PART TWO OF THE THIRD STORY, “THE NAUGHAHYDE CAGE”

UESDAY

0300

“Are you Aaron Couvujour?” a British voice asked from somewhere deep within a mass of frizzy blonde hair.

“Who wants to know?” a voice that may have at one time been French asked from behind the counter of the Mizell Stop-N-Go.

“Don’t try to muck me about, Couvujour. I smelled your foul aura from the moment I walked in the door. Besides, it’s on your name tag.” He pointed to Aaron’s chest.

Feeling somewhat foolish, Aaron looked down at his badge, which read:

It was a rather large name tag. “Why yes,” he said, “I am, in fact, Aaron ‘the Vampire’ Couvujour. Welcome to Stop-N-Go. How may I help you?

The frizzy blonde man raised a frizzy blonde hand and pushed back his hair, revealing a frizzy blonde face. “My name is Ngaio S. Beatitudes.”

He had expected a response, and was not disappointed. Faster than the eye could follow, Aaron took a small notebook out of his pocket, grabbed a pen from behind the counter, and sighed, “Alright, what’s your middle name?”

Beatitudes was stunned for a moment. When he finally spoke, he sounded completely incredulous. “I just told you my name was Ngaio S. Beatitudes! Aren’t you the least bit concerned that I might kill you?”

“Your middle name, please, sir.”

“My middle name?” the man sputtered. “You get so many bloody Ngaio S. Beatitudeses coming around that you have to know their middle names?”

“Actually, yes.” Aaron’s left hand disappeared under the counter, and there was a sharp crack. Beatitudes was still sputtering after the bullet had gone completely through his now-mangled heart. As he collapsed to the floor, he was amazed to hear the cashier ask again, “What’s your middle name?”

“Swinbourne,” the man gasped, blood gushing from his mouth. p>“Thank you, Swinbourne,” Aaron grinned, coming out from behind the counter and kneeling beside the man. “I know that young palmist told me that a man with your name would kill me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll just lay down and let it happen. You’re the seventh Ngaio S. Beatitudes I’ve killed, Swinbourne, I very much hope you’re the last. Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re starting to clot.” He dragged the would-be assassin back into the storeroom and sucked every drop of blood from him, enjoying the look of incredulity still stamped on the stiffening features.

Then he threw the body into the incinerator and hurried to clean up before the morning shift came in.

0630

The blissful monotony of Lucas Gusher’s life was shattered Tuesday morning. When he woke, police cars were crowded around his building. An officer stopped him as he tried to leave for work.

“I’m afraid you can’t go that way, sir,” said the cop, whose name, as far as Lucas could tell, was “Lakshiminaryanan”.

Lucas looked down at the man, whose features were definitely Indian. “Why not?” (AUTHOR’S NOTE: I forgot to mention that Lucas’ belated brush with puberty had left him seven-foot-two and roughly three hundred pounds. Sorry. – CB)

“Sir, don’t you see all that yellow POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS tape?” He looked up at Lucas like one looks up at a seven-foot-two three-hundred-pound two-year-old.

“Yeah, I do. Over there.” Lucas pointed to the crime scene, on the other end of the block.

“Well, we meant to put some over here, too. I’m Sergeant Lakshiminaryanan. I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.” The cop whipped out a notebook the size of a postage stamp and a pen with a huge smiley-face mounted on one end. The smiley-face had the words “HAVE ANUS DAY” written across it. “What’s your name, sir?”

“Lucas Gusher. Are you Indian?”

“Half-Choctaw, sir. Address?”

“1942 Chaney Street, Apartment F.”

“How did you know the deceased, Mr. Gusher?”

“What makes you think I knew the deceased?”

“Come on, Mr. Gusher. I’m not here to play your little reindeer games. I want some answers, and I’m going to get them.”

Lucas was not a short-tempered man, but limited interaction with the world had left him unable to tolerate stupidity. “I just live here, you idiot. Why don’t you tell me who’s dead, and I’ll tell you if I know them?”

“Umm, okay, yeah. That’s a good idea. Sorry about that.” Sergeant Rawalpindi Lakshiminaryanan sometimes had great difficulty with the fact that the tough lines the TV cops used hardly ever worked in real life. This made him feel lied to, and at times like this he really wanted his Momma. “The deceased was ... wait, it’s here somewhere ... dang it ... wait, I remember, just a minute.” He put away his tiny notebook and produced from somewhere on his person a huge three-ring binder. “It’s in the big folder.” He opened the binder to the first page and read. “Mooney, Reginald Wolfram, age thirty-five, five-nine, one-forty, black hair, blue eyes, resident of –“

”Mizell, Alabama.” The cop looked up sharply, then smiled

“Hey, that’s pretty good. You should be the cop.” “Oh yeah? Cool. When did you last see him?”

“Seventeen years ago. At a football game.”

0700

Angus MacAngus had no particular problem with America; he wouldn’t necessarily want to live here, he thought, but it wasn’t a bad place to visit. Nor did he have any special dislike for Americans, even the rich ones, as so many of his fellow Europeans did. He was very rich himself, so he could understand them to a certain degree. What he simply couldn’t abide was an idiot.

In his native Scotland – the Orkneys, to be exact – things tended to work out so that natural selection killed off the idiots fairly quickly. In America, though, the atmosphere seemed to be tailor-made for breeding idiots. He saw no other way to explain the sheer volume of idiocy he encountered every time he was on this side of the Atlantic.

This latest patron, for instance: Perky Saizal, the rubber-chicken magnate. His father, Spanky, had disappeared seventeen years before, leaving no trace or clue as to his whereabouts. So what does the idiot son do? He throws a party every year to celebrate the anniversary of his being orphaned. “Daddy always thought real highly of y’all’s music,” his letter had read, “and I think he’d be all kinds of proud if you were here this year.” Disgusting, Angus thought.

Still, the sum he’d offered would have been easier to write in scientific notation, so Angus MacAngus and the Edinburgh Tabernacle Swingers had found themselves here.

“Here” was a Motel 6 just outside Mizell, Alabama, which was home, he’d been troubled to note as they drove in, to the “Ravenin’ Spaniels”. He had no idea why the town was so proud of this – let alone why they would announce the fact on a sign for all to see – but he resolved to be very careful while he was here. He had no desire whatever to be ravened, by a spaniel or anything else.

Angus was also in no way happy to find that he and his Swingers were apparently sharing the motel with another band, especially after having been woken from his post-flight nap by a raucous piece of noise entitled, as near as he could tell, “We’d Love to Kill Our Peckerwood Little Drummer but He’s a Curse Placed on Us by a Pissed-Off Elder God so We Can’t”. At that moment, he had realized the wisdom of bringing along his trusty family claymore.

0710

It was ten minutes after seven when Lucas Gusher finally got away from Sgt. Lakshiminaryanan and made it to work. He was surprised to find the chicken-packing plant standing idle; when he entered the break room to put his coat away, he found out why.

The entire crew was seated, listening to the plant manager, Mr. Von Halfling. That was all Lucas was able to register before recognized the woman standing next to von Halfling.

He had never expected to see her again. Running into Reggie – or at least his remains – had been odd, but to see Sally Bench after all this time ... he stared openly, unable to believe that it was really her. She was a little heavier, and her hair was shorter, and there were a few lines around her mouth that hadn’t been there in high school, but it was her. With the enhanced perceptions common to all lonely men, he could tell that she wore no rings on her left hand. She was still ugly in some fundamental way that he couldn’t quite pin down, but at that moment she looked absolutely wonderful to him.

“Nice of you to join us, Lucas,” Wyandotte von Halfling was saying. He turned to Sally. “Lucas here’ll be working for you on the packin’ line, Sally. Lucas, this here’s Sally Bench. She’s gonna be your new boss.”

1300

It’s a good thing I worship a mad god, thought Godzilla Joe grimly. At least it’s good practice for running this band.

Godzilla Joe didn’t really like managing Pig Blood, any more than he liked delivering pizzas. Both jobs beat the hell out of being a campus cop for Mizell University, though, so he didn’t think he should complain.

The problem with the band, aside from their general lack of talent, was that none of them really wanted to be in Pig Blood. Bubbles wanted to take over White Zombie, Sweetie-pie was dying for a slot in Moll Hatchet, Winky worshiped Tool, and Tank just wanted to be in the Village People. That, and for the Village People to be in him. Godzilla Joe, of course, was waiting for Bauhaus to get back together, but nobody cared what he thought. What difference did it make that the only thing keeping them alive was the free pizza he gave them? Ungrateful punks. Actually, he thought, if they’d play punk they’d probably sound better.

The phone interrupted his reverie with its annoying electronic burble. As always, he let the machine get it.

‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves did gyre and gymble in the wabe. Leave a message.” Beep.

“Joe? Joe, I know you’re there. It’s the Argentine. Pick up, Joe, or I’ll send my girls over.”

It is, of course, entirely possible that at some point in history a human being may have moved faster under his own power than Godzilla Joe did at that moment. Such an event, however, has not been recorded in reliable accounts.

“Hey, uh, how’s it going?” Godzilla Joe tried to sound like a man who wasn’t suddenly in mortal fear, but pretty much failed.

“It’s going well, Joe. I’m so glad I caught you at home.”

“Well, you know how it is ... always running around, y’know.”

“I know, so I won’t keep you. You know my fifteenth anniversary is tomorrow, right?” Godzilla Joe said nothing. “Well, I’m throwing a little party, and I want Pig Blood to play for us.”

Never in his wildest fantasies had Godzilla Joe expected anyone, let alone the Queen of the Werewolf Whores, to say, “I want Pig Blood to play for us.”

“Uh, well, I’ll see what I can – “

”I wasn’t asking, Joe. I’ll see you at six o’clock tomorrow night. Adios.”

Hell, he thought as he hung up. There was no way out of it; when the Argentine told you to do something, you did it. She did pay well, though. If he lived long enough to collect.

1310

“Hong Wang, dearest,” the Argentine said, hanging up the phone. “Guess what? I’ve found a band for our party!”

“Hmm ... oh yes, dear. We have no bananas. Is it Angus MacAngus?” Hong Wang Spankweiler was wearing a heavy robe of black Naughahyde and precious little else. He could feel sweat trickling and pooling in places he usually preferred to deny he had.

“No, it’s a local band. They’re called Pig Blood. They’re Godzilla Joe’s boys. You remember Godzilla Joe, don’t you?”

Hong Wang did indeed remember Godzilla Joe. He could still recall his final words to the lying bastard all those years ago: “Get your hands off me, you damned dirty ape!”

He shook his head. No, that was someone else entirely. He had no idea what his wife was talking about. “Sure. Meep meep.”

“Well, anyway, forget about that for a moment. It’s time for the trial. Are you ready, dearest?” The only noticeable response was a single strangled “meep” as he tried desperately to lick his left eyebrow. “Very well. Bring in the accused.”

An avocado-green curtain parted, allowing two werehookers in huge-hairy-bloodthirsty-beast-form to lead a young woman in between them. She was wearing four strings and a piece of orange fabric the size of a small, sickly toad.

“Shelby Rae, you know why you’re here, don’t you?” the Argentine asked, tapping her claws on the arm of the couch. “I think you do.”

The girl was too frightened to answer, so the Argentine continued. “Last month, we sent you to Parasauropholous County, Mississippi on a routine call. The fool had already paid by credit card, so all you had to do was kill him and do whatever you liked with the body. Instead, you left him mangled and infected, and he was rescued by a demon three days later. Fortunately, I have it on good authority that they’re both dead now, but that doesn’t excuse your carelessness, does it?”

The werehooker Shelby Rae could only sob.

“Your sentence,” said the Argentine, “is death.” Turning to Hong Wang, she murmured, “Bang your gavel, dearest.”

As he raised his ball-peen hammer high above his head, Shelby Rae screamed, “He was just so greeeeeaaaaasssyyyyy!”

“Huh-huh,” Hong Wang chuckled. “You said ‘ball’.” After a moment he added, “And you said ‘peen’. Huh-huh-huh.” Then he brought the hammer crashing down on his own head. “Meep.”

Immediately the creature to Shelby Rae’s left disemboweled her, while the one on her right ripped out her throat. “Hurry!” shouted the Argentine. “Get her out of here before she stains the Naughahyde!”

1700

Death Whores was pretty pissed off, but given that she’d been pretty pissed off more or less constantly for the last two weeks, it was a fairly comfortable feeling. She had, she’d decided, married a complete moron. Sure, Dances with Whores had seemed like a good catch when they’d been trapped in Hell together, and the honeymoon, of course, had been wonderful, but the disadvantages of living with a drug-addicted, precognitively-advantaged Watchacootchie Indian High Shaman had quickly become apparent.

This morning, for instance. She’d been telling him for a week that they were going to Alabama for her old friend the Argentine’s fifteenth anniversary party. Dances had waited until this morning to tell her he wasn’t going. “I’ve already foreseen it,” he’d said. “It sucked.” Then he’d gone back to his favorite pastime, which was drinking rum in his sleep.

“Did you foresee this?” she’d yelled, furiously slapping him with a huge stuffed tuna.

“”Yeah, I did. Now leave my Charlie Drake Memorial Tuna alone. It’s an heirloom.”

She had stormed out of the house, thinking to herself that this was the sort of time when most women would go crying to their mothers. As an Immortal Anthropomorphic Archetypal Being of Immense Power, though, she didn’t have a mother, so she settled for setting fire to their house and driving away before the flames could melt the finely-aged Swiss cheese that composed her body.

Maybe she could get the Argentine to send a couple of her girls over to straighten him out. Yes, that might be a very good idea.

1705

“Lucas? Lucas Gusher?”

Lucas was on his way out of the factory when he heard Sally Bench calling his name. All day long he had studiously avoided her, always finding something to do as far as possible from wherever she happened to be.

Now, though, she was right behind him, so he turned to face her. “Yes, ma’am?” he replied politely.

She said nothing at first, only looked up at his face as if searching for something. “It is you, isn’t it?” she asked in a voice that implied either wonderment of chronic glue-sniffing. Or both. “I wasn’t sure this morning. I mean, you’ve changed, but you’ve got the same eyes. That, and I checked your file this afternoon. Where have you been all this time?”

“Right here, Miss Bench. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go stare out my window all night.” He turned to leave.

“Lucas, wait!” she yelled, grabbing his arm. “Don’t you dare call me that and then just walk away! We grew up together, Lucas, so at least treat me with some common courtesy!”

Lucas stopped, causing Sally to run into him. “Sorry.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Sally. But I really just don’t know what to say.”

“Think about it over dinner, then.”

“Do what?”

“I’m taking you to dinner, and we’re going to get caught up. Where’s a good place to eat around here?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

2200

“Another one came by last night,” Aaron said, sipping his blood-and-tonic.

“Another what?” asked Ferris.

“Another Ngaio S. Beatitudes.”

Ferris looked startled for a moment. He took off his greasy “Stihl Chainsaws” cap and ran his fingers through his long black hair. “You kill him?”

“Of course I killed him, you fool. You think I’d be here now if I hadn’t?”

“Guess not.”

“You’re damned right ‘guess not’. This is the seventh time, Ferris. His name was Swinbourne. Who’s doing this to me?”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea. I think it had something to do with another problem me and some friends’ve been having.”

“Those friends?” Aaron asked, gesturing toward the absolute hell being raised in the garage.

“Yep. Come on.” Ferris led the dubious Aaron through his surprisingly neat house to the garage, where three very large figures were using one very small figure to do unspeakable things to Ferris’ ‘72 Dodge Charger.

“Get the hell out of my car!” “Yeah,” added Bubbles. “He’s just too strong for us.”

“What he said,” said Sweetie-pie.

Tank said nothing; he was frantically trying to extract a piece of his anatomy that no one had suspected his of having from the car’s cigarette lighter.

Ferris reached out and grabbed the nearest musician – who happened to be Sweetie-pie – and flung him across the garage, where the guitarist’s neck broke with a sickening crunch. Everyone was shocked into silence for a moment, until Ferris spoke.

“Aw, man, he was the one who liked Molly Hatchet, too.”

2205

Lucas and Sally had ended up taking her car back to Mizell, where she had cooked him his first non-bean dinner in many, many years, which he promptly threw up. Aside form that small glitch, however, the evening had gone well.

Now they were walking through Mizell’s token nod to the concept of a municipal park. They were following the winding concrete path that marked the territorial boundary between the Wiccans and the homosexuals; the local university population made Mizell’s demographics a little different from those of your average small Alabama town.

“This is the first time you’ve been back since that game?” Sally was incredulous.

“Well, yeah. I knew I couldn’t go back to school Monday or I’d get lynched, so I just stayed there in Birmingham. The longer I stayed, the harder it seemed to come back, and then I got the job at the plant, so...I know it’s only thirty miles...” He trailed off, feeling very foolish. Sally was looking at him as if he had an alien foot growing out of his forehead.

Fortunately, it seemed she was very sympathetic to people with alien feet growing out of their foreheads. She took his hand and looked up at him seriously. “We all thought you were dead, Lucas.”

He ducked a flaming pinecone hurtling from the Wiccan side and asked, “Would it have made much difference to anybody?” A retaliatory Chic LP from the gays caught him a glancing blow to the side of the head.

“Honestly?” Sally replied. “Some people did want you dead after that game. Perky Saizal offered a ten-thousand-dollar bounty for you.”

“Jeez.”

“But that wasn’t everybody, Lucas. A lot of us were worried about you.”

“When you say ‘a lot of us’, do you mean that in the ‘general sweep of humanity’ sense, or do you mean ‘you and a lot of other people’?”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I missed you, Lucas.”