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Ballistic Kiss
When you’re trying to hold off a hellbeast you better have something bigger than a meatball sub. Especially if it happens to be your only weapon.
I mean, this isn’t even a good sandwich. A good meatball sub should be hard to hold. A crunchy, saucy, meat-filled football. This thing is skinny as a ferret. Probably from a chain restaurant in some Fresno mall. Only I don’t go to malls. Or, for that matter, Fresno. And, seriously, the only people who’d buy this crap hate themselves, and I’m merely into self-loathing.
The difference is subtle but important.
Anyway, back to the hellbeast.
A huge blob of bruised purple skin and teeth like rotary saws. Spidery legs waving like they’re trying to hail all the cabs in New York. Only the legs have teeth too. Shouldn’t a hellbeast have teeth or scary spider legs? Both just seems rude.
Speaking of killing, that’s what’s about to happen to me.
I look around for something sharper than a sandwich, but there isn’t anything. Maybe I could throw some hoodoo at the fucker to at least slow it down, but I can’t think of any. Mind’s a total blank. So, I rip the meatball sub in half and throw each piece into each nostril on its wobbly snout. It rears back and shudders. Stops coming after me. This is my cue to run like hell to the nearest exit.
Only there aren’t any. I can’t even climb up out of the arena because it’s one big fucking dome.
What have I gotten myself into? How did I end up here, and more important, how do I get out with no doors and no hoodoo?
As I sprint, I sort of half-remember that I used to be good at hoodoo on the fly. Like, maybe I don’t have to do anything complicated, like a hex. Just bark the words and something will happen. What have I got to lose?
I turn and point a defiant finger at the blob’s face. A mix of English and Hellion and maybe some kind of Narnia stuff I make up as I go.
Nothing.
Zip.
Then a light flickers in the air. A flame that spreads out from a pinpoint to the size of a dinner plate. Where it stops. And falls onto the ground.
That was embarrassing.
I go back to fleeing.
Run about a dozen steps, trip, and fall flat on my face. That’s sure to scare the beast off. Real tough-guy stuff, coming up with a mouthful of dirt. The good news is that what I tripped over is the top of a femur. I drag it out of the arena floor and wait for the hellbeast like a fucking caveman. A cracked-out Fred Flintstone.
Finally, the spidery bastard sneezes out both halves of the sandwich. It looks as pissed as a big purple blob can and charges me. From what I can see, it only has one big red-rimmed eye in its wobbly head. As much as I want to run, I stand my ground until it’s close enough.
Then I throw the femur as hard as I can.
It flies end over end and gouges right through the hellbeast’s eye. Yellowish jelly sprays down its face and when it howls, the ground shakes. That’s my cue—I start running again. There has to be a way out of here. But as I run around the edges of the arena, pounding on the walls, all I feel is well-worn bricks. That means someone used hoodoo to get us in here. Great. If I could fucking remember some, I could hoodoo my way out. I try to think. Really think. But all I come up with is Clint Eastwood in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly saying, “God is not on our side because he hates idiots.”
The blob’s shadow falls over me. Even though it’s blind, its big nose must make it easy to track prey by smell. Then I remember something.
Shadows. Walking through shadows. I can do that. How? The Room of Thirteen Doors. Yes! It’s all coming back to me. I have a way out of this demonic shit pit.
Then the hellbeast wraps its legs around me and rips me in half.
I wake up screaming. My right hand hurts and my knuckles are bleeding.
Perfect. Another B-movie dream sequence to start the day. Why can’t I ever win in these things? Instead, it’s always some Jacob’s Ladder outtake, and I want to talk to the director because the script needs a rewrite.
Glancing around, I see that I’ve punched a hole in the bedroom wall. That’s going to take some spackle. But who am I kidding? I break things. I don’t fix them. On the other hand, the hole is annoying and a reminder of the nightmare. I grab one of the paperbacks on the floor and shove it into the hole. The Black Dahlia by James Ellroy. There. Good as new.
I’ve sweat through the sheets. No going back to sleep now, so I get up and wander into the kitchen to make some coffee.
It’s a nice place that I’m in these days. Big. The décor is hilarious. There’s orange shag carpet and an avocado-green sofa. Lots of warm early seventies colors. I keep expecting Mike and Carol Brady to wander in to have a key party.
The rest of the place is even stranger. The walls are circular and the furniture is round to fit against it. It’s a lot like living in a flying saucer. Thomas Abbot—big boss of the whole California Sub Rosa scene—loaned it to me. I don’t know if it was pity or a bribe or if he’s just being a nice guy, but I sure as hell need it right now. I used to live above Maximum Overdrive, the last video rental place in L.A. Now I don’t. It’s a long dull story that has to do with my dying for a while and people moving on with their lives. I don’t want to get into all that now—right now I need coffee. And maybe food. When did I eat last? I lose track of these things on my own.
While the coffee brews, I get some water and swallow a handful of pills. PTSD drugs from my friend Allegra. They’re supposed to help with the nightmares and to keep my mood straight when I’m up and walking around. I don’t know if they’re doing anything. I don’t feel any different. Any more relaxed or “less hypervigilant.” I’m not sure what’s so wrong with being hypervigilant. It kept me alive for twelve years in Hell and a year and a half in L.A. But I made a deal with Allegra, and she promised that they’d help me feel more human and get back into the world. I wouldn’t mind that part.
The burbling sound of the coffeemaker is soothing after the dream. I wash the blood off my knuckles, but they’re pretty much fine. I’m a fast healer.
My Colt .45 is spread in pieces on the kitchen counter. There are patches, cleaning solvent, gun oil, and a brush nearby. I run the brush back and forth through the barrel, trying not to think about anything but the smells and the feel of the metal in my hand. It doesn’t work. The inside of my head is a mess.
I felt all right a couple of weeks ago. No more monsters. No more Wormwood. But I guess reality catches up with everyone. Two or maybe three weeks ago I got back from Hell after being stuck there for a year. Just long enough for people to forget about you.
Candy is gone. Half-gone anyway, living with her girlfriend Alessa in our old place above Max Overdrive. The store is doing great without me. Vidocq is deep into some kind of research, so he’s not around. Brigitte is remote. I don’t know what that’s about. Hell, even Kasabian on his creaky metal body thinks I’m a loser. He’s the one who gave me the pile of old paperbacks stacked up in the bedroom.
Look how far I’ve fall
en. I’m actually reading to pass the time.
Then there’s Janet. I don’t know what the hell is going on there. She’s pretty and smart and it’s nice talking to her. She works at Donut Universe, so I even get free apple fritters when I stop by, which I’ve been doing more frequently. Sometimes I think I should stop. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not.
The phone rings, so I turn it over on its face. When the coffee is done, I pour a cup and drink it down, still a little too hot. That was dumb. My throat clamps shut and it makes me cough like an idiot.
