The Convulsion Factory

Abyss, and having the Abyss hold up a mirror to our deepest, darkest secrets, and whispering in our ears, “this is you, my friend…” — there is no hope for us.

Read. Listen. And Learn, oh Lucky Reader.

I was going to tell you about what happened to me the day the manuscript for this treasure trove of dark delights arrived in my Post Office Box. How, hating to waste a minute of my day, I made the mistake of starting to read “Godflesh” — the wonderful, polymorphous-perverse ode to sexual tabooism which kick-starts this vacation in the October Country of Post-Industrial, Apocalyptic, Urban Decadence — on my way to the subway station (my car was ill that day). And how I walked into two lamp posts, tripped over a curb, and trod on a wino who was sleeping off a Mad Dog 20/20 kidney-rot dream — all because once I started reading I was lost…

And I was going to go into great detail about what then happened to me after I got off the train at King Memorial Station, and how I obliviously wandered into the middle of a drive-by shooting, somehow managing not to get my head blown off. And about my little encounter with the middle-aged, white trash alcoholic whore who offered me a $5 blow job outside the fallout shelter bar she frequents, situated a few blocks from Casa Nutman.

I’m too polite to repeat what I growled in response to her offer, but by this point I was suckling at the teats of the lead character of “Androgyny” and really didn’t want to be disturbed.

Hell, I was disturbed enough as it is.

But all what happened is another story. Or maybe a collection. Or tales best told in a good bar with a glass of full-bodied Cabernet in hand.

What happened to me that day could have happened to one of the characters in these stories — only under Brian’s deft penmanship, it would have been a whole lot worse.

I was lucky. Not just because only chance dictated that the guy with the gun had it pointed towards the other side of the street from me, but because I had stepped into the Hodgian Universe. Maybe it was Brian’s prose which kept me out of harm’s way. Hell, where I was, fictionally-speaking, a bullet would have been the least of my troubles.

Welcome to Brian’s nightmare.

My stint in the spotlight is over. It’s time for me to exit stage left.

All I want to say at this point, oh Lucky Reader, is I envy the journey you are about to undertake.

For in these pages grows a garden of dark delights.

But watch out — every festering rose has its thorns.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Best Blood,

Philip Nutman

Atlanta. June 5th, 1996

Godflesh

Being as she was a woman who prided herself on walking her own deliberate path, imagine, then, the irony: Her horizons were forever broadened by the ecstatic man with no legs.

She was Ellen by day, and knew the aisles of the bookstore as well as the creases in her palm, the smoky gray of her eyes, the finely-wrought lines that inscribed the corners of her mouth and lent it warmth and wisdom, as if etched by a loving sculptor. She walked the aisles with her modest skirt brushing against her knees and could smell every page along the gauntlets of spines. For the patient customer it was a trip well rewarded. Every book should be so matched to a loving home.

There had been nothing different about that day right up to the very moment they left the bookstore, she and Jude letting the evening clerks take over. With that taut facelift, Jude could have been an older sister, or so she thought. Thought she knew what made Ellen tick. A common mistake, but then Jude’s idea of a deep read was Danielle Steel over Jackie Collins. Jude already had the endings worked out for most anyone she could ever meet.

They left together for the parking lot down the street. The bookstore’s neighborhood was like much of the city itself: old and charmingly crumbled by day, not a place most would want to walk alone at night. The peeling doorways, the odd bricks set just out of step with the others, the derelict and sagging smokestacks and chimneys … they hooked strange shadows that worsened as day dwindled into evening, and the shadows gave birth to night people.

They joined the flow, Jude’s brisk footsteps clicking at her side. Urban minnows, that’s what they all were, and god forbid anyone should fall out of step. Were it not for nights, Ellen knew she would one day tear out her hair, an allergic reaction to this sunlight world and the pre-fab molds it demanded.

“…and then do you know what that little doofus asked me?” Jude was saying. “He asked, ‘Do you have The Old Man and the Sea in Cliff’s Notes?’ I told him the original was barely a hundred pages, so why didn’t he read that, and he just looked at me—”

They approached a break in the buildings, the mouth of an alley that gaped back like a dirty, leprous throat. Yet inviting, all the same, with mysteries lying just behind those crusty locked doors. Back rooms often tweaked her curiosity.

“—just looked at me, like I’d suggested, ‘Here, why don’t you bite this brick in half.’ So I said, ‘Listen, I can summarize it for you in fifteen words or less: Man catches fish, man battles fish, man loses dead fish to hungry shar—’” Jude froze, except for her arm, as she began to point along the alley. “Oh. My. God.” Her arm recoiled back to her side. “Don’t look, Ellen, just don’t look.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and too late anyway. Ellen wouldn’t have missed anything that got Jude to interrupt herself.

The man looked to be in his early forties, and she’d never have mistaken him for one of the street people, one of those who cruised around in their wheelchairs with sad stories of cause and effect: car wreck and loss of livelihood; war wounds and loss of stability. From this distance — say, twenty feet along that wall? — his clothing looked neat and new, his hair well-barbered. He might have been any reasonably attractive man who’d made the best of his life after losing both legs at the hip.

Then again, he was masturbating. In his wheelchair. It did not look as if he were merely adjusting his crotch. He was wholly absorbed in the act — heart, soul, and both hands.

“He’s — he’s right out in the open!” Jude said, adding her disgust to that of the less self-absorbed passersby. “I … I don’t think he’s even aware anybody’s watching!”

No. No, he wasn’t, was he? His exultant abandon — Ellen found this the most fascinating aspect of the display. His choice of locale and timing may have been awry, but she saw on his face more passion and ecstasy than she’d noticed on the faces of last week’s eight or ten lovers combined.

A Mona Lisa smile brushed her lips, unnoticed as Jude yanked at her arm.

“Come on, come on,” said Jude. “A nice proper thing like you, a sight like that can scar you for years. I had a neighbor? Liked to show himself to other neighbors? To this very day Sylvia Miller gets nauseated by the sight of knockwurst.” Jude shuddered. “If only I had a bucket of water, I’d douse that pervert’s fire. You shouldn’t have to see things like that.”

If you only knew, Ellen thought, and let Jude believe she was saving her from something she’d in fact watched maybe two thousand times before.

Ellen could be kind that way.

And the days took care of themselves.

*

By night, Elle. Just Elle. “What’s in a name?” Shakespeare had asked, and she’d decided plenty. With the lopping off of a single letter she had created an entirely different life.

She even felt different when that was what others called her, what she called herself. “Ellen” was safe and