Chapter Six (The Blog Novella)

“What in the hell are you talking about?” James asked, trying to decide if the amorphous shape in his doorway was a he, she or it.

He/she/it stepped into the light and repeated his/her/it’s statement.

“I want my goddamn novel back.”

Oh, Christ. It was Ms. Denon, that crazy little fuckster who’d been stalking him for the past six months ever since Up From Nothing smashed through the book listing charts and headed for the stratosphere. Denon wasn’t just certifiably insane. She was a horrid little bitch; sporting fried hair that looked like it’d just been electrocuted, wearing clothes that even a thrift shop would reject, forever stamped with a giant wart on the end of her nose that continually leaked pus. Not that she would notice the leaking pus running down her cheek, of course. Her face was nothing but a misshapen lump of ruined skin. James guessed he could slap this wretched bag of bones around until the cows came home and she probably wouldn’t feel a thing. Instead, she’d just stand there, lips peeled back in some sort of grotesque smile, asking where her goddamn novel was.

The phantom novel was her excuse for stalking him. At least that’s what she told the judge a while back when James had finally grown weary of her constant presence and had Denon arrested. She claimed James had stolen the idea for The Road To Dogwood from her and she wasn’t going to give him a moment’s rest until he acknowledged the theft and gave her what was due.

James sat in that courtroom, fighting the urge to break into lugubrious peals of laughter at the rich irony of the situation. Neither she or her lawyer or Mr. Black Robe behind the bench had any idea just how close this nutjob was to the real truth but that wasn’t his problem, now was it? Nosirree. His problem was finding a way to keep little miss “out of her mind” away from him, preferably as soon as possible. The judge pondered the situation for all of twenty seconds before granting injunctive relief in favor of James and against Ms. Denon who took the news rather well; aside from a sudden coughing fit which spewed green pus all over the few spectators who were sitting in the front row.

This was the first James had seen of her since court. He’d let his guard down and opened the door even though he had no idea who or what was on the other side. This was his punishment and, even as he backed up toward the phone on the desk so he could call the cops, he made a mental note not to open his door to a stranger ever again. He didn’t worry about Denon making any sudden moves...sudden moves had left her vocabulary a long time before. About the best she could do now was leave little puddles where she once stood. Avoid the puddles and you pretty much could avoid the worst she had to offer.

So Ms. Denon stood patiently just this side of the now closed door, mumbling to herself as she leaked, and James asked for a police officer to stop by the hotel for a little chat with the occupants of room 2121. Then he hung up the phone and waited for help to arrive.

“Ms. Denon, you know you cant be here. Why don’t you leave now and I’ll pretend I didn’t see which way you went.” James was in a magnanimous spirit this evening. After all, he was dressed to the nines and about to receive a prestigious award for his writing, at least half of which he actually deserved. The other half, well, that would just have to be awarded as some form of karma to a dead Vietnamese half breed, lying in a grave somewhere, probably under a half ruined hut in the middle of a rice paddy near Saigon. May it grease his skids a bit and make life in the ever-after perhaps a cinch better.

“Mumble, mumble, mumble,” was Denon’s response. Followed by “Give me my goddamn novel back.”

James sighed and limped over to the briefcase resting on the bed. He opened it and took out the dog eared copy of The Road To Dogwood which traveled with him everywhere he went. He let himself get within eight feet of Ms. Denon and tossed the book at her.

“Here you go, you screwed up piece of shit. There’s your fucking novel. Now get the hell out of here.”

The book smacked her in the chest and fell to the floor. She didn’t even notice but kept staring at the object of her obsession, her little black beady eyes gleaming with deep seated hatred.

“Fine, whatever. The cops’ll be here soon and you’re gonna spend the night in the hoosegow. And with any luck, some big, mean bull dyke will beat your ass until it looks worse than your face. After you get out, maybe, just maybe, you’ll leave me alone.” But there was no guarantee of that happening at all. In fact, it was more likely that she’d continue this cycle of behavior, over and over and over again. All he could do was have her arrested. She wouldn’t stay in jail forever, she’d eventually get out and, as a matter of course, she’d eventually find him. To look at her, one would think she wasn’t capable of organizing a trip to the bathroom without getting lost yet, somehow, she managed to track him down no matter how well he covered his path. This was gonna keep on keeping on forever and ever until the worthless skank finally passed on to that great tenement in the sky.

It was then the germ of an idea came hurtling out of nowhere and smacked him square between the eyes. Maybe there was a way to hasten her demise. His eyes widened as the scope of his thoughts grew and he began to realize this situation could very well be within his control.

He shot a quick glance at the popcorn tin on the desk. But of course. That was why Maria had looked so pensive earlier, the poor girl was lonely and in need of company during those times when he was away. James turned back toward Ms. Denon who, by now, had started quivering as if she was about to pitch a fit or something. Oh yeah, he had Maria’s company right here. He wasn’t sure if Denon’s head would fit in the popcorn tin with Maria but he was a resourceful guy and he knew he’d find a way to squeeze the two together. Hell, they might like it. He had no idea if Maria swung both ways but this was as good a time as any to find out.

He had a couple of hours before the awards dinner. The idea had definite merit. It had a win, win quality. He had a boner just thinking about it.

So it was that this year’s National Book Award Winner For Fiction gathered his wits, flexed his muscles and launched himself at his prey, covering the ground between he and she with as much cat like precision as a one legged, half drunk cripple could muster. Fate, however, intervened. He was half way to Ms. Denon’s neck when the cop that’d been called earlier finally showed up and knocked on the door.

“Oh shit,” James said before he twisted to Denon’s side and smashed into the wall instead of her. After all, it wouldnt look too damn good for the cop to walk in and see the vic trapped in a full nelson special. Despite the ruckus, Denon stood stock still, mumbling and quivering, even after the cop entered the room and wondered loudly what all the fuss was about.

James quickly regained control of the situation and it wasn’t long before his nemesis was in handcuffs, being led out the door by an officer of the law who clearly thought there was more to the story than what had been told. James watched her go and even waved bye bye.

Yeah...bye bye you fucking bitch, you’ll get yours soon enough because now he knew what to do the next time she came a calling....in the meantime he had an awards dinner to attend.

********

Five hours and seventeen shots of vodka later, James stumbled through the hotel lobby doors and into the cold night air. Well, that was a shitload of fun, he thought to himself, I really need to get plastered more often, I don’t know why I ever stopped.

He’d been the life of the party, the joke telling Good Humor man who kept everyone in stitches with his innate ability to find laughter in life’s pathos. The reading itself hadn’t gone quite as well as he’d hoped; by the time they got to him, he’d had roughly twelve shots of social lubricant and everything, including the words he was reading, kept shifting focus at the most inappropriate times. Still, he got a polite round of applause and a helping hand off stage when it was all said and done. He ended up over in a corner of the room with his own special handler who, while not letting him mingle too much with the other guests, did manage to sneak him a few more shots of vodka before the guy who put the whole thing together finally threw him out of the room altogether.

Christ, what were the papers gonna say in the morning? He could see the headlines now, “Former Drunk Now Drunk Again” or maybe “Souse A Louse At The National Book Awards Dinner”. He leaned against a nearby light pole, a solitary figure on the street corner, suddenly reliving what had just transpired over the past three hours and now realizing he actually hadn’t been that funny and the people who were laughing weren’t necessarily laughing at the jokes.

He leaned back as far as he dared, still using the light pole as support, and glared at the stars twinkling in the sky, far above.

“Oh God, what the fuck have you done to me?” he whispered, trying to focus on at least one star and failing miserably. He draped one arm around the pole and hung his head, trying to keep the ground from spinning like a top. This was it, he was done and all that was left was for someone to clean up the mess. He had one scream left and then it was nothing but bison balls from here on out. “I SAID WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE TO ME, YOU WORTHLESS BASTARD??!!”

“I didn’t do anything to you, James...and I’m not a bastard either”, came the reply, from somewhere behind him.

“What the fuck?” he cried, snapping his head up and suddenly wishing he hadn’t. The earth shifted at least ten feet and it was only through a miracle of geometrical dynamics that he didn’t collapse to the ground in a stinking heap. “Who’s there?”

“Why don’t you turn around and see?”

So he did and nearly fainted.

She was a vision in white. She stood in the middle of the street, arms raised slightly from her side as if to bestow a blessing. Her features were beyond description except to say they inspired equal parts of fear, loathing and love as he gazed upon her. His pulse, pounding before, was now strangely quiet. His brain, scrambled before, was now strangely cognizant. His eyes, blind before, could now see.

The world had stopped moving, for the time being, and they were alone in this place. Alone, together.

“Who are you?” he whispered, no energy left to scream.

“You asked a question. I am here to answer.”

“Are you God?”

“More or less....more like a Goddess than a God....but I don’t care much for formalities. You may call me Christina.”

“Ok. Christina. Why have you done this to me? Why have you ruined my life? I once saved people, a long time ago, saved their damned lives”. He winced at the use of a cuss word in front of the almighty but plunged ahead. “Now, I can’t even save myself.”

“Like I said, James, I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Then who did? Because, trust me, someone did something and I’m not particularly sure I deserved any of it.”

Christina smiled, a smile that was positively radiant with purity. “Perhaps you’d like to meet my posse?”

“Posse? God has a posse?”

“Say hi to Eric. We like to call him The Straight White Guy. I started the ball rolling but it was Eric who kicked things into high gear.”

Eric stepped from behind a nearby tree, tipping his hat. “Nice to finally meet ya.”

Confused, James nodded. “Uh, nice to meet you too. Are you the one that took my leg and turned me into a drunk?”

“Nawww...that was me, huckleberry.” Another man stepped from behind the tree. “I did the plagiarist thing too, hope you liked it.”

Christina lifted a hand and waved. “Meet Rob. Otherwise known as Acidman. A charming fellow to be sure.”

“Yeah, real charming. You don’t mind if I hate him, just the same, do you? Honestly, how can I like anyone who gutted my soul?”

Christina nodded. “I see your point”.

James was puzzled. “So who fleshed out my whole back story then? I mean, for the longest time I was just a drunk, one legged plagiarizer with no past. Then, all of a sudden, I began having all sorts of guilt trips about some Vietnamese bastard named Trach who I coulda swore I never met.”

“Ah yes, that was Jack. He’s the master of Random Fate.”

Yet another man stepped from behind the tree. James was beginning to think that was some big tree to hold all these people.

Jack waved. “Hey, man, don’t be mad at me. I tried to give you some humanity, some sort of logical explanation for what was happening to you. I ain’t responsible for what happened next.”

“Then who is?” James asked.

There was a sudden commotion from behind the tree. Two men appeared, holding a struggling third. “LET ME GO!!” cried the captive man, writhing fiercely in their grasp. Christina nodded and the men let go, sighing as they walked away. The former captive began to chase after them, shouting, “YOU’D BETTER RUN, YOU OPPROBRIOUS COWARDS!!”

“KIM! Stop that this INSTANT!” Christina’s expression briefly turned stern before returning to its former beatific state.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Kim said, stopping in his tracks. He turned to face the group. “So where’s the party anyways? This aint it, is it? Geez...I sure hope not!”

Christina sighed. “James, meet Kim. He’s the Velociman. He’s what happens when the half rubber meets the road. Despite his...er...enthusiasm, he’s a great guy and we all love him dearly.”

Kim began walking toward James. Unsure what to do, James stuck his hand out, ready for what looked to be a manly handshake. Instead, Kim kicked him in the balls. James doubled over immediately.

“That’s for cutting Maria’s head off, you slack jaw bastard,” Kim said, giving James a shove to boot.

“But you’re the one who made me do it,” James squeaked, holding on to what was left of his balls between his legs.

“Yeah but you coulda said no at any time and YOU DIDN”T! Fucking bastard! Where’s the party anyways! Let’s dump this joint and go somewhere happening, dammitt, this place is DEAD!” Kim began to walk away.

“So, is that it then?” James wheezed as he struggled to his feet. “Any more surprises in store for me?”

Each member of the posse looked at each other. Then Christina spoke. “Nope, that’s pretty much it. End of the story, as it were.”

“Thank God,” James said. “Ooopss...I mean, thank Christina. I don’t think I could take much more abuse.”

“Oh, don’t think of it as abuse,” Christina replied. “Blech. Think of it as nothing more than good storytelling.”

Then it hit him. “Wait a minute,” James said, leaning against the light pole once again. “If that’s it then who in the hell is writing this right now?”

To a man, Christina’s posse began giggling. Then, one by one, they disappeared in a puff of smoke until Christina was the only one left. She smiled yet another dazzling smile. “Say hi to Mr. Helpful for us, James. Y’all have fun now, ya hear?” And then she was gone too.

And then the earth shifted another ten feet and James was back in his original state, six sheets to the wind, clinging to a light pole for support, wishing the world would stop spinning for just a moment so he could get his bearings and figure out what to do next. He was no longer alone, cars were once again driving past and the sounds of the city reverberated around him. He closed his eyes, willing his stomach to quit churning. When that didn’t work, he opened his eyes again and saw a man sitting cross legged on a nearby park bench.

“Hi James,” he said. “I’m Mr. Helpful. Nice to meet you.”

“Oh Christ,” James said, despair dripping from his voice. “I thought it was all either a dream or a drunk punk’s nightmare. But now you’re here. Is this ever gonna end?”

“Of course it’s gonna end, James.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up. “That’s why I’m here. To write the ending.” He wiped some street dirt from the cuff of his pants and smiled. “Trust me, pal, it’s close. It’s very close.” He pointed to something behind James.

“Awww fuck you”, he said. “I don’t have the strength to turn around again. Just get on with it, whatever IT is.”

“Fair enough. THIS, James, is your destiny.” And then Mr. Helpful was gone too.

James clung to the light pole, arms clammy with sweat, desperate for some semblance of sanity, waiting for whatever might happen next. After a couple of minutes, he began to calm down. Maybe it was all just a dream, maybe it was just a drunk punk’s nightmare, after all there was no proof any of those people had been there in front of him and, besides, who in the hell would call himself Mr. Helpful anyways? Nobody, that’s who, at least no one in their right mind. And whoever heard of God actually being a Goddess named Christina, for Christ’s sakes. As for all those other people, well, they were clearly psychotic remnants of past sins for which he had not sufficiently atoned.

It was clear this had all been brought on by a whole shitload of paranoia fueled by an endless supply of vodka and various doses of humiliation. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to dive back into the bottle; not if he was gonna suffer these kinds of horrible hallucinations. Even as he began to peel away from the light pole, he resolved to go back on the wagon, to join the straight and rigid and maybe, just maybe, do something about that head in the popcorn tin back in his room. If there was anything good about what he had just experienced, it was the feeling of being jarred back to reality.

After all, even if he was a plagiarizer, that was in the past, wasn’t it? He HAD managed to write Up From Nothing himself and had done so without a drop of booze. In fact, now that he thought about it, what he had just gone through might make good fodder for yet another book. There were possibilities springing up everywhere. All he had to do was open his arms wide and embrace them. He resolved to do just that.

James stood straight up, head held high, the world no longer spinning, his destiny now clear. He took a deep breath and began walking, in a straight line no less, toward the hotel. It was then he heard a noise behind him followed by a voice....

“I want my goddamn novel back.”

....and James stopped dead in his tracks because it was NOT a female speaking...as had been the case so many times before. He turned, oh so slow, adrenaline coursing through his veins like poison, unable to speak because, even before completing the full turn, he knew whoever was behind him was not going to be Ms. Denon.

Then the turn was complete and he was face to face with a man of Asian descent; a man who, some twenty years before, had mourned the loss of his twin brother in a traffic accident; a man who’d happened, purely by chance, to read a book called The Road To Dogwood and recognized the writings of his long lost brother; a man who swore to avenge the theft of his brother’s soul; a man who, unlike Ms. Denon’s amateur hate, carried true hatred in his eyes; a man who, along with that hatred, carried a .44 Magnum handgun which was now pointed directly at James’s heart.

Before James could even scream, the man of Asian descent pulled the trigger and sent a cannon ball of a bullet into James’s chest where it exploded into a thousand fragments, each one bearing the ghost of “Trach”, each one slicing through veins and vital organs, each one carrying just a hint of ricin from having been dipped in a vial of the stuff back when they were all together in one piece.

The net effect being that it only took one shot and James was dead before he even hit the ground. The man of Asian descent stood over the lifeless body, unconcerned that someone might have heard the shot, determined only to finish the job if the job, in fact, needed finishing. It didn’t.

After a moment, the man of Asian descent decided there wasn’t going to be a need for any more gunplay. He kissed the tip of his index finger and placed it over his own heart, looked up to the sky, picked out a single star from the thousands in the sky and whispered....

“Destiny....”

Posted by Mr. Helpful at December 23, 2004 10:48 PM