and went out.
I opened my mouth and started to say, “Well that was a complete waste of time.” I was interrupted by a knock at the door, so all I got out was “wuh-” I just sat there with my mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say.
Marie motioned to Bruce to open the door. Bruce shook his head no.
“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” I said. “Come in.”
The door opened, and in stepped a man who was dressed like a cross between the Mad Hatter and an escapee from a New Wave punk band circa 1978. There was, of course, the top hat, a
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