Kill the Dead

“They’re so dumb because they’re fragments of the Angra Om Ya. The old gods. They’re powerful but brain-dead crumbs of whatever god they fell from.” “That’s blasphemy, boy. There were no gods before God.” “Okay, forget that. Did your team take a look at these marks on the skin? They’re teeth marks. Señor Chew Toy could have healed himself, but he didn’t. He liked the scars. He just covered them with tattoos to hide his dirty little secret from the other Sub Rosa.” Wells is looking at me now. “Keep going.” “If you find Enoch Shitheel’s head, check his teeth. I bet you’ll find he gave himself some of those scars.” “Demon possession?” “Think simpler. Ever heard of autophagia?” “No.” “I bet you’ve never seen any Sub Rosa porn either. You’re out of your depth, choirboy. In the books, autophagia is a mental disorder, but Springheel made it into a fetish. He got off on eating himself.” Wells is giving me his disapproving squint, but he’s listening. His team edges in closer, not even pretending to work anymore. “Santa Muerte is death and protection all rolled into one. A gangster Kali. She’d tighten Springheel’s jeans.” “Watch your language.” “Fuck you. You brought me in. I’ll do this my way.” Pause. “Keep going.” “The altar is a dark-magic sex shop. All you need is Lucifer’s cock ring to have the party of the century. I only mention that because that’s what Springheel wanted to do. Party very hard.” I walk over and stand in the hexagon, trying to step around the sticky bits. “The hexagon with blood and bone calls dark power. Yojimbe mixes in sexual energy, but that’s not a big surprise considering all the speed and poppers on the altar. Well, maybe for you. Look at this one side of the hexagon. There’s maybe a half-inch gap where the edges don’t touch. If this is a protection configuration, it won’t work. Whatever Enoch calls will be able to slip in through that hole. That’s stupid and it’s sloppy. Unless it’s deliberate.” “What did Springheel invoke and why did he let it in?” I step forward to the broken edge of the hexagon. “He would have been here, near the opening. He’s thrown yojimbe around. He’s probably been snorting meth and doing his poppers. He starts his spell and he calls up a demon.” “What kind of demon?” I hold up one of the still-smoking bones with my fingertips and point to the broken edge. “An eater. Five hundred years ago, an eater was what you called when you wanted it to look like locusts chewed up on your neighbor’s crops or wolves killed their cattle. Enoch wanted something more up close and personal. That’s why there’s a break in the hexagon. Springheel built himself a cosmic glory hole. He was a Bone Daddy.” Wells is frowning. He really wants me to shut up. I keep going. “He’s got a hard-on for demons. For eaters. Springheel wanted to stick as much of himself as he could get through that glory hole and get it nibbled on by a primordial retard with ten rows of shark teeth. Only something went wrong.” “What?” “Damned if I know. Let your techs figure it out. Springheel called an eater because that’s how he got off. But he fucked up. Broke the circle too wide or made some stupid stoner mistake to completely break the hexagon’s protection and got himself eaten.” “You’re sure about this sick shit?” “Who else lived here?” “No one. He was the last of the Springheels.” “All alone with no one to look over his shoulder. That’s a nice setting to work out really elaborate fantasies. There’s one other thing you probably ought to check out.” “What’s that?” “If end-of-the-line Enoch was the last member of a house that went from number one to less than zero, getting eaten might not have been a mistake. It could have been a nasty, lonely little suicide. A hard-core player partying one last time as he pisses off this mortal coil.” Wells turns and walks away. “Enough. How do you live inside your head? I’m not saying you’re wrong or that I disagree with your conclusions or that disgusting scenario that you obviously know a lot about. All I’m saying is stop. I don’t want to hear any more. You’ve done your job. My team will finish up. Thank you for your valuable contribution to the investigation. Now please, get the hell out of here. I don’t want to look at you for a while.” I’ve seen Wells screaming crazy, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him upset. I guess when you’re in love with an angel, the idea of someone spending his alone time shoving his cock down demons’ throats might be disturbing. Welcome to my world, G-man. I’ll show you Hellion hobbies that make Enoch Springheel look like Jiminy Cricket. I go back to the porch and into the kitchen. Marshal Julie is still alone up front. When she sees me she asks, “Did you do your job?” “I just got thrown out. That usually means I did.” “Good for you. I’m sure the marshal is grateful that you came through for him.” “Not really.” “Your car is gone.” “It wasn’t my car.” “That’s why it’s gone. Do you need a ride?” “Are you offering?” She gets quiet for a minute. Stares past me over my shoulder. “What’s going on back there? I know it’s a murder scene, but I’m supposed to stay up here and guard the doorknobs.” “You’re the new kid, right? They give you the worst hours, shit duty, and they short-sheet your halo?” She almost smiles. “Something like that.” “Yeah, it’s a murder scene. A rotten one, too. Dark magic gone bad. It even got your boss upset.” “Damn. I wish I could see that. You don’t know how much I want to be back there.” “Cool your jets, Honey West. Don’t be in such a rush to get what’s back there stuck in your head. It doesn’t come out again.” “I don’t care. I need to know what’s in rooms like that. I’ve prepared for it my whole life. Now I’m here, but I’m still missing out.” Scratch a cop, find a pervert. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “L.A.’s not going to run out of psychos anytime soon.” I go outside. The steps crack and crunch beneath my feet. Good special effects. Marshal Julie says, “You never told me if you wanted a ride.” “Mind if I steal one of your vans?” This time she does smile. “Yeah. I kind of do.” “Then I think I’ll walk awhile. I can use the air.” I get half a block down Sixth Street before I’m sure that someone is following me. Whoever it is isn’t very good at it. The heavy footfalls say it’s a he. And he’s dragging one of his feet. He kicks and steps on things. For a second I wonder if it’s Marshal Julie, but no one from the Vigil would be that amateur hour. I turn around twice, but the street is always empty. At the corner of South Broadway, I look again. A man stands half lit under a streetlight. His posture is funny, like he needs a back brace but forgot his on the bus. He just stands there. When he tries to turn around, he stumbles on the foot he’s been dragging. For a split second, his face is in the light. I swear it’s Mason. His face is dead white and gaunt, the skin torn. But then it isn’t him. It never was. I don’t recognize him. By the time I run over to where the stranger is standing, he’s moved back into the dark and disappeared. Hissing sounds of car tires rolling by on Broadway. Gurgle of water from the sewer at my feet. There’s nothing else. I’m the only thing alive on the street. Serves me right for turning down a ride home from a cannibal play party, even if it was with a cop. I step through a shadow into the Room and stay there long enough to smoke a cigarette. I’m nowhere in here. I’m outside space and time. The universe crashes around me like cosmic bumper cars. Somewhere out there stars are being born while others flare out, frying planets and whole populations. A few billion here. A few billion there. Lucifer promises some pimply kid ten years at the top of the music charts for his soul. Of course, the kid is too dumb to specify which charts and is about to find himself with number one singles in Mongolia and Uzbekistan. God watches while a bus full of his worshippers spins out on a patch of black ice, flips, and catches fire, burning everyone inside alive. The universe is a meat grinder and we’re just pork in designer shoes, keeping busy so we can pretend we’re not all headed for the sausage factory. Maybe I’ve been hallucinating this whole time and there is no Heaven and Hell. Instead of having to choose between God and the devil, maybe our only real choice comes down to link or patty? When I got back to my room above Max Overload, I put Kasabian in the closet where I used to lock him up. I built him a bachelor pad in there. Padded the shelves with cabinets where he can keep beer and snacks, along with a bucket where he can slop the remains. There’s a computer inside, so he can surf the Web and watch any movies he wants. It’s soundproof so I can sleep and not hear if he’s watching Behind the Green Door. I know I’m going to dream about Springheel’s chewed-up carcass tonight and I don’t need Kasabian and Marilyn Chambers joining the party.