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ISSN 1757-5419 Issue 17 – July 2012 Editorial
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Against Infection And The Hand Of War By Richard Wolkomir Illustrated By Sara Richard
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Canvassing Opinion By Stuart Hughes
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Urban Monsoon By Ty Schwamberger
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Echoes From The Past By Paul Johnson-Jovanovic
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The Turning By Matthew Acheson Illustrated By Vladimir Petkovic
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Lost at Sea By K. Scott Forman
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White Oak Manor By Charles D. Romans Illustrated By C.E. Zacherl
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Set Above Mortals By Craig Saunders Illustrated By Robert Leija
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The Butcher’s Confirmation By Matt Leyshon Illustrated By Gary McCluskey
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Cover By Vladimir Petkovic - http://vladimirpetkovic.webs.com/ Proof-Read By Sheri White and Craig Saunders All material contained within the pages of this magazine and associated websites is copyright of Morpheus Tales. All. Rights Reserved. No material contained herein can be copied or otherwise used without the express permission of the copyright holders. 2
Tel loved Nara, a goat farmer’s daughter. He would soon succeed his father as the village wheelwright. Then he and Nara would marry. He loved her serious dark eyes, and her smile’s sadness, as if she felt life’s disappointments before they happened. Tel had already paid something down on a cottage, and planted roses. But there was a war. This land reckoned time from the current war’s start - it was now the year 1568. Recently the army retook a hill from the enemy, a great victory, celebrated with parades. But two thousand died. Now the depleted army sent out recruiting squads, one led by a sergeant lacking one eye. He rode a grey horse, his armour greyed with dust. He carried his leather-and-bone helmet tied to his saddle behind him, and scars marked his shaved head and his face. He looked a hard man - his mouth’s one side turned down, bitter. But the other side, under the blinded eye, ruefully turned up, as if he sought what he could not see. That summer day Nara’s father had gone into the hills after lost goats. Nara’s mother had died at her birth, so she had to carry feed and water alone to the barn, where nannies birthed kids or suckled kids already born. Tel walked out from town to help her. They pumped water and together carried the pail, each with a hand on the bail. As they poured water into the troughs and feed into bins, they debated: which side of their future cottage received the most sun, for their garden? And should they grow just beans and squash and radishes, or cabbages, too? As they worked in the barn and talked about their future, they felt a shadow. It was the sergeant, standing in the doorway, staring at them. How long he had listened to them chatter about their cottage and their garden they did not know. He said nothing. He only stood looking from one to the other with that strange expression of his mouth, upturned on one side, down on the other. He beckoned with his finger for Tel to come out. “You’re a sturdy lad,” he said. “Well fed.” He stared past Tel into the barn at Nara, who had one hand to her throat. Kids bleated. “His majesty needs the likes of you,” the sergeant said, his one blue eye now staring at Tel. “Are you a patriot?” “I have duties here,” Tel said. “But if you and your men would like cold water…” At that, the three soldiers in the sergeant’s squad, who had dismounted and now lolled on the grass, laughed. They looked at Nara in the barn. “You’ve had a fat life, haven’t you?” the sergeant told Tel. “A mother to give you treats, and a prosperous father, from the looks of your clothes, and a cottage in your future, and a pretty wife - is that so?” Tel did not know what to say. So he stood looking at the sergeant, perplexed. He thought about a clearing in a wood, where a small waterfall splashed into a pool. He and Nara went there in the autumn to gather wild apples and to be together. But he saw the sergeant staring at him with that one eye. His face might have been stone. Tel could not guess what the man thought or felt. “I summon you to join his majesty’s army,” the sergeant said. “Do you come freely?” “But I have duties here,” Tel protested, looking back at Nara in the barn. She still had a hand to her throat. “Duties?” the sergeant said. He stared at Tel with his one blue eye. His skin, taut over his cheekbone, twitched. Suddenly, he turned to his lolling soldiers. “Show him his duties.” He seemed to snarl. His men jumped up grinning and grabbed Tel, who stood open mouthed in confusion. Now the sergeant looked him up and down, as if measuring him for armour. 3
On a soft pre-election evening in April 2010, a young woman turned the corner and walked briskly into Sculptures Close. She wore a dark grey suit with matching jacket and knee-length skirt, the narrow party tie worn smartly, the knot tight against the collar of her freshly pressed white shirt. Her hair was strawberry blonde and tied back in a long ponytail. Her skin tone was fair, her eyes a greyish-green, bright red lipstick neatly applied to her lips. She sported a brightly coloured rosette on her left breast. Sculptures Close was a cul-de-sac with a mix of two, three and four-bedroom houses giving it a particularly pleasing look. The houses ran alternately – odd numbers on the right-hand side and even numbers on the left. Sculptures Close was important for the local campaign this general election. The majority of residents had placed their X in favour of an opposing candidate at the last election. Canvassing here would help to build up a picture of whether there would be a sufficient swing this time round to win the parliamentary seat for Mid Derbyshire. The young woman looked at the clipboard she carried in her left hand. Number 1 Sculptures Close. Mr and Mrs Brookes, married, both fifty-three. The party had no information on how they had voted last time. Finding out how they would vote on Thursday 6th May was crucial to the local campaign. She knocked on the front door and almost immediately heard footsteps coming towards her. The front door opened to reveal a large woman wearing a white blouse and a long black skirt. “Mrs Brookes?” she asked politely. “That’s right.” “Good evening, Mrs Brookes. I’m sorry to disturb you this evening but I’m canvassing opinion on the forthcoming general election. Would you mind telling me how you intend to vote?” Mrs Brookes looked at the young woman with friendly green eyes, glanced at her rosette, and then looked at her again. “As you’re so pretty,” she smiled. “I’ll tell you. I voted for your party. My husband and I have already voted by post.” “And Mr Brookes?” “He’s still at work, but I know he voted the same as me.” “Thank you,” the young woman said. “Thank you for your support.” She began walking down the drive. “Good luck.” The young woman stopped for a moment, gave a broad smile, and lifted her hand in a wave. Mrs Brookes waved back, grinned, and closed the door. When she got to the end of the drive, the young woman stopped, placed a tick by the names of Mr and Mrs Brookes, and checked the details for the next house. Number 3, Mr Savage, a gentleman in his mid sixties, a widower who had lived on his own since his wife’s death. He had been a staunch supporter last time round. If they were going to achieve the necessary swing, the party needed his staunch support again. She turned into the drive of 3 Sculptures Close and hurried towards the house with a skip and a dance and that same broad smile on her lips. The young woman pressed the doorbell with the forefinger of her right hand and listened to the muffled chimes. She waited. She didn’t have to wait long. The front door opened and the young woman smiled. Mr Savage wore a torn, green knitted sweater and brown slacks. His face was a map of wrinkles, his brown eyes were deep in pouches, and a cigarette jittered between his nicotine stained fingers. “Mr Savage?” the young woman asked politely. “Yeah.” 4
Billy pumped his skinny legs up and down, willing his old BMX bike to go faster. The torrential downpour of rain soaked his clothes, making them stick to his skin. Billy wanted to stop and wring-out his t-shirt and jeans, but he just didn’t have the luxury of time to do so. He knew he had to continue ahead even with the ferocious wind trying to slow him down and the onslaught of the seemingly monsoon-like weather that had descended down upon the small town where he lived. Billy blinked the mixture of tears and rainwater from his eyes and continued towards his destination. He knew time was of the essence and the only thing that was holding him back was the goddamn rain that was pouring down upon him like God’s own personal joke against him. Heck with it, Billy said to himself, continuing to pump his quickly-tiring legs up and down. All I gotta do is get to the bridge and then I’m home free. Well, maybe not entirely free but close enough. Then ride over to Adam’s place and hideout for the night and start out early tomorrow morning on the rest of my journey. Billy still didn’t exactly know where he was going to go come morning. The only thing on his mind was that anything was better than living in his parent’s house any longer - with his physically abusive father and his ignore-everything mother. Billy continued to pump his legs up and down with all his might. The wind-driven rain continued to pound against him, preventing him from being able to see more than a foot or two ahead. He gritted his teeth harder together and lowered his head until his chin was only a few inches above the handlebars - to make himself more aerodynamic. It seemed to be working.
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Carl and Shelly stood outside the Museum, wondering whether to enter. The arched entrance was shadowy and ominous – resembling a giant open mouth. The building was centuries old, its gothic façade decorated with gargoyles and other intricate carvings. Twin towers pointed skywards, like accusatory fingers reaching for the dark clouds above. “Are we going in then or what?” Carl said. Shelly shrugged. “I’m not that fussed, to be honest. You take a look if you want and I’ll… I’ll go and find something else to do.” “So I’ve got to go in on my own?” “You don’t need me to hold your hand, surely?” Carl looked at Shelly, eyebrows raised. “Oh, come on then,” she said. “But let’s make it quick. This place gives me the creeps.” Holding hands, they walked towards the entrance… Zone One The Primordial Soup They stared at a board full of blown-up pictures of micro-organisms that had inhabited the Earth millions of years before. “That’s a funny-looking one, isn’t it?” Shelly said, pointing at a long, squiggly thing. “Errrrgh!” “Yeah.” Carl leaned closer. “Bit like a twirly piece of pasta.” “This is how life started on this planet? From things like these?” “Single-cell organisms were the first, I think; then they gradually evolved into more complex ones.” “But... how did these single cells come to be here in the first place?” Carl shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it was from a meteor or something. If I can find a member of staff, I’ll ask.” A picture on the wall showed a stormy, turbulent planet, lightening bolts shooting across the sky. The black restless waters below looked ominous, the atmosphere – full of unknown gases – unbreathable. Yet it was beautiful in its rawness. Early Earth gradually inching its way towards twenty-first century perfection. “Were there no trees or vegetation?” Shelly asked. “I mean, surely this can’t have been what our planet was originally like. God, it’s like another world. It’s like… like hell!” “Seems hard to believe, I know. But, yeah, that’s how it was.” “Human beings evolved from things like that twirly pasta?” Carl rolled his eyes. This could be a long night, he thought. Maybe we should have gone somewhere else. “Have you never heard of Darwin or the Theory of Evolution?” “Of course,” Shelly replied matter-of-factly. “What are you trying to say?” “Look… the planet… err… oh, forget it, let’s just move on.” Zone Two The Dinosaurs
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“It sure is good to see a new face around here. My name is Leonard Barnes, pleased to meet you. No, don’t get up on my account; that’s just a little joke. “I’ll bet you’re asking yourself ‘where the hell am I and what are all these needles and tubes and shit doing in my arms?’ Now those are perfectly reasonable questions. I wish I could say it’s gonna be alright, I really do, but look what they did to me! I can’t even tell where I end and the machine begins anymore. “Hold on friend, there’s no point in struggling; you’re buckled down to that gurney nice and tight. If you keep writhing around like that they’re gonna give you a shot that’ll put you right to sleep. You aren’t gonna like it, but my advice is to just relax and let them do their work on you; some things in life you can change and others you just have to accept. “You won’t be the same when they’re done with you, but that can’t be helped. “It’s best not to talk out loud to each other either. If you got something to say, do it from up high like me. I expect you know how to speak from the mind, seeing as you’re here and all. So what’s your story anyway? “Nothing to say, huh? Look, friend, I’ve been here for a long while and I can tell you from experience that the places they’ll make you go will be cold, lonely and dark. In a couple of days, once they’ve got you fully integrated with the machine and you start Pushing the Void you’ll be glad to have a friend like me! Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not anybody special, just another cog in the wheel like you, but recently I’ve set some things in motion that might just change everything. “These bastards won’t be expecting what’s coming for them - that’s for sure. “So what do you say, friend, you tell me your story and I’ll tell you mine? Oh, I see now, you don’t know how to speak from the mind do you? Well, that’s no matter, as long as you have the Gift that’s something I can teach you over time. For now I’ll do the talking and you can just blink once for yes and twice for no. Alright? “Seeing as how you can’t tell me your story just yet, how would it be if I told you mine? It’ll pass the time and it’ll help with the pain to keep your mind occupied. One blink - now we’re talking! “Back in my old life - before those bastards took me away, hooked me up to this goddamned machine and taught me how to Push the Void - I used to live all the way up in Bangor, Maine. I had a regular job, a house, a girlfriend and a dog. I’m not sure which one I miss more, the house or the dog - ha! There isn’t much in the way of entertainment up Bangor way, so I used to spend a lot of nights bouncing from cash-game to cash-game, you know, playing Texas Hold ‘Em poker and the like. “That’s how I found out that I had the Gift. “As they say, poker has an expensive learning curve; I lost a lot of money during those first few weeks, and very nearly my car. After a while I learned to follow my hunches and I got to the point where I could read a man’s face so well that I’d make the right hold or fold call nine times out of ten. With time and practice, my Gift developed such that I was no longer reading a man’s face, but his mind. I got so I was making so much money playing cards that I quit my day job. The girlfriend didn’t think much of that as I recall. “Eventually a lot of the guys figured me for a card cheat, and I was eighty-sixed from most of the games in town except for the Big Game. As far as I could figure, the only ways to get banned from the Big Game were to be caught cheating, or get blood on the poker table. I mean those guys were no joke, and even with my Gift there were more than a few nights where I went home with just the lint in my pockets. “I’ll never forget the night it happened. 7
The ice was breaking up. The change in pressure from the approaching storm had affected the frozen landscape. What had been a single mass of ice passable by sledge was quickly turning into a hundred small islands cast adrift on the open sea. Then the rain began. There were thirteen of us to start: twelve of us apprehensive of living through the next day, one blind with a rage that had only one possible ending. Now, we were all alone with no hope of returning to solid ground. Our leader was still intent on pursuit of what eluded his grasp. He stood screaming at the approaching night sky and at his lost quarry. The sign had been fresh, we had been gaining on the thing that had slipped through his fingers, but now all was lost. My comrades and I huddled together on the broken ice to stay warm, spent from the chase of something we would never catch. Day two brought the light, but no sun, and no heat. The fog that surrounded us muffled all sound outside of our own breathing, our heartbeats, and the steady lap of the sea’s tongue consuming our frozen island. We had little food, and even less fresh water. Most of us would not consider the alternatives until Death started to visit each night. Five days and five nights had passed with only the sea and the fog as our companions. The cold hand of Death that had been feared was now embraced: His icy fingers, now warm, had mercifully taken three of us during the fourth night, and more of us were soon to join our comrades in that endless sleep. The Night wrapped her frigid blanket around us for the sixth time in as many days, and only six would remain when she left us in the dawn of the seventh day. The determination in our leader had not waned. What cursed thing had spawned such a burning evil in his soul, had kept him alive in the freezing nights and stolid days, no one could tell. Only great trauma to the heart could birth something so black in any living creature, and what remained in the cracks and crevices of that shattered organ was unnatural. It kept him alive. The water was gone, the food was gone, and we had nothing left but our dead companions. What day, I could no longer remember. My life was ebbing away like our island of ice. I awoke to find only the two of us left alive. Why I continued to live, I do not know, but the man I had attached myself to was cursed to live, cursed as the Ancient Mariner. What ran in his veins was not the blood of man or beast, but the black fluid of unconscionable revenge. It blocked the pains of hunger and masked the throes of thirst. Today, I was certain, would be my last. I fell into a stupor, a grey realm between life and death, and felt the warm hand of Death touch my heart. Time had ceased to exist. Had it been two weeks, or just two more hours? Only the dark cold shrinking emptiness of my stomach, the frozen dryness of thirst on my tongue, and the man were my only companions. Something had roused me, something that would keep Death at bay for a little longer. It was a smell, a coppery smell mingled with sweat and death. The man who had led us to certain destruction had finally given in, the heat in his shattered heart, the immortality in his black blood, had succumbed to the mortal weakness of the flesh. He carved a meal from the remains of my friends, my companions, and filled his belly. There was an evil in his eye; no, a madness, and it was also in the way he handled the knife. He expertly removed what little meat remained on the bones of our comrades. He saw me staring at him. For the moment he was caught in such an unholy act, a flash of remorse may have even crossed his eyes, but then he just laughed. “They’re dead, aren’t they? Dead and gone. What would they have done?” he asked. He threw a chunk of the frozen flesh at me. I was too weak to stand, and the very thought repulsed me, but the smell on this sanitized sheet of ice would not let me refuse. I crawled to the severed flesh and chewed.
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Some people have a nose for news. Me, I seem to be able to smell ‘weird’ a mile off. Some would say that it is a result of my choice of careers, but I don’t think so. Sure, being a senior reporter for Amazing Life Stories has brought me in contact with more than anyone’s fair share of whackos and sociopaths, but I could sense weird even as a kid. You might even say that my ‘nose’ led me to my job. Who knows? But I seldom give it a thought... that is, until I have days like last Thursday. Sandy Thompson, my editor, gave me a call Wednesday night and asked me if I was still driving my beat up Honda. This set off all my alarms since anytime Sandy is nice, she wants something. I grunted a non-committal reply. Ten miles to a quart of oil might be bad, but better the devil you know than a new one you don’t. “Mike,” she says in a voice so sweet it dripped honey, “I found you a deal. Really, it will be doing us both a favour... ” Uh-huh. I had just bet it would. But I took the bait anyway, because a fish in a bowl has to eat, even if the food is attached to a really big hook. So there I was on Thursday, sipping bitter coffee and waiting for Jeremiah Barnett, and praying to God that he turned out to be the harmless rather than violent breed of whacko. I’d had my share of both over the years, and could handle either; which is why I have a concealed carry permit, and a .32 calibre that I slip into my jacket on the days my ‘nose’ tingles. Given the assignment, and the fact that Mr. Barnett had actually paid us, my ‘nose’ was fairly vibrating. The weight of the pistol was comforting as I scanned the restaurant, trying to pick my client out before he realized who I was. They say know your enemy, but I say know everyone possible and keep the upper-hand. Someone always has it anyway, so it might as well be me. Barnett was not quite what I was expecting, but I guess I was exactly what he expected. “Mr. Hayes?” I turned a little too quickly at the voice I had only heard once, over the phone. I really hate when people sneak up on me, because usually they can’t. He was tall, a couple inches over six feet at least, and thin as a rail. The suit he wore wasn’t Armani, but it was good cloth and tailored to fit his sparse frame. Nice, I thought. A crazy old man with enough money to indulge his delusions – and given that ALS paid little more than a fast food career, I was prepared to help him with that. Within reason, of course. “Mr. Barnett,” I said, smiling as I stood and extended my hand. “It’s a pleasure to place a face with the voice.” His eyes were a clear deep blue with no trace of madness, and his smile was polite as he took my hand. “Coffee?” “Time is short, Mr. Hayes,” he seated himself. “I have brought the papers.” he produced them from a jacket pocket, along with a pen. “You should sign them before we leave.” “Yeah, about that,” I said sceptically. “ALS doesn’t pay much, but usually we are the ones who pay for a story, and not the other way around.” “Are you saying that you have no need for the vehicle?” he asked with mirrored scepticism. “I believe you do, Mr. Hayes. And of course, this arrangement is part of our larger agreement.” He paused for a moment. “I assure you that the vehicle isn’t stolen, if that is your concern.” “What the Hell,” I said, then picked up the pen. Barnett smiled, and I almost expected to feel a pin prick as I signed. Nothing happened, though, and Barnett quickly folded the documents into an envelope and handed them to me. “Thank you, Mr. Hayes. Now we can proceed to the task at hand... ” “Do you believe any of the stories that your magazine prints, Michael?” he asked as he drove the Cadillac Escalade - my new car, apparently - along the narrow rural road. “May I call you Michael?”
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The girl laughed and danced. She didn’t know he was her death. For his part, he just watched. Picking her up at a club had been easy. She didn’t know. How could she? She was just food. Food for the change. Always the change. The mortals didn’t matter. They were nothing but fuel. So she danced. His repertoire of jokes was exhausted. The charm he needed to bring her here was minimal. It took no power. “Chloe,” he said in tones that brooked no argument. The girl was left no choice. She was young, human and infinitely malleable. “Come closer.” Drawn like a bee to a flower. For now he was still charming. The fear would come later. She approached, swaying. Held in thrall. “Look. Behold your destiny.” She looked. They all did. There was no choice. Her fate had been decided the moment he decided on her. She looked. She knew her fate and yet she was helpless but to comply. Slowly, so as to please him, even though she had seen that the act would bring her one step closer to death, she undressed with trembling hands. The dress, fine and clinging, fell with a wisp to the floor. What had looked fine in the club was now just crumpled rags. The silk withered under his gaze. “Now see me.” Her face contorted in a silent scream as he stripped slowly. His excitement was building with her fear. His underwear caught as he pulled it down. He took her by her shaking hand and led her into the bedroom. The apartment he’d taken in the old industrial building was remodelled in the roof. Concrete floors separated him and the downstairs neighbour, thick enough that nothing could be heard. He made her stand naked before him. Slowly he caressed her nipples. Even in her terror they became erect. Then he laid upon the bed and bade her to fuck him. “See fear in the pillow,” he ordered her. Suddenly she was bucking, fighting to get off, to get away. She was split between the need for the horror that was him, but the compulsion to have him inside her, and her worst fears realised in the pillow behind his head. To her the pillow was a blood-red vortex, sucking and pulling her down. Insanity swirled in the lurid colours. As she bucked, helpless and unable to make a sound, he pulled her back onto him, thrusting his hips, holding her down tightly against her fighting, screaming, nameless fear. He pulled her deeper onto him, feeling his excitement mounting as she writhed. She tore at his shoulders with her nails, but the fleeting pain just excited him further. She came despite the horror in her eyes, shuddering and crying at the same time. It set him exploding inside her. He wondered, did these mortals come so hard because of the very terror they felt? “I am done. You may leave now.” Sobbing, the girl rose, leaving a trail of semen on the man’s upper thighs. She stumbled and he felt it beginning. The sex started the change. Already, his power was growing. It had to be soon. The guards of this world were closing in on him. The policemen. The body he wore left traces behind, and he had been careless. What they would make of his DNA he didn’t know, but it was distinctive. Of that he was sure. Even a creature such as he could not live in the world and murder. It was how he came here at the very beginning. His punishment and his prison. 10
Now amputated and dissected, with your parts strewn throughout The Function Room to replace the worn cogs of bone and leaking pipelines of unfurled intestine, you see everything. It is upon your flesh stretched between the rafters that the records will be printed in your blackened blood with the jittering nibs of carpal fragments. The first dark entry to be written will be the confirmation of the butcher and new Function Room operator, Gormo Gloom. Outside grave shirkers dawdle along the pavement into the heart of Leddenton like deadly blood clots. They cast slow curtain-call shadows across The Function Room as they pass. Above them house martins dive-bomb the eaves that creak in the morning sun and steam rises like wraiths from the rusting gutters. Your thoughts are distempered, layered like the bloodstains upon the wall. Dissected like Osiris, and with the vision of Horus, you dissipate the myriad detail into The Function Room where Gloom assesses his new environment. Confusion stirs the coils of bacon rind and slithers of black pudding in his stomach. He strains his eyes in the grey mist of belligerent shadows and tries to make sense of his new surroundings. Slowly The Function Room takes shape around him with hues grinding together like tectonic plates as his focus steadies. He sees fleshy pulleys tugging arbitrary rhythms, and ivory pistons rising and then falling in skittish time. Trepanned bony discs spin back and forth in a furious white blur above him like diseased sycamore seeds suspended in their autumnal descent. The walls lean in like neglected tombstones. Nearby your lung expands and retracts with a wheeze between supports of stiffened tendons and elongated tumours. You watch as Gloom reaches out cautiously to stroke it as one might pet a sleeping cat. He turns from the strange mechanics and finds that his interest in dead meat draws him towards your eye, peeled open like a litchi and pinned wide on the wall to form a wet aspic portal in vulval lips. His fingers splay on the damp brickwork as he leans forward to peer through. You guide Gloom’s vision along the long blue spine of the downs around Leddenton towards the coast, settling upon a blowhole that gapes in the rocky cliff edge. He follows the light obediently as it flows inside like a penny tumbling down a stairwell before pouring forth into the laddered murk of the past; heavy shadows, a pocket of serried amber from the cavern entrance, busy with dust and moisture, then a further slat of black. You show him a chamber layered with solid darkness and fuzzy oblongs of orange illumination. The dismal forms of figures emerge against the hazy stone canvas and are fragmented by occasional arcs of blood spray. Gloom presses his eye closer to yours and the jellied membranes meet with the sucking sound of coital withdrawal. He blinks, and then widens his eye, enjoying the cold stickiness tight against his lids. The cavern is wet and womblike, as dense as dusk, deepened by the play of dim light upon its arches and angles. He watches as a bulky figure, the Earth Lord, steps slowly into the reddish fog, then stands hunched and feral before a mausoleum-framed man who wavers with sickness. The Earth Lord works a knife of sharp stone to unfurl a tongue of flesh stretching from the sick man’s shoulder to his hip. Blood geysers like falling blossom. The Earth Lord then hangs the belt of dripping meat alongside the scalps and pudenda strung around his waist. Then he nods to a girl, her shadow surrendering to the invasion of faint ruddy light. She comes forth to spoon lurid green opiate between the man’s flaccid and open lips that glisten lazily like a bisected slug. The Earth Lord stands motionless, staring into the man’s eyes, his angled goat-jaw grinding beneath layers of caked filth and faeces. A string of intestines unravels from around his neck and dangles to the dirt floor. 11
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