MEMP’IS
BOOK
SIX – “MEMPHIS, TENNESSEE”
(Sunday
{Venuday}, January 7, 2035, and After)
Norlin... who lolls on the King's barberchair,
now - spent, eyes downcast, vision flitting across the rust-speckled plane of
the King's ghastly mirror, limbs awry… suddenly Kruppe's
massive contour inhabits the doorway… the reflected Lieutenant scratching his poxy cheek with the skimmer in one fist, massaging his
groin with the prancer in his other. "Well, boy, you did run us ragged,"
he allows... a rictus meant to pass for victory's genial aftermath creasing his
blotchy, soiled features. "Made a
run for the border, didja... heh
heh… well, it's over, now, so why don't you just hand
over that what's in that purse in your pocket and we'll call it even. Hey, you can stay here, if you want. Move in!
Place seems to agree with you..." Kruppe
shrugs.
Norlin strains to lift himself, but only topples into the
King's sump again, splashing on his hands and knees before the contemptuous
Lieutenant. "Don't try it," Kruppe warns, training both guns on the back of the
Corporal's neck, "it's all the same to me, shooting your lights out and
taking the fex for myself… for myself, and for the
rapture of Becoming! It's over, Norlin... all of this!... look
around. Just as Triple-J foresaw, we're
embarked upon the new, terminal phase... an eternity of silence and seamless
curvature, hard work, respect for money, sinuosity and the law. Perfection on earth, Norlin,
imagine… like the earth! Just take that fex
from your pocket slowly... oh hell, what motive do you have for compliance,
nothing left inside, Norlin... couldn't make it past
me to the crapper and, even if you could, do you think the damn thing would
flush? Jates -
no!... hey, I'm doing you a kebbin'
favor!"
He
sighs again at the waste of it all - life and liberty, "health," he
chuckles, "and security, and property.
Never over til' the fat man dances..."
the Lieutenant brays and then, weak as he's become, Norlin
can fairly see the red thing-poison scooting through the veins of Kruppe's face and neck.
The Lieutenant lifts one foot, then the other, in a sloshing shuffle,
croaking "…it's now, or never!"
The clicking, booming chorus
that answers ain't the kebbin'
Jordanaires – not even the Sweet Inspirations!
Still, it's only as he's
preparing to blow Norlin to Kingdom Come, that Kruppe sees his own destiny loom up in the goblin glass of
the King's Mirror... phibes!
Crawling
through the window... behind him... opening wide those preternatural,
Arsenal-fashioned jowls to...
CRUNCH!
The
foremost phibe... nearly wholly bufe
and spotted with toxic warts... takes Kruppe's head
between its jaws like a kid biting off the crook of a candycane
on a snowlovely Christmas morning - both guns fire
widely, missing Norlin but exploding Elvis Presley's
dark mirror into a million glittering starbursts, just as the Lieutenant's
skull implodes in a spray of red and a dribble of gray brainmatter. Aspid and Germany
Smith jostle each other, trying to be first out of the bedroom... Chet does
fire off a retreating shot but, with a malevolent smirk, the phibe retreats - its Trouble Factory prey still twitching
in hooked, amphibian claws. Its
confederates swarm to hoist the Lieutenant's body over Graceland's windowsill
and push it through the bent, ruptured security grate and its biting, slashing
roses. And then, only
the retreating volley of booming and clicking, snarls and ripping flesh hint at
the obscene banquet transpiring below the window, above Graceland's front door. The two surviving policemen creep back,
weapons drawn, eyes darting… sloshing towards the Lounge Room…
Where
Norlin has scrabbled forward, sprawling across the
King's commode, fingers fumbling at Reason's purse, drawing it forth, at
last...
The
Veronica...
Norlin's fingers close around the thick white turd... he
holds it up, dangling it before the Intelligence Chief.
"I'll
drop it..."
"Don't
be a fool, Corporal," Germany advises, sweating copiously despite the
moist, January chill of Memp'is. He awkwardly transfers his heater right hand
to left, wipes his brow, and stares incomprehensibly at the blood smeared
across his palm...
"Am
I?" Norlin looks up. "A
fool? Whose fool am I?" A crazed suspicion flits across the membrane
of his mind... "when I am dead, Germs, will Skark cut me open to retrieve and sell my fex?" He tilts
his head, worriedly. "Where is Skark? And how did
you kebbin' swiffs lose my
criminal? Disapparated...
you say?"
"Sort
of," Chester Aspid blurts out. "He was sprung from out of his cell by
this giant, yellow cube that floated through the air, and through the wall...
that cube looked confused, too, than it disapparated,
with the suspect inside. It was a
confused cube."
"How
does a giant, yellow cube appear confused?" Norlin
asks, still holding the Veronica over Elvis Presley's fexxer...
"You
had to see it," Aspid says, wiping sweaty hands
on his shirt. "It moved aimlessly -
and, after it vanished, it did so with sputtering... and sparks..."
"Maybe,"
the dying Corporal rasps, "the human resonance that is impossible to
express is, nonetheless, expressed by the essence of its elements - be they
Elvis, or the new credulity which evolution adorns. A life-sized Dead Sciences
center. Maybe the masses no
longer desire to play or hear your old mushrooms for, everywhere,
their contours make us gag..."
"You're
crazy," the Intelligence Chief retorts.
"Crazy as any of those zooks we used to
route down to you in Crazy Squad!"
He brandishes the heater, sniffing… "something
burning?" he ventures…
In
the King's bedroom, behind the two men from the Trouble Factory, more long,
damp shadows cross from wall to ceiling... phibes...
lots of phibes... have slithered through the rose
palisade. They are massing, creeping up
behind Smith and Aspid...
"Maybe..." Norlin
grins, forcing his right hand to wobble six inches closer the toilet, until the
Veronica is fairly suspended over the foul sludge in the bowl.
"Now
you're asking for it," Smith bridles, training the heater on Norlin and firing off a beam that scorches two fingers off
the Corporal's hand - with a great PLOP and two smaller plinks, the fingers and
the huge, white fex drop into the bowl. Norlin reaches up
with his left hand, and a fusillade of lead, condensed resonance and congealed
light from Smith and Aspid's weapons tattoo his neck,
face and chest.
Shuddering,
Norlin grasps the tiny handle of the King's crapper -
looks eastward, out the bathroom window as the opaline
fog dissipates, revealing an impossibly, incredibly blue horizon; hears the
scuffle and shrieks as phibes take the Intelligence
Chief from behind, sees the seared, mutilated Aspid
sloshing back through the mire, back towards the hallway and Sykes' boat tied
to Graceland's dock... knows (somehow) that the mutilated Sergeant will make it
all the way back to Jatesland, witness to a Becoming
that even an ocean of Mex-American retirement tequila will never purge from his
dreams. Sees a phibe
look up with half of Germany's face between its teeth - and the green alpine
hat, and its little, white feather floating amid so many blackfeathers
and greenfeathers; the blood and rosepetals
in a zigzag and swirl of the toxic, sullen Mississippi beneath the sun and moon
and the faces of Henry Hat, Jates and Mondretto... smells the fumes descending from the attic
through widening cracks in the King's ceiling… feels his own life streaming
from a dozen punctured, scorched and imploded wounds, pulls downward...
There
is an unholy shudder of ancient plumbing... a trembling rippling from America's
Standard to the vast, receding corners of the King's bathroom. The walls vibrate, mirrorflakes
tumbling from the ceiling as giant fissures spring from the ancient cracks in
Graceland's facade.
In
Tupelo, an old, cold shadow... mission accomplished... settles into the center
seat between Fred Cook and an almost-jolly Homer Sack as the solar engines
begin rumbling...
The
dark, viscous water of the King's latrine swirls, presciently...
The
counterclockwise stir of gravity tips the Veronica upwards like a paintbrush
(or the torso of an exclamation point ! ), rotating
crazily in the King's bowl...
Far
to the south, at riversmouth, Peg Reilly keeps watch
over the comings and goings of malicious malefactors; Terushka,
in chrysanthemum pajamas, naps soundly, across a hillock of murdered geese. In dreams, a contrite Hitler pushes pfennings across the counter of a Solar Furnace daystation, Monsignor Goodwine impostored by a warm, blue
electricity. In his vast, chilly
penthouse, Stephen Stimwood ponders, stares intently
at a goosequill pen... formerly property of Kings... which lurches to an
upright position, and writes:
"It is fundamentally irrational to expect
human resonance..."
And
another phibe in Graceland's doorway holds up Captain
Sykes' fishing pole...
And
the Corporal lowers his head onto the rim of the commode, shuddering and
coughing bloody phlegm from shredded lungs and tonsils as the white fex disappears into the maelstrom; the King's palace
crumbling in its act of decomposing back into the trillions of tiny, limestone
skeletons from whence it arose. And,
seconds before Graceland's flaming attic crashes down upon him, C-Squad’s czar
gazes eastward, out through the King's Lounge Room window and into a suddenly
blue, blue sky into which a fiery projectile ascends... Norlin
beholding that lonely, solar eagle bearing hopeful pilgrims on a course from
Tupelo Jatesport towards their New Plasmic Becoming with Triple-J's celestial host... that
murder of placid angel escorts with great, black wings, swooping in graceful,
linear majesty across the kernel of the sun.