Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

The Alarm Clock at the End of the World

Part 32 

The Following Night, At The Beginning of the Concert.

Solomon’s first tour was spent sleeping on couches and in garages, playing in bars and small clubs. The hired band quit by the third show, and Solomon named his new band Sado-Massochrist. That name continued through his entire career regardless of band members passing through a door that revolved through cities across the country. Solomon never contacted the stadiums that wanted him, and never hired a road crew to carry his amps. His advertising was flyers and word of mouth as he passed through town. His contract was officially revoked the first time he cut himself on stage. After that, smashing a bottle became a regular part of the show.

Solomon smiles broadly, dancing again, taking the microphone off the stand. The people are standing now, lost in trances of their own. He turns left, getting his body into the rhythm and sings, “Ye hooo wauu,” then turns back to the crowd and croons, “Ahh-Donai!”

I narrow my eyes. This is a ritual. Nepotism and I once attended only three meetings of the O.T.O because five of the other six members were D&D nerds looking for the secret to casting magick missile. They talked at length of the naked orgy sex-magick rituals we would perform. Only one female was in the group, and I wasn't sure which she was, so I lost interest before the clothes came off. Through Nepotism, I still accumulated a mass of Crowley texts in the process. I recognize the steps and chants. Solomon is casting a spell!

Some people are already so ecstatic that they jump up and down in place, dancing still in mid air. “Eheiehhha!” Solomon wails as he turns right, and immediately back to the crowd, screaming “Ahhhhh-Glaaaahhh!” He throws his arms wide, resembling a cross. It seems everyone in the audience knows the words, shouting right along with Solomon as he sings, “Before me Raphael, be-hind-me Gaaabriell! On my right hand sits Mich-ael, on my left hand seated Aur-iel! For a-bout-me flames the Pent-a-gram! And in the col-umn stands the six-rayed star!”

The music fades to clapping, and Solomon puts the microphone back on the stand. “How is everyone doing tonight?” Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett are strumming their guitars, bobbing their heads. David Meyers is tapping his snare drum. “It’s a pleasure to have you all here with us tonight.”

The ghouls are standing in the pews. I don’t believe I’ve been seen, but I also have no idea where Nepotism could be. All eyes are on Solomon. If I keep in cover, I can get myself out.

“I’m sure by now you know we are Sado Massochrist,” Solomon says, allowing a moment for applause. “Standing on my left and right are Aiden Quartermass and Milo Dukett, and that’s Dave Meyers back there on the drums.” Behind him, the band is still playing, drowning out most of the crowd noise. “Now, I hope you aren’t all here just because you are my employees.”

A communal chuckle rises above the music and Solomon looks to his band-mates. “Because we have something very special in store tonight, and it’s a pleasure to have such a close family here with us.”

I make a dash for the door and find myself looking up in the eyes of a horrendous thing. The horselike face wears a perpetual scowl and the eyes radiate hate. The jacket is black and stiff as cardboard. The thing reaches out with long, knobby fingers that crackle with blue energy. It is Armitage, a Scrubber crafted to appear as H.P.Lovecraft.

I roll before it can get a hand on me, but its attention lingers only a moment. It advances on the audience of unsuspecting ghouls holding their hands out to Solomon.

Blue energy lances from Armitage’s fingers, burning the back row. The discharge bounces about like electricity, igniting clothing and charring skin. The kids are screaming, but the web of energy has spread to immobilize them all. Sado-Mass is playing a drawn out introduction, loud enough to cover the screams.

Undeterred, Solomon passes through the scorching discharge. It arcs above him, creating a path for the band to follow. Guitar and bass continue playing but David Meyers has abandoned his drumset. Fingers reach out for one last caress against Solomon as the flesh is burnt to ash. By now all have recognized their role as sacrifice and have embraced it whether they chose or not.

The blue fire dwindles as Solomon passes Armitage and the Scrubber turns to watch. The band passes, and I don’t believe any have seen me. I don’t know where Nepotism is. If Armitage should get his hands on either, we’ll be left like the smoking pile of charred cloth and bone spread across the broken pews.

Armitage fades into the shadows, following Solomon to the stage. If I don’t do something, no one else will.

Go to Part 33

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!

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

Dear Sirs!