took the car south along the highway toward the nearest Authority Internment Facility turn off. When they reached the gate there was a slight argument as to how to open it. Pigface solved it with a few blasts of his auto- shotgun.
I tried to possess Tommy throughout the ride without luck. When we pulled to a stop, I noticed that the clouds were fast turning a deep gray in color. Somewhere up there the sun was sliding out of the greasy brown sky. Night was falling. For a moment I mused over the last time I had seen stars. It was at Tommy's sanctuary-a patch of grass and moss that grew on the rooftop of a building in a cleft formed by two abandoned skyscrapers. Three short cedar trees had somehow managed to root themselves in the gravel and refuse, and it was among them that I spotted stars one night peeking out between the clouds like naughty children at the cracks of bedroom doors.
The gangsters rubbed thick elbows in Tommy's guts bringing a groan from him. I tried once again to take him-but failed. He must have been hit worse than I thought. My sex pictures were not working. I couldn't get them over a jagged wall of pain.
'We better be quick,' grumbled the driver. 'I don't want to use more light than we have to. The Landfillers come for lights.'
He looked at his accomplices' crestfallen faces. 'You bitches aren't afraid of a few creepy crawlies are you? Just remember to use your sticks!' He gestured with a stout wooden cane. 'Whack the fuckers!' The gangsters sat silent and grim until the driver rolled his eyes. 'Shit, how'd I get stuck with you pansies? Call yourselves muscle? Bring him!' He shook his head and climbed from the Chrysler, his auto-shotgun tucked under one arm.
The ape on Tommy's left grunted something in opposition, but opened his door and dragged the clown after him. His partner followed, eyes flashing with terror. I had to agree with them. I was not somewhere I ever wanted to feel comfortable. Strange twitching, rustling noises filled the dry brush that grew around the road. A mist- shrouded mountain of refuse and death rose darkly ten yards from the car. The gangsters dragged Tommy through the grass to the left of the road. I suddenly caught a whiff of his nerves firing. The clown quickly pulled his feet under him, then kicked the legs out from under the gangster on the right-who dropped immediately. Tommy collapsed with the other on top of him. He growled and spat. His teeth gnashed.
The auto-shotgun roared and the head blew off the gangster on top of Tommy-then his chest exploded. Pigface had decided to resolve the dispute by dispatching everything within his range of fire. The gun butt was pressed against his dead hip. Evil malice shone in his lifeless face.
Tommy got his feet against the other gangster's torso and strained against the embrace. Just in time, because the auto-shotgun roared, and his dancing partner's face turned to pulp. Tommy rolled out of the carnage. Pigface fired again. A good chunk of the Chrysler's rear left fender blew off as Tommy leapt for cover. He crouched momentarily by the right rear tire, his head snapping from left to right. I floated impotently over him. There was little chance of possession now. His heart was beating madly, his system flushed with adrenaline.
The gun roared three times in succession, eating chunks out of the roof and door. The front window imploded in a shower. Pigface laughed like a machine gun. Saliva poured over his rotten teeth.
My gun was in the glove compartment, but I was the only one who knew it. I saw something limp and pale move near Tommy's right hip. A severed hand, a woman's danced about in the confusion of flying glass. Tommy grabbed it and threw it over the car. The action was answered by a startled squawk. The clown felt around for another missile. From my position I watched Pigface moving slowly around the car. I tried another frantic possession, but was dunked in a smothering wash of white-hot panic. Tommy's breath came in gasps. He threw a rock into nearby brush. A tree was blasted to twigs.
Suddenly, Tommy froze. He looked up. His eyes seemed unfocused, as though he were moving his attention from cloud to cloud. He stared directly into the space I occupied. Then he moved. He yanked open the passenger door. A quarter of it disappeared with a rattling roar. Pigface rounded the right front fender. Tommy dove into the car. In a motion, the glove compartment was open and the. 44 automatic was in his hand.
Slowly, Pigface's footsteps approached. Rubber and grass met with a terrifying rustle. He hissed. 'Okay, fuck up, c'mon out for Uncle Death. It's Blacktime!' His face appeared pinched and oily in the fractured remains of the windshield. 'Good night, sleep tight. Don't let the maggots…' Tommy fired. The automatic clattered, eating Pigface's head and one shoulder. Dark gobbets spattered against the Chrysler and rained on the grass. Pigface's auto-shotgun dropped useless in one hand. The body took a couple of hesitant steps backward-almost fell. Tommy leapt from the car and ripped the gun from its lifeless grasp. He kicked the corpse over with a boot to the chest. It scrabbled and clawed feebly in the dirt.
Tommy returned to the car, tossed the auto-shotgun inside then circled the vehicle. The gangsters were both dead, deep in the sleep of Blacktime. Tommy took their guns,. 9mm automatics, and checked their wallets. As an afterthought, he walked to where Pigface crawled in the grass. He kicked the grisly torso down and with a knee on its chest, frisked its pockets. This produced a wallet and a. 357 magnum. More for the collection. Tommy pocketed both then let Pigface's body continue its crawl into oblivion.
He walked over to the Chrysler and hopped behind the wheel with a crunch of shattered safety glass. He began laughing. 'So, here I am in the fuckin' Landfill. What in the Christ?' He laughed until tears started from his eyes then he dug around under the seat like a cat after a ball of wool. His efforts procured him the remainder of my bottle. He drank desperately, then lit a cigarette.
'Where's that fucking Elmo?' He glared absently at the shattered windshield. Sharp, angular reflections grinned back. He tittered wildly at the images-the thousand mad clowns. All the while the whiskey bottle moved slowly between his legs.
I knew what was going to happen next, so I averted my gaze. All that violence was an aphrodisiac to the clown. I looked out the broken window. Pigface's body had regained its feet. It staggered blindly, whipped around quickly and flailed its remaining arm as though assailed by a flock of bats. I saw the bodies of the gangsters. They were lying peacefully amid the slaughter like they were made for the job. One even had an arm behind his shattered skull as if it were a sunny day, and a stream babbled nearby. His legs were crossed carelessly at the ankles.
Beneath me, I could hear Tommy's wild breathing. He was reaching his peak. Taking over would be as easy as getting murdered in Greasetown.
Chapter 17
I left the car at the curb. It leaned battered and beaten at the base of a dim street lamp. A carload of Firebugs roared past moments before an ancient truck burst into yellow flames down the street. A dead wino looked at me with frightened eyes. I gave him a quarter and stumbled up crumbled steps under a neon sign that throbbed the word Berlinz.
Shortly, I was curled around a pink marble bar. Some sex kitten purred in a voice of rustling bed sheets, a song about Stormy Weather. She seemed oblivious to the many blatant leers that dripped around the lips of foamy beer mugs. I leaned over my drink and slurped with a bruised pucker. My vision jumped like jacks as I waved for the bartender's attention and stabbed my empty glass.
'You like that stuff, eh, Mr. Clown?' He was a small Latin fellow with thin black hair slicked over a tiny head. His skinny arms worked the bottle of Canadian Club over my glass. 'You got a lot of blood on you there.' He looked me up and down.
'Just pour, Caesar. It isn't mine.' I turned away absently. My head ached, my body shivered with pain, and my guts burned with each glass of whiskey. I was in a great mood-felt like sixty-six cents.
I reached back, got my drink and concentrated on the singer. Her dress was slit to the crotch, and for a lascivious moment I distracted myself by playing peek-a-boo with a white silk bunny that flashed its cute little nose from time to time. When the singer jerked her hips in just such a way, her enormous augmented breasts heaved provocatively against the tight silk dress. I lit a cigarette, drained my glass and put my injured brain to work.
Pigface and the monkey-twins were obviously in Mr. Adrian's employ. One might ask the question, why does Mr. Adrian hire gentlemen of questionable heredity when he's just a nice old taxpaying businessman. The dead men's wallets had provided little more than a few small bills in way of information; in fact, they were buying me a round. I hadn't expected to find anything. Nobody carried identification any more. Regardless, Mr. Adrian called the shots. He would soon know that I had escaped because his boys wouldn't be home tonight. I decided not to worry about what he would do-he would do it anyway.
