Authors: Edward Lee
Shifters (35 page)
Inside the cottage…the festivities didn’t let up. Martin’s posture rewarded Locke’s vision with an elephantine scrotum riddled with dozens of intricate piercings, rows of chrome rings sunk into the genital skin. The shaft skin, the scrotal skin, even a row down to his perineum. Martin’s cock glittered beneath the recent besmirching of the redhead’s colon
,
a coat of 90s chain mail, the edges of each ring honed to the sharpness of chisel-ends. “I’m gonna slam you up and turn your pussy into ground round just like I did that other junkie’s ass…” The blonde had recooked her heroin to a bubbling oval in the gold dip. But Locke saw no obligatory rubber hose strapped about the arm. Martin produced a hypodermic with a needle that must’ve been five inches long. “Yeah, yeah, do it!” Darlie implored.
,
a coat of 90s chain mail, the edges of each ring honed to the sharpness of chisel-ends. “I’m gonna slam you up and turn your pussy into ground round just like I did that other junkie’s ass…” The blonde had recooked her heroin to a bubbling oval in the gold dip. But Locke saw no obligatory rubber hose strapped about the arm. Martin produced a hypodermic with a needle that must’ve been five inches long. “Yeah, yeah, do it!” Darlie implored.
Martin withdrew the plunger, sucking the liquefied morphate into the body of the device. Then he pressed the blonde’s face, holding it back with exertion against the couch, and slowly manipulated the long needle into her right nostril, pushed and pushed until the tiniest
tick
could be heard.
tick
could be heard.
The pierced painter’s thumb depressed, and plunged the hot morphine derivative directly into the middle of her fried brain.
“Like that fix?”
Her limbs, her entire body went lax, and a slaked grin turned her face up.
“Baby, when I’m done humping your bones, your pussy’s gonna look like a hole full of Sloppy Joe,” Martin promised to the blonde, comatose now in her bliss. He got up and walked to the drying canvas propped against the wall. “Fuck yeah, man!” He stroked the rings of his penis, skin moving with the silver glimmer. “I got wood this painting’s so good!”
Another of the artist’s tools, conveniently, was an ax fixed to a long hickory handle.
“Fuck it! I’m happy!”
THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Three broad, energetic swipes angled down into the couch cut the stupored blonde into two pieces, dividing her at the breastline. The chest and legs bucked and kicked their protest, while everything from the nipples up—arms, shoulders, and head—flailed similarly.
“Sorry, Darlie. I get carried away when I’m jazzed.”
“I thought you were gonna fuck me!”
Martin shrugged. “Aw, forget it. I’m sick of your yeasty snatch anyway.”
Locke’s detachment returned like a strand of moonlight through a rapidly shifting cloud; he was aware of himself again, staring into the obscenity of the window.
This is madness,
he thought but somehow that realization wasn’t profound anymore. The shock, the utter disbelief, was gone, vapor lost on hot asphalt.
I’m looking into hell…
Then he remembered what the angel—Moira—had said in his dream.
This is madness,
he thought but somehow that realization wasn’t profound anymore. The shock, the utter disbelief, was gone, vapor lost on hot asphalt.
I’m looking into hell…
Then he remembered what the angel—Moira—had said in his dream.
If truth is born in reality, what happens when truths change?
(v)
At the reception desk of the Tawes Archaeology Building, Cordesman flashed his badge to a student who was the spitting image of Flounder in
Animal House.
“I’m here to see a Professor Fredrick.”
Animal House.
“I’m here to see a Professor Fredrick.”
BAM!
A hallway door banged open, a hectic blur barged forward; Cordesman jumped at the surprise. Two EMTs barreled through, hauling an ambulance gurney. The captain only caught a glimpse of the gurney’s occupant: an old man covered to the chin by a lime-green shock blanket, an oxygen mask over his face. A portable Dyna-Med monitor beeped erratically. “Mobile Four, prep a vent!” one of the EMTs barked into a walkie-talkie. “Jack out forty b.c.i. units of epinol and a c.b.c chem-seven, we’re coming out!” The beeping faded off, and a second later, the unit was gone, barging through an opposite door toward a rear exit sign.
“You just missed him,” Flounder said.
Cordesman gaped. “What? You mean that guy on the crash cart was Fredrick?”
“That’s
Professor
Fredrick to you, and, yes. He—” The fat kid set down his
Journal of Field Archaeology
and shot Cordesman a smug look. “Your hair’s awfully long for a cop, isn’t it?”
Professor
Fredrick to you, and, yes. He—” The fat kid set down his
Journal of Field Archaeology
and shot Cordesman a smug look. “Your hair’s awfully long for a cop, isn’t it?”
Cordesman, irate, flashed his badge again. “You think this badge is too gold to be a cop’s too? Now what the goddamned hell happened here?”
Flounder pursed his lips. “Well if you’d quit hurling obscenities at me for just one minute, I’ll tell you. Professor Fredrick had a heart attack. Evidently he was working on something, and Doris thinks he was so engrossed, he forgot to take his heart medication.”
“But the guy just called me an hour ago, told me to come down here and see him,” Cordesman was stressed not to bellow.
“Excuse me—the guy? Oh, you mean
Professor
Fredrick. And I guess that long hair must be blocking your ears because I do seem to recall telling you several seconds ago that he had a heart attack. Professor Fredrick is quite famous, something of a hero around here. He discovered the ruins of Dis in 1986, you know.”
Professor
Fredrick. And I guess that long hair must be blocking your ears because I do seem to recall telling you several seconds ago that he had a heart attack. Professor Fredrick is quite famous, something of a hero around here. He discovered the ruins of Dis in 1986, you know.”
College students,
Cordesman thought. He doubted much merit in slapping this kid in the jowls but…
It could be fun.
“Well, what’s his status?”
Cordesman thought. He doubted much merit in slapping this kid in the jowls but…
It could be fun.
“Well, what’s his status?”
“It happens all the time, three, four times a year. Call the hospital if you want the exact prognosis. What do I look like? Marcus Welby?”
No, you look like Flounder.
“Who’s this Doris person?”
“Who’s this Doris person?”
“Oh, you mean Ms. Bartlett? She’s the professor’s senior T.A. When he didn’t show for his Regional Chronologies 401 lecture, she came back here and found him.”
“Okay, we’re making some headway,” Cordesman said. “Now, I don’t expect you to strain your powers of deductive reasoning, but I’d really appreciate it if you might tell me where I could find Ms. Bartlett.”
“She’s following the ambulance to the hospital.” Then Flounder went back to his magazine.
Cordesman imagined grabbing the kid by the collar, or, better, by a fat cheek. “I think I’ve made it clear to you, son, that I had some business with Professor Fredrick. As Professor Fredrick is detained for the moment, and, as I
think I’ve made it clear to you
that I’m a
police officer
, it might be a good bet that the business I had with Professor Fredrick is
police
business—”
think I’ve made it clear to you
that I’m a
police officer
, it might be a good bet that the business I had with Professor Fredrick is
police
business—”
Without looking up from the magazine, the kid pointed a fat finger. “Room 104, end of the hall, officer.”
“Not officer.
Captain.
” Cordesman strode for the door. “Give D-Day my regards.”
Captain.
” Cordesman strode for the door. “Give D-Day my regards.”
“What?”
Cordesman moved down the hall.
Fat punk. I’d slap him so hard his fat would jiggle.
Christ, what was wrong with kids these days?
It’s these liberal colleges,
Cordesman suspected.
Brainwashes ’em. Turns ’em into fussy twinkies.
The dark wood door to Room 104 swung open silently. Cordesman walked into something more like a cubby of the Smithsonian. The plushly paneled office seemed crammed with ancient relics: talberds, helmets, standards. A full suit of plate mail hung in the corner, one metal sleeve missing.
Ouch,
Cordesman thought. A dead computer monitor stared back from the side of an expansive desk.
Fuck.
Flounder had said Fredrick got the Big Chestpain while working on something.
Probably a write up for me.
But even if Cordesman knew how to turn on the computer, he wouldn’t know what the hell to do from there. To hell with all this hard-drive CD-ROM ODE-RAM MMX-processor bullshit.
Fat punk. I’d slap him so hard his fat would jiggle.
Christ, what was wrong with kids these days?
It’s these liberal colleges,
Cordesman suspected.
Brainwashes ’em. Turns ’em into fussy twinkies.
The dark wood door to Room 104 swung open silently. Cordesman walked into something more like a cubby of the Smithsonian. The plushly paneled office seemed crammed with ancient relics: talberds, helmets, standards. A full suit of plate mail hung in the corner, one metal sleeve missing.
Ouch,
Cordesman thought. A dead computer monitor stared back from the side of an expansive desk.
Fuck.
Flounder had said Fredrick got the Big Chestpain while working on something.
Probably a write up for me.
But even if Cordesman knew how to turn on the computer, he wouldn’t know what the hell to do from there. To hell with all this hard-drive CD-ROM ODE-RAM MMX-processor bullshit.
Whatever happened to paper?
It was the search request that he’d sent—on a sheet of paper—to Central Processing on 1st Ave. There, the computer geeks had piped into every database index in the state. No responses except one from the most unlikely place: the University of Washington’s Department of Archaeological Studies. So the word was either relative to archaeology, or it was a mistake. The college’s mainframe had notified this Fredrick guy with the positive search-link.
Just my luck the guy has a heart attack when I’m on my way over to see him.
Just my luck the guy has a heart attack when I’m on my way over to see him.
He guessed he should just leave, maybe huff it over to the admin building and get somebody to look in Fredrick’s computer for anything that might appear to be a report on Cordesman’s inquiry. But the room amazed him with its display of artifacts. An upended old helmet sat on the desk.
Ashtray,
Cordesman deduced and fired up a Camel. He stared again at the blank computer screen.
Yeah, all this high-falutin’ technology and I can’t do shit. Give me paper anyday…
Ashtray,
Cordesman deduced and fired up a Camel. He stared again at the blank computer screen.
Yeah, all this high-falutin’ technology and I can’t do shit. Give me paper anyday…
Another glance around showed him a printer on a stand. A tray on the bottom showed him…a sheaf of
paper.
paper.
Cordesman tapped an ash into the ashtray and snatched the paper up.
Yeah…
The top sheet read:
Professor F.A. Fredrick
Superintendent/ Depart of Archaeological Studies.
Washington State University
Suite 104/ The Tawes Bldg.
Seattle, WA 98195
Dear Captain Cordesman:
Here is a print-out of the write-up I prepared relative to your recent query regarding the word SCIFTAN, for your records after we’ve talked.
Right on,
Cordesman thought. He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray, never realizing that it actually wasn’t an ashtray at all but the helm of King Harold I of Angleland, which the King had worn, and died in, during the Battle of Senlac Hill, more popularly known as The Battle of Hastings.
Cordesman thought. He crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray, never realizing that it actually wasn’t an ashtray at all but the helm of King Harold I of Angleland, which the King had worn, and died in, during the Battle of Senlac Hill, more popularly known as The Battle of Hastings.
SCIFTAN: a proper noun of ultimately unknown origin, taking from the Old Frisian alt. transitive:
sciff—
to mutate, and
tannin—
one who.
It is a very rare reference indeed, only identified once in the history of modern archaeological discovery, and one in which I’m happy to claim being part of, namely the subterranean accident which occurred in Gatwick, England in 1971, a water-main rupture. The repair diggings uncovered a well-preserved collection of stemmae from the Archives of the Registry of Publius Aelius Hadrianus, a.k.a. Hadrian, the Emperor of Rome from A.D. 117-38. These archives uniquely elucidated upon the local mythologies exacted from conquered communities before Hadrian terminated Roman Expansionism.
I will structure my report in an expository fashion, rendering the definition of your search request, and then positing elaboration in progressive order, via the basic outline form.
1) DEFINITION OF SEARCH WORD: SCIFTAN:
Denotatively,
Sciftan
, from the early Brythic, pre-Druidic, and original interpretations of the Old Frisian subjunctive verb lists, can be translated into Modern English to this: SHIFTER.
Cordesman sat down behind the cardiac patient’s desk and lit another smoke.
This might take a while.
This might take a while.
(vi)
Locke thought of the joke of Faulkner’s
The Sound and the Fury,
gleaned from Macbeth’s soliloquy by Shakespeare:
Life is a tale told by an idiot…
He continued to stare into the wee window of the second cottage, seeing all. It didn’t matter that the body-chopped blonde still flailed in the betrayal of her artist/pimp, nor that the hanging redhead still bucked against her previous tortures—never mind that her eyes had been batted out of her head and her spinal cord had been punctured with an ice-pick. None of that bore significance since this was a different place—Locke knew now—a sign of the real world’s life into some otherworldly crevasse. Yet Locke watched on, against all human power, as Martin continued to revel over his vermilion-and-puke masterpiece. This was the same thing, wasn’t it? One reality—one truth—opposing another. The line from the drunken scribe’s pen rang in Locke’s ear:
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting…
The tale of the world told most accurately was that of the retardate—an idiot—signifying…
what?
What was possibly the greatest novel of all time displayed three different views of the world, and the only one that was worth more than a pinch of shit was the view of the defected mind. In essence, the flawed narrator of the book’s first section was encapsulating a differentiation of perceived truth.
The Sound and the Fury,
gleaned from Macbeth’s soliloquy by Shakespeare:
Life is a tale told by an idiot…
He continued to stare into the wee window of the second cottage, seeing all. It didn’t matter that the body-chopped blonde still flailed in the betrayal of her artist/pimp, nor that the hanging redhead still bucked against her previous tortures—never mind that her eyes had been batted out of her head and her spinal cord had been punctured with an ice-pick. None of that bore significance since this was a different place—Locke knew now—a sign of the real world’s life into some otherworldly crevasse. Yet Locke watched on, against all human power, as Martin continued to revel over his vermilion-and-puke masterpiece. This was the same thing, wasn’t it? One reality—one truth—opposing another. The line from the drunken scribe’s pen rang in Locke’s ear:
Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting…
The tale of the world told most accurately was that of the retardate—an idiot—signifying…
what?
What was possibly the greatest novel of all time displayed three different views of the world, and the only one that was worth more than a pinch of shit was the view of the defected mind. In essence, the flawed narrator of the book’s first section was encapsulating a differentiation of perceived truth.
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