Engravings
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr
Joseph S. Pulver, Sr. is the author of the acclaimed Cthulhu Mythos novel Nightmare's Disciple (Chaosium, 1999) as well as a strikingly original short story collection, Blood Will Have Its Season (Hippocampus Press, 2009), that nonetheless features homages to Lovecraft, Robert W. Chambers, and other classic authors of weird fiction.
Straight rain. Mean and murderous. Its eyes screaming for blood.
Denver faded 300 miles back. 300 miles of wet asphalt back. It could have been 1,000.
Rain. Mean and murderous — engraving the world with sheets of thorns. Rain. Screaming like the Old Man on a gin bender. Screaming like the Old Man before the belt and the fists.
Thirty years back. or it could have been yesterday.
This run was supposed to end in the desert, not in a ditch. But the clock pressed. Tick-tock/tick-tock. Like a boss with eyes that only said FASTER.
He needed coffee and a pack of smokes. Maybe some eggs and toast. and something other than this Bible-thumping Forever that poured out of the radio. A nice sexy waitress — not some upper-class package with radar eyes searching for money, but earthy — knowing, with blue eyes and a big butt that swayed. Not unkempt and worn, but nice and maybe with a little extra. And she would wink all-sexy-like when she refilled his coffee.
Rain — full throttle, carrying violence with each slap. Like the Old Man crossing the hardwood floor.
For the last 50 miles or every step he'd ever taken.
Broken. The knobs wouldn't work. He couldn't turn the fuckin' radio off or down. The wipers working overtime, fighting off this wallop of darkness.
He should pull over and wait it out. But he needed a smoke and needed to be warm. Wanted. wanted something to look at that didn't hurt his strained eyes. Wanted to hear something — someone other than Rev. James Theodore Ellison's promise to heal you if you sent him money. To be healed by money. That's what got him here. Got him on this road. Got him out this night. With The Package in the trunk.
He should pull over and check The Package. When he did that
365 miles back, almost running off the road, he heard it slam into the side of the trunk. Heard it thud. Jittery balljoints, shitty tires, and bad shocks — shitty-ass Pontiac junkbucket, new this thing never purred along Nirvana Road like a hot kiss; a Chevy would, "Ain't nothin' like a fine-ass Chevy glidin' top down in the sun. A fine candy-apple red one, not this black piece of crap." And that timetable. He was screwed if the Package was damaged. That's what Mr. Phoenix said. Promised. Stark as bloody murder with one look and few words.
But that wasn't his fault. Wasn't his fault Mr. Phoenix gave him this car. Made him drive on thin tires. Not in this shit. This was Mr. Phoenix's fault. Not that he could tell him that and live.
Mr. Phoenix and his red tie and his red stickpin! and the red cufflinks. Red. It stared right into your eyes. Drilling. Burning, hungry venom. Mr. Phoenix and his cats — five of them, four black as midnight, one smoke and fog grey. Licking his hands. Staring at you, right into your eyes. Drilling.
He hated cats. His Old Man had moved like a cat, slinky and graceful, even when he was oiled. Then the claws came out. Blood. Red. Red was everywhere.
Then. and now. Red.
All his life driving away from it. Fast. And here it was again. Waiting. If he wasn't on time. If The Package was damaged. Red. Waiting to let its claws out.
"Fuck all this rain. Pissin' like someone in Hell drank all the fuckin' beer in every shithole bar this side of the Mississippi."
If he had time he'd pull over and yank the fuse for the radio out. At least he could stop Rev. Set-aside-your-sins-and-ask-God-forforgiveness' moral deluge. But Mr. Phoenix said 11:30 sharp. Said he'd be waiting. Waiting. Red tie, tight and just so. Red stickpin! and the red cufflinks. And probably those fuckin' cats. Licking his hands. Sick-shit lettin' animals lick ya. All those fuckin' germs. Germs from licking their assholes. Might dress like old time money — all uptown, but he was fuckin' nasty. Nasty ass cats lickin' shit.
"Fuckin' treacherous cats. Yeowlin' like saxophones. Ballin' like that nigger music set 'em on fire." Should kill all the cats like they did back in Europe when they was burnin' the fuckin' witches.
He looks at the clock on the dash. 100 miles and less than an hour to make it there.
Raining. Harder. And Rev. James Theodore Ellison blatherin' like he knew it all.
And the Old Man, tellin' ya he knew it all.
And Mr. Phoenix actin' like he knew it all.
And this rain comin' down like the end of it all.
And those fuckin' cats and their hungry eyes, lookin' atcha like they wanted it all.
"Fuck-it-all! Gonna take my cash and hit some Mexican beach and score some nice Mexican pussy. Gonna leave all these wounded motherfuckers to their wounded neighbors and just lay there. No more in a hurry to get there. Fuck that." Outta the flame and into the wine. Bye-bye bullshit. I'm spendin' my days and nights in the shade. On my soft cushion — blue or green like the color of the water. Starin' at some sweet shang-a-bang-bang that don't wanna bring me down. Tomorrow there'll be sunrise and I'm gonna hit Sugartown without a problem in sight. Might even have a little garden where I can grow some of that sweet Mexican shit.
Sixteen hours of drivin' rain and barely a moment where it let up so he could pull over and take a piss. Sixteen hours behind the wheel with the clock following him. Pulling. Pushing. Mile after mile. Pushing. Prodding. Poking. Mile after mile. Minute by minute. Not even 50 minutes left and the clock wanting it to be over. And him wanting to be gone. And that bastard Rev. James Theodore Ellison sayin' The End is near — Bet the only thing he ever got near was the pink little backside of an altar boy. And the mean, murderous rain not letting up.
The flat ten hours back really put a dent in his plan, laid out all nice and straight. Fucked plans. Now all banged up and hollow. It seemed like it was last week and it killed any hope of stopping for dinner — some eggs and toast and hot black coffee would be nice, but. The rain and the clock and the flat killed at that. Left the day a victim. Roadkill, that got ran over and nicked and flattened and ran over again and again 'til it was pulp. Red. A red mess no one would stop for. No one would miss. Not even the clock.
He had a headache. Starin' through wipers killing themselves to beat off the rain hour after hour with no coffee and something filling his belly. He had a headache. Wanted to sleep. Wanted to eat. Wanted to wake up beside something warm and nice. And willing. Wanted this shit to be over. Now.
Wanted it to stop fucking raining. Let Mr. Phoenix build an ark and him and his fuckin' cats could sail off to one of those places like Babaluma or Zanzibar. He wanted this chapter closed and he wanted his money. Now.
If it would just let up and he could find a 7-Eleven or a gas station that hadn't dozed off into goodnight. Just one cup of java and a pack of smokes and he could make it 'til The End.
There'd be Mr. Phoenix at The End. Standin' there. With that stone, spider smile turnin' to poison and asking for The Package. Bet if it was still rainin' the rain wouldn't touch him. Bet he had red eyes under those thick black sunglasses. Come to think of it he'd never seen him, day or pitch black, without them. Albinos had reddish eyes, and Mr. Phoenix could — maybe? even if he was as black as the ace of spades, black as any old Mississippi bluesman with broken eyes filled with sorrow. Yeah. He had red eyes. Just like one of those hellfire demons in those creepy old movies.