Читать книгу Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls - Mark McLaughlin - Страница 7

LARGESSE

Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash. Could anyone be more wonderful than Mr. Pash? He was the best employer I ever had—a wise, thrilling person. And so generous.

Bosses are usually such atrocious beings. You have to nod and grin and act as though you are not afraid of them. You must appear to condone their boorish, money-hungry wickedness. You must pretend to be other than yourself. Such was not the case with Mr. Pash.

My work at his store, Movie Mania, was quite simple. I waited on customers, kept the display boxes in neat rows, vacuumed a bit… Nothing too strenuous. Every now and then Mr. Pash stopped in to check on the store. To peek into the cash register. To offer a word of encouragement.

His eyes were deep, brown, and utterly unfocused. His nose was long and curved like the beak of a bird that eats meat. Thick brown hair, pale skin, a mildly spicy body odor, black stubble no matter what the time of day…and fat. Mr. Pash was fat, yet obliquely so in his bulky sweaters and baggy pants. It was hard to tell where Mr. Pash ended and the sag of his loose outfits began. But make no mistake: his clothes were clean and fashionable.

When he placed his long white fingers on your shoulder, you knew instantly that he cared. If your mother took sick, or if your pet lost a limb in a freakish accident, he would give you the day off without question. If he had candies in his huge pockets, and he usually did, he would give you several nice plastic-wrapped mints. Large and fresh, with red and white swirls. No lint on these pocket treats.

The customers at Movie Mania often spent a great deal of money. The store offered, for rental or purchase, a wide selection of strange and obscure films. Most were DVDs, but Mr. Pash also offered vintage videotapes, too, and the rental of VHS players. Mr. Pash had a fine retro fondness for the videotape format. “There’s something utterly wonderful about all that black tape,” he once said. “Black tape, loaded with black magic!” Our gentlemen usually rented six or seven movies at a time. I say “gentlemen” because our female clientele never exceeded a handful of poorly dressed, foreign-looking women of indeterminate age.

There was always plenty of time for me to watch movies during working hours. Mr. Pash did not mind. In fact, he insisted that I watch the movies so I would be able to tell our gentlemen about them. A salesperson should be thoroughly familiar with his products. The bulk of the inventory was esoteric. To this day, I have no idea where Mr. Pash had acquired such oddities. New movies were never delivered to the store; Mr. Pash brought them in personally.

The Green Claw was very popular, as were a number of other releases—Spine-Eaters, Flytrap Hell and Liquifier III: The Bubbling Death. There were many more, of course, but those four were our top renters. The store’s computer inventory did not list any prequels to Liquifier III, and I have not been able to find this series online or in any catalog.

Mr. Pash brought several copies of Liquifier III to the store on a rainy July afternoon. It was a very hot day, and the rain made the air steamy. I remember worrying that so much moisture in the air had to be bad for the tapes.

“This title should rent well,” Mr. Pash said; his voice was low and purring. “I watched it last night. Very exciting—I think you will agree. Let me know how it does.” He wandered the store for a minute or so, biting his nails (not out of nervousness, I’m sure: perhaps out of hunger or mild ennui). Then he left, smiling so warmly that I thought for a moment of my father, who also had a large nose.

I watched the movie on the store monitor. The Liquifier of the title was a giant demon from outer space—a spiderish humanoid over sixty feet tall, with three-fingered hands and milky eyes. The Liquifier spun its victims into cocoons and injected them with acid venom, turning them into large bubbling bags of dinner. I did not feel uncomfortable about running such a graphic feature; children rarely visited the store.

I was not Mr. Pash’s only employee. A frail old man named Bernard was also on duty. Bernard had unusually tight skin—so tight that it gleamed. I doubt if facelifts had been performed; he didn’t make that sort of money. “How can you watch that garbage?” he said, pointing at the screen with his cigarette. “All that death and screaming and whatnot. A movie didn’t used to have blood spilling all over the place to be scary. It’s not right. Don’t tell me it is.”

“Variety is very important these days,” I said. “What’s life without variety? Even sex would get pretty boring if that was all you ever did.”

“That’s for damn sure.” Bernard blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “You never met my Mrs. Spoon…” Bernard prefaced every anecdote about his deceased wife with this remark. “The woman was an animal. Whittled me down to a pencil, she did. Sometimes I’d catch her giving that look of hers to some man on the street. A nice-looking guy like you—she’d have sized you up. How did I ever get mixed up with a woman like that? She knew her way around a kitchen, though—I’ll give her that.”

A customer came in and Bernard went to wait on him. Bernard’s stories about his dead wife always included some reference to her voracious sexual appetites. The week before, he had showed me a yellowed photograph of Mrs. Spoon, taken on their honeymoon. The woman had been quite pretty in a cruel sort of way, with short blond hair, sharp features, and snarling, oddly inviting lips.

The next day, I asked Mr. Pash if he had ever met Mrs. Spoon.

“The sex monster? She passed away just before he came to work for me. Has Bernard told you about the farm incident yet?” He didn’t wait for my answer. Instead, he moved to the Staff Favorites shelf. “Is Spine-Eaters in? I haven’t seen that for a while.”

Whenever Mr. Pash rented a movie, he paid the usual fee like any customer. Bernard and I were allowed to view movies at home for free. Mr. Pash was a wonderfully generous man.

Bernard popped his head around the corner of a large display. “I heard you two badmouthing my Mrs. Spoon. The woman may have had her faults, but I won’t have you slandering my dear departed wife. If I want to talk about her, that’s my business.” He came closer, scowling. “You two. I don’t know about you two. Why do I even stay here?” He shook his head. “You two. My Mrs. Spoon had a salmon casserole recipe fit for royalty. I mix a drop of Holy Water with her ashes every Sunday so she won’t have to stay in hell too long. As for you two—I just don’t know.”

Mr. Pash raised an eyebrow as Bernard shuffled off. “Spine-Eaters please, Roger. And The Green Claw. I never tire of the scenes in the temple of Uranus.”

* * * *

Business improved as the summer temperatures rose. Obviously, our gentlemen were spending more time indoors. For my birthday, Mr. Pash gave me a box of monogrammed handkerchiefs. He also brought a box of pastries to the store. Bernard ate most of them.

I had never especially favored The Green Claw, not being a fan of fantasy epics, but at Mr. Pash’s gentle insistence I watched it again with a critical eye.

The story, set in ancient Atlantis, concerned an ample-breasted, sexually active princess who needed to find a way to protect her people from a swarm of giant winged goats. The Green Claw was a rather avant garde production. The princess often spoke directly to the audience, and her breastplates were made of fluorescent plastic.

Upon my initial viewing, I had considered the film to be nothing more than a frothy morsel of soft porn. During one of his visits, Mr. Pash assured me that this work was fraught with inner meaning. “Think of the attack on the city,” he said. “Was not Aleister Crowley incessantly mocked by horned beasts?”

“I’m not entirely familiar with Crowley’s career,” I said. I knew that the man was some sort of grim mystic, but that was all, really. “No doubt the sexual aspects overshadowed the symbolism.”

“Yes and no, Roger. All activity is sexual, as are all symbols. Sex is all that is left after one dispenses with the extraneous. What were your impressions of the Atlantean temple to Uranus?”

“Wasn’t Uranus a Greek god? Still, the Atlanteans could have worshipped him, too.” I was talking like a fool, but words continued to issue from my mouth. “Needless to say, the ancient world didn’t have fluorescent plastic. It was a very confusing movie.”

“Uranus and Gaea were the first parents. Uranus was the Heaven and Gaea was the Earth; their children were Titans.” Mr. Pash’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “Think on this, Roger. The world’s first act of love spawned giants.”

When Mr. Pash left, Bernard took it upon himself to inform me of Mr. Pash’s shortcomings. “That Mr. Pash has his nasty side. I once spilled some coffee on a cassette and he threw a fit. The coffee landed on the label and I wiped it right off. The tape was perfectly fine.”

“What was the movie?” I had never seen Mr. Pash is a foul mood and I found this news most distressing.

“One of his top favorites—Spine-Eaters. New copies haven’t been available for years. It was never released on DVD. He doesn’t have his own copy—he rents the store tape along with everyone else.”

“If he likes it that much, why does he even rent it out?”

Bernard shrugged. “Who knows? Funny thing is, that tape’s still in great shape! You’d think it would be a tattered mess by now.”

In Spine-Eaters, a family of cannibals was exposed to nuclear radiation in a bizarre military operation. They became as tall as trees and all the more hungry for their favorite delicacy—human spinal cords.

The summer grew even hotter and steamier. Our air-conditioning system did little to ease the swelter. The heat reminded me of the infernal jungle dimension of Flytrap Hell, where oversized meat-eating plants reigned supreme. Bernard developed a rasping cough. Mr. Pash and I suggested that he stop smoking, but like many older people set in their ways, he refused to take advice.

Mr. Pash, ever concerned, set up a cot in the back room so that Bernard could rest if the heat made his day too taxing.

“You never met my Mrs. Spoon,” Bernard said to me one afternoon, “but that woman couldn’t pass a flat surface without looking around for a man. A devil and a half, she was. Still, she fried up chicken to die for. Did I ever show you the cocktail ring I gave her? It’s dangling on a string in my bedroom window. It catches the light.”

The gentlemen rented their movies in even greater quantities. Many asked why we stocked so few copies of some of our most in-demand selections. In turn, I asked Mr. Pash.

His reply was rather confusing. “Those movies are special, Roger. There is a concentrated energy in that specialness which should not be diluted.”

I wondered what Mr. Pash would do if someone stole one of our “special” movies, or lost it. My curiosity was satisfied by the matter of one Mr. Trisk, who would not respond to our correspondence regarding his failure to return a copy of Liquifier III.

The news shows made much of the explosion in Mr. Trisk’s home; there was even talk of spontaneous combustion. A few days after Mr. Trisk’s interment, a lean, silent gentleman bundled in an enormous overcoat entered the store and set the tape on the counter. His face was lost under the brim of his hat. His gloved hand creaked as he clutched a display to steady himself on the way out.

For the rest of the day, Bernard complained of bits of ash on the carpet. I insisted that he had probably dropped them from his cigarette. Nevertheless, I vacuumed.

The Mr. Trisk episode left me disconcerted. Mr. Pash was a wonderful employer and an exciting individual; even so, the suspicions that swam and roiled in my mind gave me constant headaches. The heat didn’t help, and Bernard’s coughing was beginning to get on my nerves. The gentlemen were always very nice, but there were so many of them now.

I decided to have a talk with Mr. Pash.

* * * *

As I have mentioned, Mr. Pash was an extraordinarily generous man. When I mentioned that I was having difficulties with my work, he immediately suggested that we have dinner that evening at his home to discuss the problems at hand. Mr. Pash asked if a late dinner would be agreeable, since he had a number of errands to attend to early in the evening. I told him that would be fine.

I arrived at his house at eight-thirty with a bottle of wine (a truly thoughtful guest never shows up empty-handed). Mr. Pash lived in an artistic sector of the city. His brick house was narrow and very old. The bricks were dark and exceptionally large; many were broken and askew. I felt sure that my hand would come away bleeding if I ran it over a wall. The yard was completely overrun with weeds. Tongue in cheek, I wondered if Mr. Pash had allowed the the yard to go wild in homage to the jungle villages of Flytrap Hell.

Mr. Pash welcomed me in and led me down a dim hall to the dining room. Our meals were already served up on our plates. The room was poorly lit and smelled spicy—like Mr. Pash, only stronger. I guessed that Mr. Pash probably did not entertain often.

As I detailed my concerns, Mr. Pash listened closely, chewing at his stringy cut of meat. Mr. Pash was a fine employer, but a poor chef. The meat was tough and flavorless and the vegetables were overcooked. I was nervous, so I drank my wine rather quickly.

“I am so glad you decided to share your thoughts with me, Roger,” he said. “I see that it is time to tell you more about myself. I hope you will not mind, Roger. You are a very special person in my life. Am I special to you?”

“You are the best boss I ever had,” I said. With a sigh, I downed a second glass of wine.

“The store satisfies more than just my financial needs, Roger.” Mr. Pash leaned closer. “Do you believe in magic, Roger? Not the kind with rabbits in tophats. Not the kind with pentagrams and candles. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

I thought for a moment, but nothing came to mind. “You’ll have to spell this matter out for me, Mr. Pash. Certainly I’ve had too much wine.”

“Too much? You haven’t had enough.” Mr. Pash refreshed my drink. I suddenly noticed that he wore a lavish ring on his pinky. A woman’s cocktail ring.

Mr. Pash followed my stare. “Do you like my ring? I took it from Bernard earlier this evening.”

“You took it from him?” I blinked like a fish as I drained my third glass. “Why did you take it from him?”

“He no longer needed it. I think I can use these stones…” Mr. Pash shrugged. “But we were discussing the different kinds of magic. Crowley came close to the truth, but he relied too heavily on ritual. The best sort of magic—the most potent—is the kind you make up as you go along.”

I found that I couldn’t stop blinking. “Could we return to the topic of Bernard? Is he all right?”

“No, he is not all right.” Mr. Pash shook a blizzard of salt over his filet. “In fact, he tastes perfectly awful.”

I rose very slowly from my seat and walked around the room, looking for the door. It was not to be found.

Mr. Pash watched me with his head cocked to one side. “I want you to be my disciple, Roger. I hope I haven’t alarmed you. Would you like some more wine?” He rubbed his new pinky ring against his stubbly chin. “Join the new Order of Uranus. Consider it a promotion, if you like. That may make it seem less threatening. Less like a religious endeavor and more like a business proposition. What do you say, Roger?”

* * * *

In the basement of the narrow house, Mr. Pash showed me the four magic VHS players, the four magic DVD players, and the eight magic televisions. By this time I was halfway through my fourth bottle of wine. Mr. Pash had several excellent vintages in his larder.

He explained to me that special copies of the store’s top-renting movies had been instilled, through a series of complex rituals, with his own living essence. These mad dollops of his soul absorbed mental energy from our renting gentlemen. Mr. Pash would then take the movies and transfer the accumulated energy from the cassettes and DVDs into the magic televisions. The power built up so far was truly incredible: the merest spark had been used to persuade Mr. Trisk, with remarkable results.

Of course, Mr. Pash was correct—about magic, that is. You have to make it up as you go along. My employer handed me an urn. Her name had been Spoon, so I used a spoon to insert her ashes into the magic players. We then plucked the diamonds from the cocktail ring and tossed those into the players as well.

“Are you sure this won’t hurt the machines?” I said. I picked up a cassette, looking vainly into its little windows for some sign of Mr. Pash’s magic essence. “Mr. Spoon used to mix Holy Water with the ashes.”

“You needn’t worry. Our purpose is holy, Roger,” Mr. Pash said, removing his shoes and socks. He started to unbutton his shirt. “Are we not preparing for a wedding?”

I pushed the cassette into its slot. Soon all of the tapes and DVDs were in place.

I looked into Mr. Pash’s eyes. It had been his generosity, his royal largesse, that had convinced me to follow his path. I knew that once the new way was in order, I would be rewarded handsomely.

“Mrs. Spoon, Wanton and Licentious One,” I intoned, making up the words, “rejoice: from this moment on, you shall be known as Gaea, the Earth Mother. Prepare to receive the seed of Uranus, the Sky Father.” Mr. Pash removed the last of his clothes. His flabby body was a miracle of the grotesque; shallow, ribbonlike grooves covered every inch of his abdomen and legs.

“From this union shall spring Titans,” I cried, taking a swig of wine. “With their Father, they shall reign supreme throughout the universe. O Gaea, take from the magic televisions the mind-power of our gentlemen, our unknowing congregation…”

Mr. Pash stood amidst the magic players, arms outstretched. The tops of the VHS players bulged into round pods which soon opened, spewing forth yard after yard of tape. The tapes coiled and writhed around Mr. Pash’s body, sliding through the fleshy grooves. Curling metal vines grew from the tops of the DVD players—vines dotted with spinning silver blossoms. The vines also slid through the grooves, side by side with the tapes.

I continued to drink wine and rant. In retrospect, I believe I should have set the bottle aside. “Noble Earth Mother! Arise from death! It is at last time to meet you. What shall you be cooking for us, sweet Gaea? We have already eaten Mr. Spoon. Arise: your new husband awaits.”

A cloud of ash rose from the players and formed itself into a translucent grey succubus. Sparks danced through the apparition as it lavished its affections on Mr. Pash.

On the screens of the magic televisions, scenes from the movies played—but with a difference. The prodigious creatures now wandered from movie to movie. Hulking cannibals stormed the Atlantean city. Immense carnivorous plants tried to steal a cocooned victim from the Liquifier. Outsized winged goats trampled helpless villagers in the jungle dimension.

Mr. Pash shuddered and groaned with ecstasy. Wires snaked up from the players and plunged into my employer’s heaving gut as he consummated the marriage ritual.

The expression of rapture on Mr. Pash’s face was simply too ridiculous—or at least, so I thought at the time. Drink can turn the kindest man into an unfeeling Judas. “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, “but I’m afraid that I have overstayed my welcome. Where was my mind? What must you think of me, Mr. Pash? But then, what must I think of you? It’s dreadfully impolite to rut in front of guests.” So saying, I laughed and laughed and laughed like a mad boy.

Poor Mr. Pash—scoffed by his own disciple! The rapture on his face was replaced by a look of terrified doubt. With a cry of triumph, the ash-temptress fled through a crack in the basement floor. Undone by his own momentary uncertainty, Mr. Pash was at the mercy of reality. I watched helplessly as the wires in his belly fried him alive. A horrid, oily steam rose from his body. I ran up the stairs and out of the house.

Bottle in hand, I wandered the streets of a changed world.

Mr. Pash had perished, yes; but not before he had consummated the union, passing the magic on to Mrs. Spoon. I’m sure that his sacrifice had only served to strengthen her.

A winged goat larger than any ocean liner soared across the moon, bleating thunderously. A monstrous Venus flytrap shot up from the turf of a children’s playground and snuffled ravenously at the swings and slide.

Screams of pain and horror echoed through the city. The earth thundered as impossible monstrosities lumbered through the night. From the shadows, I watched giant cannibals tear the heads from policemen at a doughnut shop. With great slurping noises they sucked the spinal cords from their victims. A few blocks down the road, a Liquifier slathered its web into a parked car and trapped a pair of lovemaking teenagers. Another Liquifier draw near to watch its sibling feast.

* * * *

The Titans are everywhere. Spider-demons, cannibals, winged goats, vile plant-things. They see me, but leave me be. In fact, they regard me with trepidation. And why not? I am the usurper of their father’s throne. In their eyes, I am capable of unspeakable devastation.

I am writing this in a luxurious penthouse apartment. I had to walk up sixty floors. Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash—all of this should have been yours. I am sorry that I laughed. So terribly sorry. I had planned to throw myself off the balcony, but in the end, I could not.

Just as I was about to jump, an enormous pair of snarling, oddly inviting lips opened up in the pavement below.