DEADITE PRESS 205 NE BRYANT PORTLAND, OR 97211 www.DEADITEPRESS.com AN ERASERHEAD PRESS COMPANY www.ERASERHEADPRESS.com ISBN: 1-936383-36-5 Copyright © 2010 by Dave Brockie Cover art copyright © 2010 Dave Brockie www.ODERUS.com All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law. Printed in the USA. 1 Redeemer I walk into the restaurant that is about to be bombed. It is a Polish diner, well known for its cabbage rolls. Choosing a seat with a solid wall behind me, I sit down just as the bomb detonates. The walls burst, the roof drops, my pants explode. People become bloody foam. Staring into my cup, I ignore their shrieks as my booth is heavily spackled with crimson clods. But my coffee is brown . and I am brown . Eating my food slowly, I derive little from it but texture. It’s bland, and it bores me, dulling my senses. I cram slice after slice of heavy bread into my mouth, chewing it with the occasional aid of my coffee, forgetting where I put the bomb or why I even brought it here. The Poles babble insanely, and I scowl, realizing I have totally forgotten their language. I cannot tell them how very sorry I am for my appalling behavior in Warsaw, during the ghetto assaults. Every Wednesday I come here and eat heavy bread for hours, waiting. But the bomb has not gone off. I’ve been many men, and once a woman. I have been the sodden earth beneath the wheels of legion. I have fought wars, fucked whores, known love and hate until they were indistinguishable. I have never really died, though I have been the maggot that ate my corpse. Learning much, I have forgotten most of it. I made myself forget many of the more horrific details, but I know that I am not only a child and woman killer, but a devourer of all forms of life, making me into, I believe, the most prolific active serial-mass murderer in the world. 3 Dave Brockie Let this book be a record of my crimes. I am Whargoul. I have spent my life as a soldier, doing things I would rather forget. But still it comes back—random blotches of foulness and light, and I fi nd myself sobbing uncontrollably as the waitress returns with my check, puzzled at the tears which slash my cheek. It takes great effort to retain control as a gang rape is thrust into my brain, triggered by the sweaty face above the fry vat. Shaking with tremor, I pay and turn to leave, hearing the pathetic cries of the woman and the tearing of her clothing, mauled by half the company as her village was burned. I bumble out, bell clanging madly as half-chewed bread spills out of my contorted face. Outside the street is crowded with machines and humans, all emitting stench. New York is stinking hot, and the garbage men have gone on strike. Great piles of rotting trash slowly join puddles, turning the vast and once proud city into a colossal landfi ll. The people look bloated and annoyed as they litter, spit, and bitch loudly. My presence here, amongst my victims, is a psychic intrusion. If only they were more empathic they would sense my thoughts, turn as one and stomp the life out of me. But they are ignorant, perhaps even de-evolving, believing themselves the masters of their Earth when in fact they barely qualify as prey. I realize that I am on my tiptoes, arms out rigid, fi ngers clawed, looking like a stricken scarecrow. Wearing a look of utter hopelessness and growing terror, I bulge at the garbage-carpet and release a spit- fl ecked grunt. I bolt, bobbing and shrieking, running for my life from a blast that never comes. I am hunted in the ruins of a great city. A creature much like myself is trying to destroy me. I am trying to destroy a creature much like myself. I have to do all manner of outrageous things. Things I never would have done but for the fact that I was hungry. And hunger gnaws at my mind, makes me writhe . hunger is a slow, lingering 4 WHARGOUL death for many. For me it is an abyss. It will drive me mad before it will kill me. But it can’t kill me. I’ve tried that. So I am just mad. Stalingrad. Years ago. We are at the Square of the Fallen; Batz, Eurich, and myself. We twitch with hunger and anticipation as dusk creeps over the ruined city. Tonight they (not we) are betting everything (and they have nothing left but their lives) on a last-ditch attempt at getting food. It has been days without a scrap. Batz is shitting out his water. He has dysentery and it is getting worse. His guts are liquefying and coming out his ass. The dugout reeks of his waste but we dare not move. By laying quiet we become a heap of rubble in a city of rubble, and do our best to ignore random shells. And tonight, when the planes of the Luftwaffe reach the halfway point of their perilous journey— when they drop their precious cargo with the Square before us as their aiming point, we shall be there, scanning the sky through the beacon of fl ares, searching for the canisters bringing bread, meat, and the promise of life. They also bring out the Russians, and the Russians bring death. That is my food. We wait in our lair, listening to Batz’s ass mumble. Listening to the city die. The fi ghting has been going on here for months, and its grim end result is utter devastation. The square before us is ravaged, littered with broken stone and blackened stumps which once bordered the fair vistas of a city park. All that remains is a vast, desolate space, a killing ground. In the center of the lump-dotted landscape is a statue of a group of dancing children, black with soot and some headless but still standing—laughing at us. Few buildings bordered the square as most were knocked fl at, and the ones that stand can provide little cover. They are grinning maws, their scars the broken teeth in a smashed skull, and they beckon only death, in the snouts of weapons trained and the actions of men with murder on their minds. 5 Dave Brockie We have been cut-off for three days, and have to assume that we are surrounded. Though I wear no visible rank, my comrades accept my leadership without question. All attempts to reach our own lines have failed, so tonight hunger has compelled us to change our tactics. “Look!” Eurich blurts, stupidly. I hiss at him as I see the dog, thirty meters away, sniffi ng at a pile of debris. The creature moves quickly, purposefully. He is too well fed to be a stray and undoubtedly his master is watching his movements with care. The creature is searching. Searching for us. We are transfi xed, breathless. Batz raises his rifl e but I clamp an iron claw down on the barrel. A shell explodes nearby but we barely notice. The dog is coming closer, homing on the column of stink rising from Batz’s ass. Its tongue lolls as he begins to trot towards our position. “I could eat you,” mutters Eurich. It stops at ten meters and looks directly into my eyes. Miles away the shell leaves the tube, soaring with blind purpose. The city on the river curls beneath it, until it leaps to greet the falling projectile. The blast howls over us, and we bite the earth. For a moment we are gone. A loud buzzing brings me back. It is my brain. I squint through the heat that parts to reveal a smoking crater where the dog had just stood. Batz glares at me with his fi lthy, miserable face, spattered with bits of dead dog. “Well there goes all our luck. I was counting on dog stew,” he gasps. “Lick your face,” I say, grinning like a dirty skull. It is a fi ne tradition that makes me a monstrosity. It is a noble cause that drives me to slay. My mission is a sacred edict to commit mass murder. It will put things to right. It will establish order. These are the lies they tell. To be soldiers we must believe this, in order to rape and kill as one without fear of punishment. And we must never believe we are the blind led by the evil. 6 WHARGOUL My masters must feed. They must feed on human corpses. Remember this when you are asked to worship their next warlord. See his shining face on TV, now promoting a book of his crimes. Think of his mouth packed to bursting with the fl esh of the children that he must consume to continue his existence. I live in a bad part of town, no matter what color you are. I have lairs all over the city but home for me is Harlem, New York, 2001. The city has been dying for years and my neighborhood is on the cutting edge. The buildings around my domicile are mostly deserted and many are in ruin.