strength was sapped. She tumbled on them and lay prone at Father’s feet.
She screamed curses at him, but the lips of God spoke in the First Tongue, and though none understood it, all fell still. The mouth dropped open wide, and blobs of inflammable bile roared out and smashed her flat. The blind mob backed away as the hag writhed in a cocoon of napalm, leaving a snail-trail of ash and burning fat, mewling like a litter of kittens.
Father lurched away across the basement to the door, which still stood open, spilling heavenly sunlight into the dark. Tripping on his own intestines, he collapsed against the cinderblock wall, beckoning to Caleb, and pointed up.
The divine light of the eyes in his chest had gone dim, and the mouth was only a fatal wound like what samurais gave themselves when they royally goofed up. No strings held him up, anymore.
Caleb pushed through the motionless crowd and stepped into the cradle his father made with his hands. Shaking, Father hoisted Caleb up over his head and within reach of the threshold. Caleb caught it and wedged his elbow against the door, was almost vaulted head over feet into the kitchen as his father threw him.
He turned and reached down for Father’s hand, but Jubal Gibbons backed away into the pool of sunlight. As his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, his bowels spilled out and coiled around his hands, which steepled at his belly. “Thank you, Lord…”
One by one, the heathens fell down before his corpse and bowed in worship.
Caleb went to find a phone, numbly wandering among mountains of old tabloids. He felt itchy all over, as if something crawled under his skin.
Looking around, he noticed another rash on his arm where Father had touched him. Angry red sores swelled and spread down the length of his forearm, bursting open to bear witness and speak in tongues. He tore off his shirt and scratched. The Word was alive in him, and needed no knife to let it out.
Stumbling out the front door into pounding sunlight, and birds exploded from the trees and swirled over his head like leaves in a hurricane, their flitting bodies defining a shifting but unmistakable face. The shoals of clouds masking the sun knitted into a beetling tri-ocular brow that bore down on him and pinned him to the earth until the Word lifted him up and sent him flying into the street.
He could not find the breath to scream or to pray, but the eyes and mouth of the Word opened all over him, and sounded a call to worship that shattered every window, knocked down every door.
Gone and forgotten was the time of humble begging, when he would plead with them to accept the god that slept in his flesh as their savior. Now, it was their turn to beg…
It wasn’t in the nature of the place for anyone who worked at The Tender Trap Adult Books & Video to notice what went on in the #9 coin-op video booth. Real human contact was not what anyone came there for, and those who lurked and groped themselves in the booths were the most painfully shy customers, like ghosts sure to vanish under a good strong stare.
Violet was a quick study, having learned early in life the connection between constant vigilance and not getting hit, but she had her own problems. It was only when those problems began to fade into the background that she noticed that many patrons who used the #9 booth simply never came out.
The Tender Trap was the last growth industry on J Street, the embattled border where urban renewal had surrendered to sleaze, and the stately Gaslamp District degenerated into seedy downtown.
Violet came in on the bus from Riverside. Wade would be gone a week, maybe a month, and when he returned, tearful and pleading if he remembered what he’d done at all, she had planned to be set up in a new town with her own home, job and life. She had run away before and always came back to the trailer park within a day or two, so this start had gone better than most.
She found no room at the Salvation Army Women’s Shelter,
She screamed curses at him, but the lips of God spoke in the First Tongue, and though none understood it, all fell still. The mouth dropped open wide, and blobs of inflammable bile roared out and smashed her flat. The blind mob backed away as the hag writhed in a cocoon of napalm, leaving a snail-trail of ash and burning fat, mewling like a litter of kittens.
Father lurched away across the basement to the door, which still stood open, spilling heavenly sunlight into the dark. Tripping on his own intestines, he collapsed against the cinderblock wall, beckoning to Caleb, and pointed up.
The divine light of the eyes in his chest had gone dim, and the mouth was only a fatal wound like what samurais gave themselves when they royally goofed up. No strings held him up, anymore.
Caleb pushed through the motionless crowd and stepped into the cradle his father made with his hands. Shaking, Father hoisted Caleb up over his head and within reach of the threshold. Caleb caught it and wedged his elbow against the door, was almost vaulted head over feet into the kitchen as his father threw him.
He turned and reached down for Father’s hand, but Jubal Gibbons backed away into the pool of sunlight. As his knees buckled and he sank to the floor, his bowels spilled out and coiled around his hands, which steepled at his belly. “Thank you, Lord…”
One by one, the heathens fell down before his corpse and bowed in worship.
Caleb went to find a phone, numbly wandering among mountains of old tabloids. He felt itchy all over, as if something crawled under his skin.
Looking around, he noticed another rash on his arm where Father had touched him. Angry red sores swelled and spread down the length of his forearm, bursting open to bear witness and speak in tongues. He tore off his shirt and scratched. The Word was alive in him, and needed no knife to let it out.
Stumbling out the front door into pounding sunlight, and birds exploded from the trees and swirled over his head like leaves in a hurricane, their flitting bodies defining a shifting but unmistakable face. The shoals of clouds masking the sun knitted into a beetling tri-ocular brow that bore down on him and pinned him to the earth until the Word lifted him up and sent him flying into the street.
He could not find the breath to scream or to pray, but the eyes and mouth of the Word opened all over him, and sounded a call to worship that shattered every window, knocked down every door.
Gone and forgotten was the time of humble begging, when he would plead with them to accept the god that slept in his flesh as their savior. Now, it was their turn to beg…
It wasn’t in the nature of the place for anyone who worked at The Tender Trap Adult Books & Video to notice what went on in the #9 coin-op video booth. Real human contact was not what anyone came there for, and those who lurked and groped themselves in the booths were the most painfully shy customers, like ghosts sure to vanish under a good strong stare.
Violet was a quick study, having learned early in life the connection between constant vigilance and not getting hit, but she had her own problems. It was only when those problems began to fade into the background that she noticed that many patrons who used the #9 booth simply never came out.
The Tender Trap was the last growth industry on J Street, the embattled border where urban renewal had surrendered to sleaze, and the stately Gaslamp District degenerated into seedy downtown.
Violet came in on the bus from Riverside. Wade would be gone a week, maybe a month, and when he returned, tearful and pleading if he remembered what he’d done at all, she had planned to be set up in a new town with her own home, job and life. She had run away before and always came back to the trailer park within a day or two, so this start had gone better than most.
She found no room at the Salvation Army Women’s Shelter,
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