The Second Cumming by N.P. Yuggoth
My hands grip the steering wheel even though the car has long ago been shut off. It's been so cold that I can see my breath. Nice May weather we're having.
I notice my fingertips growing cold, so I decide to have another cigarette. I pick up the pack of Lucky Strikes and shake one unfiltered cigarette out into my palm. The few remaining cancer sticks rattle around like dry bones. I've smoked damn near a whole pack since I left Mark's house. I'm going to have to lighten up a bit if I don't want to run out. The digital clock in the dashboard reads 1:23. I'm going to have to make it until 6, when the gas station out on the highway opens.
I light the cigarette and take a deep breath before realizing that it is not going to warm up my fingers. I should have brought some liquor. My drunkeness has kept the cold at bay pretty well. Having drunk a lot of tequila and numerous Leinie's, I'm well over the legal limit to drive. Well, and I'm planning to do something very illegal. So being drunk doesn't matter, unless it would mean being too drunk to carry through with this properly.
I roll my right hand into a fist and blow into it. This provides only momentary relief from the chill. I repeat with my left hand. My crotch itches from razor burn. I had to shave the whole thing to try to get rid of those insidious little bastards.
She even took my pubes.
When the weather is nice in spring, there's nothing like it. You feel a sense of optimism that longer days bring. And freedom. Especially that first day when you can go outside in a t-shirt and shorts. It may only be in the upper 50's, but you shiver and do it anyway because you can savour the lightness of not having to bundle up in all those cumbersome winter wares. The tourists haven't even shown up yet, apart from day trippers on the weekend, so you don't have to worry about some idiot parking his car in the middle of the highway to take a picture of a deer or a seagull.
Fat chance of those morons showing up with the weather we've been having lately. They're even threatening snow flurries tonight. I haven't seen any yet, but every time I look outside, I expect to see the ground turning white.
I look across the road at Razzie's apartment building. It's dark. The Mexican family hit the sack a little after 10. The alcoholic bachelor passed out around 11. A little before 1:30 the young couple came home, presumably from a night of barhopping. The female half of said couple practically had to be carried up the stairs by her boyfriend. I was worried that they'd invite some other people back after the bar, but they're alone.
I flick my cigarette butt out the window. The wind blows a few drops of cold rain in. It drips down my wrist, producing a sickening sensation. I wipe my cuff on my pant leg.
Where is Razzie?
The answer to that is obvious: the bars. I'm not sure which one, but there's only about five within a half hour drive from Razzie's apartment. I could have checked each of them for her maroon Pontiac, but I felt it better to wait here. She's got to come home sometime, unless she's found a new boy toy.
I think about that and grit my teeth. That lousy skank is around my hometown. Spreading her filthy legs and crabs.
But that's going to stop. Tonight. Because I'm going to avenge what she did to me, and what she did to Mark.
The duffle bag sits on the passenger seat next to me. I want to turn on the dome light and check the contents one more time, but decide against it. With my hand I search the contents. Latex gloves. Hunting knife. Duct tape. Necronomicon. Black candles. Ball gag. Bottle of ketchup. Ski mask?
A wave of panic rushes over me, then I realize that the ski mask is on my head. All is good. I want to have another cigarette to celebrate this fact, but no. No more cigarettes until this is done. I'm just going to give Razzie a good scare, that's all. Maybe she'll even get the hell out of our neck of the woods. God only knows she has friends all over the damn country.
At 2:45 the maroon Pontiac pulls into the driveway. It's show time.
*******
I met Razzie on April 1st. April Fool's Day. How appropriate. I was the fool. The ice hadn't totally left the harbour. Small chunks of it floated here and there. The day was unseasonably warm, with clear skies and no wind. It was the first day that I wore shorts, but luckily I put on my jogging sweater before heading down to the dock. No day trippers, no kids, no one. A perfect, quiet day.
My neighbour had told me that there were quite a lot of brown trout around, and I was anxious to catch one of those. Though I invited several of my friends to join me, all of them declined for various reasons. But I wasn't going to miss this day for anything.
The water was perfectly clear. The gravel on the bottom of the harbour glimmered pale blue under twenty feet of water. It looked close enough to touch, and as inviting as a tropical beach, although no sane person would have gone for a swim. Even the local drunk crazies would have thought twice.
I didn't bring any special fishing gear, just the bare essentials. There weren't a lot of trout, which was a bit disappointing, but several of them lurked in the depths, sluggishly moving black shapes against the azure bottom. They were so lethargic in the icy water that they didn't even bother to take the bait.
There are those who fish to catch fish, and those like me who do it to pass time. I was happy to get out of the house and enjoy the weather, so I never noticed the girl. I only heard seagulls, the wind, and the intermittent casting of my line. When she finally crept up on me and spoke, I damn near fell into the lake.
"Got a cigarette?" she purred.
I jumped and nearly dropped my line. "Jesus Christ!" I blurted out.
A hand shot to her mouth. "Oh golly, I'm so sorry!"
She turned and started walking away, visibly ashamed. She was just my type: fair with a big bottom, a strange nose, and big eyes.
I patted my sweater and found my pack of Luckies. "Hey, wait!" I called out. She turned around. I held out the pack. "They're unfiltered."
She came back. Though the sum of her parts was wholly positive, her frame was dumpy. What my friend Sam would call a "meat bomb." His theory was that the chubby, big butt girls I typically preferred would all hit a magic age and explode into obesity. This girl had already passed critical mass, and was in the process of rapid expansion.
Her hand hung in the air for a moment, middle and index fingers pressed into the thumb. Her eyes glanced down at the pack. She grimaced, thinking, then picked out a Lucky Strike. I lit it for her. She inhaled and burst into a fit of coughing.
"I told you they were unfiltered."
She took another puff, exhaled a smooth stream, then began coughing again. "The cigarettes that won the war. As my grandpa used to say," she grinned.
"Was he in the war? So was mine," I said.
"Yeah. Pacific. I don't know all the details. He never talked about it much."
"Mine fought in France. But he always talks about it."
"You're lucky he's still alive."
I chuckled. "Yeah, but try telling him that. He's gotten pretty cynical in his old age."
She nodded and smiled, which revealed a scar on her chin. Her teeth were small and crooked. One was badly chipped. To call them off white would have been very kind.
"So what's your name?" I asked.
"Erin. But everyone calls me Razzie." She turned and walked back to her bench.
I didn't catch any fish that day. When the street lights came on I was shivering, so I decided it was high time to head home. Razzie was still sitting on the bench.
"What are still doing here? It's getting dark out."
"I've got nothing to do," she shrugged. "Thought I'd catch the sunset."
"Well, I'm afraid you missed it. And this is the wrong side of the peninsula. You want to be on the bay side, facing west."
"Oh," she responded, her mouth hanging open. "I'm new here."
New enough not to know east from west? I wanted to say something smart, but it had been a long winter. I'm a pretty solitary person, but even I need some company from time to time.
"So Razzie, would you like to join me for a drink?"
"Yeah, okay," she chirped. "Where do you want to go?"
"Ever been to Gatsby's?"
Razzie shook her head.
"Then Gatsby's it is," I said with a smile.
********
As far as I remember, we did make it to Gatsby's. My only sober friend, Sam, says so.
Razzie offered to drive and we hit the TA Grille first to get some grub. Sam and Trent came out. They maintained a respectful distance from Razzie, who did not maintain a respectful distance from anyone after downing two Bud Lights and a shot of Jagermeister.
"I'm a social whore," she proclaimed. I didn't know what to make of that, already too drunk, but Sam winced.
"So, are you hitting that?" Trent asked me. I played dumb so he motioned towards Razzie. "Your new girlfriend."
I laughed and pretended to be drunker than I actually was. What else could I do? Sam and Trent obviously wanted me to shag her, but there were some things about Razzie that screamed
DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!
I'm not talking about the post-prime look of a once cute girl--that can be ignored with the right amount of booze. It was the "social whore" remark, I think. Maybe it was a nearly imperceptible tremble in her lower lip, or the random sighs that would puncture pregnant silences.
"So where are you from Razzie?" I asked her.
"I come from Platteville, that's way down near Iowa," she said as she sipped her Bud Light. "But my family is originally from Minnesota."
I could pick out a slight Minnesota accent, but Razzie was doing a good job at hiding it.
"What brings you to our corner of the world?" I asked her.
"I got a job at a day care center. Work's hard to come by, y'know. I'm used to moving though."
"Oh yeah? Where else have you lived?"
Razzie thought for a moment. "North Dakota. I had a boyfriend in Oregon, and got my degree in child care out there...Los Angeles, Grapesburg, Detroit, Minot, Minneapolis, Eau Claire, South Hampton...I've lived in a lot of places. But I'd love to settle down. Maybe here."
"Glad you like it," I smiled.
"Are you a believer?" she suddenly asked me.
"In what?"
"In our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ?"
The question struck me as bizarre, particularly in a bar from someone not exactly sober. I'm a Catholic, but I don't really attend church. But I know that normal people typically don't ask that sort of thing after sucking down Jagerbombs and Bud Light. It's usually people who are gung ho about fire and brimstone, no-sex-til-marriage, God-hates-fags, and burning naughty records that do.
"Yeah, absolutely. I'm down with JC," I responded.
"Good," Razzie said and threw her arm around my waist. "Then we can copulate. And hasten the Second Coming of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ."
Say what?
At the time I thought that my ears were playing tricks on me. "Cold Sweat" by Thin Lizzy was blasting over the stereo and some drunks were shouting. But I know that's exactly what she said.
I was completely inebriated by the time we left the TA Grille. I can only remember the rest of the night as bits of dreams that bubble to the surface of the subconscious, glimpsed, distorted, and all too fleeting: Riding at maximum speed in Razzie's car; kissing her in Gatsby's to make her ex-boyfriend jealous; most of my friends were there; Trent playing pool against some drifter named Joe, and cleaning him out; Mark and Louie breaking beer bottles outside; climbing into Razzie's car; the radio towers drifting past as we drove north; the speedometer inching up to a hundred at times; a determined look on her face; her tight grip on my hand; deep, desperate kisses when we stopped at intersections.
Then I was sitting in Razzie's apartment. She was undressing me. I tried unlacing my shoes, but that turned out to be too formidable a task for my bumbling fingers. Razzie lit candles. Not just a few, but dozens. A huge portrait of Jesus adorned one wall of her living room. One of those Passion of the Christ type things, with the crown of thorns, and blood all over his face. More Halloween than Christmas or Easter.
Somehow, she got me into bed. I was lying naked on that bed, and she was trying to get me ready to copulate. Some guys are able to perform with a BAC of .20, but I'm not one of them. I've got to give Razzie major props: she tried. She tried really hard. But nothing happened. I only stopped her because I felt her trying to put a finger up my ass.
That was before I puked. I jumped up from the bed, ran to the en suite bathroom and blew chunks into the toilet. Sadly, I aimed a little too high: the stream of vomit hit the part of the toilet where the seat is bolted into the bowl. Vomit fanned out in a disk and splashed the walls. I doubt that a drop of it actually reached the toilet bowl. Razzie cleaned it all up without berating me.
*******
Where the fuck am I?
I looked around the room. All around was nondescript gray woods, a pale steel sky, and last year's green grass turned brown. I could have been anywhere. I noticed the female form lying next to me and struggled to put a name with the face.
"Razzie," I whispered.
She stirred. Still drunk, and not knowing where I was, I fell back down on the sheets. She tried to copulate again, with equally fruitless results. I just kept moaning about my head and pretending to be really out of it, which is not very difficult when you are still quite drunk. Finally, she offered to drive me home. After all, it was time for church.
"Let's copulate again, and conceive our Lord and Saviour!" she said as she left my apartment.
I didn't realize the significance of her driving me home until it was too late. It set my heart at ease because I didn't get a DUI, and that she did in fact live at least 10 miles away. But now she knew where I lived.
I tried to sleep off the hangover. That didn't help. I had some coffee and left over pizza, which gave me slight relief. Later I decided to go for a run.
My usual route goes down into the village, through the swamp, back up the bluff, out to the other highway, and then home via the back roads. The weather was warmer than the day before, but cloudy, much like my head. The pain departed in the form of sweat seeping through my sweatshirt. I ran past Mark's farm, listening to Black Sabbath on my MP3 player and thinking of my youth when he and I would prank call people from our class. Razzie was the last thought on my mind.
I was having a perfect run. As I rounded the last bend, however, and began running down the straight away to my house, my stomach lurched. Then cramped. I knew that I wasn't going to make it all the way home, so I ducked into a grove of red pines, and in relative privacy, unleashed a flood of diarrhea for the woodland creatures to enjoy. Then I vomited. I walked the last quarter mile home and promptly fell asleep.
My phone woke me up. Razzie had sent me a text, thanking me for the fun. Being loathe to text, I did not respond. Later on, she sent the same message. I just replied, "you're welcome." She tried sending me another with smiley faces to wish me a good night, and I didn't respond. I couldn't recall giving her my phone number, but she had it none the less. Dammit.
The next day brought many more texts. In the evening, she called.
"Hey, I'm at Gatsby's," she chirped.
"That's cool," I said. I took a sip off of my beer.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm watching a nature show."
"You should come up!" she suggested.
"I'm going to turn in early."
"Oh," she replied. Razzie sounded surprised. Well, it was only 8:30.
"I'm super high. And drunk."
"I could come and get you," she offered.
"No thanks, I'm pretty bushed."
"Aw, come on!" she pleaded, that Minnesota accent seeping into her voice.
Realizing that I just missed something interesting about honey badgers, I replied with a curt "no."
"Okay," she sighed. "See you later."
How about see you never?
"Peace out," I mumbled and got back to my show.
Many text messages followed, all of which were simply repeats of previous messages. I shut my phone off at 9:00. When I woke in the morning, I found that she had filled my inbox with forty texts. I deleted some, and more came in. Repeats. She called me that afternoon. "Are you home?" she asked.
"Yeah," I answered.
"Cool, I'll be there in a minute."
Fuck!
Before the Pontiac rolled up, my boss came by to go over my schedule. I asked him to hang around for a few minutes, which he did.
Razzie rolled up. I could sense my boss' eyes rolling as she stepped out of her car and threw herself at me. I back pedaled. She advanced. Where my boss was standing, it probably looked like a pretty amusing dance.
"So how are you doing? I thought that something bad happened to you I haven't seen you in forever."
"Two days," I corrected her through clenched teeth.
She asked several more banal questions, but mercifully, under the watchful eye of my boss, she gave up trying to get a kiss.
"Hey, we've got work to do!" my boss barked out at me. I was never so happy to hear those words. Razzie left.
******
I met up with Sam that evening. He kept giving me crap about Razzie.
"Your boss told me that he saw you and your hot new girlfriend this afternoon," he laughed.
"She's not my girlfriend," I protested. "How could you and Trent just stand by and let her take me home?"
"Dude, you said that if anyone cockblocked you, you'd kill them," Sam said, raising his hands and smiling.
It's true. Last fall I was making out with some attractive girl from Chicago on the beach, and this chump named Milton showed up and interrupted us. That's when I instituted a no-cockblocking policy, punishable by death. And I was pretty serious about it.
I went home, expecting to enjoy a book. Instead, I got more texts:
I DONT WANT RELATIONSHIP JUST UR SEED
WHY DONT U CALL ME
PLZ CALL ME
I JUST WANNA CONSEEV
These were repeated many times. I shut off all the lights in my house and shut the curtains. It could have been the pot I had smoked, but I felt certain that she was watching me. As I didn't have to work the next day, I decided the best way to deal with the situation would be to call Mark.
"Mark, hey man, what are you up to?" I asked.
"Not much. Just watching South Park."
"Mind if I swing by? I kind of need to lay low for a while."
Mark understood. After all, he lived on his own forty acres. His parents gave it to him when they retired to Arizona. He also inherited a lot of money from his grandparents. Having no children and a cushy job as a rural mail delivery man, Mark poured (and still pours) all of his money mainly into becoming self sufficient. He is constantly paranoid about someone, anyone, coming to deprive him of his property and freedom. Razzie would never find me at Mark's place, and even if she could, the farm was surrounded by razor wire topped fences, and according to Mark, land mines.
I walked over there and we spent the night drinking absinthe and shooting guns until the early morning. In the rays of dawn and the afterglow of absinthe, Mark grew pensive.
"I just can't seem to find a good girlfriend. I would just love to have a girl to share my life with. Just a good, wholesome girl," he lamented.
Mark's my friend. My slightly evil, extremely paranoid friend. And friends help friends, right? While I knew that Mark generally despised religion and had no desire to have children (he boasts that he's been responsible for at least 4 abortions), that didn't mean that he wouldn't find some common ground with a certain female.
I gave him Razzie's number along with a glowing description of her physical qualities. He didn't remember her from the bar, so I showed him her Facebook page. "You might dig her, Mark," I suggested.
Friends tend to play silly jokes on one another as well.
*******
Razzie never called or texted me again. I have no idea how the courtship started, but when Mark didn't show up at the bar a few nights in a row, I started suspecting that he had made contact. When he reappeared, he confirmed my suspicions.
"I've gotta thank you for introducing me to Razzie," Mark slurred. "I didn't expect to find such a girlfriend."
"You're welcome," I told him. I really hadn't expected that he'd go through with it and call her. And I don't know how the hell they found any common ground, but they certainly did. I was astonished that it had gotten this far. Had she already asked him if he believed in the Lord and Saviour? They had definitely copulated, but had Mark given her his seed? Had he helped her conceive? Sam and Trent were thoroughly amused, and praised my efforts to add some excitement to Mark's life.
*******
Something had been bothering me since that night with Razzie. To be specific, I had picked up a bad case of crabs. I was pissed that Razzie game them to me, and embarrassed that I had set Mark up with an infected woman. I wanted to call him and warn him, but I knew that it was too late. All I could do was shave my crotch.
It's never good when the cops contact you in the middle of the night. In our neck of the woods, drunk driving and drug use are the most common causes of death for young men. There they were, the sheriff and another officer, banging on my front door at about 3AM. They had found Mark's truck totaled near my house, but not Mark. They asked questions about Mark which I couldn't answer. I hadn't even seen him in days. As soon as they left, there was a meek knock at my door.
Mark was in a terrible state: his leg was broken, one side of his face was horribly bruised and cut, and he kept blinking his eyes. By hiding Mark, I would be an accomplice in his crimes, but after all, Mark is my friend.
"Are you drunk?" I demanded, once I got him settled into a chair with an ice pack.
"No, I mean...not really. I had some wine," he mumbled.
Not just wine. That was evident. "When? And what else did you have?"
"It was about 8 o'clock...and a Viagra, and half a roofie...and some Special K."
Viagra and half a roofie. That was Louie's sex party cocktail, but Mark is known to partake sometimes. The combination gives one a "rhino horn," to quote Louie directly. It didn't take half a brain to guess who Mark had been banging. The cat tranquilizer seemed excessive, however, even for Mark's tastes.
"Where's Razzie?" I asked. I was angry that she would let Mark drive in such a state, even though Mark would drive despite anyone's entreaties.
"Hopefully far away!" he snapped. "She doesn't know where you live, does she?"
That gave me a jolt. I had to lie. "I don't think so."
"Good," he replied and slumped in the chair. "I gotta get away from her..."
"I think that you should worry about the cops, Mark," I suggested.
"Call them! Call the fucking cops! Get them over here right now! Make them arrest me! I don't care!"
"What is this all about, Mark?"
"It was supposed to be for the Lord...our Saviour...help her conceive...she just doesn't understand...doesn't believe in birth control, I'm cool with that, just use a condom, y'know...but I went in raw, finish bukkake style, but I wouldn't do it...I couldn't do it...she wants a child, she wants the coming of the Lord...wouldn't give her my seed...so she put me in the K-hole...to milk my prostate...the Logspitter...8 inches, vulcanized rubber, Astro Glide...couldn't stop her! Goddamn, the harlot of Eden!"
I fed Mark several shots of vodka, and thankfully, he finally passed out. When I was sure he wasn't going to wake up, I went outside to smoke a cigarette.
In the light of the early dawn, I noticed the Pontiac glide by, just slow enough to get a good look at my apartment. I went back inside, bolted the door and loaded my shotgun. No way was she going to come and take my seed.
*******
Razzie steps out of her car and walks up the steps to her apartment. Her heels thud on the soaked wood steps. She's moving slow. It's past bar close, so she's well over the legal limit. Hopefully less sober than me.
I wait until she stumbles in the front door before I leave my car. I shut the door slowly, and nudge it until it catches and holds with a click. I stand and listen. Only the dripping of water off of the wet leaves. It's too cold for crickets or frogs.
I cross the road, moving quickly on the balls of my feet, then across the gravel driveway, staying in the shadows. Upon reaching the apartment building, I flatten myself against the wall. My heart is pounding so hard that I'm afraid that will hear it.
I jaunt up the stairs, but fall flat on my face on the last step. I jump to my feet and clamour to the end of the deck. I hide behind a big gas grill. What the hell am I going to say if someone comes out and sees me? Oh, I'm just here to play a trick on Razzie? That's why I'm dressed in black, carrying duct tape and a hunting knife? Luckily I have ketchup. That would help me plead insanity.
No one comes, but I'm actually not surprised. After all, these people have been drinking all night. Their senses are dulled, and some of them might be copulating. The thought makes me stifle a laugh; things always seem funnier when you're jacked up on adrenaline.
I inch along towards Razzie's apartment. The screen door opens with a creak. I wince. I try the door knob. If she's anything like us trusting locals, the door is unlocked. And it is.
The door swings open. The first thing I notice is the humid, warm air. Quite a relief from the cold air outside. Only a night light illuminates the living room, partially revealing the Jesus face on the wall. I can only imagine how a child would run screaming from such a gory picture. Razzie's going to be one hell of a bad mother. I pray to the tortured Jesus that she's sterile.
I set up five black candles in the center of the living room. With the ketchup, I lay a thick pattern in the carpet. The bottle farts as it struggles to produce enough ketchup for my demands. I have to get conservative with it as I finish. It's actually quite surprising how much ketchup you need to draw a pentagram with a seven foot diameter on a plush white carpet. In the glare of the night light, it really does look like blood.
I step between the ketchup and light the black candles. The apartment lights up. The scene strikes me as profoundly absurd: black candles marking the points of a ketchup pentagram illuminating a wall sized portrait of a tortured Christ, in an apartment filled with the items of an average girly girl. But there's work to be done, so I begin reading from a random page in the Necronomicon in a loud voice.
"Zi azag ga kanpa! Baxaxaxa baxaxaxa!"
Razzie stirs in her bedroom. All I have to go is get her to come out here and see this. Then leave. I open to another page, one that I have marked. Something she'll understand and fear.
"I summon thee, creature of darkness, by the works of darkness! Infest the lair of this slattern!"
All at once, there is a thumping noise coming from Razzie's room. I pause, smiling under my ski mask. At any moment, she'll burst through that door and find me. Oh, what a surprise she's going to get!
But the thumping just continues.
"I summon thee, creature of darkness, by the works of darkness!" I bellow. "Infect her womb with your seed!"
More thumping. And Razzie's voice.
"Yes, yes...give it to me."
I don't want to draw more attention from the neighbours, so I decide not to create a greater disturbance. Leaving the pentagram, I tip toe over to Razzie's room. The door is slightly ajar, and it's much darker in there, but it is illuminated by some ambient crimson light.
Oh, Razzie and her exquisite lighting schemes! Why am I not impressed?
"Yes, fill me up, big boy!" Razzie moans. "Help me conceive!"
I can't make out what is happening, but I don't have to. A large form rises and falls with the rhythm of the thumping and Razzie's moaning. Someone is copulating with Razzie. Someone huge. I squint to get a better look, but all I can notice is that he is a giant of a man with long black hair. How did I not notice this guy come in?
He thrusts faster and harder, freezing at full depth as he finishes. Razzie squeals in pleasure. Suddenly, the man's face turns to me. Though I can't seem them, I can feel his eyes upon me, burning with hatred.
I bolt out of the apartment as fast as I can and fall down the slippery stairs. When my feet roll onto the ground I instantly start running for my car. I turn around and look across the street, but the man is right behind me, and fully clothed. In the darkness, it appears that his feet don't even move. I run past my car and into the woods.
A root catches my foot. I fly through the air, and land on a rotting stump. My mouth fills with dead leaves and mud. I turn over to get to my feet, but the man in black is standing right over me. He stares down at me, his black hair hanging around his face like a shroud, obscuring the features.
He plants one huge boot on my chest. Opening his trench coat, he pulls something out of his pocket. I shut my eyes, anticipating a blow.
A lighter flicks. I open my eyes to see him coolly smoking a cigarette. He takes a drag, the ember revealing his hideous, aquiline nose in a sinister orange glow.
"It is finished," he says in a deep voice.
With that, he turns and walks away, further into the woods. I watch him as he walks, only his cigarette visible as a bobbing speck of red, until even that is melts into the darkness.
*******
I sat outside of Razzie's apartment, crouching by my car for several more hours. I waited until dawn to leave, too afraid that the man in black would come and find me. But nothing happened. And neither was there any motion from Razzie's apartment. I went home, and tried to forget about the incident. Part of me was too scared to think about what had happened. Who was that man? Will I some day be charged with some sort of crime? I kept waiting for it to come down on my head like a bucket of piss, but nothing of the sort happened.
Razzie vanished from our corner of the world. Later that afternoon, I checked Facebook, only to find that she had deleted her profile. A cautious drive by and subsequent recon mission with Trent and Sam failed to turn up any traces of Razzie at her apartment. Within a week, it was rented out to some new tenants.
Mark never talked about Razzie again. I've been loathe to bring up the subject. Come to think of it, even I haven't broached the subject of Razzie to anyone. She only rears her head when Sam chides me about my expert crabs cure. Shaving my pubes and dousing the area with aftershave apparently doesn't do anything. I had to go to the community heath center, get probed by a stocky nurse, then prove to said nurse that I could successfully apply a condom to a wooden phallus, before being granted industrial strength shampoo. But the first day I noticed no more signs of crab infestation, I knew that I would never have to worry about Razzie again and the healing could begin.
*******
About a year later that I was in the line at the grocery store. In front of me, a single mom with four screaming children was taking her sweet time checking out, arguing with the cashier over expired coupons and trying to keep her brats in line, utterly failing at both. At such moments one can only find sanctuary in glancing at the absurd tabloids sitting amoung dull fare like Soap Opera Digest and E-Z-Meals.
The cover of one tabloid featured Bigfoot, aliens, and Sollog's latest prophecies amoung others. But it was the little picture of a plump girl in the upper corner, sitting despondently across from tike in a crib, that got my attention. Computer generated flames had been added the crib, and someone took the liberty of adding horns, extended canines, red eyes and claws to the infant. It was your typical tabloid bullshit, and not very well done. And though the girl's hair was dyed a crude brown, she had a scar on her chin and huge eyes. The head line read:
I GAVE BIRTH TO THE DEVIL'S CHILD!