kagablog

The walls of the one-room shanty shack were constructed of faded, flattened gas cans and sun-bleached driftwood. The roofing was corrugated tin and banana trees cloistered round, brushing it with ragged leaves. The shack straddled the tree line, yet spilled out upon the sand of a wild jungle beach. A withered, old jungle Indian squatted on the sand outside, toasting frogs over a paint-tin fire. A wind-up record player rested on the sand beside him, grating out Little Willie John’s ‘My Love Is’. The Indian warbled along to it in grotesque fashion, his eyes choked by cataracts, turning the stick upon which the frogs were impaled. The stylus would reset clumsily each time the song ended and the air was full of music. The purple clown could also be seen, some distance down the strand. He held a purple balloon on a long string. It whipped around maniacally in the offshore breezes. The panicky anxiety of the balloon was mirrored in the movements of the clown, as though he could not bear what was happening.

There were no windows or lights inside the shack. The sunlight spilled in through a latticework of ragged cracks, creating jagged patterns of light and hurling dusty bars of sunlight about. Strings of bones and cured fish dangled from loops screwed into the tin roof. A busted up, utterly dysfunctional electrical generator occupied the center of the space. Smoke coiled in the light. There were several figures, waiting quietly in the dimness of the shack. One was heavy old Pierrot who went by the name of Florix. This fully costumed Pierrot sat on a paint tin, slowly smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. His face was heavily made-up and blue tears had been painted carefully onto his heavily lined and powdered face. He wore the obligatory cone hat with three black pom-poms at a sensitive tilt, although his baggy white sleeves and pantaloons disguised the battered physique of an ageing soldier. For even though Florix gave an impression of heaviness, there was clearly not an ounce of fat on his tendon knotted neck or along his weighty wrists. In fact, there was something of the acrobat in him, a springiness that ran contrary to his sense of weight. It was a quality that somehow highlighted the homicidal in him. A thin, sullen man in his early thirties stood behind the Pierrot, hands crossed like saint behind his back. He sported a black suit and tie, lavender granny glasses and wore his shoulder length hair in a middle parting. He went by the name of The Typhoid Surf, and was the brother of the recently deceased Mary. There was a gangly, loose-limbed character to The Typhoid Surf’s movements, which made him appear clumsy at times. A faint smattering of pimples rashed his face and he also smoked a cigarette while he waited. Something else occupied that side of the shack with them. Something inhuman, whose faceless head brushed against the roofing. The body of the dead god was pale, intricately marbled with fluid striations of musculature - as though comprised of wholly of pale, molten wax. Yet there was a synchronicity to these many details that lent its large body the delicate intricacy of a lizard or chameleon. The god was clearly an albino of sorts and vestigial scales created pinkish patterns between its many bloodless folds. It was also possessed of an incredibly long spine, comprised of hundreds of glassy vertebrae. These jutted from the skin in unnerving protrusions, giving it a sinuous flexibility. Its ribs also protruded in this manner, growing out of the skin in smooth, strong arcs. It would have been far too tall for the shack had it not been squatted like a dinosaur, back coiled down, long, heavy limbs folded in like a Gila. The god was known to wriggle on its long belly through underground passages and rivers. It had in fact had spent so much time in the darkness of the subterranean realm that its body had acquired a translucent quality, not unlike the centipedes you might unearth in long sealed cellars. Its face however was its most unnerving feature: a mask-face as featureless as a billiard ball, gleaming at the end of an elongated skull. Frilly gills fluttered silently at its wide neck and sides, absorbing sensory information from the air around it. The unconscious person on the generator was a character called Johnny Appleseed, and he was strapped stomach-up over the machine. Johnny Appleseed was slim and pale, and had a sort of young, unshaven Elvis look about him. He was dressed in fitted black chinos, shiny Cuban heels and a white shirt, which had been recently been drenched with water. His head hung upside-down over the edge of the generator, facing away from the spectators, arms fastened behind the head, ankles fixed apart to straddle the metal casing. The trio waited patiently, filling the sun-lacerated air with smoke while the old Indian warbled in over the perpetual song. Johnny awoke violently after awhile, breathing in large gulps, like a landed fish.

“Johnny Appleseed,” Florix smiled. “Welcome back onstage – we missed you.”

The Typhoid Surf strolled around the side of the generator and looked down into Johnny’s face without any discernable expression. He carefully placed a cigarette in Johnny’s mouth and lit it for him. Johnny inhaled, relaxing a little, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Where’s Alf?” Johnny asked, focusing on the orange cigarette glow above his upside-down eyes.

“Oh Alf’s outside,” Florix replied smoothly. “You know how he can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“No?” Johnny smoked, playing it icy.

“Not after what those soldiers did to him,” The Typhoid Surf muttered.

“You know The Typhoid Surf?” Florix teased with a grin. “He knows you…”

Florix let loose a deep-throated chuckle and the two of them ignored the dig, waiting for him to die down. He did, presently, but was still smiling dangerously.

“How about Devoid?” Florix hissed. “You know him too?”

You could see Johnny tense up as a sort of panic went through him.

“Devoid’s in the room?” he breathed, wriggling against his bonds.

Florix started laughing again, big, generous clown laughs, which rocked the boards of the shack.

“Relax my little ice-cream cone,” He cackled, slapping his knee. “Devoid’s just along for the show.”

Johnny started blinking in relief, dragging on his cigarette in three sharp puffs.

“You know what I’m here for though don’t you…”

Johnny gulped and his voice cracked when he spoke.

“I do.”

Florix rose smoothly and kicked his paint tin seat up to the generator. He sat down between Johnny’s spread legs with a sigh and started undoing his zipper.

“You know what the good lord said about seeds don’t you Johnny?”

“No?” Johnny rasped.

“Well, he said that there’s the good seeds that fall on good ground. Then there’s the bad seeds that fall on bad ground and are choked by weeds. And then there’s the bad seeds…”

He yanked Johnny’s jeans down suddenly, exposing him.

“That’s what you are Johnny, a bad seed.”

Johnny was gulping hard. The cigarette had fallen from his mouth and it lay smoldering on the sand below his shaking head.

“Say, Johnny, you got a hard-on. Fancy that. Do you want me to put it in my mouth? I’ll bet you’d like that wouldn’t you my little girl. I’ll bet you’ll taste just like fresh ginger.”

Johnny was sobbing now, sharp and angry.

Florix reached into his tunic and withdrew a pair of kitchen scissors. The Typhoid Surf took the hint and pulled out a roll of clear fishing gut and a bottle of antiseptic fluid. A needle swung from his hand, in time to the song.

“Can you feel my fingers on your right testicle?” Florix asked.

“Yes,” Johnny choked.

“Can you feel this?”

The piercing shrieking could be heard out on the beach. It didn’t seem to affect the Indian who went on till his frogs were done, but the purple clown had both his hands clamped over his ears in agony. The balloon had come loose and billowed out to sea, quickly getting lost against a galaxy of restless clouds.