Eight hundred miles and then Frazzle gets weird on me, tells me how every Christmas he took down his decorations and threw out the tree, and listened to Christmas records backwards and heard Satanic messages oozing from the speakers. These spells of his, never the same twice. Tomorrow he’ll be singing the last stock reports to Gregorian chants or blinking Morse code haiku in a broken mirror. We get cold in the car as the Lexus’ heater broke down in Indiana so we slice up the back seat and start to burn the pieces in the hubcaps set in the floorboards until the smoke forms a cataract over the windshield. I draw maps in the soot, Byzantine aortas from some other peeled body under the gloom, never mine.
The trunk of heads runs out west of Kansas City and it’s desolate country, fields of nothing waiting to grow. Not even the meatfolk stayed around here. Sun goes down and we shiver. Sun comes up and we cry. Sun goes higher and jonesing we face hard facts, remember a time when they said junkies shared their last fix. A time we never lived through, never wanted to live through until now. A time we never even believed in.
“Cowards die many times before their deaths,” Frazzle say. “But so does everyone else now. And we give it a shot, you and me, Hallucinogenius One and Hallucinogenius Two.”
“I regret I had but twelve veins to give for my sickness.”
“Explorers are never so honest as to explain what they’re really looking for, so history invents it for them.”
“How will we go down, you think?”
“In flames, most likely.” Frazzle dries day-old tears. “Make it quick, if you’re going to.”
So I stab him in throat with gnawed bone. Frazzle tries to hold in his life for a minute then gives up and watches it puddle in his lap, pool of old secrets where avatars lie submerged and suffocating. Ten minutes and he’s back again, so I bust out his teeth with the Lexus’ tire iron, Frazzle looking out at me with a toothless frown and handfuls of desiccated ivory, sad in his way. It’s not fun when they’re strangers, even less if you know them. I’m not as good with the heavy bore needle as Frazzle was, but it’s a learning experience, and for a moment he almost seems to turn his head to give me a better shot at the pituitary, something of the old Frazzle remaining to help me along.
I cook him down and he goes into my arm, in burnt clouds of hellfire and a hundred discussions with whispering maggot voices. For a few hours I think maybe I know what it’s like to be Frazzle and dead, dead for real. All the rest of them, they’re no role models, stumbling around way they do, that’s no death. This is something to hope for? They all stumble for oblivion, are too fucked up to find it.
But Frazzle knows now, he teaching me from the veins out.
It gets me down the road another day, still not afraid to die because now I remember again, but then there’s always tomorrow, and you know me. I forget easy.
*
I left the highway in western Kansas, the time feeling right when I came upon a green exit sign with a plank boarded over the upcoming town’s name. The old town dead, it had begun life anew. TARTARUS, someone had painted across the new wood, black block letters that wink subtle invitations when the sun hits them at precise angles. I find a town under martial law and underlying chaos.
A newcomer, I am assigned to the employ of Dr. Amway, of the Tartarus Clinic for Applied Research. My job being to report any activity within the perimeter of a postmodern death nature, or soon to be deceased. My judgment will be invaluable, they inform me, for my status as newcomer leaves me unencumbered by prior prejudices or allegiances.
Dr. Amway was a pathologist and medical examiner in one of the western metropoli, has since assumed a new mantle of command combining now-usurped control systems of medicine and law. He is a man of numerous facelifts, with four square inches of original face left, stretched tight over his skull.
“I am the man with his finger up the ass of the nation,” he tells me. “How would you define deviance?”
“I wouldn’t, but I know it when I see it.”
“Splendid,” and he clapping, then lead me to rows of cages filled with meatfolk. They eyeing us with confused dead glimmers and reaching with broken-nailed hands, but not as eager as average meatfolk beyond the perimeter. I remark that some progress appears to have been made here.
“I am the great white heterosexual overlord,” says Dr. Amway. “And by that divine mandate I am eminently qualified to convert these poor blue heathen. I must admit, the task might be safer from the go if custom still insisted we sew the mouths shut immediately upon death, but I enjoy a challenge.”
[Note: During Colonial and westward expansionist phases of American history, the lips of the newly dead were stitched closed, a custom brought over by European immigrants. Reportedly this practice still goes on in remote areas of Appalachia. Its function was spiritual in nature, to prevent evil entities from gaining access to the deceased and taking up residence. This measure would obviously be a failure in light of Quayle-Beta Syndrome, but I purport it might still be of use in thwarting their appetites.]
Dr. Amway waves one hand about. “You see the stubborn dead, but I see a roomful of potential. Actually, their chance at becoming productive citizens is greater now than it ever was. They’re so much more pliant now, all they lack is the proper conditioning. Somatic and neural trigger experiences to remember that in their old lives, they were motivated not by hunger, but by sexual desire. They have forgotten that. They’ll eat anybody now, without discrimination. It’s a roomful of raging bisexuals, as far as I’m concerned, but I’m convinced they can be reconditioned to behave as God intended.
“I feed the males a steady diet of Rocky Mountain Oysters, keeps them virile. The females I don’t feed at all. Keeps them slim and, I should hope, inordinately vain. The restorative potential of enforced anorexia cannot be exaggerated. Next week I shall introduce full-length mirrors into the females’ quarters. They’ll thank me then, just you wait and see.”
Dr. Amway has a meatboy brought out and stripped, chained securely to the lab floor by knees and elbows, then he liberally applies K.Y. He dons a stovepipe top hat of stars and bars and fucks the meatboy in the ass. Ropes of saliva stream from dead jaws to puddle on the floor, and I thought the meatboy looked confused before.
“He’ll learn, he’ll remember,” says Dr. Amway, now out of breath. “Only a matter of time. And if the ungrateful wretch still refuses, well, I can always sue the bastard.”
*
Inhibitions fall as frequently as the night, the warmbloods of Tartarus making revel mockery of their old lives, or trying to resurrect them in bacchanalian ritual. Few dare talk with a newcomer, for fear of betraying themselves to a watchful agent of the ruling regime, and so I am invisible. I soon understand that their displays are considered unmistakable proof that they are alive.
On a typical night, swing-shifts of wailing penitents beat their breasts before the god of their choice, or possibly several, and pray for deliverance. Housewife strippers undulate wildly onstage while straying husbands stuff supermarket coupons into their garters. Two transvestite priests kneel before altars while genderflecting nuns dispense antacid hosts upon their tongues. Lonely schoolboys with tentacled acne meet for masturbatory excess over piles of burning magazines. A dominatrix professor in rubber lactates stale theorems into imbecile mouths that gape like baby birds. Shopkeepers in back rooms shit into relabeled jars and boxes, then sell them for spiraling prices. Suburban social pillars invade the homes of despised neighbors, lock them in cellars with hungry, transubstantiating rats. The Tartarus aristocracy preens along the streets, holding tight to leashes collared to surgically reconstructed meatchildren; their knees fold backwards as they obediently chatter like Rhesus monkeys, are rewarded with raw cubes of indeterminate origin.