Who’d Win in a Death-Match: Shirk the Drug-snuffling Demon or The Bloody Chick at the bottom of this page …

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 Chapter Thirteen

DOWN GOES WESTPHAL

Be Seeing You

Westphal awoke in his bed. Sammy was there, looking on with concern.
“I was dreaming of kittens,” he told the ghost. “There were dozens of them and they were eating me.”
“I don’t know about no cats,” Sammy told him, indicating all the bandaged wounds on his thighs, belly and chest, “But somethin’ sure as shit was biting da fuck outta you. What was it?”
“I got in over my head, don’t worry about it,” Westphal replied, sitting himself up in bed. “I went over to Steele’s and got dosed.”
He looked down at all the bandaged bites. They hurt like crazy, but they looked clean. Sammy did a nice job of first-aid.
“What time is it, anyway?” Westphal asked.
“It’s early afternoon, Westie,” Sammy replied.
“Early afternoon, then why the fuck you wake me up, Dad?”
“Because when they dropped you off, it was yesterday, Son,” he explained. “I woke you up cuz I know how you feel about yer job.”
What?
“I’ve been sleeping for a whole day?”
“Yeah, kid,” Sammy told him, “A whole day.”
“Shit, man, I gotta go to fuckin’ work?”
“Yeah, if you still want it.”
Of course he still wants his gig at Harborside District. They would all be lost without the money.
“Did you see a package when they dropped me off?” he asked, and then: “And my car?”
“They’re both here, Westie,” Sammy replied. “The car’s in yer spot and da package I put under da sink where yous keeps yer medicine.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Westphal replied with great relief.
He had to get ready for work and needed the extra extras. He asked for the coffee. While Sammy went to put the pot on, Westie gingerly stood up from the bed and made his way over to the bathroom.
He kneeled with a painful grunt and found the bundled package under the sink. God bless, Sammy!
Westphal opened the bubble wrap lined manila envelope and saw the goodies inside. All the powders were labled and the pills as well. And on the top of all the drugs he ordered, Westphal saw a syringe with a note wrapped around it.
He unwrapped the package and read the note: “Take me with you. Save me for later. You’ll need it! Shirk.”
Shirk. Now he was beginning to remember the film and the demon and Shirk. But he was on his feet, with his crazy memories of getting sucked by a beautiful demon. He also had a big, even generous buffet of powerful and dangerous drugs. Coffee was brewing and he still had his job to go to.
So Westphal grabbed some percs and popped them for the pain. Knowing they would make him sleepy, he went to his desk and snorted up some pre-work enthusiasm.
Then he showered, having Sammy re-do his bandages.
When he walked out to the popcan, he thought the bullshit was behind him.

Westphal’s boss, Mr. Whistlebottom, was waiting for him when he walked through the entrance to Harborside District Hospital. Oh, shit.
“What’s up?” asked Westphal as soon as he saw him.
“Let’s go to my office,” he said and Westphal followed him as they wound their way around and down to Mr. Whistlebottom’s office, next to their department in the basement.
We’re always underground, huh Westie?
Once they were in and seated, Westphal let his boss get started.
“You won’t be taking care of Mr. Mandiddle anymore.”
“Why’s that?” Westphal asked, hoping not to show his exultation.
C’mon, Westie, you know why.
“The patient is deceased.”
Westphal felt a punch to his gut, remembering the filthy scrubs he had Sammy burn. He began to wonder why he really did that, instead of washing them.
“Did you need to go over my notes, or?” he let it hang. Mr. Whistlebottom looked at him a moment.
“No,” he replied, “We already did, but you weren’t even here, were you?”
“No,” Westphal said a tad to quickly, “I mean; when did the patient expire?”
Expire. Just like milk gone bad.
“Day before yesterday,” he was told, “but it wasn’t due to his illnesses.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Mr. Mandiddle did not die of natural causes. He was murdered in a horrific way,” Mr. Whistlebottom stated flatly.
“Murdered?” Whestphal replied, the fear beginning to balloon in him. “Murdered, how?”
The boss picked up a piece of official looking paper. It looked like a coroner’s report. Mr. Whistlebottom read from it. “The patient was strangled to death by purposeful and forceful placement of a foreign object, occluding the trachea, leading to anoxic death.”
“Somebody strangled Mr. Mandiddle?” Westphal asked in a squeak. He nervously shifted his position and felt a panic coming on. “Who did it?”
“The police don’t know yet,” he said, staring at Westphal, watching him begin to shake a little. “Are you alright there, Westphal?”
“Yeah, sure, of course,” he told him. “Umm, uh what was he strangled with?”
“Well now, that’s the really strange part of the story,” he said, “It was with his own diseased rectum.”
“What?” asked Westphal, “Are you playing with me?”
“Not for a minute would I joke about something like that,” he replied, “don’t make that mistake again.”
“Yeah, sure, I’m not joking either, Mr. Whistlebottom,” Westphal tried to explain, “It’s just that I guess I don’t understand how that could happen. I mean I knew he had the necrotizing bug in his rectum, but how could he have been strangled by it?”
“The authorities claimed they found a pair of those long, curved forceps they use for tube placement on the floor, under his bed.”
“Okay.”
“Yes, so they initially determined that someone rather strong used the forceps to literally grab onto and forcibly removed his rectum and then, still using the forceps, forcibly stuffed it down Mr. Mandiddle’s throat.”
He shouldn’t have been mean to you.
“Well, uhm, uh – that would certainly do it,” was all Westphal could think to say. He was already thinking about how he could ask if there were any prints on the forceps without ass-squeak here getting suspicious.
“So, that’s why you won’t be taking care of that gem, anymore,” his boss replied, showing just a hint of humanity. But then: “The other longer-term care patient we would normally assign has specifically requested to not be cared for by you.”
“What? Specifically me? Who is it and what did I do to shit in their oatmeal?”
“First, you are not to use that language with me, ever.”
“Sorry.”
“Yes, you are,” he agreed, getting far too steamed up for just that comment, “Have you taken care of a,” glancing down at another piece of paper he didn’t really need to see, “Mrs. Fussbudget?”
She’s a beauty.
Westphal stared at him a moment, their eyes meeting. Westphal was getting dangerously near to panicking, but sucked it up.
He said: “No, I’ve never taken care of her.”
“Ever been in her room?”
“No.”
“Not even as part of an Urgent Response Team?”
Why would I lie, why would I lie?
“No, sir,” Westphal replied, eyes starting to twitch uncomfortably, “Never taken care of her in any situation. I have never been in her room, and frankly, before now I doubt if I had even heard her name.”
“Well, that’s what I thought,” he said, putting that piece of paper down and picking up another one. “But the family is quite insistent after she picked out your picture as the one who assaulted her.”
“What happened to her?”
“The police and in-house consul made it clear that I was not to say, just that there is now an ongoing investigation.” He looked closely at Westphal. “They also suggested that you be monitored closely.”
Oh, fat-ass, did you just make the list!
“What the fuck does that mean?” Westphal asked, incredulously.
“What did I just tell you about that kind of language?”
“Just tell me what the hell is going on here, Mr. Whistlebottom.” Westphal demanded, thoroughly red-faced and getting loud. “I suggest you come clean.”
Mr. Whistlebottom was dumbfounded and his own faced darkened. It was with a considerable dose of effort that he kept his cool, Westphal could tell. He almost felt sorry for the paper-pushing fat fuck.
“You are hereby placed on suspension, dependant on the outcome of the police as well as our own in-house investigation.”
“Starting when?”
“Immediately,” Mr. Whistlebottom replied and stood. “You can go home now. You will be paid 2 hours for coming in. Thank you.”
Westphal waited a moment for more, but that was all there was. He was suspended, without pay, and for what? Just because some wig-wearing old battle-axe that’s behind on her eyeglass prescription picked him out of a group of photos? Are they fucking serious? Well, fuck them, then, he thought, and the horse they all rode in on. I am out of here.
“I guess I’ll just leave then,” Westphal replied and high-tailed it to the office door.
“The hospital will call you to schedule time with the police,” he shouted after Westphal.
“Fine,” he said and opened the office door, where he was met by a large dude in civilian clothes.
“Are you Westphal?” he asked sweetly.
“Yes,” Westphal replied, and even before he could inquire as to what the motherfucker wanted, the dude punched him in the gut and then landed a good one on Westphal’s cheekbone.
Normally, that would have been the end of the fight. Westphal was more of a junkie than a fighter, but he was pissed all the way off.
He surprised even himself, and jumped on the dude and began wailing away on him. He had the dude pinned down and was trying to beat him into the floor when he was pulled off by security. The dude got up, bleeding and all, and got in a solid kick to the chest which spelled the end to the confrontation and Westphal’s employment at Harborside District Hospital.
You ain’t-uh workin’ here no mo’.

Bloody Dertie Philthy Wee Hoor …

For Paperback Edition of ‘YMW’

KINDLE OCCULT

Kindle Edition!

 
FIVE

The demon walked slowly up and down the Unit.
He touched each patient and peeked over the shoulders
of the nurses as they charted their thoughts
and findings. Each time the demon stopped near one
of the nurses, or any of the other staff, they would
feel even colder than usual. If he stayed long enough,
the staff member would actually exhale a cold plume
of frigid air. They would get an almost overwhelming
urge to either fuck or punch the first person
they saw. The demon was a very bad influence.  

Kindle Edition!

  1350, anno Domini

The smell was the worst.
It assaulted like a living, breathing thing. The smell hung on clothing and hair. If you stepped out of the hospital, down to the shores of Mighty Thames, the cloud would stay with you. Not even the cold and bitter wind washed it away.
The vampire didn’t care about the stench. The dying came to the London hospital in droves. He cared for them as best he could. He was a physician honor bound to treat the victims of this vicious plague. And then he would eat them.

The physician’s rotund. He was of normal girth before the scourge came. The floodgates opened. Black Plague brought an endless stream of blood-filled vessels. Very few survived. The Plague was deadly like that.
The vampire bled as many as he could. Sometimes twenty a day died in this manner, all but dried husks. They were cremated in great funeral pyres. Flames licked the sky and the heavens turned a blind eye to the suffering below.
The physician plump, flushed pink, growing more so by the day. The more blood he drank, the more he wanted. After a time, he could no longer fit into his clothes. He had to have another suit made. He grew out of that one too. And still they came.

He finished her off with one last gulp. The physician dropped her to the rags-covered pallet. Her cooling body settled with ankles crossed, arms slung out either side. He looked at her a moment. She reminded him of – something.
The vampire settled back on the stool, studied his hands. They’re burning now. They were bright pink, almost red. The fingers were as plump over-stuffed sausages, hard and rigid. The hands felt on fire, fingers coarse to move. Each subsequent attempt became more difficult. He sweated all the time. The bloody sweat stained his latest suit of clothes, already ripping at the seams.
He stood slowly up, legs cramping. His knees were sketchy from the improbable weight. Crimson sweat popped out on his forehead. It made him look like he just swatted away a swarm of biting insects.
His eyes began to tear. The tears slow at first, then fast. The great drops poured forth from bulging eyes. His swollen face cascaded salt-bloody tears. He slapped tears away and both his ears spurt. Ejaculates of blood shot out ruptured eardrums.
The vampire/physician lay still in the ever-spreading pool of his own blood. His patients’ blood. His victims’ blood.
A small crowd gathered to gawk and they were disgusted by the scene. But what they saw was not the worst.
It was the smell. That was the worst.

 

Kindle Edition!

 Chapter Five

Carpe Diem, nigga:

Tacitus had his Herod’s lovely neck in both his hands and he was squeezing the life out. He was a wheezy oil rig pumping away on Salome’s plump spread thighs. Her moans quick now turned to garbled chokes.
The two of them were copulating in Salome’s bedchamber. The new Herod shuddered and then she began to fight. She tried to twist away from the tight grip Tacitus had on her neck. Her attacker responded to this by pulling out of her. He placed all his weight on her. His hard knees were on her slender feminine arms. There was nowhere for her to go. She flattened out on the bed and he squeezed all the more. Salome managed to slip an arm free. She reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair. Tacitus grunted with the pain, but kept squeezing until she went limp beneath him.
He released her neck and rolled off her. Tacitus stood beside the bed of his Herod. He was naked, breathing hard and dizzy. He caught his breath and the dizziness dissipating with the slowing of his vital signs. He looked down to her, the one he had craved more than his mother’s milk. Salome was still alive, but she moved not.
Tacitus dried off his shit. He dropped the come towel on the throw rug covered cement floor. Giant foot-shaped indentations peeked out from under carpet. There was no one left to explain their origin. Salome had told Tacitus that the Devil did it, but he thought it was bullshit. It was probably just some drug-addled memory from when she was her Uncle Herod’s Plata-addicted play thing.

Kindle Edition!

 

 III

Mr. Big Winner:

I’m the lucky one.
My knees popped and cracked as I stood victorious. I stood too quickly, too excited. I forgot to hold my breath. I took in a big one to let loose my WHOOP. The sedative in the foggy mist made me swoon as soon as it touched my wet lungs. I could barely rebel out my victory yell. Hands grabbed hold of me from all directions. They belonged to the Halflings that made up most of Chess Master’s goon squad. Hands are a bit too generalized. Nevertheless, I witness a cacophony of swirling flurry of flesh, feathers, fur, claws and scales. In a furious rush a protective shield is forced roughly over my face. One of the more expensive dental implants in my mouth has been loosened in the exchange. I tried my level best not to choke on it as they try to hustle my old ass out of the gaming hall.
The goon squad surrounded me on all sides. The swarm of players de-crying their fate got shakily up from their places before the BINGO screens. Dozens of them began hurling themselves at us. The goons hit the oldies with neural disruptors, making them vomit and shit themselves. The biggest goons used their thick and strong iguana tails to snap at and toss bodily the other geezers out of our way. The weakened geriatric bones of these hapless players shattered on contact. It was soggy and gruesome to hear. Their screams were deafening. If I’d still had a heart, it would have been wrenched right out of me.

Kindle Edition!

 

 III

“DR. JONATHAN PENDER”

Three-point-Zero

Pender stood in line at the SaveCo pharmacy near his home and waited his turn. It was near noon and there were still several people ahead of him. He was beginning to feel trapped and his ragged nerves were protesting. It was well past his time. Pender was afraid the shakes that were ramping up would become severe enough to be noticed. He was embarrassed by his circumstances and was constantly trying to hide it from people.
I‟ve got to get a handle on this, Pender thought. The line really isn‟t that long.
Pender glanced over the top of the ten people in front of him to the customer service counter beyond. It might as well be one hundred miles away. He could feel a big pussy-fat panic building. Pender still had his emergency Quaalude left. It rested down at the bottom of his right front trouser pocket. He thought that right this very minute would be a darn good time to use it. Pender thrust his hand down deep into his pocket, retrieving both a candy mint and the pill. The both of them he popped in his mouth. He chewed them together rather loudly and with great relish. Just the thought of how the pill will soon relax him made Pender visibly content.
Pender glanced around at the customers milling about. He wondered how many of the respectable-looking people had a drug habit as nasty as his.
I hope a lot of them, he thought. The line for prescription refills had shortened by one person. I‟d hate to be the only one. A decade of higher education and advance training costing nearly one hundred thousand Notes and worth infinitely more, Pender mused wryly. All so I can become a god damned junkie. I have become the butt of my own stupid joke.

 

A beastly happy Herod is presented with the severed heads of Pontius
Pilate and Immanuel Christ. But he doesn.t see Michael as he stalks toward him
with a purposeful grimace and a terrible sound. He grips the hilt of his fiery
sword and pulls it free, still moving. Herod looks up and sees a pissed off
archangel bulling through his china shop. Herod.s smile fades into confusion as
Michael raises his sword. The archangel slices a downward arc at him. Herod is
still trying to gauge the level of danger as his torso is split from right neck to left
waist. He separates top from bottom, slides apart and drops dead to the floor with
two separate thuds.

The blood and filth-stained cops stand dumbfounded. Pleading silent, they
stare fearfully at Michael. He sheaths his Retribution, the flame dying as he does
so. Michael notices the men. They are quaking now as children that are being
taunted by bullies. The angel lets loose the hilt of his sword and points to both
pieces of Herod, bleeding all over the Compound floor.

“Repeat Offender,” he tells them.

And then Michael winks out, just as She instructed. Leaving the cops
unmolested, forgiven and unharmed.

For God still loves this world.

Inexplicably, She does.

When One is weary of Lame Shit …