Setting sunlight beamed in through the cracks in the blue velvet curtains. Eldridge had slept his day away. Last night had disappeared with the boy, and he wasn’t even sure how he had gotten into Seth’s bed, nor why he was naked.

He sat up. What loomed above him scared him so badly he wet himself. The form continuously created and changed, seeming as poisonous, rolling smoke, both black and every hue in chaos at the same time. His shape was Baphomet. A long mane, thin threads of obsidian shimmering like black icicles, framed his face. Black flames snorted from his flared nostrils. His fierce horns were the only part of him that seemed tangible. His eyes were infinite, and inside each eye was the soul of every man that was, is, or ever will be. It was the shape and structure of Chaos, distinguished from its substance, Void. It was the essence of Pattern, distinguished from its shape and structure, Chaos. It was Eldridge, reflected in a mirror on the ceiling.


* * *

Funeral homes always seemed surreal, like Magritte paintings, to Jithinia. Nathaniel led her, through crowds of mourning strangers, to the correct viewing room. He signed their names into the guest book.

The line crept slowly, a lazy river of tear stained faces with puffy eyes and tissue stuffed hands, inching towards Georgiana at a worm’s pace. That thought amused Jithinia briefly before it horrified her. Her grandmother had wanted to be cremated, but the family, finding it difficult to let go, insisted on a proper burial.

Her Great Uncle Phillip was standing in line just before them. He was a withered man of 72 with two hairs, big glasses, and removable teeth good for teasing youngsters. “She looks real natural,” he said to his too young wife.

Jithinia couldn’t disagree with him more. Her Gramma looked like a wax dummy, and she feared the body might melt from the heat of the overhead track lights illuminating it. She vacantly eyed the numerous flowers, a rainbow of colors with a casket for the pot and a corpse for the gold. She squeezed Nathaniel’s hand, as she stood there just long enough to be polite. “Goodbye, Gramma,” she whispered.

She wrapped her arms around her mother, who sat last in the receiving line. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Caroline said, weeping into her daughter’s arms for longer than Jithinia liked.

Nathaniel felt awkward. He said, “I’m sorry for your loss,” and extended his hand out for Caroline, who hesitated briefly before minding her manners and shaking it.

Table lamps dimly lit the room. In the circles of light beneath each lamp were Bibles with uncracked spines. The sofas were flat, square pillows of black plastic with light-colored, wooden trim. The notion of a burial waiting room crossed Jithinia’s mind.

She noticed her brother, Matt, sitting alone in the dimmest corner and looking like a trapped mouse, so she decided to speak to him. “Hey, you wanna get some air?” she asked. “I was thinking we might go for a walk.”

Matt quickly stood. “Yeah, I would like to get out of here.”

Being that it was All Hallows’ Eve, Jithinia suggested the adjacent graveyard for the opted walk. On the way there, they happened upon Cousin Martin sneaking a swig of Jack in the parking lot. He decided to join them and bring along his flask.

The rising blood moon displayed a spectral flush of red. It glistened off the remaining ice like rubies and stained the eerie graveyard scarlet. Twisted silhouetted trees, with limbs that looked like ominous, gnarled hands, reached out as if to grab them.

The band of misfits tread through the graveyard like it was the haunted woods of Oz. Tombs! And crypts! And vaults! Oh my! Row upon row of mausoleums, statues, monuments, and graves. Row upon row of granite names and decaying remains.

They stopped at the top of a hill, beneath a lightly-iced weeping willow that was nestled against a backdrop of icy pines. Matt and Martin climbed atop the sarcophagus of one Mr. Milton Summers. Nathaniel and Jithinia copped a squat in the shadow of a black marble statue of a cloaked figure. In his left hand, he held a long, wrought iron staff, and in his right hand, he held a wrought iron lamp that served seed to hungry birds. “Ya pays ya money, ya takes ya chances.” was written on the plaque beneath his feet.

Jithinia pulled her snaked weed from her cigarette pack and rolled a joint.

“It definitely looks better with the filter on it,” Nathaniel said. “They don’t look like clay people wrapped in plastic anymore. Have you played it in surround sound?”

“No,” Matt said, sparking the j, “Because I only got to play at Toko’s house.”

“Oh, dude!” Nathaniel said. “You turn it up, and the chain saw is soooooo loud, and —”

“The chain saw? He has a chain saw! Cool!” Matt’s eyes grew wide like those of a toddler in a candy shop.

“Can you hack people’s heads and shit off with it?” Martin asked, and passed the dutchie to the left hand side.

“Yeah, it’s gruesome,” Jithinia piped in, just before puffing down a monster toke. “Nathaniel’s just hacking away,” she continued, talking two octaves higher than normal and letting smoke swirl about her words, “Zombies’ heads and limbs are flying off.” She spewed the rest of her hit with three short coughs. “This one, Nathaniel splits him right down the middle. He’s spooging blood and guts all over the place, and then his halves fall onto the road top in opposite directions. It looked like road kill.”

“Yeah, then these creatures surrounded my feet, and I bashed them to death with a pole,” Nathaniel said, forgetting in his excitement to toke the joint.

Matt poked him in the ribs, “Toke, toke, pass, mother fucker!”

Nathaniel sucked in a huge hit before he passed off to Matt. He tried to hold it in, but he had to cough. He coughed and coughed until he turned red in the face. “Smooth!” he said.

As he exhaled slowly through his nose, Matt said, “Damn, dude. Do you remember those little fireworks we got from the beach? You know. They were four colors. You throw ‘em, and they bounce around all over the place.”

“Lotus flowers,” Jithinia said.

“Yeah, well we threw a whole bunch of ‘em, and one of ‘em started chasing T.C. — and — it chased him — huh-huh-huh — it ran up his shorts,” Matt said through heaving breaths, “and it burns his ass!” He was laughing so hard, he almost fell off Milton Summers. “And —“

“He was yelling, ‘God damn it!’” Jithinia said. She was laughing so hard, tears were running down her face.

“And he turns around,” Matt said, “And it had burned this big black hole in the ass of his shorts!”

“That’s funny,” Nathaniel said. He smiled and then bit his lower lip. His forehead crinkled.

Jithinia stopped laughing. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The night became as silent and cold as the dead.

Nathaniel’s heart pounded faster and faster. “I smell flowers,” he said and gripped Jithinia, nearly ripping her shirt. The two fell backwards, crashing into the statue. The lantern swung violently, showering them with birdseed.


* * *

The woods smelled like laurels and hummed with water gurgles. “Be still,” the fairy child Eldridge said.

Granville refused, rocking from one foot to the other. “We’ll get in trouble,” he said.

“I’ll put it back.”

“But last time —“

“I’ll put it back.” Eldridge incanted in an alien tongue as he used a hatpin to pop the magick clamp loose from Granville’s wings. “There.”

Granville wiggled his shoulders and stretched out his wings. They were translucent like a thin sheet of muscovite and crunchy like candy glass. They shimmered colors like oil on water and were shaped like torn crepe paper. They seemed too fragile to hold up even a child’s body. He turned, looked to Eldridge, and smiled. Pointy ears protruded from hair like flaxen alabaster. He looked as a fragile skeleton, veiled in skin so pale it looked blue. His eyes sparkled like amethyst.

Eldridge had already removed the clamps from his own wings. “Look what I have,” he said. He pulled a pouch of tobacco and a calabash pipe from his pocket. “It’s Gopal’s.”

“Le’me see,” Granville said. He sat down on the ground and worked the tobacco into the pipe. His hands were tiny, and his fingernails were dirty and jagged.

Eldridge squatted down beside him. “Gimme,” he said and took the pipe. He stood up. “Come on.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket and sparked the bowl as he walked away.

“Wait, wait, wait up!” Granville said as he chased after his brother. “You gotta share.” He took the pipe and puffed twice before handing it back to his brother. Twigs snapped as leaves crunched and shuffled beneath their small feet. “Where we going?”

“To fly.”

Eldridge found a shallow place in the river. As he skipped across the rocks and sand, he got his shoes only a little wet.

“Eldg-ige, wait,” Granville said. “I’m gonna fall in.” Eldridge took Granville’s hand and tugged him across. “Where we goin’?”

“Up there,” Eldridge said, pointing up at a jagged bluff. “This time we’re gonna fly really high!” That made no sense in retrospect, but it did at the time, so they started to climb.

They were almost at the top when Granville fell like a baby bird pushed too soon from its nest. He tumbled down the steep hill, smashed up his wings like a broken bug, and bopped his head against a big rock.

“Granville!” Eldridge screamed and flew down to his brother. “Are you okay?” he asked, but Granville just gurgled. “I’ll get mamma.”


* * *

“Arrrrrgggggggg!” Nathaniel screamed. “I can feel them!” He ripped the borrowed sweater off over the top of his head. Blood poured from the stubby mess on his back.

Jithinia looked terrified. “Baby, what’s wrong?” she cried out.

He grabbed her by the sides of her head and put his mouth up next to her ear. “It’s my wings, dear,” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Can’t you smell them? They’re rotting.”

Nathaniel’s eyes fixed on the marble Charon. Its head contorted into the shape of a goat, with long, smoky horns swirling upwards into infinity. “Father?” he asked.

“Oh shit! What’s going on, Jithinia?” Matt asked.

“I don’t know. I think we better get him to a hospital.”

“No! I’m okay.” Nathaniel rubbed his temple and shook his head as if trying to shake the visions away. “I think I’m having an acid flashback. That was so weird.”

“But your back is bleeding!” Jithinia insisted.

“It does that sometimes. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m not going to the doctor!” Even though Nathaniel seldom got sick, he had been in and out of doctor’s offices throughout his childhood. They made any excuse they could to poke and prod, to x-ray his hollow bones, to scrutinize the muscles around his deformed stumps, and to chart the peculiar patterns of his brain.

“You’re hurt!”

“You know I won’t go, so stop pushing it. Let’s just go back to the hotel. I want to lie down.”


* * *

Eldridge could feel his brother’s pain as he flew to get his mother, but he had to tune it out. He had to concentrate on flying. He’d only done it a few times before, and he was pretty awful at it. He couldn’t get up very high, so he whizzed through the trees like some drunken butterfly.

His mother, Eliara, was poking the fire in the woodstove back to life when she tensed up and had a fit like a seizure. She dropped the red-hot poker onto the floor and scratched at the gnarled, twisted flesh on her back where her wings had once been. She could feel her sons crying out for her, and she knew they were in trouble. Her heartbeat quickened and her brain tingled as she started to panic. She took a deep breath. As she controlled her breathing, she focused herself and regained domination of her psyche. She wiped the soot off her hands onto her black bell-bottoms and walked outside.

She stood in the doorway of the log cabin. She could feel her sons nearby in the surrounding forest, but she had no idea exactly where they were.

Just then, Eldridge flew out of the woods screaming, “Mamma! Mamma!” He hit the ground running and hurdled towards her.

Eliara caught him. “Eldridge! Are you okay? Where’s your brother?”

“He’s hurt,” he said and started to cry.

Just then, an apparition of a Sabbatic Goat, much like Eldridge’s reflection in a mirror, manifested before them, cradling Granville in his arms. He knew this man was of his father’s race, yet he still felt terror, and he hid behind his mother.

The boy’s destroyed wings dangled on by nothing else but skin, and they were spewing blood. When Eliara saw them, she knew, all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Granville back together again.

“I’m so sorry, Eliara,” the apparition said. His voice sounded otherworldly, like a growl from outer space, like someone dropped a needle on Saturn’s rings and played them like a record.

“No! Not my boy!” Eliara cried.

“He won’t last much longer, you need to say your goodbyes,” the apparition said. He walked into the cabin, and Eliara and Eldridge followed him inside. He laid Granville’s broken body down onto the bed, and then he disappeared.

Eldridge crawled into bed next to his twin. He pulled a patchwork quilt up to their chins. They were nestled amongst stuffed toys, including an orange fuzzy dragon and something resembling a pig with one horn. Wooden dolls with dyed, cornhusk wings dangled from a mobile above the bed.

Eliara walked around to the other side of the bed. She sat down on the edge of the bed next to Granville and stroked his hair. “I love you, baby,” she said.

Eldridge pressed his third eye against his twin’s, but Granville did not respond. He climbed deeper into his brother’s mind, psychically screaming, “Granville! Granville! Where are you?” He saw Granville, up ahead on the riverbank, procuring a ride.

The Ferryman pushed off. Eldridge flew after them with all his might. He begged, “Granville! Come back! Please don’t leave me!” He splashed into the river after the boat.

“Eldridge! What are you doing? You need to stop this right now,” the Ferryman said.

Eldridge saw that the Ferryman and the apparition who brought Granville home were one in the same. “Bring back my brother, you son of a bitch!” he screamed. He flung himself at the side of the boat, nearly capsizing it.

“Don’t do that!” Eliara shrieked. She forced apart the boys’ foreheads and ripped Eldridge from his brother’s mind.

“Arrrrrgggggggg!” Eldridge screamed in agony. “I can feel them!” He fell to the floor and curled up in a fetal position. Maggots and worms crawled, oozed, and devoured his precious wings.

“Oh, God, no!” Eliara screamed. Her heart sank when she saw Eldridge was infected with his brother’s decay. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said. She cleared her mind and didn’t think about what she was about to do. If she did, Eldridge would know, and he would panic. “Stay calm. I’ll be right back.” She got up, and left him there all alone on the floor.

Moments later, his mamma’s hand startled him. “Come,” she said.

“No, Mamma, no, no I don’t wanna,” Eldridge said through gnashing teeth.

“Shhhhh.” She gathered him up from the floor and sat him onto her lap on the bed’s edge. She began stroking his hair. “Look at you. Aren’t you beautiful?” she said.

Eldridge looked at himself in the dresser mirror. His reflection was not that of a fairy, like his mother’s reflection was, but rather, his reflection was of a Sabbatic Goat, the reflection of his father’s race.

“Mamma loves you. You know that don’t you?”

“Uh-huh,” Eldridge said.

“I’m not doing this to punish you,” she said.

“I’m sorry mamma. It was an acci, an accident,” Eldridge said.

“I know sweetheart. Be a good boy and lean forward.”

“I won’t try to fly never ever again. I promise.”

“Lean forward now,” his mamma said, and Eldridge obeyed. She stroked her boy’s back, rubbing the base of his wings, and her hands were kind and warm on his skin. He watched her in the mirror. He watched her pick up the butcher knife she had laid on the nightstand next to a pile of fresh bandages.

“No mamma, no, please don’t,” he begged, and he wailed as skin tore and bones crunched, and his beautiful wings fell to the floor.


* * *

Eldridge came to, curled up in a fetal position, in Seth’s shower. Frigid water rained down upon him, and he wondered how long he had been in there. He wasn’t sure when he had last fixed. He was usually good for a day, and he felt half-crazy. His back hurt like some voodoo priestess had made a doll of him, and blood spilled from the old wounds and swirled down the whirling drain.

He trembled as he willed himself up and turned off the water. As he pushed back the frosted shower door, he ignored his monstrous reflection in the mirror. He took a towel from a rack above the toilet and caught a glimpse of his brother in the water there, for only in water could he see himself as his mother’s race.

“Granville,” he said. “You’re out there somewhere, and I can’t find you ‘cause I’m loosing my mind. Come to me. Please, find me again.”

He couldn’t look at his twin anymore, so he put the seat down. He dried off and then found some bandages in the medicine cabinet. He would have to go out, now, before he grew too mad.


* * *

Nathaniel lay belly-down across the hotel bed. The bed was hard, and the springs poked him. He felt woozy and light-headed, like he was going to pass out.

On the lavender walls were irremovable paintings of sailboats. The bedspread had large fuchsia flowers with green leaves printed on it. The carpet was thin and beige. The furniture was chipboard nailed down to the floor.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t take him to the hospital?” Matt asked. “Those bandages already need changing.”

“No, they don’t. We have to give them time for the blood to clot,” Jithinia said.

Martin said, “I don’t know. He’s so cold. I think we should take him.”

“He doesn’t want to go!” Jithinia barked. “I’m sorry,” she said, changing her tone to meek. “Look, he has a birth defect. This happens sometimes. It will stop soon. Don’t worry.”

Martin looked Jithinia in the eye and said, “If you’re sure.”

“I’m positive. Thank you both for helping me.” She looked at Matt and said, “Not a word to Mom, okay? She’s got enough on her mind.”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “you owe me a new sweater.”

“Okay, but it’s gonna be black. You guys can go on home now. We’ll be fine.”


* * *

Eldridge, forgetting it was Halloween, left Seth’s house wearing Seth as his only mask and Seth’s clothes as his only costume. He’d dressed himself in a beautiful, crimson, crushed velvet dress, which was knee length, ornamented with fluffy, black fuzz around the neckline, and trimmed with loops of black cord. He’d tied it all together with a vinyl corset and matching gloves that ended just below the short sleeves of the dress. Black and red, striped tights and patent leather, high heeled boots finished his look.

When he got to Kreepersville, he happened upon some trick-or-treaters and realized his mistake. If there had been fewer of them, or had they been on a darker street, he might have just said to hell with it and eased his pain right then and there. He hated it, but he would have to find a costume. He searched the ghost of Purp inside himself and remembered a mask in Purp’s closet. A small detour would be in order.


* * *

I’m not all right, Caledonia thought. She shivered, dripping wet from a cold shower, for she had not been able to pay her gas bill again. As she toweled off, she scrutinized herself in the mirror. She had stretch marks on her hips, a slight discoloration just between her lopsided breasts and a single zit on her forehead up near her hairline. These things, however, were nothing compared to the tiny pooch in her belly and her naturally round visage, both of which made Caledonia extremely aware of her heifer-like disposition. “Nothing but gummy bears and pickles for a week,” she sighed to herself.

Her makeup was tossed about the bathroom in no particular order. She found her foundation on the back of the toilet. It wasn’t white, for white wasn’t quite pale enough, but, rather, it was an alabaster blue so pallid that it blocked even the faintest trace of living color. Next, she located her powder, half-buried in a pile of dirty laundry, right beneath a pair of blood stained underpants, and beside her pallid pit bull, Ghost.

When she leaned over to pick up the compact, she scratched the dog behind its ear. The dog stretched up and licked her face. “Ewww! Ghost!” she complained as she wiped off the dog spit.

She touched up her foundation and then applied the white powder to her face. She found her black eye pencil next to her toothbrush on the bathroom sink. She ringed her eyes in black goo until she rivaled Cleopatra. Then she traced her lips, making them much smaller than they actually were, so that they seemed puckered. Finally, she tracked down her mascara and lipstick, and, voila, she had completed her mask.

She went into what should have been her bedroom, but she had no bed and slept, instead, on a couch in the living room. Numerous piles of clothes from various thrift stores filled the otherwise empty room. She dug through heap after heap, finally settling on a tattered, black ball gown. She padded her hips with a makeshift hip form girdle, which she had made from various worn-out Bauhaus T-shirts and wire, and then she slipped the wedding dress over her head. She squeezed herself into a corset and tightened it to an unhealthy level. Often, people would stare and point at her deformed body shape, but she thought her wasp waist looked fantastic.

Then she dug around in a large heap of boots. Combat boots? No. High, high heels? No. Elongated, pointy witch boots? Perfect! She laced up the atrocities, slipped on some fishnet gloves, and, finally, topped it all off with a huge black hat with a big orange bow on it, and she looked absolutely beautiful.

Some costume, she thought, I look like I always do! She made one last twirl in front of the mirror before she grabbed her backpack and shuffled out the door.

As she clink-clunked down three flights of stairs, she saw Purp walking up them, towards her. She wondered why his clothes were excessively big for him. They belittled him, making him look like a rag doll. With a slow, delicate, southern draw, she said, “Purp! Where’ve you been?” Her voice was soft like a little boy’s. “Toby’s been looking for you. Somethin’ ‘bout the rent being due.” She had a coquettish twinkle in her black coffee eyes.

“Oh, I’ve been -- out of town.” Eldridge said. He sifted Purp’s memories for information about Caledonia.

It seemed Purp’s Christian name was Clifford. He started going by Purp in high school because people kept calling him Clifford the Big Red Fag.

It was useless information, so Eldridge kept digging.

Purp met Caledonia at Up All Night the day after he caught his lover cheating. They wasted a couple of hours there talking and drinking coffee before they grew bored and went for a walk. They came to the courtyard of a place known to all the yokels as the penis building. It was erected in 1957 to house the main office of a bank. Why they chose to shape the building like a huge dick, the world may never know, but it did lead to countless rumors that there actually was a squirting fountain on top of this phallic monstrosity. In the courtyard were several fountains, including a two-story waterfall. Trees full of white Christmas lights surrounded the fountains. Their shadows danced with each breath of wind.

Purp decided to give his lover a taste of his own medicine, so he tried to kiss Caledonia, but she didn’t like to be touched.

She doubled over as if she had to shit. “Oh! My kidney’s hurt!” she cried out, and then she ran off.

With his desperation ever increasing, Eldridge decided to kill her, but before he could entrance her into going back to her apartment with him, Monica, who was dressed as a sexy witch, was climbing the stairs towards them.

Monica said, “Caledonia, what’s taking so long? I’ve been waiting forever! Oh, hey, Purp. Are you going to The Tank?” She referred to The Isolation Tank, a former meat packing plant turned party house, which was notorious for its annual Halloween bash.

“Yeah, I am. I need to go get my mask now. I’ll see you at the party.”

“Later, gator,” Caledonia said, and she and Monica walked on down the stairs to the cold city below.

Eldridge proceeded to Purp’s apartment. He slid Purp’s key into the door and let himself inside as if he lived there.

“Where’s the rent, mother fucker!” Toby said. Toby loomed a good fourteen inches over Purp and was scrawny like a scarecrow. He wore sagging pants with no belt and a brightly colored T-shirt with “World Industries” written on it.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.” Eldridge pulled Seth’s wallet from his handbag and paid Toby Purp’s rent in cash.

“Thanks!” Toby smiled. “Where the hell have you been?”

Eldridge trembled. He could kill this man. He could kill him and the pain would be done with, but the rent wasn’t even current. He had not been in Kreepersville long and had only two hideouts. Best to let Toby pay the bills and save this soul for another day. He swallowed. His throat felt dryer than the Sierra, but he would wait. “I’ve got a boyfriend. I’ve been staying with him.”

“Oh yeah? Who’s shanking your ass? Anybody I know?” Toby asked.

“No.”

“You’re not getting ready to bail on me, are you?”

“I paid my rent, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Then fuck off,” Eldridge said and walked to Purp’s bedroom to find his costume.


* * *

Located in the smoky heart of the industrial zone of downtown Kreepersville, right across the way from a prison, The Tank was considered by many to be the heart of the underground. All genres alike partied here at least once a year, and tonight was that night. Small circles of ghosts, goblins, and ghouls had gathered outside the side entranceway of the club to smoke pot and get some cool air.

Inside, on the ground floor, a group of local musicians, costumed as Def Leppard, mimicked the sounds of “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” The show greatly amused Eldridge, for the drummer’s arm really looked like it was missing. In one corner, inside a kiddy pool, several intoxicated people had stripped down to their underwear and were throwing pieces of watermelon at one another.

Eldridge tapped into Seth’s memories so he would know his way around. Twelve guys owned The Tank, and they lived upstairs. Just outside the doorway to the stairwell, a man dressed as a woman offered him a slice of peach dripping in moonshine. He raised the rubber mask up to get to his mouth and gobbled the fruit up. He almost puked, but he managed to get it down.

The steep, narrow, wooden staircase, scarcely lit by Christmas lights, was hard to navigate through Nixon’s eyeholes. With each step he took, his back throbbed and oozed more blood into his now soaked bandages.

He emerged into the upstairs hallway, sweating and out of breath. A passing nun handed him an Old Milwaukee. Just inside the wide archway before him, a gang had gathered around a table. Atop the table, a girl wearing cat makeup had removed her top, and danced fervently and luridly to The Scorpion’s “Rock You like a Hurricane.” The gang whooped and hollered.

Eldridge went down the hallway to his right. Along the wall were brightly colored squares of light, looking like a spaceship in a B movie. There were several rooms along the hallway, but they looked private. One room, however, looked inviting, so he decided to stop there for a bit. He sat down in a wooden school desk. He opened the can, raised his mask, and chugged the beer. He had just fixed his mask when someone sat down in the desk next to his. He scrutinized the boy in the thrift store suit, with jheri-curled hair, and a Bible tucked under his arm.

At first, neither Seth nor Purp recognized the visitor, and then they started to chuckle. “Hey Moe, what’s up?” Eldridge said, unable to contain the laughter inside himself.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Moe asked.

“I am not a crook!” Eldridge said, doing his best Tricky Dick impression.

“Oh cool! Ronald Reagan. So, Seth --”

“How did you know it was me?”

“How many six-foot-five, lanky, mother fuckers do you know that’s got a dress like that?”

“Good point.”

“You wanna go up to the roof? Split a spliff?”

“Hell yeah!”

The two boys got up from their desks and headed back down the hallway to the stairs.

Eldridge was momentarily confused, for the stairs that went up to the roof were hidden behind a painted panel, part of a mural depicting scenes from hell, but he soon found the crack in the wall, and the pair slipped through the inferno to the sanctity above.

The sounds of The Scorpions came up through the roof, muffled like a dissonant symphony beneath the deepest sea, an echo of its former self. The wind howled and bit at them. Eldridge looked off the backside of the building and could see the distant highway, a roaring blur of lights. A cat came from nowhere, and it chirped and trilled about their legs.

Moe produced the spliff and lit up. “This is some pretty good shit,” he said, passing off to Eldridge. Down below, someone replaced The Scorpions with Lynyrd Skynyrd.


* * *

Nathaniel faded in and out of consciousness. The last thing he remembered was Jithinia running her fingers through his hair, and then suddenly, he was on the roof of The Tank. He knew he was dreaming, but it seamed so real.

He could hear the distant strains of “Free Bird.” He set his handbag down on the parapet. He pulled his mask up, wearing it like a toboggan, and toked a doobie. He trembled as he passed the spliff to Moe.

His head pounded like someone was playing his eardrums. His ghostly wings tortured him with their putrefaction. For a moment, he toyed with the bejeweled end of the hatpin before unsheathing it from its hiding place within his corset’s boning. Then without fear or contrition, he plunged it into Moe’s ear. The wind gusted, catching the mask and dropping it over the building’s side. Nathaniel caught Moe in his arms, breaking his fall, and eased him to the ground, laying him onto his back, right next to the fallen Bible. He pounced on the boy like a starving cougar. He ran his tongue up the boy’s cheeks, lapping up his tears, before drinking Moe’s soul from his eyes with frenzied fervor.

As the agony of his rotting wings subsided, his cock became hard. He pulled off the Reverend’s jacket and shirt and unfastened his pants. He rolled Moe onto his stomach and pulled his pants and underwear down to his ankles. He ripped a page from the Bible and wiped the shit from Moe’s ass. He spread Moe’s cheeks apart and spit into the dirty hole. He pulled up his skirt and pulled his cock from his tights. He spit into his hand, lubed himself, then slid into Moe’s dead ass and began pounding him.

He lay flat against the boy’s back and closed his eyes. He pictured himself fucking himself. “I love you, Nathaniel,” he whispered into the corpse’s ear. The orgasm washed over him, a much-needed release of tension, more relief than pleasure, as he ejaculated deep inside the dead boy’s ass.

Horrified by his own actions, Nathaniel tried to wake himself from the dream. He opened his eyes to see Jithinia basking in the TV’s glow. Confusion washed over him. “Where am I?” he mumbled, but he faded out again before she could answer.

Now he stood on an octagonal, white gazebo. Its wooden floors were painted bluish-gray, and they were clean enough to eat off. The gazebo was suspended in the sky and surrounded by blinding, yellow light. There were gray and white doves in mesh cages, hanging in each frame of the octagon, and they cooed and flapped their wings. Nathaniel turned and said to Jithinia, whose spirit stood behind him, “You must help me let them loose, they are dying in their cages.”

He heard a terrible noise, and he turned to look. One dove, lying on its back, flailed its wings and screeched. Then its chest split open, from the inside, and blood flowed forth.

Jithinia was gone. She didn’t disappear; she just wasn’t there anymore.

Someone screamed, “Help me! Oh God, please, help!”

It horrified Nathaniel because the voice was familiar, but he couldn’t recognize it enough to tell whose voice it was.

He stepped off the gazebo and walked on a path of clouds towards the cries. They were coming from a white house, which was the same as the long abandoned house of his dead uncle, but it was refurbished. Nathaniel could see a window from which the screams were coming from, and it was black inside. He could not get to the house. Fuzzy, white dogs, which looked like mops, blocked the path. How odd, Nathaniel thought. They had red ribbons tied on their ears and were very similar to a stuffed animal his baby sister owned. His heart pounded, and he felt as if his chest, like the dove’s, would split open from the inside.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier being dead,” Clarissa said on TV.

He could hear the television, and he remembered he was in a dream. He opened his eyes. The hotel room was dark but for the TV. He couldn’t breathe. He felt as if the weight of the world were pressing down on his chest. He tried to scream. He opened his mouth. He could hear himself scream, “Help me! Oh God, please, help!” but nothing came out, even though his throat felt scratchy as if he had been screaming forever, and then he fell back into the dream.


* * *

Jithinia was half watching River’s Edge and thinking about how Ione Skye looked like a fatter Caledonia. She had met Caledonia while attending Kreepersville School of the Arts for film. She had just moved into a shithole a few blocks from school when, one day, there was a knock on the door. When she answered it, Caledonia was standing there, in all her gothic beauty.

Caledonia said, “I’ve been stalking you.” She claimed she had found herself following Jithinia home from school everyday, so she decided to introduce herself. Soon, they became good friends, hanging out all the time. They rode around, all hours of the night, with the stereo blasting Nicholas Lens, Christian Death, or Sisters of Mercy, in Caledonia’s black, 1989 Lincoln Town Car, which she called “Cupcake.” They would go to the twenty-four hour superstores to play with the toys, or to the all night diners for coffee because that’s all there was to do at three in the morning. They smoked way too many cigarettes, and never, ever ate anything but gummy worms because it just wasn’t cool to eat.

They often hung out with this guy named Odds. He was short and balding, with bushy sideburns and a handlebar moustache. He wore a black turtleneck and black slacks, every day. He said he wasn’t goth, just mod, but that didn’t go over too well. One day, two goth kids kicked his ass for saying he liked Morrissey but hated the Smiths.

He was a psych major, and he talked with a funny voice, dragging out his syllables like Pauly Shore. Whenever he got drunk, he professed his lust for Caledonia and Jithinia’s male goth friends. However, when sober again, he’d vehemently deny it.

He worked at the Waffles-N-Eggs on Jonestown road. The girls would often call up there in the middle of the night. Odds would answer, “Jonestown Waffles-N-Eggs, may I help you?”

Caledonia would say, “Do you have any grape Kool-Aid?” Then she would giggle and hang up.

One day, she decided it would be funny to cover Odds’s front porch with sliced salami. So she and Jithinia, partners in crime, stopped by the grocery store, bought some processed meat products, and snuck up to Odds’s house. They laid out the meat in a single layer until not an inch of cement could be seen, and then Jithinia, in a stroke of brilliance, wrote Eat at Joe’s in mustard below the meat.

The next day, Caledonia ran into Odds at Up All Night. He was distraught as he told her all about the meaty vandalism.

Caledonia played it cool. She said, “You know what? Someone put chicken livers all over my front porch. I came home, and there were stray cats everywhere.” So, Odds and Caledonia made a pact to find the culprits and retaliate with coleslaw and grits.


* * *

Again, Nathaniel stood on the gazebo that was suspended in the sky and surrounded by blinding, yellow light. Again, the gray and white doves cooed and flapped their wings inside their cages. Again, he turned and said to Jithinia, whose spirit stood behind him, “You must help me let them loose, they are dying in their cages.”

Again, he heard a terrible noise, and he turned to look. Again, the dove flailed its wings and screeched as its chest split open, and blood flowed forth.

Again, Jithinia was gone.

Again, someone screamed, “Help me! Oh God, please, help!”

Again, the voice seemed familiar, but Nathaniel couldn’t recognize it.

Again, he stepped off the gazebo and walked on a path of clouds towards the cries that came from the refurbished house of his dead uncle. Again, he could not get to the house because fuzzy, white dogs blocked the path. Again, his heart pounded, and he felt as if his chest, like the dove’s, would split open from the inside.

“I didn’t need no gun,” John said on the TV “I did mine with my hands. After a few minutes, her face puffed out, and she turned bright purple, and she just stared at me. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I had total control of her. It felt so real. She was dead there in front of me, and I felt so fucking alive! Is that how you felt?”

Nathaniel could hear the television, and he remembered he was in a dream. Again, he opened his eyes. Again, he couldn’t breathe. Again, he tried to scream. He opened his mouth. He could hear himself scream, “Help me! Oh God, please, help!” but nothing came out, even though his throat felt scratchy as if he had been screaming forever.

Terrified he would end up in the dream again, perhaps forever, he willed himself to roll out of bed. Like an oversized, wet rag doll, his body made a sickening thump as he crashed to the floor.

“Nathaniel!” Jithinia screamed. She went to him, dropped to her knees, and cradled him.

He wept as she rocked him in her arms. “I had a nightmare,” he whispered.

“What about, baby?”

“I killed Moe. I killed him. He’s dead. Someone was screaming. I wanted to help, but there were fuzzy dogs everywhere. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“It was just a bad dream, baby. Just a dream. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”


* * *

“He said he would be here,” Caledonia said. She could see her frosty breath hanging in the air. She, Monica, Kara, Orchid, and Ian were hanging around outside the Tank, watching skinheads breathe fire, and looking for Purp.

“What’s he wearing?” Orchid asked. She wore a green leotard and a matching hood, adorned around the face with yellow flower petals. She called herself Anne Geddes’s newest masterpiece.

“I’m not sure. He had on a red velvet dress and red and black tights earlier. They were way too big for him, so I’m sure they were part of his costume,” Caledonia said.

Ian was dressed like Jesus and strapped to a huge cross. He said, “Hey, wait a minute. I saw Richard Nixon dressed like that going upstairs. Maybe he’s on the roof. Let’s check it out.”

“Let’s smoke a j while we’re up there,” Monica suggested.

“Fuck yeah!” Kara cheered. She was dressed in a red leotard with a devil tail, horns, and a pitchfork.

As the motley gang of miscreants reached the door to the stairwell, it swung open, and Eldridge, wearing Moe’s skin as well as his costume, sans Bible, walked out.

“Hey, Moe, have you seen Purp?” Monica asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Eldridge said.

“Wanna help us look for him?” Caledonia said. “Smoke a j?”

“I’ve gotta piss real bad. You’ll see me up there in a minute. Happy Halloween,” he smirked and walked off.

“Come on. Get the door for me.” Ian tried to go through the doorway, but his cross got hung. “Shit!” he said. He backed up and went through sideways.

The people were packed in like sardines, and Eldridge had a hard time moving through them. Finally, he found the human current that led to the side door and swam it out into the cold air.

He didn’t make it far before the skinheads accosted him. “Nigger!” one skinhead yelled and pointed at him.

The leader of the skinheads muscled Eldridge back against the wall. He was fat like some Aryan fuck had swallowed the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man. “I’ve been lookin’ for you, Moe,” he said. His breath was hot and stank of rotting fish.

Inside, Ian got hung again as he started up the second flight of stairs that led to the roof. “Fuck me!” he yelled. “Get this fucking thing off of me!”

The girls doubled over with laughter.

A tubby clown with a straight razor answered the call for help. He had painted his face up to look sad, donned a big red nose, and covered his balding head with a sparkly rainbow wig. He cut the ropes that bound Ian to his cross and then slipped the razor back into his pocket.

Ian lugged the cross to a corner and abandoned it there.

“Hey, don’t I know you?” Caledonia said, looking into the clown’s soulful eyes. They were dark brown like a mushroom’s belly and were framed with lashes so long, they looked fake.

The clown grabbed her nose and then slid his thumb between his index and middle fingers. “Got your nose!” he said.

“You’re Jimmy, Nathaniel’s cousin. I remember you.”

When Jimmy was thirteen, he was skinny, with delicate, effeminate features. A neighborhood pedophile sodomized him. From then on, he felt awkward and strange. He ate away his depression and became fat and ugly, and the kids at school wouldn’t let him forget it for a minute. He thought being raped was why his body grew to manly proportions, yet his penis was stunted and never grew another inch.

Ian said, “Hey, clown, wanna smoke a j with us?”

In a feat of prestidigitation, Jimmy pulled a bicycle horn from thin air. Honk! Honk! He blew it right in Ian’s face.

“Fuck you, man,” Ian said, chuckling. “Come on.”

In the parking lot, Eldridge snickered at the skinhead’s folly. “Well you found me,” he said, “and I’m afraid you’ve got more than you bargained for.”

“I got exactly what I bargained for. One smart-ass nigger, soon to be one dead nigger. You stink!” The skinhead spit into Eldridge’s face.

The gang emerged onto the roof.

At first, Ian thought someone had brought a fuck doll up for a quickie and just left it laying there, all used up. “What the fuck?” he said.

Caledonia recognized the clothes. “Purp!” she called out, thinking he must’ve passed out drunk. They all rushed over to help him.

It wasn’t Purp lying there. It was Moe, wearing Purp’s clothes and sloppy makeup. A handbag was laid open beside him, and cosmetics were arranged like a halo around his head. His vacant eyes were open, as if fixated on the starry sky. Blood had trickled out of his ear.

Ian felt for a pulse. “He’s dead!”

“Oh my God!” Monica cried out. With shaking hands, she dialed 911 on her cell phone.

“How can that be? We just saw him downstairs. There’s only one staircase. How can that be?” Kara said.

In the parking lot below, Eldridge whispered into the skinhead’s ear, “I know your secret, nigger. Your grandfather was as black as I am. I can see it. I can smell it. Just look at yourself. Who do you think you’re fooling? May the stench of your hate haunt you the rest of your days!”

The skinhead’s flesh turned the darkest black a human could be. He held his hands before him in disbelief and freaked out. “Ahhhhhhhhhg! Ahhhhhhhhg!” he shrieked.

On the roof, it took a moment for the dreadful scene to register in Caledonia’s mind, but once it did, she started screaming. Her cries commingled with the skinhead’s in an a cappella duet of horror. Jimmy wrapped his strong arms around her and held her.

Approaching sirens accompanied the desperate tune, and the paranoid partygoers scurried away like wild canines from a dogcatcher, as Eldridge slipped unnoticed down the dark alleyway to his car.