chartreuse moth

the club was alive. teenagers--reminding me how old i was. i was a difficult teenager. a hitchhiker. a bum. in my mid-teens i had a habit, and by my early twenties, i was a full blown starfighter. 

it's easy to get stuck in plagues. blink your eyes and over 9000 years pass. often i wonder if things would have been different if i didn't thumb my way to the crescent city, eat from garbage cans, and play music to a ceaseless lonely moon. perhaps we should all be like that desolate orb, lifeless, drifting...

all the punishment i've done to myself. there are no woes outside my own design. most people blame this or that, but i accept failure. it's all i've ever known. 

i thought the storm would scare away the kids, but they showed up in force. budding sexuality and braces.

drink away your teeth. turn the music up too loud. discover new gods in the middle of the night. with jagged fingernails, tear off the soft flesh. claw it aside. it's past bedtime. the lambs howl at the moon with friendship ponies. genetically i am falling apart. breakfast club dice games and spicy bloody marys. you know i'm a gambling man.

Working

Here is a look at the novel I am working on. 

In the binder is the first draft, pounded out during a nanowrimo exercise a few years back.  I failed by one day, hitting 50K words in 31 days, not 30.  On each page I keep track of what happens in every paragraph, what point of view (POV) each chapter is in, and what major plot points occur during the section.  I also look for type-os, leaps in logic or continuity, and anything else wrong in the rough draft.

The index cards on the left are character sheets, notes concerning everything I reveal about each player during the story's unfolding.  This helps me see their arcs without all the story distracting me from their paths.

The long cards above the binder are notes and questions I ask myself while reading the draft.  Sometimes there are things I need to add or subtract, and this is where those thoughts wind up.

The short cards on the top right are outlines.  Each chapter gets its own card, and on that card is a map of how the section unfolds.  By using these cards, I can move around the chapters if something needs to happen sooner or later; if I need to add a chapter, there is no problem--just fill out the info on a card and insert wherever it needs to go. 

I work with a revolving system.  I will pound something out from an outline and then put it away for a while, let it simmer while I cook something else up.  When the time is right, I return to the work and begin this editing process.  The simmering time is different for each project.  CONVERSION PARTY took ten years of edits, cutting, adding, and recycling before I decided it was time to publish. 

If a story comes to mind while I am in serious writing mode on something else, I will make a detailed outline, and put it in the idea book.  CRYPTID ( a Bigfoot/Skunk Ape story, wink, wink), is something that is outlined but put up comes to mind.

What are some ways you write or create your art?

Bounty

Pat pushed open the Pale Horse Saloon’s swinging double doors and entered the dim building’s dusty belly.  His boots clumped on the wooden floor, echoing through the smoky, liquor-drenched air as he approached the clean shaven barkeep polishing a glass tumbler with a white handkerchief.  By flickering candlelight, Pat caught a glimpse of his reflection in the long mirror adorning the back wall.  He flipped two gold eagles on the bar; well-versed in the business, Pat knew some barmen tempered their wares with turpentine or passed off cheap tequila in fancy labeled bourbon bottles, but he hoped the generous coinage would win a quality product.

“Whiskey, two glasses, three fingers.”  Pat rubbed his bushy mustache as the lanky barkeep fetched the order.  Barely thirty-one, frontier life and bartending at Beaver Smith’s had made Pat’s face wise.  Still handsome, an edge in his eyes betrayed a part of his soul carefully tucked away.  Gambling, heavy drinking, and being on the right side of the fastest iron coarsened Pat so that inside he felt as rugged as the surrounding New Mexico Territory landscape.  His scars illustrated a wild lifestyle, but the star affixed to his chest cemented authority.

The barkeep filled both tumblers halfway with the amber liquid.  “Anything else for ya tonight, Sheriff?”

Pat took the bottle from his hands.  “This will do.  Ready another.  I’m drinking with the boss, and we both know how thirsty that white liner gets.”

The barkeep palmed the coins and pulled out another bottle from under the counter.

Pat grabbed the two glasses and headed to a corner table where a squat man sat, smoking a thin cigar and drinking beer.  He set the filled tumblers in center of the table, beside a nearly burnt-out candle on a small circular dish; white wax spilled over the rim, pooling on the table.  “Mind if I join ya with a little white eye, Pete?”

After another long drag of his cigar, Pete nodded and let blue smoke spill from his nostrils.  It twisted and undulated, vanishing into the dark air.  His Christian name was Pedro, but he changed it to sound more American after taking over his father’s ranch and surrounding buildings in Fort Sumner.  Pat worked for him a few years back and found Pete kind, despite his penchant for whiskey.  Though two years younger than the Sheriff, Pete looked older: a receding hairline and a crooked, decaying tooth complimented his sun dried skin.  Despite everything his father bequeathed, Pete could not escape time or bad habits. 

It was same for every man. 

Pat sat across from him, resting the uncorked whiskey bottle beside the tumblers.  Pat slid one of the filled glasses forward, taking the other and raising it up.  Pete returned the gesture.

“What are we drinking to, Pat?”

“To health, Pete.  To health.”

As soon as they finished their shots, Pat refilled the glasses.  “Where is he, Pete?  Where you got him hid?”

“You got the wrong pig by the tail, Pat.  He’s not here.” he said, never taking his eyes off the whiskey in front of him.

“I’ve heard he’s been lurking around Fort Sumner past few weeks.  Hiding in these parts like some fat dog tick.”  Pat raised his glass and the men knocked back the shots.  Pete lit another cigar, Pat poured another glass.

“What you’re up to is bad business, Pat.  Leave him alone and go back to Lincoln.  Get behind a bar; go back to Apolionaria, she’s a good wife.  Let that man roam the wilderness where he belongs.”

“That’s no man, Pete.  He’s a monster.”

“Call him what you will, let’s drink.”  Pete raised his glass, clinking it midair against Pat’s before downing their shots.  This time, Pete poured the next round.

Pat leaned back in his chair.  Years of bartending conditioned his liver—he could hold liquor as long as Atlas held Earth, but serious work was at hand.  He needed to keep a clear head.  “Really, Pete, how many men has he killed now?”

“Not as many as they claim.  It’s all corral dust.  I wouldn’t put much stock in anything those rapscallions say.  With that mark Governor Wallace put on his head, lots of lips have been flapping lately.  Seems like money makes men liars and traitors ‘round these parts.  Seems to turn friends against one and other.”

Pat ignored the jab.

“Word around the campfire is that he’s got a soft spot for your sister.”  Pat studied Pete, searching for any tell.  “She back at your place?”

“Leave Paulita outta this, Pat.  Her business is of no concern to you.”  He swallowed hard.  “We gonna drink or not?”

“In a moment.  Pete, when I worked for you, I gave my all.  You were a good boss, and I know you’re a good man.  Your father raised you right, proper.  You tolerate Billy, but he’s on the wrong side of the law.  When Lincoln County appointed me as Sheriff Kimbell’s successor, I swore to restore law and order.  I intend to keep that oath. The last thing we need is a killer glorified into some kind of hero in the newspapers.  Makes others want to take arms, start trouble.  This territory is filled with enough vigilantes and rustlers.”  Pat lifted his glass.

“You’ve been bringing down the Regulators,” Pete said before draining the shot.  Pat held his.  “But Billy is another matter.  You’re a decent shot, Pat.  That’s true.  Billy’s aim is from the gods, though.  Against him you’re dead, and death don’t look attractive on any man.” 

“Listen here, Pete.  There’s more at stake here than you realize.  I’m not gunning after him just because of the money.” 

“I’m sure that sweetened the deal though.  Build your name up in politics and line your purse—sounds rather Republican to me.”  Pete’s words were becoming slurred around the edges.  He filled his glass again.

“I’ve been tailing him for seven months, getting to know what and who he knows.  Billy is like a black-tailed prairie dog, always burrowing, always hiding.  He’s slippery, and he has friends all over, helpin’ him hide.  He’s a folk hero to ‘em.  They think he’s in the right, killing those men.”  Pat drank half the whiskey in his glass.  Pete motioned to top him off but was halted with a wave of the Sheriff’s hand.  “After he escaped from the Lincoln Courthouse, I started hearing rumors about him.  Not the kind of things from the papers either.  Things no God faring man has any business saying.”

“Them rapscallions,” Pete said, “they’ll say anything.  Like women after church or a whore after a tumble.”

“That’s what I thought at first too.  Then there were more and more stories about the carnage Billy was leaving.  Stories to ice blood.”

“What stories?”

“Some cattle had been mutilated around Taiban, ‘round where Billy’d been sighted.”

“Cattle?” Pete leaned forward.

“The ranchers whispered it was the Kid, that they’d seen him late at night, killing the livestock.  They all blamed an Indian living near Stinking Spring where we nabbed the Kid last December.  That Indian’s an old Mescalero shaman named Espemez.  He’s a pariah, his tribe drove him out, claiming he was tapping into bad spirit world energies.  The hill folk call on him from time to time when they need services that are…outside of the white man’s capacity, if you follow.”  Pat paused.  “If medicine isn’t helping, or an old cowboy needs to fix his impotence, Espemez has a cure.  Or if someone or someplace is being haunted....”

Pete laughed.  “Haunted, as in ghosts?”

The sheriff did not smile.  “Story goes Billy gets the old Apache to perform some sort of ritual, giving him…powers.”

“Powers?”  Pete snorted.  “Pat, you’re an educated man.  I’ve heard you tell some whoppers over a tipple, but this…  A man’s life is on the line.”

“I told you.  He ain’t no man.”  Pat leaned back, tugging his mustache.  The wooden chair creaked under his weight.  “Truth be told, I didn’t believe it at first.  Thought Billy just cooked it up himself to scare locals so they would stay out of his way.  Me and a few of the boys rode to Stinking Spring and found that old redskin’s camp.  The horses were spooked when we came up on it.  They wouldn’t go near, so me and Deputy Mason and Frank Stewart left the horses with Jim East and Lee Hall as we came up on what was left of the shaman.  Billy made short work of Espemez.”

“Don’t sound like the Kid to shoot up some Indian, especially after seeking sanctuary,” Pete said, fumbling with the whiskey bottle.

“No.  Weren’t bullets that killed the Indian.  Espemez had this look of terror on his face, like he died frozen in horror.  There were marks on his face and throat—marks from no animal I’d ever seen.  Not tracks around either, just boot prints.  There wasn’t a drop of blood in that man.  Not a drop.  This…this smell hung around the camp, like death but worse, and we all felt like something was watching us.  Pete, I can’t tell you the relief I felt when we skinned out of there, and you know I’m no coward.”

Pete smirked.  “I’ll drink to that.” 

Letting his gaze fall across the bar, Pat saw an old grandfather clock beside a silent piano.  The face read 8:31 as the pendulum swung back and forth, a metronome counting mortality. 

“We came up on this little church near Taiban Spring.  The walls reeked with the same stench surrounding the shaman’s camp.  We found the priest, his body broken, marked up the same as the Indian.  ‘Cept this time it was worse, like the killer took time to enjoy his work.  Not much left of preacher man’s face.  Again, no blood anywhere.  Just those same boot prints…heading west.  Towards here.”

Pat finished the shot.  Pete chuckled.

“That’s a good one, Pat.  Had me going a spell.  When you get done hunting the Kid, you should write this all down.  Might make you a rich man.”

“Dismiss it if you’d like, Pete.  You don’t have to believe me.  But you should know we just found some more cattle.  They were ripped apart—worse than the others.  He’s losing control, Pete.  Not just murdering, but destroying.”

“Why should I care?” Pete looked away from the sheriff.

“It was your cattle just marred, Pete.  It was the Kid, swear to Christ.  He is coming here with that soft spot for your little sister.  He’s coming here, Pete.”

Pete furrowed his brow as sweat beaded across his face.  For the first time fear simmered in the rancher’s eyes.  “The Kid has been around.  I’ve heard him and Paulita late at night, talking in whispers.  I know he’s dangerous to other cutthroats, but he’s always been kind to her.”

“He ain’t the same happy-go-lucky man you knew.  He’s something else now.  If you’d seen the destruction he’s left behind his trail, you’d want him shot too.  Why protect him?” Pat asked.

“Seems like the world’s changing faster than I’d like to admit.  Every year, more law comes down on us.    I suppose it was inevitable, but I miss this country’s freedom.  I miss the way things were.”  Pete shook his head.  “I guess I protected him because I was protecting the past.  Sounds silly, but it’s the best I got.”

“I’ve come to you as a man, Pete.  Out of respect for my old boss, my pal.  I’m going to your place.  I’m going to wait for the Kid with Paulita, and when he shows, I’m gonna end his godforsaken life.  I would rather your permission, and I would despise your scorn, but I am the law.  I’m going with or without your consent.”

Pete rested his palm flat on the table and sighed. 

“Thanks for coming to me first, Pat.  It means a lot.  I love Paulita.  I never want any harm to come to her.”

“Me neither.  I want the killing over.  Stopping the Kid is the best thing for this great territory.  Paulita is in trouble, Pete.  Your little sister.”

“If you feel the need to protect her, by all means.  I would consider it a great service.  Her room is in the southeast corner, ground floor.  I’m already half-drunk, so I’ll just be sitting here, finishing what I started.”

Pat nodded.  “Finish the bottle.  I got another one waiting behind the bar.  Thank you, Pete.  I’ll see no harm comes to Paulita.”

Pat rose, scraping the chair’s legs on the floor as he stood.  Pete grabbed the sheriff’s right arm, halting his exit.  “I don’t want to be remembered as a coward, Pat.  Or a traitor.” 

Pat pulled away…

The sheriff rode through the July night towards Pete Maxwell’s ranch.  A coyote wail wafted in the wind and somewhere, close, an owl answered, the soundtrack to stars glimmering overhead.  Pat dismounted his steed, hitching her on a post outside of Pete’s white fence.  From his saddle bags, he produced some rope and held it by his side.  The home looked quiet, the only light burning in Paulita’s corner room.  Pat entered the yard, stopping in front of her room.  He took a gulp of the night before entering unannounced.

Paulita sat up in her bed and whispered, “Billy?”

"¿Cómo estás, Paulita?" Pat said, thankful he’d arrived before the Kid.

Paulita gasped and started to leap out of the bed, but Pat moved like a rattlesnake, throwing his weight on her as he covered her mouth with his sleeve.  She tried to bite his arm, but his duster muted the attack.  Ranch experience and a taller frame made him no match for the fighting beauty.  She squirmed as Pat roped her down, tying her to the oak bed posts.  He gagged her with his dirty red bandana, deliberately making it too tight so she could not scream.  After securing her, he was able to see Paulita in the dim gas lamp light.  Straight dark hair fell past her shoulders, and her large brown eyes watered as she flopped like an injured scorpion on the bed.  Pat pitied the woman—her only crime was loving a creature of darkness.

Pat turned the wheel at the gas lamp’s base, softening the room’s illumination.  He grabbed a chair by a desk and sat beside her headboard.  Paulita tried to say something to him, but he did not want to risk removing the gag so she could warn the Kid.  He stroked her lovely hair until she gave up struggling, and the room fell into an eerie quiet.  Time seemed to halt for the sheriff, yet his heart beat like the old clock back at the Pale Horse Saloon.

It was after midnight when Pat noticed the smell.  The acrid death looming over Billy’s victims poured into the room like cigar smoke.  Pat swallowed hard and drew his single action cavalry revolver and pointed it at the closed door, cocking back the hammer so it was poised to strike the first bullet in the cylinder.  Five chances to right justice and stop evil.  Paulita’s bedroom door slowly opened.  She squirmed as the door opened and Pat prayed she did not blow his cover—sweat poured down his back as he aimed.  When the door swung open, Pat had to suppress a scream.

In the doorway stood Billy the Kid’s unmistakable silhouette—the wide brim sombrero and tall, thin build—but his eyes were aflame, burning rubies glowing in the desert night.  The thing that was once Sheriff Pat Garrett’s friend paused in the door way, sensing something was amiss with the scene.  Pat noticed the Kid’s fingers were now elongated claws, poised to draw his Colt .44. 

"¿Quién es?” the Kid called into the room.  The words dripped with a jagged, ethereal quality.  “¿Quién es?"

Pat fired twice—the first struck the Kid’s chest, a shade above his heart, the second nailed him between the eyes, knocking off his hat.  The monster howled.   Its wraithlike bawl rattled the walls, and the Kid flew out of the room.  Pat rushed to the doorway in time to see the fiend’s radiating crimson eyes rise up, up into the New Mexico night, becoming swallowed within the infinite blazing stars until they were nothing, nothing at all. 

One of Pete’s ranch hands, dressed in pajamas and carrying a pistol, ran towards the sheriff.  “Is everyone all right?  Sounded like an animal attacking.”

Pat raised his revolver and squeezed off two more shots.  The man fell, crumpling on his side in fetal position.  The spilling blood creeping outwards from the ranch hand’s body reminded Pat of the candle wax at Pete’s table in the saloon.  He scooped up Billy’s sombrero and tossed it on the body, sighing.     

Still tied to the bed, Paulita thrashed about.  Pat returned to her side and pulled down the gag. 

“Bastard,” she said.  “How could you shoot him?  He was your friend.”

“My fried died a long time ago.  I don’t know what has been visiting you, but it wasn’t Billy.  You’re a lucky woman, Paulita.  He could have ripped you apart, left little pieces for your brother to bury.”

“He would never harm me.  We were going to leave together, head to Old Mexico after he made peace with Wallace.  He wanted to see you next Wednesday, make peace with you as well.”

“Hogwash, there was never going to be peace and you know it.  If he did take you with him, he would have damned you too.”  Pat began untying her, a sadness welling in his heart.

“Billy will kill you for this.”

Pat looked towards the body outside.  “He’s already dead.  He died here tonight.  That’s what we are going to tell everyone.  Kid’s smart.  I pray he’ll take the cue, stay gone.  Hopefully that monster will take what’s left of his soul and that smell of death and vanish forever.”

Paulita rubbed her wrists, red and swollen from the rope.  “Sheriff, the only monster is you.  There is no difference between you and him, except he actually stood for honor.  You, you only stand by yourself.  He’ll never be gone, sheriff.  Never.  And from now on you’ll have to look over your shoulder.  You’ll never shake that smell.  It will follow you on the trail, all the way down to hell, sheriff.  That is your fate.”

Pat looked out into the night.  Pete was right, the world was changing.  And no man can escape time or bad habits.  No man.

LOGO Contest

A while ago, we had a contest looking for an official logo for MEOW PRESS.  We are proud to announce our winner, BETHANY HILDEBRAND.

Here is her winning entry:

We thought this logo summed up everything MEOW PRESS is about.

Congrats, Bethany!

Got the cover to CONVERSION PARTY, the screenplay/novel coming out from PULPWOOD PRESS, and I wanted to share it.

Working on proofs, making sure the interior is on point, and the book will be available soon.

Acedia

… and I can’t get up…, groaned an elderly lady while clutching to her chest and flopping around on TV.  Jimbo smirked and changed channels.

“This is gonna be so awesome.”  Ted buttoned up a shirt covered in martini glasses with floating, toothpick-skewered olives and drink shakers.  “I’m gonna get so many girls this week.  I’d better go back to Chicago with at least three STDs.”

            Jimbo, sitting on the hotel room’s bed by the wall, stopped the rapid-fire channel surfing and rested the remote control in his lap.  “You’re not getting any pussy, so quit kidding yourself.”

            “Not getting any pussy?”  Ted plopped down on the bed near the window and look out at Panama City Beach’s emerald waters and sugar white shores.  “Do you see this view?  This pastel scenery is the panty pull down, Jimbo.  We didn’t drive a thousand miles and turn our backs on all that snow to watch Bible Belt TV and jerk each other off.”

            Jimbo snorted.  “You’re not sexy enough for me to jerk you off, so don’t creep into my bed when you come home drunk and horny and alone tonight.”

            Ted rolled over and faced his roommate.  “Wait, you’re not coming to La Vela with me?”

            “Afraid not.”

            “Dude, it’s the largest nightclub in the country—this is why we saved our money for the past year.  There is going to be so many chicks, no, so many HOT chicks in that place…  I bet there will be two girls for every guy.”

            “Not really interested.  I’m going to sit here, watch TV.  I might hook up the PS3 in a little bit, shoot some cowboy zombies.”  Jimbo returned his attention to flipping through the channels.

            …if erections last more than four hours, consult your doctor…

            “Not really interested…  It’s a damn shame, man.  I don’t get you.  I thought you were going to be fun.”  Ted zipped up his board shorts and put on his sandals. 

            “Hey, don’t let me spoil your good time, Ted.  Go out.  Catch syphilis.  Do what you got to do.  Spend your Spring Break whoring and whatever, but I need this time to do, ya know, nothing.”

            “You don’t do anything at home but study, work, and sleep.  Now we’re here, it’s not long until a magical Florida sunset, and you’re still being lazy.  You’re missing your life, man.”

            “I’m not missing shit.  You do your thing, I’ll do mine.  It works back in Chicago, it’ll work here.”  Jimbo stopped on the Weather Channel.  “I love watching the weather when I go on vacation.  The map looks all weird.  Look how much blue is on this one, man.  Hard to believe that there is that much ocean out there.”

            “It’s not an ocean, it’s a gulf.  All right.  Fine.  Be a stick in the mud.  I’m going to go to a seafood restaurant, eat oysters till I have a permanent hard-on.  Then, I’m gonna hit the club, get sloshed, and hit on every twirl that my eternal erection points at.  My cock is gonna be a sexual divining rod.”

            Jimbo laughed.  “Really?”

            “When I bring some hard body back here, you’d better vacate.  Are you picking up what I am putting down?”  Ted crossed his arms.

            “I feel ya.”  Jimbo sighed.  “Just not on my bed.”

            “If I get any on your sheets, I’ll let you know before you climb in and get semen between your toes.  I’ve been eating a lot of bananas lately, so there’s no telling how much coverage I’m gonna get when I explode.”

            Jimbo rolled his eyes.  “And here all my anthropology studies led me to believe that cavemen were extinct.”

            Ted bounced around the room, grunting and pounding his chest.  Jimbo turned up the volume on the television.

            “All right, I’m out of here.  There’s cocktails in the little fridge, and if you feel like getting social, I have my cell on me.  If not, when we get back, I’m telling everyone how gay you were down here.”  Ted opened the hotel door, allowing warm afternoon sunlight to spill into the darkened room.

            “Whatever,” Jimbo said.

            “Later, loser,” Ted said, slamming the door as he exited. 

            …foggy, with highs in the upper 70s.  There is only a 20 percent chance of rain this evening, but those numbers increase as we near the weekend…

            Jimbo shook his head, flipping the channel away from the weather.  An hour later of cartoons and tourist television showcasing local restaurants and bars, he still had not found something worthwhile.  He glanced over at the unhooked Playstation 3 on the dresser beside the television.  It would only take a minute to plug in the power and RCA cords, but he didn’t feel like getting up.  He stopped the channel on a cooking show and rested the remote on his chest.  His eyes began to droop…

            …for only 19.95.  And if you call now, we’ll double your order, free of charge.  But that’s not all.  Sally, tell the viewers at home what else they’ll get when they call now…

            When he roused, it was dark outside.  Car horns and spring breakers’ hoots and hollers wafted from the gridlocked main drag, Front Beach Road.  Despite offensive gas costs, cruising the strip was a Spring Break must; a longtime tradition on the World’s Most Beautiful Beaches.  Jimbo thought about walking the strip but yawned, sliding his hand down his pants and grabbing his penis.  He started imagining the pretty red head that sits next to him during American Government.  The previous week she came to class wearing a black dress that showed off her ample cleavage.  He imagined her crawling into bed with him, sliding out of the black dress and pressing her soft, pale breasts into his chest.  Flaccid flesh was giving way to an erection when Jimbo sighed and stopped.  As the urge to get off evaporated, he pulled his hands out of his pants and resumed flipping channels.

            …Try the new triple jalapeno burger with our new double beer battered potato and onion curls…

            Stomach rumbling, Jimbo rolled out of bed.  Beside the phone was a thin magazine advertising places to eat.  He flipped pages until he saw a pizza place and considered ordering his favorite—ham and pineapple—but calling the restaurant and talking with some dumb kid seemed like too much work.  In fact, a lot of things seemed like too much work for Jimbo lately.  He’d been pushing himself hard in school: 5 classes, fifteen credit hours, a full-time job flipping burgers—the past semester and a half left him burnt out.  Worse, he was uncertain how to apply the Philosophy Degree to the real world.  Jimbo feared his fate was tied to a fast food nightmare.  Serving French fries and soft drinks to ungrateful assholes was the epitome of burning in hell to Jimbo, and he had no desire to be an old man with the devil watching over his shoulder.  He needed to relax before his head exploded, so he changed into swim trunks, grabbed a towel, and headed for the hotel pool.

            It was early dark, and the pool, surrounded by a chain link fence, was deserted.  As Jimbo pushed his way past the metal gate, he read the rules posted in block red letters on a sign affixed to the fence: (1) shower first, (2) no pets, (3) no glass, (4) pool closes at 10 p.m., and (5) no running, horseplay, or yelling.  He spread out the beach towel on one of the plastic lounge chairs by the deep end before plopping on it.  Tall shrubs blocked the view of Front Beach Road’s traffic, but the mirthful sounds of students temporarily free from higher learning’s bondages reached the pool.  Jimbo wondered if the laugher and hollering were loud enough to ripple the water.

            His eyelids began to close…

            The gate slamming snapped him back to the pool.  A slender blonde wearing a black bikini and carrying a neon orange beach towel walked along the deck, choosing the closest lounge chair to roost.

            “Hi,” she said.  Jimbo could smell her perfume as she kicked off her flip flops.  “It’s a beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

            “Sure is.”

            “I just love Spring Break.  It’s, like, the best party of the year.  Did you travel far to get here?”

            “Chicago.”

            “Wow, that is a drive.  We came down from Louisville, Kentucky.  My girlfriends and I, that is.  I had to leave my cat, Belphegor, back at my apartment, but I have a neighbor taking care of him.  He’s a sweet kitty.  Do you like cats?”

            “Yeah, they take care of themselves.”  Jimbo stretched, looking back towards his room and missing his privacy.  He yawned.  “God damn, I feel so sleepy.”

            “How can you be tired at a time like this?  You should be going nucking futs.  My girlfriends, like, wanted me to go have sushi at this place we saw on the way in, but I don’t like Asian food or raw fish.  I’m more into hamburgers and fries, ya know.  I don’t even know how to hold them chopsticks.  Say, what are you doing down here all alone?  Don’t you have friends here?”

            Jimbo cleared his throat.  “Yeah, I came down here with my roommate, but he went out.  I really needed some rest.  This semester has been a bear.”

            “I hear you there, buddy.  I’m in four classes and bartending at night to make it all work.  Sometimes I’d rater just drink beer all day instead of go to class, but, ya know, college is all about pushing yourself to be better.”  She giggled.  “You should come take a dip with me.”

            Jimbo’s eyes widened and darted towards the blue water.  “In the pool?”

            “I’m too scared of sharks in the sea.” 

            “It’s a gulf, not a sea out there.”

“Whatever.  Now that it’s dark, there’s no telling how many man-eaters are swimming around, waiting for some tourist to dive in and get nommed.  I’m in no mood to be dinner for Jaws.”  She walked over to the pool and dunked her toes in.  “It feels perfect.  Let’s go for a swim.” 

            “I don’t know.  I’m not much of a swimmer.”

            “Aw, come on, Chicago.  You’re only young once.”  She stepped off the ledge and splashed into the deep end.  Jimbo wondered if hotel security noticed she didn’t bathe first.  When she resurfaced by the ledge, she brushed wet hair from her eyes and smiled.  “This feels great.  Come on, Chicago.  Come swim with me.”

            “I don’t know Kentucky.  I really don’t feel like it.”

            “You mean to say you don’t want to splash around with me?  That kind of, like, hurts my feelings.”

            “Well, I don’t mean to offend.  It’s just that I am so tired.”

            She shot him a sly look and untied her top, throwing it at him.  “How about now, Chicago?”  She pulled herself up on the pool’s ledge, flashing her breasts for a second.  “I hope you have beads…and a condom.”

            Jimbo swallowed hard.  “I—I really need to get back up to my room.  In case my roommate calls.”

            “For real?”  The blonde frowned.  “I was thinking we could have some fun this week.”

            “Maybe, if I see you around…”  Jimbo rose, gathering his towel and rolling it up in a ball. 

            She rolled her eyes.  “Whatever.  Well, I am in room 204 if you change your mind.”

            “Thanks.”  He hurried out of the pool area, letting the gate slam as he exited.

            …side effects may include: diarrhea, dry mouth, itchy eyes, and night sweats.  Ask your doctor today about the amazing healing power of…

            Once in the room, Jimbo tossed the towel on the floor before returning to his spot on the bed.  He thought about Ted and wondered where he would go if his roommate did manage to hook up with some intoxicated hussy.  Although Kentucky was attractive, he really did not feel like engaging her sexually.  Kissing, undressing, and screwing seemed like overexertion, let alone the idle banter and walk of shame following such a lurid tryst.  What if Kentucky attempted to transform the random, poolside encounter into something more substantial, like a long distance attachment or, worse, what if she made him the object of her obsessions and began stalking?  He shuddered at the notion.

            …on average, most people have no idea how to properly clean their bathrooms.  With new Miracle Bathroom Bomb, proven to eliminate 99.8 percent of all noxious bacteria and germs, you’ll never have to worry about…

            He turned the channel, ignoring an itch on his back.  Jimbo lacked motivation to scratch.  He just wanted rest, a break from reality and all of its pressures.  Solace is often found on self destructive paths, but Jimbo didn’t feel like drowning in drink, drugs, or women.  Hungover, arrested, or broken hearted sounded like too much work, and Jimbo was in a mood to do nothing.

            …and thanks to the Fat Away system, I was able to fit into those old blue jeans just in time for my reunion.  Now Cindy Lou is going to be so jealous when she sees me…

            The remote itched in his hands, but he sighed.  There is nothing you can do to combat the weather, only adapt to it.  Jimbo knew that was the sad truth to everything.  We were all stuck, one way or another.

            …as the situation became volatile, the President sent troops into the region in hopes they’ll bring a swift end to the insurrection.  In other news, recent fires in the area have been attributed to arson.  No word from the police yet on if they have a suspect, but the Bay County Fire Department has issued…

            He tried to release the remote, but his fingers wouldn’t function.  His phalanges revolted, and panic gripped Jimbo as his arm numbed.  His initial thought was that he was having a heart attack, but then he realized his whole body was tingling.  Immobile, he watched in horror as his legs melted into the hotel bed, the swim trunks and bare flesh taking on the texture and floral pattern of the bed spread.  His entire body sank—a glance down showed that his torso and arms were also dissolving into the bed.  He tried to call out for help, but when he opened his mouth nothing came out.  The bed kept swallowing as his hand fused with the remote.  Deeper and deeper he fell, until his eyes vanished within the folds where the pillows met the sheets.

            …tomorrow on the Morning Show: we will show you how to dress, eat, and think so you can be a more productive member of society.  We do the work, so you don’t have to…

Diluvium

* for KJT *

New to the group, Louis Morton wished he was driving the airboat.  Although the youngest aboard the vessel, Louis was raised maneuvering airboats through twisting Louisiana bayous during fishing excursions and gator hunting.  Being reduced to a passenger bored him, but having a job in such troubled times was a godsend.  Louis kept his mouth shut as the craft zipped south.

Ray Armstrong pushed the airboat’s right hand throttle lever back, dropping the engine’s loud growl into a grumble.  Encased in a protective metal cage to keep tree and body limbs from getting mangled, the propeller stopped and the johnboat bobbed in Lake Pontchartrain’s mellow waves.  In the distance, parting dense fog revealed crumbling skyscrapers rising from the water like jagged teeth.

“There she is, boys.  America’s first great ruins: New Orleans.”

“Man, feels like forever and an hour since we shoved off from Slidell,” said Peter Bechet.  “We’d get there faster if you let me drive the boat.”

Ray ignored him.  “We got ‘bout 20 minutes before we’re in the Old Intercoastal Canal.  We’ll take Saint Claude into the labyrinth till we hit Esplanade, then follow it down to Bourbon Street.  Sticking to the wide channels till we hit the Quarter should be the easiest, most trouble free route.  In and out shouldn’t take longer than three or four hours, so look alive.”

“I’ve seen it in pictures,” said Louis, “but I can’t believe it looks so ominous...like gravestones.”

Peter laughed.  “Wait till we get in the labyrinth.  You’ll just love all the gators, snakes, and nutrias trying to nip a piece out of your ass.”

“Nutrias?” Louis rubbed his five o’clock shadow.

“River rats, kid.  Used to be able to find them everywhere, but when everything fell apart, they were hunted for food and their pelts.  Now they just exist in New Orleans.  Place is infested with them.”  Peter cracked his knuckles and leaned on the elevated airboat seat.  “Before Hurricane Katrina destroyed the levees and flooded the city’s streets, they would pay people to kill them.  Kept the population down or at least manageable.  Since the Great Flood, they’ve bred as fast as these damned mosquitoes.  Like all the damned Swampies living in the ruins.”

“What about Ponchie?” Louis asked, looking at the dark water.  “Aren’t the Swampies afraid of getting eaten?”

“Ponchie?  The lake monster?”  Peter asked.

Ray laughed.  “No such thing, kid.  Some idiots caught sight of some oversized river catfish and cried wolf.  Stupid superstitious nonsense, all of it.”  He paused, rubbing the silver charm shaped like a feather around his neck.  “The worst thing out there is the Swampies.  Well, them and the pollution.  The whole damn place went septic after the city went under and the pump stations were abandoned.  In the old days, the ground was too damp to bury the dead proper, so all the graves were above ground.  The corpses would cook to dust in the humid air, but when the water came, they mixed with the sewage and turned poisonous.  Not to mention the fresh bodies from all the poor souls who couldn’t escape the deluge.  Like there wasn’t enough garbage floating in those inundated streets.  Now all that’s left is filth, yet the people in the labyrinth thrive.”

“How are they surviving in there?  What do they eat?” Louis asked.

 “People like that eat whatever they want.  Nutrias.  Each other.”  Peter smiled, exposing a mouthful of yellow teeth peppered with tobacco.  “Mainlanders.”

Louis started to say something, but Ray pushed the throttle lever forward, reengaging the airboat’s engine.  He sat back in his seat, silently cussing his boss and longing to drive the airboat.  The fog-clad buildings grew taller as the trio approached America’s Atlantis.

Fifteen minutes later, outside the first row of skeletal trees and housetops poking from the water above Saint Claude Avenue, Ray cut the engine.  “This is your rookie run, so before we enter the labyrinth, there’re some things we gotta get straight, Louis.  This is a salvage run—people pay a lot of money for unique artifacts.  Stay away from mass-produced tourist trap bullshit.  If I catch you even looking at Mardi Gras beads, you’re Ponchie bait, get it?  We need the bizarre, something unique that screams Crescent City.  We’re not looking for quantity, we need quality.  You find the right piece, we can leave with one thing and have good month.”

Louis nodded.  “Gotcha.”

Ray placed his arm on Louis shoulder.  “Also, keep your distance from the Swampies—if we even see any.  There was always madness in Creole blood, but now there’s no law keeping them in line.  No job is worth your life.”

“Don’t let the old man scare ya,” Peter said, flashing his holstered revolver behind his jacket.  “If the yokels give us any problems, I’ll shut them up real fast.”

“Easy, Bechet.  We’re in and out, no static.”  Ray lit a cigarette.  “Look underneath us, boys.”

Peter and Louis looked over the edge of their respective sides of the airboat.  Through murky water, the rooftop of a sunken house was visible. 

“How deep is it?” Louis asked. 

“Here it’s about…seventeen—maybe twenty feet.  As we get closer to Canal Street, that number decreases.  New Orleans is…was shaped like a cereal bowel.  The Vieux Carré was built before the levee system, on some of the highest ground, so the French Quarter was better protected from the floodwaters.  Problem is the city is constantly sinking, even still.  Nothing could save it from the ever-hungry swamp.  The storms kept coming, the lake and Mississippi River kept spilling over, and the ground kept sinking.  They say in less than twenty years the Quarter will be totally submerged. Every year more and more of it is swallowed up by the bayou.”

Louis could not take his eyes off the submerged building, imagining bodies floating silent and graceful underneath the boat, like betta fish.  “Why did they ever build here?”

“Greed,” Ray said.  “It was an inevitable city in an improbable location built on unstable ground as a port linking the center of America to the Gulf of Mexico.  This waterlogged wasteland was once considered the jewel of the South.”

“How could they let it fall if it was so important?”

Ray was amused by Louis’s naivety.  “Katrina was just the beginning of the end.  Subsequent storms made the damage worse and repairs impossible.  People remaining in the city formed gangs and kept out any attempt at order that wasn’t their own.  Eventually the government—before fracturing after the Market Crash of ’13—decided it was better to just let the city sink than to pour trillions into a lost cause.  Since then the Swampies have done a decent job of killing each other off.”

“We gonna see any today?” Louis asked.

Ray shook his head.  “Doubt it.  The real danger is Uptown, on the other side of Canal Street in what used to be called the Garden District.  Lot’s of action there.  We’re sticking with the Quarter today.  It’s safer than Uptown, but it’s still a cradle of weird.  Guess in that sense nothing’s changed since the flood.”

Ray piloted the airboat into the buildings, careful not to hit the throttle too hard.  Excess wake slamming against the buildings could draw out unwanted creatures or attention.  Deeper into the labyrinth, the ground underneath was higher, elevating the tightly lined rooftops above the water level and creating a complex maze leading to Canal Street, former downtown New Orleans.  The fog thickened.  An occasional bird call echoed through the flooded streets, and, once or twice, something splashed nearby.

The path curved before hitting Esplanade, a wide channel intersecting Saint Claude.  Ray pushed the rudder lever forward, turning the airboat left.

“We’re outside of the Quarter,” Ray said.  “When we hit Bourbon, we’re on the hunt.  If you see a place you want to check or something interesting grabs ya, we’ll stop.”

After passing three submerged streets, Ray pulled the steering lever back and the airboat turned right.  When they entered Bourbon Street’s narrow mouth, he slowed the craft.  Debris was everywhere.  As the airboat passed, flotsam clinging to the buildings bounced in the wake; a branch stuck in a wrought iron fence broke free and drifted towards Canal Street.  Many of the windows were shattered, and broken strands of Mardi Gras beads dangled from what was left of trees and fleur-de-lis fence post tops tall enough to breach the surface.  The waterline swallowed most of the buildings’ lower floors, but the second stories were dry. 

“I like that one there, with the gallery.”  Peter pointed to an ironwork balcony supported from the ground by poles.  “I think we can get up there and bust it open no problem.”

“You ready, kid?” Ray asked. 

Louis nodded. 

“All right.  Peter, you climb up first.  Louis, you’ll follow him.  You two be careful.  Sometimes there’s razor wire or broken glass on those galleries used to keep out pre-flood thieves and hobos.  You don’t want to get cut out here.  I’ll watch the skiff, make sure we don’t get stranded.  It should easy street, but,” he patted the walkie-talkie on his belt, “shout at the first sign of trouble.”

“No problem, boss,” Peter said.

Ray steered the boat to the gallery’s support.  Peter grabbed one of the posts and tied off the airboat.  Grabbing the ironwork, he had no problem lifting himself over the handrail.  After climbing on, he jumped twice, testing the gallery’s strength.

“No glass and she’s sturdy.  Come on up, kid.”

Louis swallowed hard and scrambled up the ironwork.  Slipping on the handrail, Louis saw the sinister water and panicked.  He started to tumble, but Peter grabbed him and hauled him over.

“Easy there, twinkle toes,” Peter laughed.  “I’m not swimming after you.”

“I—I—”  Louis steadied himself on the handrail. 

“You two all right?” Ray called.

“Yeah, boss.  Kid’s fine.”

“Quit wasting time up there, boys.  Sun’s gonna set, and I don’t want to be out here after dark.”

Peter gave Louis a little push.  “You heard him, let’s pop open this tomb and see how she smells.”  When a shattered glass door on the far end of the gallery wouldn’t budge, he smirked and kicked through with his steel-toe boot.  He extended an arm to Louis, waving him in.  “Baptism by fire.  Ladies first.”

Louis swallowed hard and stepped into the darkness.  Overpowering mold enveloped his senses as he cracked a long glow stick; it burst alive, radiating neon green.  Behind him, Peter cracked another, and combined they provided enough illumination to begin scavenging. 

“Looks like this building was once a house, not some dive bar,” Peter said.  “Look for bedrooms—sometimes you can score some antique jewelry or some vintage clothing.  If you find any unopened liquor bottles, grab ‘em.  They go for big ducats onshore.”  Peter looked around the room.  “You know, it’s funny.”

“What’s that?” Louis asked as he poked around a leaning bookshelf. 

“Back on the mainland, people are fighting each other just to eat, to keep roofs over their heads, and we’re in this toilet, grave robbing so some rich asshole can show off to other rich assholes.  If no one ever told you life’s a sick joke, here’s the punch line, kid.  Us.”  Peter opened a desk drawer and smiled.  “Jackpot.”

“What is it?”

Peter waved a stack of magazines in the air.  “Nudie books.”

Louis chuckled.  “You’re not serious are you?”

“Hell yeah, I am.  After riding around with you two jokers all day, these lovelies will help clear my mind.”  Peter rested them on the desk.  “Let’s check that hall.  Think I see some light.”

Leading the way, Peter followed the narrow hall until it opened into a large flooded courtyard surrounded on all sides by narrow arcades decorated with intricate ironwork railings.  In the courtyard’s center, the top of an ornate cement water fountain surrounded by withered trees reaching for salvation with crooked fingers laced with dangling beads protruded from the stagnant, brown water.  Several mildewed statues watched the visitors with emotionless scrutiny as they surveyed the area.

“Looks like a winner,” Peter said, pointing towards one of the effigies, a woman with flowing hair covering her bare breasts with her left arm.  “She’s probably heavy, but I ain’t afraid to hoist her up.  I think she’s close enough to the railing for me to reach.”

“I think it’s too much.  How are we gonna get her on the boat?”

“Watch a master, kid.”  Peter hopped over the rail.  Supporting himself with one arm, he leaned over and rested his palm on the statue’s head.  He looked back at Louis and smiled.  “I know who will be in my thoughts later when I retire with that literature I found.”

He wrapped his arm around the statue’s neck and tried to lift her up.  “Damn, she’s a tough broad.”

Louis laughed.  “Told you.”

“Look, not another word outta—”

The water underneath Peter erupted as a large alligator sprung out, grabbing him with its jaws and pulling him off the rail, both vanishing in the dark water.  Louis, stunned, saw the dark water bubble brown and then red.  When reality sank in, he ran down the arcade, screaming.

His walkie-talkie crackled.  “What in the hell is going on in there?  If this some kind of joke, I swear this is the last run you two will ever make.”

By the time the message was over, Louis was on the gallery, panting.  He looked down at Ray and stammered, “A gator got Peter.”

Ray looked at the water stretching down Bourbon Street and sighed.  “Get in the boat, kid.”

“What?  We can’t just leave him.”

“There’s nothing…there’s nothing we can do.  That gator is sticking him under something so he can rot, gonna be dinner later.  Now, get in the boat before it comes out looking for dessert.”

Louis glanced over his shoulder before climbing over the gallery and taking a seat in the boat.  He looked up at Ray and frowned. 

“Don’t give me that look, kid.  You know the score out here.  And he knew the dangers of these runs better than anyone.  Death is always a companion in the Big Easy.  New Orleans is the city of the damned.”

“Hey, you two,” a voice called.  “Stay outta there.  Stay outta that building.”  Ray and Louis saw a man wearing sunglasses and a tattered Saints ball cap leaning over an adjacent balcony.  Brown dreadlocks fashioned with hemp knots dangled past his shoulders.  He spoke with a Cajun drawl, and around his neck he wore beads with plastic crawfish dangling from them.  “There’s a monster gator in there named Ole Gus.  He don’t like visitors much.”

“Unfortunately we’ve already met him.  He got one of my men,” Ray said, his fingers touching his pistol’s butt.

“That’s too bad,” the Swampie said.  “You both pirates, eh, searching for something to bring to the mainland?  I got things, pretty things.”

“What do we do boss?” Louis whispered.

“We get out of here,” Ray answered.

“I got booze,” the Swampie said, lifting up a bottle of Absinthe.  “Liquor you can’t find on the mainland.”

“What are your terms?” Ray asked.

“Truce.  I call truce.  I want a ride out.  You get me to solid ground, and I’ll show you paradise.  All the bottles you want.”

“You gonna help us load?” Ray asked.

“Help ya load, help ya drink ‘em.  Whatever ya need.”

“All right,” Ray said, “truce.  The bottles for a ride.  Let us up.”

“Ray, I thought you said—”

Ray hissed, adding under his breath, “Shut it, kid.  Follow my lead.”

The Swampie threw down a rope ladder over the balcony as Ray piloted the airboat towards him, throwing anchor when he reached the trader.  Ray climbed up the rope, Louis close behind.  When they got to the top, the Swampie extended a hand.

“Name’s Amos.”

Ray shook his hand.  “I’m Armstrong, and this is Morton.”

“Haven’t seen you two around these parts.  Most pirates stay away from this part of town.  I guess they think it’s been picked dry, but there’s plenty left.”

“So where’s it all at?” Ray asked, crossing his arms.

“Patience, mainlander.  Follow me.”  Amos led them inside, to what used to be a bar.  Illuminated with candles, all the tables and chairs were piled up in a far corner.  Amos spit as he led them deeper.  “Just a little farther back now.”

Amos turned and started for a door.  Before he was out of the bar, Ray drew his pistol, shooting him in the back.  Amos crumbled, gurgling. 

“What did you do that for? He called truce.”

“Look, kid, I told you about the Swampies.  There was no way he was getting on my boat and turning us into a feast.”  Ray leaned over and scooped up the absinthe bottle from Amos’s twitching body.  “This is a fine start, but let’s see what else this coon ass has.  Here, hold this.” 

Ray handed Louis the bottle and, gun still in hand, opened the door.  Light poured in.  “It’s beautiful, kid.  And dry.”

The door opened into a spacious atrium, built on the second story above the waterline.  The glass ceiling remained intact; thick fog swirled overhead.  Overstuffed sofas and stand up ashtrays lined the walls.  Another door stood at the far end of room. 

“Must have been some kind of parlor,” Ray said.  “I bet this was a brothel in another life.”

“Let’s get out of here, boss,” Louis said.  “I don’t like it.”

The door opened, and Louis and Ray gasped as a woman with short black hair that stood straight up wearing a tattered grey skirt and a dingy blue blouse entered.  Crisscross stitches ran across her forehead.  Bones and feathers hung from her ears, and three decaying rats dangled from a rope belt.  A wild-eyed opossum perched on her shoulder like a parrot, and it stared, unblinking at Ray and Louis.  Barefoot, she silently sized up the two men. 

“We need to get out of here, kid.”  Ray lowered his gun.

“Just shoot her,” Louis said. 

“That’s Queen Kami, head voodoo priestess.  Offing her is bad ju-ju.”

“Bad ju-ju?  I thought you didn’t believe in any of this stuff.”

Ray gave him a desperate look and rubbed the charm around his neck.

Queen Kami motioned with her fingers.  “I see you have stolen from me before.  Don’t you know what is mine always returns?  Drop your weapon.  Come.”

Ray laid his gun on the ground, starting for her.  Louis turned to run, but another, tattooed and shirtless Swampie blocked the exit.  Ray, following Queen Kami, was already gone.  Regretting ever taking the job, Louis followed, escorted by the Swampie.

Inside, the only light came from three black candles atop an altar in the center of the room.  Queen Kami forced Ray on his knees in front of the altar.  She circled to the other side.  The Swampie vanished into a dark corner, reduced to bloodshot eyes reflecting in the candlelight.  Bloodshot eyes never taking their gaze from Louis.

“Down, Gumbo,” Queen Kami said and the opossum sprung from her shoulder and vanished in the darkness.  Queen Kami looked at both men.  “You have come to my beautiful city to steal, to bring relics of our peaceful, carefree past to your war-torn, troubled present.  Have we not sacrificed enough to the swamps?”

Ray was frozen in place.  Something big crawled across Louis’s feet.

“That is the way of nature: balance.  Something given, something taken.  You have fed my pet but killed my subject.  Although I see the balance, it’s not what I call equal.  Now, you have my absinthe.  But what do I get in return?”

“We will give you whatever you desire, your majesty,” Ray said.  “I have connections and influence on the mainland.”

The Queen smiled.  “You offer nothing.  New Orleans is everything I need.  It provides me with shelter, with food.  My friends are my family, and they are all here.  You feel the need to steal our energy, our soul, but New Orleans is not a place you can have.  New Orleans is not a place you can take with you.  It’s a place you is, no matter where you are.”

Queen Kami took off the rotting nutrias from her belt and rested it on the center of the candles.  She grasped a silver chalice from the altar and raised it in the air, chanting softly.  She took a sip from the chalice, and the candles’ flames changed colors, from orange and red to pale blue.  Ray whimpered as she picked up a gleaming athame.  With a swipe of her hand, his throat was slit.  Blood spilled on the altar, covering the nutria.  As Ray slumped over, the queen rubbed her hands in the blood and began stroking the rodent.  The nutria’s exposed ribs began rising and falling, and its legs began jerking.  As the creature rose, an eye slid out of its socket.  The rat leapt from the altar and scurried off into the darkness.

“A life for a life,” the priestess said, “and food for food.  We are even now.  Go, child.  Take the liquor to the mainland.  Do not return.  Tell others not to return, or they’ll suffer.”

Louis fled, racing through the atrium and bar.  On the balcony, he climbed down the rope ladder and pulled anchor, firing up the airboat’s engine and retreating down Bourbon Street.   Down Esplanade, following Saint Claude to the Intercoastal Canal, all he could think of was escape.  The closer to reality Lake Pontchartrain became, the thinner the fog surrounding the skiff.  Finally, Louis was out of the canal, and a great weight lifted.  He looked at the full absinthe bottle and the empty seats in the airboat and laughed.  It all seemed so worthless.

He stopped the boat and looked back.  New Orleans was no longer visible— just endless, foggy water.  He sat back and started to fire up the engine when the skiff began rocking.  He grabbed the side of his seat as tentacles broke the surface of the water and raised high above craft. 

An oblong head attached to a long slender neck emerged, and six yellow eyes locked on Louis...