The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 39

That Evening.

I find my seatbelt and snap it in place. Nepotism splats his heavy foot on the gas. I grip the doorhandle with both hands as we navigate a maze of police-free side streets, effortlessly almost colliding with any number of cars, bicyclists, telephone poles, trucks, dogs, joggers, bruthas hustling on street cornas, houses, and buses that stand in our way. When we finally get to the Spot, Nepotism needs to pry my fingers loose with a crowbar and throw a glass of water in my face to bring me back my senses.

We claim our usual rickety back table. No matter which side you choose, it’s tilted perfectly to splash beer in your lap when you topple your glass. Nepotism stops at the bar to get our pitcher. I briefly look over the  the laminated menu folded on the table, deciding on my usual, a medium rare Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger with extra bacon and steak sauce, accompanying my dish with onion rings instead of french fries, which I will regret tomorrow morning. I wait until Nep gets to the table with a pitcher of Moosehead before I go up to place my order.

The bartender is the newest in an unending string of nubile young girls that the manager hires, gets addicted to heroin, fucks, then employs for two weeks before sending them out the door. The place been has been under investigation as a junk front for years. The problem is, the heroin is a front for something much darker.

“What can I get you, hon?” she asks, leaning across the bar to hear me over the ear-busting Velvet Underground on the juke. She adjusts her neck so I can see down her wife-beater, down between her bruised breasts to the base of her dirty bra.

“Gimmie a Meat Grab Spot Slab Burger,” I tell her with a dead serious straight face. “Medium rare.”

“Everything on that?”

“Extra bacon,” I order. Her fingers work at the air in a distanced, automatic way, as if she were writing the order. “Extra cheese. Extra steak sauce.”

“Okay,” she says, breaking our gaze and going off to the register.

“I could make you cum with a conversation.”

“What was that?” she asks, looking over at me sweetly, curly brown hair bouncing on her shoulders as her fingers elegantly punch my order.

“Nothing,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

She floats back and leans on the bar again, smiling seductively. “That’ll be ten-fifty.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I hate to be a bother, but can I have that with onion rings?” This is an easy way to get them for no extra money.

“Can I get a name?” she asks, grinning?

You don’t know me? “Dr. Filth?”

“Dr. Filth?” she gasps. “The Dr. Filth?”

“Yeah,” I say, a little irritated. “The Dr. Filth.”

“I’ll have this out in a few minutes.”

Go to Part 40

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 38

Late The Following Morning

I cover my face and take a deep breath. “She took my notebook.”

Nepotism licks his lips and sucks in a slow, arduous inhalation. “And what is in that notebook?”

“All our research on the Pisceans. I can’t find it, it’s fucking gone.”

Nepotism leans in. “You’re sure she took it?”

“No signs of a break in, nothing I noticed.”

He goes to my  stereo, thumbing through a stack of CD’s. “We need to get it back.” He takes a case out of the stack and puts the rest back on the shelf. “If she reads it, all three of us are going to be in grave danger. You, me, and her. No one can see the connections we’ve made.” He puts the CD case in my hand.

I let go of his collar and look at it.“Powerslave,” I say.

“The Pisceans found the equation,” he whispers. He looks cold in my eyes. “Dead-fucking-men.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I demand, turning the case over and over in my hands. The Temple of Pharaoh Eddie stares up at me from between standing statues of Set and two Sphinx. Behind them, a massive, golden pyramid ripples with energy as slaves carry a sarcophagus up the steps. Vic Rattlehead could never be so majestic.

“A manual for making kings, dude. Written in the stars,” he says. “The Sun and Moon were Gods that dictated every aspect of primitive man: when he was awake, when he slept, when his lands were fertile, when his women were fertile, all of these things were connected to these two strange lights in the sky. So they started looking at the rest of these lights, finding significance in the corresponding events on Earth. The Zodiac.”

“You lost me,” I say.

“The Pisceans want to make a Divine King.”

“You think Eva stole my book for the Pisceans?”

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” he says with a middle school giggle.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You did, you always get that face when you’ve fucked a double-agent!” When Nepotism cackles, I can see his dancing uvula. “How could you do that? I mean, it’s not like there was even a question. You knew she was working against us. She didn’t even try to hide it. How many times is this going to happen before you learn? Don’t you remember Marcy, Mister Literally-Can’t-Shoot-Straight-To-Save-His-Life?”

“What about Venus?” I demand, exasperated.

He points to the CD case. “Look inside.”

I open the cover to the booklet. The Eye of Horus beams a red triangle down the page.

“You know the game, ‘the Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon?’”

“Degrees of Separation,” I say apprehensively. “Kevin Bacon is not in the name. Connect him to Jason Voorhees in six steps.”

Nepotism shakes his head. “Connect him to Jason in two. It’s six steps to Godzilla. A friend of his father’s uncle played with a guy that carried the rubber suits to the set. Supposedly you can connect him to anything. I connected him to the Knights Templar. Him and every other jackass that’s ever made a lasting impression on the world.” Nepotism grins like a wolf sighting prey, lips pulling back to reveal his perfect, gleaming teeth. 

Mankind is the only animal that bares its teeth to signify friendship. For all others, it’s a sign they are about to attack. 

Nepotism smiles a wicked smile. “To become part of the conspiracy, you make yourself  part of the conspiracy.”

Go to Part 39

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 37

Two Nights Prior.

Eva was fed up with the corruption in Metro City. She knew the Party Mayor was a villain, and she wanted him removed from office. She hated Stupendous Guy and the patriarchy of the Superhero Gang. In Lapis Exilis, she found an organization ready for war. It was a means to shake up the order. I wasn’t paying attention to any of this. She immediately began fucking me. This was quite the stir in superhero circles. St. Eva celebrated every victory with mind-blowing sex, and she stopped going on missions with anyone but me.

I’m still pretty drunk. We’ve moved to the bedroom. I’m close to done, but she could go on all night if I let her. The sooner I finish, the more pissed she will be about it. I need to talk about anything to think about something else right now. “Nepotism says that Venus is the secret the ancients used to pick their king.”

Her hips stop mid-buck and she gasps. “Filthy, what did he say?”

“I don’t know, Nepotism talks about all kinds of shit. Keep going! Keep going!”

“Venus,” she says, putting a hand on my chest and pumping her ass once more. “He told you about Venus?”

I hesitate my answer, and she pulls her body tight against mine and pumps here hips until I cum, body so tense that I can’t keep from blowing a little mucus out my nose.

Not even a moment for afterglow, Eva slides away and paces the bedroom. “Filthy,” she whispers. “Filthy, this is bad, this is really bad.”

“What?” I hiss, pulling away from here. “What’s so bad?”

“Filthy, you shouldn’t know this... I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you... I’m so sorry, you’ve got to forgive me.”

“What’s the matter?” I demand, pawing at the pants around my ankles. “What’s going on?”

“I thought Solomon was lying,” she sobs and embraces me, burying her face in my chest. “Oh, God, Filthy. Please forgive me.”

“Solomon who? Joshua Solomon?” I ask. Their affair had been all over the news. We were broken up long before, so I had no reason to be mad, but I still stopped buying his albums and wouldn’t listen to anything prior to prison. “Are you still talking to him?” I ask, stroking the back of her head. “Eva, what’s going on?”

She pushes away and looks up in my eyes. “If I told you that, both of our lives would be in danger.” She pushes past me, finds her pants and underwear and dresses. “Let’s keep this on a need-to-know basis.”

“Fucking tell me!” I shout.

She gets on the bed and lays on top of me. “Why do you think Scrubbers would be looking for you?” She asked. “The Pisceans wouldn’t read a news article about you.” She pressed her body firmly into the curves of mine, creating an air-tight seal between us. “Watch yourself. Especially around Nepotism Baldwin.”

I dismiss it with a shake of my head. “Eva, you’re being...”

She grabs my biceps and pulls me straight. “Promise me, Filthy. Fucking promise me!” She takes a deep breath and calms. “If Nepotism says anything about the Knights Templar, you’ve got to tell me right away, okay?”

“Give it a rest...”

“Who else do you have to trust?”

“Fine,” I say at last, still not looking at her. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

“Good.” She embraces me again and whispers. “Let’s go to bed.”

Go to Part 38

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 35

The Following Afternoon.

“Do you mind not talking about slimy towels? I  have neighbors, you know.”

He flushes the toilet and wanders out. “Let’s go.”

I stare at him a few seconds more without saying a word.

“Wait!” he cries, jabbing a finger in the air and the other hand in his pocket. “I’ve got to call Mephis first.” He takes his cell phone out of his pants pocket and holds it up triumphantly, dialing with his thumb. “I told him I’d call if we went out tonight.”

“Don’t invite Mephis,” I moan. “Jesus, Nepotism, he’s the last person I want to see tonight.”

“Hey. Mephis there? Nepotism. Baldwin.”

“Come on, Nep, I don’t want him going out with us.”

“Hey. Nepotism. ‘Sgoin’ on? Not much? Yeah, me either. Just hanging out with Dr. Filth.”

“If you invite that pompous asshole to the bar, I will never speak to you again.”

“Yeah. We’re just about to head over to the Spot, grab a few beers, maybe get some wings.” He looks up at me. “Is it wing night?”

“You asshole. You fucking asshole!”

“Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah. Well, maybe we’ll see you there. All right, all right. Have a good one.” He turns off his cell phone and turns to me. “He’s going to meet us there.”

“I can’t stand that guy. Why the hell would you invite him out? Especially when we have so much going on? How are we supposed to save Eva Lorraine with Mephis dogging our heels?”

“You barely met him.”

“He’s got wood for me.”

“You think that about everyone.”

“I’m an attractive man,” I say modestly, hand to my gut.

“You will be happy to hear that Mephis wants to help you with another episode of ‘the Unnatural.’”

“I’m not going to stand here and argue with you without a beer.” The front seat of his car is still wet with slime, so despite his protestations, I sit amid the chaos and destruction of the back seat.

“I’m not your fucking chauffeur,” he grumbles, buckling his seatbelt. “Fucking cab driver.”  I’m still trying to find my belt amid the piles of clothing, books, fast-food wrappers, CD cases, folders, papers, and fliers. “After all, you’re the one who made the mess.”

“You shot the guy!”

“To save your life!” He shakes his head and pulls out of the driveway. “Do you want me to clean your bathroom too? You could have gotten rid of your clothes, or put down newspapers, or something to keep you from destroying my only means of transportation.”

Go to Part 36

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 34 

The Night Before.

“I’m happy to not hang around you sociopaths,” I purr, fingertips dancing on her shoulders as she pulls on my jeans, all the while sucking and licking at the skin above my pubic hair. “It didn’t take much thought.”

She works her way back up my stomach and chest and kisses me hard on the lips. I let her tongue push in like an invader, submitting to her every whim. “You loved every minute of it.”

I spin her around and press her hard up against the wall, rolling her pants down her ass. “Did you feel all the eyes on us back there?” I whisper in her ear. “It was so fucking hot.”

“They are probably talking about us right now,” she coos. Though we both worked for the Superhero Gang, St. Eva and I didn’t know each other for a couple years. Unless there was a crisis, I was stationed in Doom City, and St. Eva stuck to Hero Island near the Superhero Gang’s alabaster tower at the heart of Metro City. We met when she attended one of Lapis Exilis’s poetry readings.

“Nepotism thinks they will kill me if I even talk to you.”

Eva slides from beneath me staying out of reach for a moment before catching the arms of the chair and easing her body forward to kneel, ass held up in offering. I cross the room and take hold of her hips, maneuvering mine to greet her.

“I don’t know if you can trust Nepotism,” she moans as I work into her.

“Don’t talk about him now,” I say, running my finger tips up her stomach and cup her breasts.

“They would, and they could, and you know that,” she pants, arching her back and wrapping her arm around my neck, dragging my head down to kiss her. This is a ploy though, and I can feel her tongue searching my teeth, probing for transmitters, desperate to see if I’m wired. I block her advances and push her back into submission with my forearm. She pulls herself away catlike and my body spasms. Eva swivels onto her back and brings her calf to my face for me to kiss. Her eyes lock with mine as she lingers, close, waiting for me to advance on her. “You have no idea how deep you are,” she sneers. “You’re smart to take me back.”

I laugh. Hard. “Please! You’re little better than a glorified groupie. A hundred other girls could have been here tonight.”

She pulls away and I can’t help but follow. “That’s what I thought,” she giggles, relaxing, allowing me to re-enter.

Go to Part 35

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 33

The Previous Afternoon.

The car ride back to my apartment is more less in silence as I towel away as much black slime as I can. Nepotism tries to keep my mind off it, but nothing he can possibly say would contribute to the situation in a positive way. After this many years, I’m pretty good at tuning him out.

At home, I take a much-needed shower and stuff my torn, slimy clothes into garbage bags inside garbage bags. It’s approaching evening. Nepotism is on my couch, flipping through a coffee-table book about great artists from history. A self-portrait of Van Gogh stares out morosely, clearly disappointed by my choice of lifestyle. After Van Gogh shot himself in the stomach he crawled home to bed. His brother, Theo, delivered news the wound was superficial, and Vincent was sure to live. Van Gogh looked away and said,  “I’ve been a failure at everything in life, I don’t want to be a failure at this as well.” With that, he gave up the ghost.

This, and other tidbits came from the 70's cult program, In Search Of..., which asked the daring questions. Does Bigfoot lurk in the woods, the Loch Ness Monster swim in the depths, and are Great White Sharks immortal? I watched reruns every day after school. “You remember that episode of In Search Of...  About the Dogon?” I ask, tossing him a beer. Incidentally, despite several experiments, Great Whites were not immortal.

“Planet Sirius. Home of the Lizard People,” he says, not looking up from the book in his lap. “The Dogon are practically Stone Age to this day, how can they see a planet behind the Dog Star?”

I groan and sit down in the chair next to the couch. “Does this all come back to Sirius? Do you think there really are Lizard People?”

“Oh, hell no, dude. Don’t start yapping about that shit. Those people are crazy,” he says, looking up from the magazine. He open his cell phone. “The Spot starts serving dinner in twelve minutes. “We can finally get breakfast.” He slams the book closed and jumps to his feet. “We’ll get there just in time.”

I wait, staring a few seconds.

“Wait, let me piss first,” he says, wandering off to my gore-strewn washroom.

I nod and lean back in the chair. “These people are interconnected, twisted up in the same lies and deceptions. What if there is some kind of extra terrestrial agenda being furthered?”

“You’re trying to live an X-File. Horrible in the reruns, dude. Don’t be that guy. Did you just leave your slimy towels laying on the floor?”

Go to Part 34

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 31

The Next Morning.

“It’s wine,” I say.  I shuffle a few magazines and toss him a copy of SWIFT with Joshua Solomon’s wild-eyed face glaring out. “They don’t want to spit in our food, they want our money. What if we ended up dying from some untreatable disease their dishwasher hawks into my omelette? That’s bad business,” I say. “They expect us to show up late. They don’t have enough staff right now to handle two simultaneous customers. Extra help comes at twelve-thirty for the influx of college kids in the next fifteen minutes. They are more equipped to take care of us when there are fifty people than just the two of us.”

“That’s not true,” Nepotism says disinterestedly, not looking up from the magazine.

“It is true. I can’t go this morning.”

“Why not?”

I stop short. “I have somewhere I have to go.” I shouldn’t tell him. It’s hours more trouble if I tell him.

“Where.”

“I, uh, I have stuff I have to do.”

“Like what?”

“Stuff.”

“What kind of stuff.”

“Stuff stuff.”

“That’s not much of a definition.”

“It’s none of your damn business.”

“I have important news, that’s all.”

“What is it?”

“It’s long, I was going to tell you over breakfast.”

“Tell me now.”

“No, you have places to be.”

“You’re right, so hurry the fuck up,” I say impatiently, looking around for my boots.

“Does this have anything to with St. Eva?”

I look at him over my shoulder. “Why would it have anything to do with Eva?”

“Because she was driving away when I got here.”

Go to Part 32

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 30

The Previous Night.

I turn away as Tyr starts his impassioned goodbye over his shoulder while he and Nepotism go back the other way. I’m barely across the road when Eva’s car slows down for me to climb in the passenger seat. “Eva,” I whisper, letting her name slide off my tongue and hang like steam in the air. She is tense, struggling to not let her eyes deviate from the road, for at these speeds, a mere glace could crash us.

“Doc,” she growls. “You’re a prick, such a fucking prick.” She smiles lustfully. “Being at that party. Being so fucking hot. Being employed by the wrong people.”

“Au Contraire,” I whisper with a raised eyebrow. “It’s you that works for the wrong people, my darling.”

“Your political intrigue is so cute,” she says with a slight ring of sarcasm.

“And so is your ass,” I counter. “Drive faster.”

She stomps on the gas and we make it inside my apartment in minutes. She struggles out of my arms as soon as we are in the door, slams me against the wall and kisses me, pushing her tongue into my throat.“The kids in Metro City still believe in you,” she whispers.  “They are ready to fight.”

“I’m not allowed to hear about those things,” I say, unbuckling her belt and unbuttoning her leather pants. I try to pull them down, and she touches my lips. 

“Says who?” she asks.

“The Old Priest himself,” I say. “If Nepotism and I even think about Lapis Exilis, they’ll have Scrubbers looking for us.”

Lapis Exilis started as a poetry group. I hate poetry, but I like poets, as long as they are not reading me poetry. Poets always have good booze around. The open mic was in Old Gil’s Book Shop, where I worked on the weekends. Lapis Exilis gave me an opportunity to close my eyes, drink a beer, and let someone else do the talking. I let the words unfocus into white noise, and sometimes fell asleep entirely. That’s is how I never noticed the poetry readings were becoming increasingly radicalized. After readings I would tell the poets I loved their work. The poets got offended of you critiqued them anyway.

“You think Scrubbers are coming here? For you?” she asks, pulling away. She smiles wickedly, her shimmy driving me out of my mind so bad that I reach for her, but she comes in on her own, whispering, “You’re piddling your pants over a ghost story, Doc,” she purrs, fingers delicately working at my studded leather belt. “The Scrubbers are too busy playing strip poker with Santa Claus hoping to see the Tooth Fairy’s tits. They don’t exist. It’s... a... pity...” she says between kisses as her lips work her way down my bare stomach.

Go to Part 31

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 29

The Following Morning.

“That bitch!” I shout and tear through the drawers with equally disappointing results. “That fucking bitch!”

I take a step away from the desk to assess the situation. What the fuck am I going to do now? I knew I shouldn’t have left her unattended. I should have stayed awake until she left. What the fuck was I thinking? How far could she have gotten with it, and who could she have shown it to? How fucked am I right now?

“Fuck,” I mutter again and stomp out of the office. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I stand in the center of the room left hand raised slightly, right hand covering my face. I need to find Eva Lorraine.

With some luck, she hasn’t gotten far. Was that her on the phone? Simon didn’t really sound like a man. No wonder I didn’t remember what that kid was talking about. This was a hell of a brash theft.  

BANGBANGBANG on the front door of my apartment.

“Whoisit!” I bark.

“Nepotism.”

I relax a little and scratch my ass. “Hold on, I’m naked.”

“Fuck, dude,” he moans, bashing what sounds like his forehead into the other side. I'm the first admit that's not a pretty thought. “Get fucking dressed!”

I shamble into my bedroom and struggle into a pair of jeans and a Black Sabbath T-shirt. By the time I’m back, Nepotism has entered and taken up residence on the couch, looking through a guitar magazine with Slayer on the cover.

“Did you read this?” he asks without looking at me.

I sit, sitting in the chair by the wall. “Why are you here so early?” I scan the room for a clock. I can’t remember where it might be.“It’s still before noon.”

“It’s 11:45,” he says, pointing to the flashing clock by the TV. He taps his foot on the coffee table to signify his disdain. “Eleven-Forty-Five,” he drawls. “The diner is only open until one.” Nepotism violently flips through the magazine. “You should really lock your door.”

Bitch didn’t even lock the door behind her. I rub the sleep into my eyes. “We can get there at 12:45 and they will still serve us.” Should I tell him what Eva took? Should I tell him Eva was here?

“They hate when you do that,” he tells me. “More chance they will spit in your food.”

“Everyone goes there fifteen minutes before the diner closes. That’s why we always fight for a table.”

“And they hate it when everyone does. I don’t want to get spit in my food, do you?”

“They don’t spit in your food.”

“But they want to.” Nepotism tosses the magazine down on the coffee table. “You got that  Swift where Solomon says he wants to give up music and make beer?”

Go to Part 30

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 28

The Previous Night.

Two sausage reach me, and I pass neither to Tyr, he reaches around me to take one that followers. He’s still smiling. They are wrapped in wax paper that is clear with grease, and all come with peppers, onions, and mustard, no substitutions. I tear back the veil on the first and bite the knobby end. The juice squirts down my throat and gets my stomach churning. An ocean of bacteria splashes down on Ground Zero and fans out, delighted to find a limitless array of chemical and poison mixed in with my juices. Entire universes form and flare out with each chomp. It gives you something to live for.

Outside, the smell of sweaty bodies burns off quickly to strange industrial scents that remain of Parlor City’s manufacturing days. Nearly all industrial materials had to stop here on their way to rail stations across New York State. Factories sprung up to meet the demands and possibilities of what those raw materials could become. Shoes, bullets, flight simulators, and even the first microchip were shipped from Parlor City, and no expense or regulation was spared to deliver on time. Little spills were covered up with caution-tape and a smile. Those chemicals remain in the ground, the air, and the bloodstream of every person foolish enough to drink the water that smells of rotten fish. The river still runs brown and cloudy from the days before the water treatment plant, and raw sewage was dumped freely. Dead eyes stare from the malformed feature of every face. I grew up here, but it was never my home.

After Metro City, there was nowhere else for me to go. No one wanted a slightly-used and completely disgraced superhero. I ran back home and stuck my head under a pillow. The city is a black hole that sucks me to my booth in the bar. The fighting is so far off. I’m fat and sedentary, resolute to make my shows and collect my royalties. My days as a revolutionary were something I watched on TV. Foggy, unclear, littered with confabulation.

Mephis Tyr is with me now. Nepotism too.

“Doc, I think it’s time to head home,” Nepotism says, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with?”

I look from Nepotism to Tyr.

“Seriously, Dr. Filth,” Tyr says, more star-struck than ever. “That would be fucking amazing, I’d love for an opportunity to pick your brain on what goes on behind the shows!”

Nepotism pleads, “Come on dude, you’ve still got more sausage. You can’t go home yet.”

I sigh and look down the street. “Nep was on most of those adventures, pick his brain. I’m heading home.” I turn over the dripping sausage. “I’ll eat this for breakfast.”

Nepotism shakes his head. “No way dude. It’s Sunday morning. We go for omelettes.”

“You think I can’t eat more?” I ask, mustering a smile. “Don’t worry about me. Have a good time.” I look at Tyr again and chuckle, shaking my head. “Later.”

Go to Part 29

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 27

The Next Morning.

“So you’ll do the interview?” Simon asks.

I think about it a minute. “Did you have breakfast?”

“What?” He hesitates before saying, “No, sir.”

“Most important meal of the day.” I bang some dishes in frustration. “You watch ‘The Unnatural?’” I ask.

“Every episode! I love your show!” Simon lowers his voice. “Did that shit all really happen to you?”

“Did I get hunted by the last of the dinosaurs through a South American jungle? You bet your ass I did.” I pour a bowl of Cheery-O’s. “I didn’t dissect a body, but I’m pretty sure it was some sort of Sasquatch that knocked down my motel door in Boonville, so I’m convinced something beyond the normal is at play. Are you recording this? You have to tell me if you are. That’s a crime if you don’t.”

“May I?”

“Sure, I talk fast. I can’t expect you to write it all.”

“I’m recording now. Can you state your name?”

“Dr. Filth, host of ‘The Unnatural.’”

“Great show. Superhero too, correct?” Simon asks.

“It’s never been confirmed that Dr. Filth the superhero and Dr. Filth the cryptozoologist are in fact the same person,” I say. “Rumors on the Internet seem to point in that direction.”

“Thank you for agreeing to this interview,” Simon says. “Tell me about your show?”

I’m sitting on the couch eating cereal. I turn on the speakerphone. “The goal of ‘The Unnatural’ is to shed light on all things paranormal and beyond reason. ‘Knowledge without milage is bullshit,’ said a famous philosopher.”

“And who was that?”

“I don’t know, one of the punk singers. You can’t be a good cryptozoologist if you spend your life in a library, so I take the fight to the paranormal. I go to the furthest reaches of the Earth to prove and disprove any rumor I can get my hands on.”

“Your last episode mentioned the Pisceans, who are they?”

“Nothing more than a social club, really. The Poor Knights of the Temple of Lapesc D’Malize. They hold pancake breakfasts and carwashes for upkeep.”

“You believe the Pisceans want you killed? Strange they don’t mind you divulging all this on a popular series of webisodes.”

I shrug and sip the milk. “I expected a backlash, but there has been nothing.”

“They don’t return my calls.” Simon pauses, flipping through his notes. “Why did you quit being a superhero?”

“That’s not con...”

“Not confirmed sorry. Do you have any idea why the superhero Dr. Filth was fired from the Superhero Gang?”

“As I understand, he accidentally founded a terrorist organization that began a riot. The death toll was staggering.”

“Accidentally?” Simon asked apprehensively.

The Doom City Riot was an effort to drive the Party Mayor to abdicate. Lapis Exilis said he was a villain and wanted him replaced. Unless proof of villainy could be established, the Superhero Gang was obliged to defend the legally-elected office-holder. The sentiment of Lapis Exilis was widely held among the superheros, who despised the Mayor for his loose morals and his brutal crackdowns on homeless and opposition groups. “All that shit’s online, dude. Let’s not tie up a lot of time with that.”

“Very cool. That’s some good stuff, I’ve got just one more question. How do the Scrubbers connect to the Alarm Clock at the End of the World?”

I feel my face drain of blood. It’s cold in here. “What did you say? Who is this? Nepotism?”

“Simon Magus, from Regular Crazy fanzine. Are you a real doctor?”

I hang up the phone and run to my office. On my desktop, I rifle through notebooks, pens, stray sheets, paperbacks, paper clips, hard covers, staplers, empty cigarette packs, dry rocks glasses, empty beer cans, 40oz bottles with cigarette butts extinguished in the bottom, empty baggies, roaches, pencils, fast-food bags, flyers, handbills, cigarette butts that fell out of jam-packed ashtrays, envelopes, fan-mail, bills, subpoenas, magazines, business cards, stress-reliever toys, a ragged stuffed cat from an ex-girlfriend, compact discs, disc cases, rolls of tape, shreds of yellowed paper with phone numbers on them, photographs, instruction manuals, half-filled disposable cameras, video cassettes, and the ashtray with little regard to any of their importance as I scour madly, but do not find what I’m looking for.

Go to Part 28

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 26

The Previous Evening.

“They paranormal cleaners from the twenty-fifth dimension or something?” Tyr asks with a stupid smile as he steps between me and the sausages.

“You expect me to just divulge all in the middle of Meaty Boyz?” I hold out my arms to encompass all the Long Island meatheads wearing powder-blue Polo shirts with upturned collars, waving and shouting ‘Ova Hea!’ They will be disappointed when they find the girls they took home are only pretending to be 14 years old.

“You probably make it all up,” Tyr says. His words have a barb.

“They are the strangest creatures I’ve ever fought,” I say, trying not to be incensed. “I first heard of them when I was searching for the Ark of the Covenant in Ethiopia. They are supposedly bio-robots built by the Piscean Knights to protect the Ark. One of them shot me in the leg.”

Tyr looks from Nepotism to me. “That was Duke! You gotta show me the scar!” he cries out.

“He was small and spindly, in a wild red shirt and fisherman’s cap. He peers out over sunglasses black as night, beady eyes jumping back and forth.”

Before I realize it, Tyr is beside me again. “Supernatural monsters that look like dead writers?” We’re almost to the counter, only a thin wall of sweaty drunks between me and sausage. This is the most dangerous part, and no way I’ll maintain concentration to break the lines with Mephis Tyr talking my ear off. “Pretty far-fetched.”

“Hunter had been dead only a few months,” I say. “There was one called Abraxas, he could pass for Herman Hesse. He was killed a few years back, but nobody got a photo. There is a Kerouac named Sax, and I think a Lovecraft as well. I’ve never met anyone who’s seen him, but there is an Earnest Hemmingway out there somewhere, deep in the center of the woods, killing anyone he stumbles across.”

I try to exploit an opening and get my hand in for sausage, but Tyr presses in close, knocking me back with his chest when a couple guys from the college basketball team lift two girls on their shoulders and move into the gap. The girls pull up their shirts and everyone cheers. The Meaty Boyz reward them with sausages.

“The Ark episode was one of my favorites. Why didn’t you use any footage or photos from your own trip though?” Tyr asks.

“My cameras were stolen by brigands. We lost everything. Shortly after was when I was shot by the Scrubber,” I say, keeping an open eye for a break where I could climb on the counter. These frat boys are so hammered that even male tits could result in some sausage coming my way.

Nepotism analyzes all the angles, runs down  the options, and slips his arms between the right pair of hips to compromise the defense of the human wall, splitting two girls aside and creating a gap wide enough for us three to enter. Nepotism has the Meaty Boyz attention, one hand held out for sausage, the other pointing to the rest of us, making it known we will need more sausages down this way. Seamlessly, Nepotism draws a wad of cash from his wallet. “Indiana Jones was his personal hero when he was little,” Nepotism shouts back. “See where it got him?”

Go to Part 27

The Symbol

Music: "Don't Fear The Ghost," Crimson Brethren 

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 25

Early The Next Morning.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR!” wakes me up. Slayer is a poor choice for a cell phone ring tone. Sun is up, blinds are open. Eva is gone. I slap my hand at the night table until I paw the phone back to me.

“Hoosis?” I grunt. “What time is it?”

“11am,” says a nasally voice at the other end.”

“Whosis?” I repeat. The phone is cradled in my neck as I slap the table to find my glasses.

“Simon Magus,” says the voice, a little surprised. I guess I should have known.

“Never heard of you. Why are you calling me this early on a Saturday?”

“Sunday.”

I’m taken aback. “It’s not really, is it?” I confirm this with the clock on the phone.

“Yeah, it’s Sunday. Back to work tomorrow.”

“Why are you calling me this early.”

“You told me to call.”

I swing my legs off the bed and think about sitting up. “I told you?”

“Mmm Hmm.”

“Must have thought I’d be awake. Who is this?”

“Simon Magus... I write for Regular Crazy.”

“You know what a hangover is, Simon?”

“Straight Edge!” he says proudly.

“That’s a horrible frame of reference. Why are you calling me?”

Simon  is getting a little frustrated. “You agreed to an interview with Regular Crazy.” His voice is getting higher. “You told me to call you at 11am Sunday!”

“Who is Regular Crazy,” I ask.

“It’s my zine,” says Simon Magus.

“Never heard of it. I agreed to this?”

“Yes sir. I called you earlier this week. You said you were busy and asked me to call back Sunday morning.”

“You thought I meant that?” I go to the window. My building is three stories and built atop a hillock. From my window I’ve got a view of the whole valley. “I usually get paid for this.”

Simon Magus coughs. “At this time, Regular Crazy is privately funded, with most costs going to printing. Once I sell some ads, I’ll have extra funds for compensation. Just a fanzine.”

“You sound like a second rate hack.”

“Excuse me?” asks Simon, shock in his voice.

“Have some confidence,” I say. “‘Just a fanzine?’” The kitchen is a mess with dirty dishes. I go to breakfast with Nepotism on Sunday mornings, but he’s always late, and an egg sandwich would settle nicely in my noisy stomach. “A fanzine is a weapon in the war against oppression. You’re assembling a sacred  missive. Fanzines let the kids know there is still hope, someone is still fighting for the little guy. You keep up the good work, and you be proud, hear me?”

Go to Part 26

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 24

Two Nights Previous.

We’re barely in the door at Meaty Boyz when I hear behind us, “Hey! Dr. Filth!  Nepotism Baldwin! What a coinkidink!” It’s the same chortlehead in a suit and tie that almost got me gutted at the party. I still don’t remember his name, and I’m in no mood to deal with him again. 

"Bureaucraticus? Were you at the party too?” he asks, fighting through a crowd of sausage-hungry-hotties willing to trade bush for meat, or money, or even a place to stay if they can’t find their way home.If he knows Nepotism it won’t be long before all three of us are headed back to Nep’s for that blunt I’d like to smoke. I would not like to spend the rest of the night listening to this moron blather while I’m high.

“I’m not legally allowed to use that name any longer,” Nep says.

Douchebag pays no attention. “I didn’t even see you, dude.” He reaches us and shakes our hands in turn.

"We didn’t hang long,” Nepotism says, throwing me a sideways glance. “We got in some trouble. I didn’t get to finish my beer.”

“Fight?” he asks, still shaking my hand.

I wouldn’t mind. “Trouble,” I repeat.

“Doc, do you know Mephis Tyr?” Nepotism asks. Tyr is still shaking my hand. Will I have to do this again the next time we meet? “He found that girl that got murdered. The singer?”

"Becki Murphy," he says. The name is familiar, but I'm mostly drawing blank. I thought she died in a plane crash. He doesn't pause for discussion. “I’ve watched every episode of ‘The Unnatural,’” he says proudly. “I’ve been a fan since you were a superhero.” Still shaking.

“It’s never been confirmed...”

“Right, right, right,” said Mephis. “Your comics changed my life!”

“They weren’t very good” I say, extricating myself at last. “I didn’t see any until they were released. If you don’t mind, I came here for sausages.”

Mephis grabs my arm and draws me back. “Is all that shit true, dude? My favorite episode was the Last of the Dein.  I even loved the one about the giant snails you said were eating geese in Metro City Park.”

I gently remove his hand and ask, “I don’t suppose you’ve bought a T-shirt? It’s really the only way I make money.”

Tyr throws his head back and laughs, clapping me on the back. “Oh, dude, that’s good. Great show though. What’s up with the Scrubbers?”

“Scrubbers,” I say, looking with longing at the short, fat man in red hat and apron behind the counter, sporting a fat, Super Mario moustache removing grey-brown sausages from a steaming vat and slapping them between the hotdog buns held out by a green-hatted Luigi, who passes them to waiting coeds in pink, beer-soaked shirts and middle-age secretaries with dyed hair and tube tops desperate to go down on a Polish sausage.  The steam pans get scrubbed at the start of each month, need it or not. If Meaty Boyz doesn’t make you puke, you will certainly shit water in the morning.

Go to Part 25

Dr. Filth Origin

Dr. Filth is a superhero with the power to convince himself anything. His alter ego is a cryptozoologist of the same name. Report your emergency at www.printisbetter.com 

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 23

The Following Evening, Before The Concert.

We retrace our steps, following the shuffle of clothes as the goth kids stay just ahead of our sight. They are going for the temple, but when we arrive, there is no sign of combat. Duke is gone. There is no blood, no gunfire, only the shadow of the black robes disappearing into Rosslyn chapel. Beyond is the din of a crowd, all talking in hushed tones at the same time, the hot anticipation for the show to start.

Lights are down in the temple, and Nepotism and I split up to avoid detection. The black robes are filling the pews and sitting, silently watching the dias. A drum set has been erected and a microphone stand stands in a spotlight at the front. It reminds me of the time I busted up a Rock & Roll church that was funneling money to Evangelical terrorists converting African tribes by the sword.

Four more robed figures enter from the back of the dias, two carrying guitars. There is shuffling amongst the attendees. I can hear a much larger crowd outside the chapel, is Sado-Mass doing an invite-only performance first? I’ve got a sinking feeling.

Solomon pulls back his hood. A murmur passes through the audience. The spotlights hits him and silhouettes him with his arms raised. “Good evening,” he says. His soft voice echoes from the PA.

Joshua Solomon got his start in a boy band after a stint as a background character on a children's TV show. Through both he was 'the rebel.' When the band was retired upon high school graduation of ‘the young one,’ Solomon’s solo album was highly anticipated. He chose punk rock as his backup band, against the advice of his managers. A rock album could be acceptable if he was eager to get his demons out, but management thought he'd be better utilized as Country.

Feedback shocks the air as the band plugs in. They begin a drawling jam that rumbles the hall. Solomon looks left to right, touches his forehead and shouts, “Ateh!” The black robes in the pews repeat.

Punk was too dirty to be housed in any profitable situation. Equipment was always broken, police always called, and venues must be paid extra. Solomon won leverage when he threatened to publish a side-project regardless the terms of his contract. Rebellion earned Solomon the 'death of his career,' and all support was removed. SpectraCom filled their end of the agreement, pressing 10,000 copies of his album with his advance payment, but refused to arrange distribution or a supporting tour.

Solomon touches his right shoulder, now dancing a little with melody that found its way in the music. “Ve-Geburah!” he calls. The audience repeats.

Dancing harder, he the tips of his right fingers to his left shoulder and at the top of his toned voice sings, “ve-Gedulahhahhh!”

The audience is enthralled, undulating more and more, arms raising. Coming out of the dance, Solomon crosses his arms before the microphone and whispers in a musical break, “le-OLAHM, Amen!”

Roar of “Amen!”

Go to Scene 24

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 22

The Following Afternoon.

“My witness is the empty sky,” Kerouac shouts, taking another tense step toward me. He’s not the real Jack Kerouac, he’s a Scrubber. They are supernatural assassins used by the Piscean Knights. Scrubbers appear as dead authors. There are nine, but this is only the second I’ve battled. He is called Sax, and is known for his cruelty.

I chamber a round. My first Scrubber was Duke, who appears as Hunter S. Thompson. He attacked me in Ethiopia while I was searching for the Ark of the Covenant. I barely escaped with my life, and lost all my cameras and footage.

“Don't use the phone,” says the Scrubber. “People are never ready to answer it.” It’s right on top of me now, eyes fixed, gun locked on where my head should be. If I so much as move, be it to shoot or surrender, he’ll send my brains sailing over the forest floor. Why the fuck hasn’t Nepotism done anything yet? What if he’s dead? I could be out here alone. Fighting my way out or turning myself in would be certain death against certain death.

Sax lets his gun go slack, grinning a grin drunk on victory. “I woke up as the sun was reddening,” he drawled. I’m desperate for any motion that could signal Nepotism’s life. “That was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all.” Wind blows branches, and I’m deceived by a rustle of leaves, but I can’t find Nepotism anywhere.

“Nepotism!” I shout. “Where the fuck are you?”

Kerouac continued, “I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.” He closes the distance between us. From the sound maybe four feet. “If moderation is a fault, then indifference is a crime.”

My body jerks as he shoots me.

The blood covers my glasses, so I can’t see a thing, but I feel it splatter my chest in the split second before I die. It’s warm and wet and soaks into my shirt with the same consistency as water. I’m appalled at the sheer amount of blood issuing forth from my blasted skull. It’s in my hair, on my face, on my chest, and it doesn’t even hurt at all. I always figured this would be a faster way to die. My blood is black.

I put an exploratory finger on the back of my head. There’s no smoking hole, no jagged crater of bone and brain, no tacky fragments of my meniscus. I move my hand to the top of my head to see if he was shooting downward, but no, despite there being a hell of a lot of blood, I can’t find any hole that it’s issuing from.

I wipe my glasses and look up when Kerouac leans over me, weakly grabbing the roots to keep himself upright. There is a hole in his chest I can see through.

The color drains from Sax’s ruddy face and the skin and muscle  ooze away from the bone, turning a shiny black. The skull is liquefying before it is even entirely defleshed. The entire body is melting into the same black ooze that covers my body. As the Scrubber seeps into the forest floor, it reveals Nepotism Baldwin twenty feet back, hand-cannon aimed now at me.

“It’s about fucking time,” I shout.

He holsters his weapon. “I had to get in position.”

“You got this shit all over me.”

He shrugs. “What do you think I was getting in position for?”

All trace of the Scrubber is gone but for what is running down my face and soaking in my shirt. “He didn’t stay dead the last time,” I say. “We should probably get going.”

Nep looks down the trail, nodding. “Let’s go to the bar.”

Go to Scene 23

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 21

The Evening Of The First Night.

“I’m not fucking Eva again,” I say.

“Dude, you can be honest with me.” He flares his nostrils and exhales hard through them. “Daaamn. That girl’s almost thirty now, and she’s still got the finest ass I’ve ever seen on a woman!”

“She’s twenty-seven!”

“I’m sorry, did I offend her honor?” Nepotism laughs wildly. “Come on, Filthy, tell me the truth. Are you tapping that?”

“Must you be so crude?” We come to the edge of the bridge where a giant brass ring is suspended above a concrete park. Homeless people  sleep here on summer nights. The November freeze followed by the December thaw has driven all but the most tenacious into cover.

I watch Nepotism carefully to be sure he doesn’t notice Eva drive past. At the very least, he doesn’t make it obvious.  “I’ve heard from her,” I admit finally. “She sent me a letter two months ago, to tell me she was leaving Metro City.”

“You knew all along.”

“She never said she was coming here. I figured she’d go live with the anarchists in Spain. She still thinks there will be a Revolution.”

“And who told her that?”

“I wasn’t listening to what those kids were saying!” I say. “I don’t like poetry!” I clench my fists in my pockets. “You could have told me they were calling for war!”

“And when you saw the armies of cops bearing down on us in Metro sound-stage, the City, did you still want peace? Remember the fights at the Osiris Bridge? They were the bloodiest battles of the whole campaign, and you were at the lead.”

He stops walking at an intersection, stands there a few seconds, but stomps after me when I cross, narrowly avoiding being hit by a white sports car. “I’ve heard rumors that you’ll be shot on sight if anyone catches you in Metro City again.”

“That was different,” I snarl. “That was self defense. If I didn’t lead a counter-attack, the police would have stomped every last one of us that day. I did what I had to. I thought Persephone would back us up.”

He puts a stubby finger to his lips. “Shhh! Come on, Dr. Filth, give it a rest. Let’s think about sausages for right now.” He points the same index finger to the brightly-lit storefront surrounded by a sea of nappy heads. “We’re old men now. Rebellion is a young man’s sport.”

Go to Scene 22

Dr. Filth Vs. the Dein

"Yezov and Borbor Are Back In Town," by Steve Kusaba.