PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER THIRTEEN (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shousetsu)

For Chapter One, click here

There is a lot to be said for the healing powers of delicious food and Asian beers. Even the anticipation of such early on Friday is enough to help wipe away much of the difficulties KG experienced earlier in the week. Although KG has the exact same meal every week, he always becomes excited on the cab ride to Phuket, and despite the expected pain his mouth waters thinking of the deceptively colorless Pad Kee Mow. So visually plain; so powerfully spicy.

Unfortunately, Boi is not in the restaurant this evening, and although KG is treated very well, he is not treated exceedingly well and finds this unavoidably disappointing. Of course the other part of him, the part that consciously pronounces the “i” in Boi, finds this unacceptably elitist and the guilt prickles until he receives the steaming bowl of Tom Kha Gai and the glistening Singha from the friendly waiter, unfortunately poured from bottle to glass without Boi’s detailed knowledge of KG’s preferences. As KG takes his first sip he sees the same blue-haired young lady from last Friday, sitting alone on the other side of the room, scribbling in her notebook. She looks up at him through her thick glasses and KG immediately directs his attention downward to the chicken and coconut soup. He only just takes his first mouthful, piquant and delicious, when he hears someone across from him clear their throat.

KG looks up from his soup to see two figures seated at the other side of the table. He slowly lowers his spoon to gently rest beside the porcelain soup bowl. The girl, a blonde, appears to be mentally retarded, or at the very least brain damaged. However, unlike most mentally retarded individuals KG has observed, this girl is very beautiful, and her hygiene is impeccable: waves of long hair shine in the restaurant light, her makeup is restrained but effective and her teeth are perfect. The overall effect is ruined by the small string of drool that collects at the corner of her mouth as she laughs her idiot laugh. Her eyes are glassy and deadened as she stares across the table at KG.

The dark-haired man seated next to her, on the other hand, radiates intelligence shot through with malice. His hair is slicked back from his high, proud forehead in a widow’s peak, and his arched eyebrows accentuate the eyes. A thick, flaky crust obscures those eyes, however, and its grayish color reflects the light in silvery glints. Although the face around the eyes is very animated, the crusts never crack, and the man never blinks. He just sits across from KG, next to the blonde moron, grinning a sickening, toothy grin. Neither speaks; they only regard KG silently for several minutes until he finally speaks.

“Um, is there something I can help you with?”

The dark-haired man giggles, mocks him: “Uh, uh, is there something I can help you with?” The idiot girl laughs her idiot laugh. They sit and continue to watch him.

“Why did you sit down here with me?"

The dark-haired man shrugs. “Didn’t. We were already here.” The blonde looks confused, nods, her jaw slack.

KG’s irritation begins to supplant his feelings of unease. “Sooo, I sat down here, at your table. Where you were the whole time. That’s what happened.”

The dark-haired man shrugs again. “You should come with us. We have some things to show you. Some things you’ll want to see.” The blonde imbecile nods emphatically, grunts, spittle flecking her chin.

“Wow. Wow, I don’t think so.”

The dark-haired man grins again, and KG’s stomach tightens up with apprehension. “You’ll end up going, one way or the other. It can be now, or there’s a bus that’ll take you later.”

“A bus?”

The man’s grin grows even broader. “Yeah, a bus. You don’t want to meet the bus driver.” The idiot girl laughs gutturally. The dark-haired man turns to her, grinning, looks back at KG. “Yeah. The bus driver. He’s, like…binary, man.”

“Binary?”

“Yeah, you know: if we’re all Ones, then he’s a…”

The idiot girl shouts it: “Zero!” She laughs and laughs, clapping her hands awkwardly together. The man laughs as well, continues staring at KG through the flaky gray crusts.

“Mm-hm. That’s right.” The dark-haired man jerks his thumb over at the blonde. “He touched her once, and part of her came off in his hand.” The blonde continues her nodding and giggling. The dark-haired man gets up, motions the blonde out of the booth. She pushes herself up and nearly tumbles out, steadying herself on the table. “My name is Charles. My sister’s name…is Suzie. We’ll see you again. You won’t forget us anytime soon.”

KG chuckles mirthlessly. “No, no I won’t.”

The pair moves towards the door of the restaurant, the girl leaning into her brother for support. KG watches them walk out into the parking lot to a long, boxy black car of indeterminate make and vintage. A man gets out of the driver’s seat, at least it looks like a man, all dressed in black. It is hard to see across the dimly lit parking lot but he opens the rear driver’s side door to let Suzie into the car. He assists her as Charles gets in on the passenger side. The man in black appears to turn back to the restaurant, and it is then that the music coming through the speakers begins to warp, sounding as if a child were playing with an AM dial, voices and snatches of music coming in and out through the strange echoes of the sine waves. The man in black turns, gets back into the driver’s seat, and pulls out into the night without his lights on. The restaurant’s radio returns to its regular program of frothy J-pop. KG turns back to his soup bowl and exhales, palms down before him on the tabletop. He gets up suddenly, almost runs over to the waiter tabulating bills at the register by the door. The waiter looks up, smiles as KG approaches.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“Yeah, did you see those two people just leave? What was wrong with that guy’s eyes?”

The waiter looks confused. “Eyes…?”

It takes KG about ten seconds to realize that the waiter’s English extends to menu items and “Can I help you, sir?” KG smiles uncomfortably, waves him off and returns to his table. His soup is cold. His dinner is ruined. The young girl with the blue hair and the thick glasses and the acne stares at him. KG throws down a twenty, not feeling able to wait for the bill this evening, and stalks out.

PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER TWELVE (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shousetsu)

For Chapter One, click here

Another seven days, a week. So, what does KG do this week? All the things he always does. When he goes online to the mental health forums, he sees many more entries on Comaxyn than prior. As KG has had a relatively easy time on the drug he is surprised by the large amount of problem cases and posts about the side effects. The only side effect that KG has noticed so far is vivid dreams, and the other issues that come with especially vivid dreams: momentarily mistaking them for memories, difficult transitions between waking and sleep, a minor issue with depersonalization and perceived unreality. In fact, KG is still looking at this as a positive aspect of Comaxyn as he plans to use some of the more memorable dream-stuff in his recording work.

Aside from the usual side effect complaints posted (headache, dizziness, sexual dysfunction), there are a great many more dealing with the vivid dream aspect but in a far more extensive way than KG expected or has heard of before. There are mentions of rock-solid belief in false memories created by the dreams for days afterward; mentions of disruptions in work schedules due to mistakenly assuming multiple days had passed and that the weekend had arrived two days too soon; and, most sinister, mentions of a condition referred to as PDS or Permeable Dreamstate Syndrome. Although the details of this supposed syndrome are sketchy at best, a condition actually using the term ‘syndrome’ usually indicates a lawsuit in the offing, and these rumors this early in Comaxyn’s release process are definitely not a good sign. However, as far as KG is concerned Comaxyn has been a fine substitute for the Paxil and he is actually a little worried that the pharmaceutical company might pull it for further study.

So KG goes to work with the material he has amassed in his journals from the more vivid dreams. With “Desert Music III” in mind as he sits down to collage and compose, he attempts to translate the atmospheres to musical terms and finds that although the dream-stuff is extremely atmospheric and readily translatable to musical soundscapes, none of the pieces he begins have any of the sense of space that characterized the “Desert Music” projects. In fact, although he wouldn’t characterize the dreams he accesses as nightmares, the overall feeling is particularly sinister and the atmospheres have an industrial quality that KG has never felt in his music before. Although it is interesting, and under other circumstances might have been artistically exciting, KG feels a need to produce what Abstrakt wants and needs, so he is a little disappointed.

A little disappointment turns to self-loathing, which cycles back and forth depending upon the day. He is forced to return to his list of Top 3 Most Devastating Things Ever Said to KG, in particular when Lainey left and he told her he loved her, and Lainey said, “You don’t fucking love me. You love your...condition.” And then she closed the door. And she was right. And he spent the rest of the night weeping, and loving the loneliness, and loving the pain. And she was right. Afterwards KG seriously considers moving her up in the rankings, but reconsiders when after only touching on the content of the Top 2 he runs full bore away from any further examination of those memories.

So this week he reads. And he makes lunch. And he watches some movies. And he drinks a couple of beers. And he smokes a few cigarettes. And he masturbates to internet porn. And he plays some music, and he records some. And he walks. And he weeps. And he sleeps. And he watches TV. And he goes online. And he reads. And he makes dinner. And. And. And. And.

To go to Chapter Thirteen, click here

#VSS ANTHOLOGY!

Hey folks! I am one of 37 authors featured in the #VSS Anthology now available on e-book through Smashwords. You can go get it here for free! #VSS is the hashtag used on Twitter for Very Short Stories, and all the stories in the collection are 140 characters or less. Short, sharp shocks, all of 'em. Brent Millis put the whole collection together, and you can check out his Moped Ronin blog in the list just to the left, there.

PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER ELEVEN (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shousetsu)

For Chapter One, click here

SOME SHIT FROM CHEM'S NOTEBOOK

that older blonde guy in again – eats alone like me – reads instead of writing tho

cant tell if hes creep or cool – seems nice to the thai guy

whatever for that tho – prolly just doesnt want him to spit in the food

or piss or shit in the food – they pretty much can do whatever they want in the back RIGHT?

right chem – uhhhhhhhhh yeah

what r they doing over by the stereo – hmmmmm

COOL they put on something like basic channel but not as microhousey

is that a word – microhousey – i wanna live in a microhousey

with my micro-doggy and my micro-dotties

wonder if hes on mi MICA wavelength – could be – seems a leetle twitchy

woooo hoooo twitchy woman

def seems way too aware/anxious to just be factory issue

post-showroom mods are def in place – look at the way his eyes move

WAIT WAIT - where u goin

awwwwwwwwwww – i thot u and me were gonna be friends

Click here for Chapter 12

COOL COLLABORATION, PART THREE!

Once again Fictional Mixtape and Cutup Capers team up to deliver Chapter 3, the conclusion of "Hap Dixon in the Case of the Mysterious Cove", and you can enjoy it here. Tell yr friends!

PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER TEN (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shousetsu)

To start at Chapter One, click here

KG walks into Phuket and stands over by the cash register, waiting to be seated as the sign politely requests. It takes several moments before he can be seen to, and his stomach begins turning and the skin under his collar starts to itch and he starts feeling that he is being forced to wait, that they are fucking with him. And he reminds himself again that this is just the effect of the chemicals in his brain, that this is what happens to him when he goes out in public. He starts to wonder, then, when does this stop? Is the Comaxyn even working? How long is this going to go on? He becomes increasingly self-conscious at being seated singly on a Friday night when everyone else is coupled or part of a larger party. Then he sees a younger girl seated all alone, hair colored a deep blue, scribbling intently in a notebook. He feels strangely better for a moment and then, suddenly, Boi is there beside him.

“Hello, Mr. KG! How are you tonight?”

“Hi, Boi. I’m good, thank you.” KG always has great difficulty saying the restaurant manager’s name without feeling he is somehow insulting the man. He always continues on to finish “Boi with an ‘i’” when he pronounces it in his mind. Boi grabs a menu, beams at KG and leads him over to a small booth, gesturing extravagantly.

“The usual tonight, Mr. KG?"

“Yes, please. And a Singha, please, Boi.” With an ‘i’.

“Ah, yes. I think it will be extra hot tonight. I think...” Boi mimes thinking in his endearing way. “I think 2 Singha tonight, Mr. KG!” And he laughs, and KG laughs with him, and then Boi sweeps off still holding the menu to the busy kitchen. A couple of other diners look over at KG as he was referred to by name, and of course KG quickly deflects their interest by pulling out his copy of Rolling Stone and pretending to read. It seems only moments later when Boi returns with a steaming bowl of chicken and coconut milk soup and a glistening bottle of Singha, minus the glass which KG never uses. He sets it all down with a flourish. “It’s all okay for you, Mr. KG?”

KG smiles tightly. “Boi, it’s okay for you to just call me KG, really. We know each other now, right?”

Boi smiles broadly. “Right.” He quickly sits down opposite KG, which surprises him and, oddly enough, doesn’t bother him. “What do you do for a living, KG?”

KG picks up the porcelain spoon from the plate beneath the steaming bowl. “I’m a musician.”

“Oh, really? What kind of music do you play?”

KG grimaces. “Well, I don’t really play music, I mean, I don’t play out ever. Like at a club, where you could come see me.”

Boi looks confused.

“I just record music, at my house, and then the label puts out my CDs.”

Boi still looks confused. “But, what kind of music is it?”

KG laughs, shakes his head. “I play ambient music.”

“Ambient...?”

“It’s like...very relaxing music that you can use for meditation, or thinking, or just as a background coloring. Some people use it for romantic dinners, things like that.” KG shrugs.

Boi perks up. “Oh, like Kenny G?”

KG grits his teeth. “No, no, not really. Have you ever heard of Brian Eno?”

Boi shakes his head.

“It’s more serious, not so...” KG has a brainstorm. “This music, what you have playing now?” He points up to the restaurant’s speakers, currently pulsing with light Asian pop.

“Yes?”

“Is this satellite radio?”

Boi nods.

“Can you show me? The receiver, I mean?”

Boi, still confused, gets up and leads KG across the restaurant to the satellite radio receiver. KG gestures to it, askance, and Boi nods his assent.

“Don’t worry, it’s not raucous or anything.”

KG fiddles with the dial for a few moments until the channel readout displays “Soundscapes”. The speakers fill with a lush, atmospheric, barely musical sound. A couple of the other diners look up, but after a few seconds return to their meals and conversation. Eventually the display shows the artist and title: KG – “Off Koh Samui”.

KG laughs. “This is me. This is my music.”

Boi listens for a few moments, then smiles with recognition. “Oh, yes, this is like Enya! I love her!”

KG winces again. “It’s not like Enya. It’s much more...” He pauses, gives up. “Yeah. It’s like Enya.”

“I like this! This is good.” KG moves to switch the receiver back, but Boi stops him. “No, no, leave it. This is good for the restaurant.” Boi shudders. “I hate that J-pop, but the customers, they...they expect it.”

“Yeah, I hear you.” KG smiles, then walks back to his table. Boi follows.

“Well, you just enjoy your Tom Kha Gai now, okay?”

KG sits, nods uncomfortably, unsure of how to end this. “Sure will.”

“You like it the extra hot, right?” Boi smiles, expectantly.

Again, uncomfortable nod, feeling repetitious. “Sure do.” Boi smiles, nods, leaves. KG goes to work on the Tom Kha Gai and it is excellent, as it has been every other visit to Phuket. The strange combination of the lemon grass, coconut milk, chicken and various herbs blend into that optimum Thai swirl of sweet, sour, salty and spicy. As KG is eating, something catches his eye on a high shelf above where the satellite receiver is kept. He finally finishes the soup, and as he does so Boi arrives with the Pad Kee Mow and another Singha. “So, KG, do I open this or not?” he asks while placing the noodle dish in front of KG, having pushed the emptied soup bowl out of the way.

KG smiles, nods. “Yes, please, Boi. I’m sure I’ll need it if the Pad Kee Mow is anything like it has been in the past.”

Boi pulls out a bottle opener and stoops slightly over the bottle. KG asks him, “Um, Boi, can you tell me what that little house is, over there on the top shelf?” Boi pops the top, looks back briefly.

“Oh, that’s the Spirit House I keep for the restaurant.”

“Spirit House...?”

Boi smiles indulgently. “Spirit Houses are common where I come from. They are left out in front of homes or stores or restaurants, and they are for the dangerous spirits. We leave offerings to the spirits and they leave us be.” Boi points up to the Spirit House in the restaurant, and indeed there is a bottle of orange Fanta in front of the tiny house with a straw in the bottleneck.

KG is fascinated. “So do the spirits, like, live in the Spirit Houses or do they just...take the offerings and go?”

Boi just shrugs happily. “It is a very old tradition. I can tell you that if it doesn’t work, if the bad spirits keep bothering you, there is a place that you take your Spirit House and leave it by the roadside. And if you keep leaving offerings, sometimes the spirits will stay there instead of coming back to your house.” Boi shrugs again, smiles.

KG raises his eyebrows. “That’s really cool. Are there any places like that around here, where you could leave your Spirit House if it...stops working?”

Boi laughs, waves KG off. “No, not here! Please, enjoy your Pad Kee Mow, it gets cold!” Boi shakes his head and moves to speak with some other customers.

KG begins the process of slowly eating the drunken noodles. As Boi had warned, they are extra hot, and it takes KG a very long time to eat them without completely scorching his taste buds, even with the help of another Singha and an additional glass of water. While he progresses through the familiar eat, pause, drink, eat, pause, drink cycle, he again notices the blue-haired girl sitting on her own. She apparently notices KG as well, as she peers at him through what are apparently very thick glasses and subsequently scribbles in her notebook. As he looks closer, KG observes that her hair is kind of greasy and she has a bit of acne as well, slightly dampening the striking initial impression. After a little while, KG begins to squirm under her gaze and calls for the check.

Next! Chapter Eleven

PSYCHOPOMP - CHAPTER NINE (Twitter Novel / Keitai Shousetsu)

To start at Chapter One, click here

It’s when you smell that smell that you know that you’re back. Then you hear the whirr and the clank and that omnipresent hum, and you realize that the nightmare factories are operating again, an endless shift with an unchanging workforce. And then you see. You see the nightmare factories from your regular perspective on the ground, dimly lit with jaundiced yellow phosphor, and then somehow you are above them, almost, but this quickly becomes inside them. And you see the things that work the machines, and what they make with the machines, and then you see the other things that scuttle out to trim off the waste. And they throw the waste into little gutters that run down the sides of the nightmare factory floor where a tide of filth sweeps the scraps along and through a grate and into the pipes that lead to the outside.

And then you are outside, and you are before the bad house, isolated in the spotlight in its strange alcove surrounded by the nightmare factories. And you see the pipes that rise from the ground and into the bad house, and you make the connection. And you don’t go into the bad house, any more than you went into the nightmare factory, but nonetheless you are there. And you see the irrigation system that waters a monstrous garden with the runoff from the factory floor, and you see the tanks filled with that same murky substance and the things that swim in it and live in it, and then, further back in the bad house you see the shadows. Three shades flit back and forth impatiently inside the bad house, and behind them another shadow, vaguer, larger, subsumes the other three in its darkness when it rises. And you can feel the impatience, and you can feel the anticipation, and you can feel the joy in the knowledge that a time of waiting is finally over.

Then you wake up, oddly suffused with that vicarious joy, and when it slowly dawns on you why that joy exists you begin to shake and you can’t stop.

Go to Chapter Ten

COOL COLLABORATION, PART TWO!

Hey folks! Once again, Rhoda Penmarq has turned my Hap Dixon story (kind of a Hardy Boys set in Twin Peaks) into a thing of surreal beauty. Chapter Two is up here right now! Please go see!