Thursday, April 24, 2014

H.P. Lovecraft/Hunter S. Thompson Mash-Up, Part 2: "The Shadow Over Las Vegas."

A long day, just in, not going to mess around.  What's that saying? Do you know how to make God laugh? Make plans.  Well, yeah, so, here goes, without further delay.  Digging deeper into the misadventures of our fearless, loathing-worth, something-or-other narrator as the drugs take hold in the City That Never Sleeps. 

Part 2, we're settling in, setting the stage...before Part 3, and True Madness.





     My attorney had called in to the Starlight Circus on our behalf (NASA, in need of funding, had dropped the government and taken up with Vegas in mounting a more viable form of income), the event of which my reportage was deemed worthy being the 21st Century Fox/NASA sponsored Marilyn Monroe Weekend of Memories commemoration of the fiftieth year of her death, a perverse celebration littered with every conceivable Marilyn Monroe imitator this side of Jupiter, culminating in a contest to pick the very best Marilyn Monroe to carry on with a movie contract and manufactured career, and to promote whatever NASA needed them to promote.  Whores for the universe, prostitutes in league with Republicans, Satanists, and whatever other demented legions would flock to this horrid place this weekend.

     I always used a phony name when checking in during my writing ventures; my infamy was legendary, at least in my own mind.  But I did not always have a say in the name, especially if my attorney got hold of the reservations.  I looked at the piece of paper in which he had scribbled my nom-de-plume and cringed at his perverse humor. 

     “Sir,” said the fiftyish female hotel employee in charge of checking in the wasted souls, looking bored, but I was made squirmy by the bubbles rising to the ceiling as she harrumphed impatiently.

     “John…Wayne,” I said, hiding my face in shame.  I wondered how many others were checking in under the names of dead movie stars, self-destructive rock n’ roll musicians, or assassinated presidents.  My attorney laughed, slapped me on the back, and said, “C’mon, Duke, we can deal with this later.”

      I looked at him and could swear bubbles were floating from his mouth as well.  The ceiling was looking crowded.  I watched bubbles battle bubbles in a popfest of grisly proportions.  There was effervescent death everywhere. 

      I knew I should not have followed the shub-nigguraths with the yigs: if Las Vegas is no town for shub-nigguraths, it was definitely no place for the psycho-madness of yigs.  But they were the only ones handy when I reached into my pocket—and this, mere minutes after I had inspected the plethora of ingestible, mind-altering drugs in the trunk; idiot!  I was feeling like a rat in a cheeseless labyrinth, lost and confused.  What was I doing here?  What was the true purpose of this venture?  Would that demented fuck LeGrasse show up any time soon with answers, or would I just ride this one like an endless wave?

     After finding that we would have to deal with it later--our room was not ready--we wandered to the hotel bar, past hairy fish like beasts and star-faced denizens drunkenly swimming about.  I worried about my Acapulco shirt--would the colors run?  Would I run?  Was there any hope?  How long would it take for the yigs to run their insidious course?  I’d only taken two, but two amidst the constant ingestion of drugs over the last twenty-four hours must have been two too many. 

     I began to do the breaststroke across the bar, much to the annoyance of the fish-eyed denizens in attendance, when my attorney turned to me and said, “I advise you to head to the room now, before you get yourself killed,” and tossed me a green key that felt like the weight of the world--and me no Atlas.  I dragged the key on the ground as I slinked out of the bar and made way to the elevator.  One of what I expected would be the deluge of Marilyns was stepping out of the elevator, her dress showing much cleavage, and I sniffed her there, wondering if that is where they had hidden the Zapruder Tape—or possibly the lone gunman--and she said, “Oh, Mr. President, wait until Jackie and the kids go to bed.”  I pulled back, having almost been stabbed by her nipples; nipples that pushed at the fabric with impressions more akin to Mickey and Minnie Mouse.  I closed my eyes and yelled, “Disney have mercy!  Take these freakish things away from me!”

     When I opened them again, I was on the bed in the room, a pillow case stuffed in my shorts, mustard spirals decorating my nipples like exploding solar systems—no famous mice here, only condiments--and my attorney sawing wood in the same dissonant timbres as his singing.

     “Wake up!” I said, kicking at him.  “We have a job to do and…your snoring is the most horrible thing I’ve heard since your singing.”

     He smiled and pulled a harpoon gun from under the bed.  “Don’t make me use this.  There are plenty of scavengers hanging out at the window and I know they’d enjoy a little tender meat.”

     Tender my ass!  I was solid as SpongeBob SquarePants.  Squishy even.  I laughed, my mind skipping about and wandered toward the balcony where I saw them, these things crawling all over the window, eyeless, mottled flesh, flapping useless wings.

     “I need a drink,” I said, turning from the aberration, knowing I needed more than a drink.  But God would never show his face here.

     At least not the human incarnation of God. 

     It would all come down to me.
Tomorrow.  Oh, tomorrow... The final part is at least the length of the first two parts and, trust me, you don't want to miss it.
:-P  :-)
This handsome fella was found wandering through Vegas, looking for an All-You-Can-Eat Seafood place so he could feel at home...

No comments:

Post a Comment