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And to Alan it felt like what you tell a dying man.

J
ordan. A personal visit? I’m stunned.”

“What
exactly
do you think you’re doing?” He was raising his voice.

Alan leaned back in his desk chair. Jordan moved to desk’s edge.

“I’ve been on the phone all the way over with Jack Feiffer. The man is insane.”

“You just heard?”

“Who gave you the right to start changing ‘The Mercenary’?”

“I created it. Remember? It came out of my head.”

“The network owns it now. And the agency packaged it. That means we get a fee. Shall I explain that?” Jordan stared, a sheet of ice. “Why are you fucking with a good thing?”

“For me, it’s a bad thing.”

“… for you it’s a bad thing. It looks like it. You look like shit. Thought they were going to do something for you in the hospital. Alan, Feiffer told me the new script has Barek helping a destroyed enemy village rebuild itself. That he’s got a scene where he plays with enemy children!”

“… they’re just children, Jordan.” Alan looked up, pleasantly.

“… another where he goes for a walk with a gorgeous young villager and there’s no sex. No nudity.”

“They hold hands.”

“No.
Wrong.
They don’t ‘hold hands.’ ”

“What do they do?”

“They roll in the grass and he tears her clothes off and they
fuck
and she
loves
it and she screams and claws his back on camera and we see her nipples get hard and everybody is happy. Feiffer, the affiliates, fucking world audience, the studio, me … 
everybody!
”

Alan popped a Trident.

“What you wrote is not the show! It’s not what people are tuning-in for. What are you doing, ‘Highway to Heaven’? Where’s the violence? The naked girls?”

“The character is changing.”

Jordan laughed low; ugly.

“No. What’s going to change is you running the show. Feiffer wants to bring in somebody else immediately if you don’t get this thing on track.”

“No!
”

Jordan stared, waiting.

“Not yet. I’ll get out of the way. But not yet.”

“You leave the show, agency loses major money on you.”

“Sorry.”

Jordan tried to be reasonable.

“Alan … why are you trashing your own show?”

“I’m trying to make it better.”

A cutting stare. “… you’re killing it.”

The phrase wasn’t lost on Alan who said nothing. “I’m trying to make the character nicer, Jordan. Make him less filled with hate.”

Jordan was tired of talking.

“Alan … let me try and break this to you, while you’re still lucid: hate is the whole point!
Hate
is what people love. Take the
hate
out, you got
nothing!
”

Alan stared at him. “Jordan, listen to yourself.”

Jordan stared, with his charcoal soul. “What did you expect?”

“… I don’t know. Everything?”

Jordan said nothing.

“You’re my agent. You’re supposed to be concerned about me. Not just my money.”

“We can’t work together anymore, Alan. Our priorities differ. I suggest you find other representation.”

Jordan remained silent. Then, he walked to the door. Turned. “By the way … Tony Moore is doing a picture about an insane android assistant who kills for her boss. Ripped off your idea. Hired a twenty-year-old kid out of film school to write it. Just heard today. If I were you, I’d sue.”

Alan nodded. Said nothing. Realized it was Jordan’s sentimental postscript.

T
he room was fifteen-by-fifteen and included a Jacuzzi, sauna, shower, and small bed. When Burt and Wanda had first come to the place, they thought for sure it was a gay hangout. Right there on Bob Hope Boulevard, festooned by slim young men with twenty-five-inch waists.

Burt was having his spa-room rebuilt, at the house, while he and Wanda and Alan were in France, and everything was in pieces. They’d be leaving in two days and Burt missed the heat and jets. This turned out to be the perfect place to unwind. Little jacuz, little sauna, little lovemaking in between showers. After a while, you felt light-headed; every muscle had hopped a tiny little 747, headed to Honolulu.

“How’s it feel, babe?” Burt was naked, sixty-three-year-old
flesh a tanned tarp. He was hanging his slacks on a hook.

Wanda stripped, stepped cautiously into hot, swirling water. “Greeeaaaaattttt …” The word was a hundred feet long.

He smiled, admiring her smooth stomach, trim arms. He slipped into the steaming cauldron; a headhunter’s bisque. Leaned up against the wall of the hot tub, feeling jets bomb his spine.

Steam baled thicker and Wanda dimmed the red lights. She turned up the royal blue light in the spa and the two colors met; purple haze, all in their eyes.

Wanda wrapped herself around him and the two drifted, heads tilted back on limp necks. When they opened eyes, minutes later, they saw him standing there, grinning.

Before they could do anything, Burt had been lifted and slammed against the glazed tile. He collapsed; unconscious, forehead bleeding. Wanda began to scream and was struck across the jaw.

Burt was lifted into the sauna and as he bled on cedar slats, the door was slammed shut, the dial turned to 10. Wanda moved in dazed horror, on the damp floor, until heaved back onto the small bed, legs pried apart. She screamed again and was slapped until pale; silent. Her wrists were held tight and he entered her, violently.

“You like to fuck?” he was biting her nipples, making them bleed. “You like to fuck?”

She could smell him. The filth and sweat coating his hard muscles. She begged him to stop and he grabbed her chin with thick fingers. Forced her to stare at him, lifting an executioner’s smile.

Her eyes filled with terror.

There was something wrong with him. As she kicked and writhed, making him harder, inside her, she tried not to look at his face. Tried not to look at how parts of it were missing; not cut away as if surviving facial surgery. More like they’d never been there.

As she struggled to escape, he lunged for her shoulder and bit it. She screamed. He bit again. She screamed louder and he pulled her hair tight. Whispered hard.

“You like to fuck?” he smeared the blood from her bleeding nipples on his face; war paint.

She couldn’t answer and he bit her again, ripping neck flesh with primitive teeth. She was bleeding bad, chewed skin a sickening necklace that tomatoed the bed. He sucked at her swollen nipples and shoved a dirty finger up her anus, making her scream. She could feel it rubbing against his penis, on the opposite wall, inside her.

He was plunging; stabbing himself into her. Then, out. Then, re-entering the wound, traveling deep toward her uterus. She was crying and managed to free her hands, reaching up to claw his eyes. She glanced up, for a moment, to see his unshaven face, staring at itself in the wall mirror.

She began to scream.

Parts of his face were filling in.

Bits of the cheek and nose joined the rest of the face, as if putty made of tissue and blood. He was beginning to come and rocked wildly. She spit at him, shaking her head from side to side.

He pulled out and hit her, over and over, until she didn’t move. He lifted her by the blood-matted hair and
threw her down again. Smashed her face with his boot, until it was a gumbo.

He sat on the cool floor and watched his penis shuddering but ejecting nothing; ghost sperm.

He examined his incomplete face, in the mirror, and became angry, tearing the mirror from the wall; smashing it. He watched her slumped body bleed and twitch, and waited for the epileptic seizure. Then, he zipped up his camouflage pants and left.

It would teach Alan a lesson.

T
he first thing Alan noticed was blood.

It brush-stroked the entry wall and continued upstairs, over the Lichtenstein Jordan and the other defoliants at the agency had given Alan. He reached up to touch it: still wet.

He smelled something burning and stepped cautiously upstairs to the dark living room. Rain car-washed the house and waves stormed on shore; saltwater artillery. He stopped, at the top of the stairs, froze.

The Creature stood beside the fireplace. Inside something burned, gushing smoke upward.

Alan didn’t move. “What are you doing here …?”

The Creature poked at the fireplace, turning its back. Its body was getting less bulky, more defined. Face less bestial.

“… my house,” said the Creature.

Blue clawmarks tore clouds. Trees bent outside, as if leaning to get sick.

The Creature turned, stared. “… how’s Daddy?”

Alan went numb. The Creature watched his expression, fascinated by the pain that crept across Alan’s gaunt face.

“… what do you mean?”

It said nothing.

“… she has a tight pussy. Daddy’s wife.”

The Creature was amused. Alan felt panic rising. Wanted to call his father. Instantly fought the impulse, not wanting to anger the half-man grinning at him.

“You tried to kill me,” it said. “But I stopped you. I own you. You only think about me.” Its voice was deep; stupid. “Daddy doesn’t need you now.”

Alan closed his eyes, felt like throwing up. He opened them and the Creature was standing in front of him, looking into his face. It’s breath was cold. Odorless.

“I need more. You’re dying. Give me more.”

Alan knew what it wanted. It had become horribly obvious.

It would take everything from him it could get. Then, when it had what it needed, leave him so emptied, he’d dissipate into nothing. Or it would kill him in some cruel way that mocked Alan’s own worst fears. It could intuit his mind; instinctively find the way to torture him that would most traumatize. Alan knew it would even enjoy it.

The Creature began to anger. It grabbed him, reining his hair, exposing his neck. “You don’t hurt me. You don’t quit. You don’t leave town. You see what I do. I’ll kill everybody …”

Alan said nothing, knowing he had to destroy the
Creature to save his own life. The lives of future victims; people Alan despised. His enemies. The hated. The ones who must be punished; the dark shopping list he carried in his subconscious. The one the Creature would take care of, one name at a time.

He pushed away from the Creature, who walked out onto the deck. Alan moved to the fireplace, drawn by the troubling odor. It was filled with ash dunes and he took a poker, sifting. The poker slid through smoothly, finally stopped. Alan kneeled, grabbed iron log tongs.

The Creature stood on the deck, arms spread, staring up at rain that fell like soft shrapnel. It knew it would win. It was getting stronger. Nothing would stop it. It grinned at the falling sky, baring filthy, animal teeth as Alan began to scream inside.

“MOTHERFUCKER!” He
was staring hatefully at the Creature.

The Creature stood under lightning, watching as Alan wept. It hated that Alan cared that much about anything other than it. Even a fucking dog.

Hated it so much, it kicked a boot through the floor-to-ceiling window and walked through glass dunes, to Alan, who cradled Bart’s crushed skull. It grabbed his shirtfront and bared teeth.

“ME!”
it screamed. “ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME! ME!
ME!!!
”

S
eth … what do I do? … it’s killing everything.”

“Shit.
It didn’t work.”

Silence. Alan’s decimated voice weeping into the phone. “… god, this was never what I wanted. I wanted success. I didn’t want death. I didn’t want people tortured. This thing isn’t me!” A terrible guilt.

As Alan wept, he could see Seth, in his mind, rolling a cigarette. Holding the phone. Looking out at his ten acres of Ojai countryside. Watching animals gather, stare. Watching clouds drift; death ships.

“Somewhere inside you, you did want it. Somewhere it is you.”

Alan’s chin stubble rubbed mouthpiece as he struggled to piece his mind together. He was almost whispering, face wet with tears.

“… you know, it’s sick … for the last year or so, every
time I sat out on my deck, I saw the ocean as blood,” he said. “Sky and land as flesh. It’s this fixation … I don’t know …”

He said nothing more, thoughts thinning. Seth asked him to go on. Alan wiped his cheeks.

“It’s like … I’ve been creating life from inside myself … from a hidden world, under my skin.” Alan sounded disgusted with himself. “I’ve become a metaphor.” He laughed, pathetically. “I’m fucking losing it, man.”

“Maybe you’re figuring it out.”

“Yeah, right …” He sounded crazy; laughing, crying. “You mean, like I’m really the Walrus.”

“I mean … the world is a body and life is an idea. Everything in between is the lesson.”

“Goddamnit, it killed my dog, Seth! It almost killed my father! Raped my stepmother! What the hell are you talking about?!” Fears slit deeper. “… all this death is my fault.”

No reply.

“Look … if this thing is me … what
exactly
does the show have to do with it?”

“I have no idea. Except maybe the character you created … A. E. Barek. Mean motherfucker. Angry. Violent. Your own inner anger is exactly those things. Let’s say your insides start to come out through the work …”

“… in scripts?”

“… at first. Then, who knows … maybe, it starts to literally form. You write more and more, adding more detail, it becomes more real. Your id is the blueprint for
Barek and the whole series, Maybe A. E. is the blueprint for this thing you met.”

“So all this death … means what? It’s protecting itself. Wants more attention from me?”

“Yep.”

“How long have you known this?” Alan instantly sounded caustic, without gratitude.

“Long as you have.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? You knew and you let all that pain happen and didn’t try to tell me?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you from the second we met. But I can only tell you what you can tell yourself.”

“No! You were
vague.
Just like now! You stay on the perimeter. You make it a puzzle. This is real! People are being hurt! My dog was killed. What the fuck is the matter with you?!”