Classics Mutilated Part 41

"b.o.l.l.o.c.ks," I said. "Oi, what you doing with my jacket?"

She had my jacket off me now. She threw it on the bed at the old bird's fat ugly feet and looked at my arms.

"So many scratches, so many bruises," she said. She sounded sad. "Why do you hate yourself, mon pet.i.t?"

"I don't hate myself," I said. "I f.u.c.king love myself. I'm f.u.c.king brilliant, me."

I grinned at her, but she just looked sad. She turned away from me. Beautiful a.r.s.e.

She picked up the little bottle and pulled the cork out of it. Then she started to shake out the liquid inside, spraying drops of it over the old bird and the voodoo doll.

The old bird didn't seem to mind. Didn't even notice.

The girl closed her eyes and started to jabber like the old woman. She started to dance too, her body rippling like a snake, her t.i.ts jiggling. She really got into it, went into a kind of trance. She shook more of the liquid over herself. Poured it over the snake tattoo on her arm, making it shine. Then she sprinkled the liquid over me, over my arm, the one I'd cut open. The wound had gone septic, but I couldn't feel it, not now. I looked at the arm as the liquid splashed over it, but only for a second. Looking at the girl's jiggling t.i.ts was much more fun.

Both of the f.u.c.king women were totally out of it now. Jiggling and jabbering. All that ju-ju voodoo b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. The girl kept splashing liquid round. All over me, over her, over the old bird holding the doll.

"I'm f.u.c.king bored of this," I said loudly, but neither of them heard me.

The girl kept splashing water until the bottle was empty. Then she threw the bottle away.

The jabbering changed. It was creepy. It was like the two of them were linked together or something. Suddenly their voices got deeper. Slower. They started saying the same words. The old bird held out the doll and the girl grabbed it. They both clung to it like a couple of kids fighting over a toy. The girl reached out with her other arm and grabbed my hand. I couldn't do nothing about it. We were like a human chain. The old bird and the girl still swaying and jiggling like nutters.

"What is this? Ring a ring of f.u.c.king roses?" I said.

Then the snake tattoo on the girl's arm started to move. I thought it was just the light at first, or my eyes, or that f.u.c.king stuff the old bird had injected into me f.u.c.king up my head.

"f.u.c.king h.e.l.l," I said. I squeezed my eyes shut, then opened them again. The snake tattoo was still moving. The thin black snake was curling down the girl's arm like a stripe on a f.u.c.king barber's pole. Down towards her wrist. Towards her hand. Towards my hand.

I tried to break free, but I couldn't move. I shouted and spat at her, but it made no difference.

The snake tattoo wasn't a tattoo no more. It was a real snake. It made a rustling sound when it moved. Its tongue flickered in and out. Its little yellow eyes f.u.c.king stared at me.

I yelled out when it moved from the girl's hand on to my hand. Then it was coiling up my arm. Taking its time. I couldn't feel it, but I could see it. I moved my head back as far as I could, terrified it was going to come all the way up my arm and bite me in the neck like a f.u.c.king vampire. Maybe it'd eat my eyes. Or crawl down my f.u.c.king throat and choke me. Maybe it'd go inside me and lay eggs and loads of baby snakes would hatch out and eat their way out of my stomach. I screamed at them to get the f.u.c.king thing off me, but they were still out of it, jiggling and chanting.

The snake moved up my arm to just above my elbow. Then it stopped. It gathered in its coils, bunched up. Now it looked like the belt I wrapped round my arm when I wanted to find a vein. The snake tightened round my arm until a big blue vein popped up in my elbow. I could see the vein pulsing away. Slowly the snake lifted its head. Then it struck. It opened its mouth wide and sank its f.u.c.king fangs right into the vein.

I screamed. I couldn't feel nothing, but I screamed.

"Get it off, you b.i.t.c.hes! Get this f.u.c.king thing off me!"

My voice sounded weird in my own head. Rough and echoing. Like it was someone else's voice shouting from down the end of a long metal tunnel. My body was still paralysed, but my arm felt hot. I thought of the snake's venom mixing with my blood. Rushing through my body, travelling to my heart and my brain. I wondered if I was gonna die. The thought of dying didn't seem too bad. If I died on tour I'd get in the papers. I'd be on the front page. Yeah, that'd be all right.

My thoughts were falling apart. The room pulsed in and out, getting small then big, bright then dim. I didn't know the two birds had stopped their voodoo b.o.l.l.o.c.ks until the girl knelt in front of me. She took my hands. She smiled at me. Face shiny with sweat. Big brown eyes glowing. Even now she was beautiful. She'd f.u.c.king killed me, but she was beautiful.

"The snake is my desire, mon pet.i.t," she said. "You must feed my desire as well as your own. This way only one of us will die."

I could hardly keep my eyes open. My head was like a heavy rock. I tried to speak. I heard the words in my head, but I don't know if she did.

"f.u.c.k you," I said.

Then it all went black. When I woke up it was dark and I was shivering. There was a hammering sound. Voices.

"Sid! Sid!"

I didn't realise I could move until I sat up. I felt like s.h.i.t. Body aching, full of cramps. Covered in cold sweat. Arm, chest, and b.o.l.l.o.c.ks itching like crazy.

I looked around. My head felt full of broken gla.s.s. I was in the broom cupboard in the Kingfish Club. The cupboard where I'd s.h.a.gged the bird. The cupboard where the girl had come to me.

There was no one here now. Just me.

"Sid! Sid!"

"What?" I shouted.

The door opened. It was Noel.

"We're all packed up, Sid. Ready to move on."

"Where we f.u.c.king going?" I said.

"Dallas, Sid. We're going to Dallas. Come on, man. You want a hand?"

Noel came into the room and helped me up. I rushed over to the sink and puked my guts out.

"You okay, Sid," Noel said.

"No, I feel f.u.c.king terrible," I said. "I need some stuff, Noel. I need it now."

"No stuff, Sid. You know that. Soon as we get on the bus you can have some valium. How's that sound?"

I wasn't listening. I remembered what the girl had said. "You must feed my desire as well as your own."

I took my leather jacket off. Curled around my arm was the little black snake. It lifted its head and flicked its tongue at me. I screamed.

"Jesus, Sid," Noel said. "What's wrong?"

"Get it off me, Noel!" I yelled. "f.u.c.king get it off me!"

"Get what off you, Sid?" Noel asked.

I held my arm out. "The snake! Get the f.u.c.king snake off!"

Noel looked at my arm. "There's no snake, Sid," he said. "You're hallucinating, man. Come on."

He walked out of the room. I looked at the snake wrapped around my arm. The snake only I could see. I looked at the blue vein pulsing in the crook of my elbow, and in that second I knew.

I was lost. Lost for good. There was no way back.

Feed the snake, I thought. Feed the f.u.c.king snake.

I put my leather jacket on and followed Noel out of the room.

The Happiest h.e.l.l on Earth.

By John Skipp & Cody Goodfellow.

May 5, 1972.

To: Spec. Agent R. Stanley.

Federal Bureau of Investigation.

As you probably know, Prisoner #0003 has died, after 37 years in solitary confinement for his role in the Animal Wars. He was the last and longest-held of the original conspirators, the rest having either been executed or paroled to their new homeland in Florida when Nixon and Governor Gator signed the Animal Liberation treaty last year.

That he resisted extradition to Moreauvia while refusing to disavow his crimes was no reflection on his daily conduct. He was a model prisoner until the day he leapt from his window in the VIP block, having torn the bars out with his trunk, in a display of strength we would never have expected, given his age. He never had any contact with the outside world, but even after his movie was banned and the UN declared him a war criminal, the elephant-man still got a lot of fan mail from the forty-eight "two-legged" states.

Because Mr. Hoover always took such a special interest in his case, we believe #0003 was just waiting for the death of your ill.u.s.trious Director: not only to end his own life, but to reveal the enclosed ma.n.u.script, which we found neatly stacked upon his cot. The fact that he waited only one day after Mr. Hoover's death lends credence to this interpretation.

I truly shudder to think of the effect this will have on the public, if any of it is proven true, but I earnestly hope that it will be buried no longer. This poor, divided nation deserves to know why so many millions of Americans still live in the trees, and who is truly responsible.

That is why I have also forwarded copies to Ben Bradlee, Jack Anderson, Jann Wenner, William F. Buckley, and people at several other media outlets.

Let it be known: I am a Republican and a patriot, and am prepared to face all consequences. I do this not to bring our country down, but to restore it to its greatness.

Good luck, G.o.d bless America, and apologies for the inconvenience.

Sincerely, From: Warden R. Clampett.

Texarkana Federal Prison.

DOc.u.mENT A.

PART ONE: ON THE ISLAND OF LOST SOULS.

The rosy dawn paints the gray sands. The bull-men in their white shrouds wait, snorting, pawing. Disturbed by something on the wind.

The Master stands in the launch, arms at his sides like a conductor at rest. Behind me, the jungle clenches like a green fist, flexing its claws. They have all come to see the return of the Other with the Whip, and what he has brought with him.

M'ling crouches in the bow, pointed ears back to bask in the sea breeze on his black face. The less favored beasts bend to their oars, and Montgomery sneaks a nip from a flask, as he answers the Master's questions. Loaded to the gunwales with supplies and fresh specimens-a puma, a llama, six hutches of rabbits, and a pack of excited staghounds.

But all eyes are hooked on the sinking lifeboat towed behind the launch, and the solitary creature sitting in it.

What kind of animal would be so dangerous that the Doctor would not have it in the launch?

From the crown of a palm tree, Virgil the monkey-man howls. "A Five-Man! A Five-Man, like me!"

By slow, painful turns, the launch creeps into the cut in the sh.o.r.e. The bull-men bow to the Master and the Other as they unload the cages and crates. I take up the ledger and, with a quill pen in my trunk, make a tally of the goods.

The strange man climbs awkwardly out of his lifeboat and wallows up onto the beach.

Claws lose their purchase on boxes and drop them in the surf. All eyes follow the Stranger as he approaches the Master. Without fear, without bowing his head.

He was on a schooner touring the Galapagos Islands that got wrecked in a storm. It was nothing less than a miracle that Montgomery's chartered tramp steamer happened upon him in his lifeboat. The Captain put the Stranger off with Montgomery after he came between poor M'ling and the vicious, bullying crew. "Someone is sure to come looking for me...."

"Here," the Master says, "they are unlikely to find you."

The Stranger asks for a radio, and is told we have none. The steamer puts in only thrice a year, and the island is well off the shipping lanes. Though uninvited, he is to be our guest.

The Stranger looks from the bull-men to M'ling to the Ape Man to me, and shows his blunt teeth, sharp tongue. His eyes burn us. He offers to pay for his lodging, and to make himself useful however he can.

Taller than the Other, younger than the Master, skin burned red and blistered. Dark hair covers his weak chin, but he walks erect, in tight circles when nowhere else to go. He was never an animal. Perhaps he was never a child.

The Stranger puts a stick of paper in his soft mouth. Fire sprouts from his hand and sets the stick alight. We gasp. He has fire in his hands, and smoke spills from his thin lips. Perhaps he is a machine.

The Master asks of his education. "We are both scientists, and this is a biological station, of a sort."

Still chewing us with his eyes, the Stranger says, "I have some experience with running complex operations, and I'm a quick study. I was raised on a farm, and I drove an ambulance in the War ... after the Armistice was signed. I'm not afraid of a little blood."

"Our work here is of great import, but of too delicate a nature to take you into our confidence, just yet."

"I'm in your hands, Dr. Moreau," the Stranger says.

We have peace and order on our island. The Master tells us it is not so in the wider world. We are humble before the Law. Until he comes among us, we can dream of no other life.

The Master leaves the Stranger in an outer apartment of the compound, and locks the inner door to the courtyard. He summons me to attend to his initial examination of the new specimens.

He needs me. The Other drinks poison to make his mind weak and his notes are sloppy, and though my blunt forelimbs are clumsy, my trunk can do the fine work, even sometimes with the Knife, and the Master says I have an extraordinary head for figures. I have seen pictures of my ancestors, of the clay from which the Master made me. I am stunted, a dwarf. The House of Pain made me small, but bright.

I do not carry a whip or a gun, but the Master gave me a blue serge suit like his, and I work with him. The others in the compound must wear white. They are proud of their status but hate the white, which hides no dirt. The beasts in the ravine despise me, for though many of them have better hands and truer voices, I live in the House of Pain. I was made to teach them to speak and to read, but they have come as far as the Knife and the Needle can take them. To learn more only teaches them that they are still beasts.

The Stranger hunts us.

While the Master begins to remake the puma with Montgomery, the Stranger leaves his apartment and ambles into the jungle. He has shaved the fur from his face, but kept a tiny strip of hair just above his lips. It makes him look less like an animal, and yet more dangerous.

I cannot keep up with his long-legged strides without giving myself away, but he stops and sits beside the creek and blows smoke into the air.

The secret of fire is not in making it, but making it work. The burning in his head comes out on the paper in his lap. With swift stabs and slashes of the pencil, his fine fingers make a window in the paper. The creek and the canebreak beyond are trapped in it; and then, as if summoned, Darius skulks out of the shadows, eyes greenly flashing.

Most of them cannot recall or even speak the names I gave them, but this is of little import to me. Was it not Adam's first task to name the beasts of the field? Even if they failed this simple test, I did not fail mine.

Darius stoops on all fours to slurp water from the creek. He knows no shame. Time and again, the Master has ripped out his claws, but they always grow back. Even his flesh hates the Law. His tawny flanks heave with panting. The faded spots on his piebald hide flush. His muzzle and paws are speckled with red.

Fear. I would trumpet and run on all fours, so strong is my terror. But the Stranger only says, "h.e.l.lo," and draws the leopard man in the depth of his sin.