Echo Lawrence: Kissing my mouth, Rant tells me my showerhead is brass instead of chrome. From the smell and taste of me, he says I sleep on goose-down pillows. I have a coconut-scented candle I've never lighted.
Lew Terry (Property Manager): The only occasion I entered Mr. Casey's apartment was with our standard twenty-four-hour notice to enter premises. Rumor was, he kept pets. My first look around, I didn't see nothing. A mattress on the floor. A telephone message machine. A suitcase. In the closet, hanging, are those blue coveralls that were the only clothes you ever saw him wear. Clean or dirty, Casey smelled like poison.
If somebody says I took anything, there was nothing to take.
Echo Lawrence: I didn't let Rant kiss me because he smelled my food. I kissed him after seeing how gentle he treated this huge fugly spider. As we sat there in the backseat of the Eldorado, he unzipped the pocket of his coat and reached one hand inside. He opened his fingers to show me the biggest monster spider. Slowly turning his hand over, he watched the spider crawl from the palm to the back, perched on the big veins.
Both of us looking at this monster spider, I say, "Is it poisonous?"
Shiny, not hairy. Legs thin as eight jet-black hypodermic needles, the spider bends all eight knees, lowering itself to touch Rant's skin.
This spider looks as ugly as I feel.
And Rant says, "I call her Doris."
Lew Terry: It's there, in the back of Casey's closet, lined up on the floor, I find the jars. Different sizes of mayonnaise and pickle and spaghetti-sauce jars, clear glass and washed out. At first they look empty, but I unscrew one lid. There's nothing inside, but when I go to put the lid back, on the underneath side of each lid sits a huge black spider. Huge, grizzly bastards.
No matter what anybody says, I didn't take anything. Not money or anything.
Echo Lawrence: Our breath fogged the car windows, but, watching that spider, neither of us could breathe out. The moment Rant breathed, the spider had bit him. He inhaled, and I inhaled, and Rant said, "Roll down your window."
I opened the window.
Leaning across me, Rant stuck his hand into the night air. Shaking the spider into the bushes next to the car, he said, "Good night, Dorry."
Leaned across my lap, his hips pressed into mine, I could already feel the effects of the black widow spider venom.
Todd Rutz (Coin Dealer): About the same time the Casey kid was selling me coins, I met Lew Terry. Terry used to bring me a few good specimens. If I recall, a 1910 Indian Head quarter in extremely fine condition. A 1907 Liberty Head quarter in AU-50 condition. Nothing spectacular, but I bought them. It wasn't until the police interviewed me that I found out Terry and Casey lived in the same apartment house.
Echo Lawrence: As Rant's lips move down my throat, I challenge him to smell what type of birth control I'm on.
As his lips move down my chest, Rant says, "None. You had your period thirty-four—no—thirty-six hours ago."
When I said "down my throat," I meant on the outside.
Todd Rutz: This Lew Terry character, it's obvious he's a born Nighttimer. Pale. His face and hands clear as the skin he was born into. Always he wore the same oily-brown trench coat and a knitted kind of brown stocking hat pulled down too far.
Echo Lawrence: "Besides," Rant says, "why would a virgin use birth control?"
Todd Rutz: One night in my shop, this Terry character offers me the Liberty Head and the Indian Head and tells me he needs to see fifteen hundred dollars out of the deal.
Echo Lawrence: Of course I was a virgin. With this twisted little branch for an arm. Half the time I couldn't tell, but I'd be drooling out one corner of my mouth. The palsy side. With my job, I'd made a cottage fucking industry out of being as unappealing as possible. Do you think I could just vamp it up? Snap my fingers, and go from sideshow freak to sex kitten?
Todd Rutz: Time passed, and the Casey kid would turn up with lesser and lesser coins. Buffalo nickels. Wheat pennies. Nothing worth remembering. His stash had to be running low.
Echo Lawrence: The next night, Rant sent me two dozen red fucking roses. And the keys to a Galaxie 500.
Shot Dunyun: Those bullshit rabies shots took forever. It didn't help that I kept reinfecting myself with my own toothbrush. By the end, my port went as dead as the knob on the back of Rant Casey's neck. Beyond dead.
Lew Terry: The only other detail I remember from Casey's apartment, stuck on the wall next to his bed, I found all these little lumps. Round and dark, like bugs. Soft, like little balls of hashish. Except they didn't taste like hash.
Echo Lawrence: Our first night alone in the Eldorado, all I could think was: Thank God the leather seats are dark burgundy.
24–Werewolves II
Vivica Brawley (Dancer): See how, my one foot, the skin looks smooth and white as a bar of soap? Before the attack, I used to have beautiful feet. Tons of men said so. Didn't matter was I naked, all I needed to do was slip off my shoes and some customers would fork over their tip money.
Phoebe Truffeau, Ph.D. (Epidemiologist): At the height of the Peloponnesian War, in 431 B.C., Thucydides wrote of a plague that spread north from Ethiopia, through Egypt and Libya. In Athens, the citizens suffered fevers, sneezing, and a violent cough. Their bodies glowed red with lividity, until thousands threw off their clothing, and an unquenchable thirst drove them to drown in the deep, cool water of public wells and cisterns. The city-state was demoralized, its navy crippled. This is how measles destroyed the civilization of the ancient Greeks.
In the first century B.C., a virulent strain of smallpox drove the Huns west from their homelands in Mongolia, toward Rome. For Napoleon's Grand Army, the ultimate foe would be the bacteria Rickettsia prowazekii, otherwise known as typhus.
Our greatest civilizations have always been destroyed by epidemic disease.
Carlo Tiengo (Nightclub Manager): Viv? Mind you, back then all the dancers boosted some effect to stay high, at least while they were performing. Most our dancers indulged in an opiate effect the club knew to provide.
Not exactly legal, mind you, but easy to make. Somebody gets high—an actual, primary high, shooting or snorting—then they boost some packaged episode, let's say a Little Becky transcript. They out-cord their experience, then we run a subtraction equation on that script to strip out the original Little Becky. What's left over is pure opiate effect. A wireless high. Just a rush we can narrow-cast on the stage, looping it so the effect never lets up. A dancer steps into that feel-good spotlight and she won't have a care in the world.
Phoebe Truffeau, Ph.D.: In 1347, England was a nation of grain farmers, cultivating and exporting corn. That year, Italian traders arrived in Genoa with the Black Plague, and by 1377, one and one-half million English were dead, as much as a third of the population. Because agrarian labor was in such short supply, the entire economy switched from producing corn to raising sheep, and the English feudal system had been destroyed.