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My friend Mike seems to know a thing or two about astrology. He’s not a New Age freak or anything, just a casual sort of weekend occultist. He told me there was a hardcore Mercury Retrogrades in December, and if I had any hopes for being productive I should just ditch them right now and save everyone a lot of trouble.
It’s coming. If you close your eyes you can hear it: a soft skittering, hovering at the edge of awareness. The sound of rustling leaves, of gravel, of soil being inexorably pushed aside. The crackling of lumber being crushed; the sharp chimes of metal being deforming by a steady, unstoppable force.
History has not been kind to them. If you can even find references to their Brotherhood it’s usually shaded with Christian hysteria, whispered tales loaded with the usual Catholic shockers of Satanism, sacrifice, the black mass, rituals — you name it. They say that the winners write the history books — well, I consider it a bad sign that it takes a lot of digging to uncover the truth: while they haven’t won they certainly have a good enough foothold to pretty badly taint the memory of the Amorous Knights of Wycombe.
Many ghosts haunt the stage. Aside from the specters of the greats (Barrymore, Bernhardt, etc.), whole genres wait in the wings for a chance at resurrection: the farce, Grand Guignol, the drawing room mystery, live radio, and many other flamboyant choruses of departed productions.
Trumpeting — though no one alive can hear her; thundering down the shimmering vanishing point of the old steel rails — though no one living can feel her massing footfalls; her massive ectoplasmic essence prowls the afterlife tundra of the railway yards — maybe she tries to pull the living, so inaccessible, weeds that struggle through the creosote stained ties, between the fissures of cracked concrete; maybe she tries to bathe in the town reservoir, though the water flows through her ghostly form.
“Tell me, what was 15 feet high, moved at 35 miles-per-hour, and killed 21 people in 1919?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Bones, what WAS 16 feet high, moved at 35 miles-per-hour, and killed 21 people in 1919?”
“Well, before I tell ya, I’m going to first have to tell you about the sweet brown liquor called rum.”
The setting is fine and lavish: a stately home, the furnishings of fine lineage. Exquisite china, polished silver, an excellent cellar — the perfect elements for an extravagant dining experience. Your hosts, the father and — later — the son, are the most perfect of hosts: witty, urbane, educated, they tantalize and enthrall with rejoinder and anecdote.
Or: Music to Fuck to, Andante
It’s no surprise that a person using the moniker Necrophillia Guy has, um, esoteric tastes, or “special needs” as they are sometimes called. My taste in tunes, as in most other things, leans toward the macabre. No big shock there either, I suppose. After all, how appropriate would it be to set the stage for a necrophilliac encounter by playing Barry Manilow or Bad Company at top volume?
