Author Archive

Bat Country 5

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 20, 2011 by Gary M

Nosey and I wandered across campus, through the stink-cloud of an all-night laundromat, across a street humming with traffic to where the meat-markets were.  We made genial conversation on the way, pausing only to let me smash the windshield of an unattended BMW convertible that was parked rakishly in a handicapped space.  I felt pretty good about that, sort of Robbing-Hoodish, and pride surged in my breast as screams sounded from the enraged owner as we ambled off.  Two good deeds with one stone, so to speak.  The pride was competing with appetite, I don’t mind saying – though after talking to the demon the thought of elf-distilled liquors was not setting my belly to growling in the normal fashion.  “Let’s get some beers,” I suggested.  The redshift snapback had propelled us through the whole day at hyperspeed, and now that time was flowing properly again I was ready for a drink.  “And maybe some barbecue.”

You might think that as a pig-phouka Nosey would turn up his cavernous nostrils at the thought of hogflesh slathered in spice rub and slow-roasted, but in fact pigs are fucking cannibals.  My comrade and coconspirator was a devotee of the bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwich (hold the bread, lettuce, and tomato), the porkchop, the greasy rack of ribs.  And he was a horny bastard, let’s not deny it; so I’ll not even begin to relate his stories about tender loins or pulled pork.  He pointed a trotter at an overhanging shingle advising of nearby eats and drinks (“Hot & Wet,” and I looked twice in vain hope for stripper poles) and squealed.  “Here, here!”  He’d dried out, mostly, still a little fishy in the armpits but I didn’t think anyone would notice.

We rolled in, Nosey preceding, snout all a-wriggle at the delectable odors rising from a grimy steam-table at the back of the place.  It was dimly-lit, fairly full, bursting with jabbered conversation, braying laughter and the clink of bottles.  I ducked the lintel, and, seeing a table that interested me, pushed past the pigsy and made straight for it.  A couple of jocks were already seated there, satiny basketball shorts on their plump buttocks sliding on grimy vinyl while engaged in the opening maneuvers of date-rape with their respectively-cleavaged partners.  There was enough giggling and hurhur-ing and antics to satisfy a family of fucking baboons: all that remained was for the lads to start picking lice off one another’s nutsacks.  I leaned over, put my palms flat on the table and said “Fuck off, you.”  One frat rat opened his chowhole to protest, his soulpatch waggling in righteous outrage, and I let the fuckwits see, I mean really see the size of the cock they were about to engage in a pissing contest.  We ogres have been around for-fucking-ever, long enough to establish a solid terror of hulking things with metal teeth in the human racial memory.  The chaps skedaddled so fast that hat-sideways-boy climbed over his evening’s prospective cum recipient without even pausing to squeeze her cupcake-like tit.  All four vanished with an audible clatter to reappear at a table unfashionably close to the door, where they slouched in defeat, beaming scattery eye-lasers of rage in my direction.  No offense, Jake, but there’s only one of you pink-and-nipplies a generation that can drop an ogre and you ain’t him.

I threw myself down in the booth, still warm from collegiate ass, and Nosey scooted in across from me.  “Get anything you like, I’m a fucking millionaire tonight,” he grinned and dropped a handful of change on the table – penny-and-nickel stuff, plus a couple washers and a grey-painted knockout from an electrical box.  “Spit!” he commanded, so I spat – working up a real good snot-gob, rumbling and cruffing much to the consternation of our booth-neighbors – right in the center of the clinking coin-pile.  A wave of Nosey’s split hooves later and a jarl’s ransom of fool’s-gold gleamed in the stained light shed by the dust-furred lamp above.

My porcine companion plucked a laminated menu crusted with suspicious sauce from behind a greezy napkin-holder and buried his prodigious nose in it.  I followed his example, and was just beginning to feel annoyed that every fucking thing on it was cooked when I felt a presence, doubtless drawn by the slippery stack of Fakerrands spilling off the table.  “Gimme a pitcher,” I said, not looking up at the waitroid.

Someone’s mouth snapped a skeptical bubble of gum, and I rose up with intent to bring thunder – met eyes like sea-green wells over freckle-dusted cheekbones, each downy hair on her face ringing with an ineffable glow, the burgundy stripe dyed into her bangs as incandescent as a war-banner.

Oh fuck, I realized.  It’s the angel.

Bat Country 3

Posted in Dr. Dippie on July 2, 2011 by Gary M

Nope, it wasn’t just me.  The pewter slipped through my fingers and fell, gonging off the floor and spraying the last of my Old Gil-galad Artisanal #7 across a pair of filthy bowling shoes.  The air thickened with screams and the scent of brimstone boiled up as the demon materialized before me, striking a theatrical pose in the reddish light.   “Nice place ya got here.”  The demon’s voice was smooth and smoky, like a long drag on a fine cigar with a chaser of Precambrian scotch.  “Can I have a minute of your time?”

That fucking elf rotgut sat in my belly like a seaslug, weeping neurotoxic slime.  “Uh, actually no.  Gotta split before noon– geas and all that.  You know how it is.”  Which was the wrong thing to say to a demon, of course.  They rebelled and got consigned to Hell, while the fair folk – well, they didn’t drink the Lucifer kool-aid but you didn’t hear ‘em singing hosannas, if you know what I mean.  So they fell too, just not as far.

The demon’s eyes, already livid yellow and more helter-skelter than a bucket of Charlie Manson’s brains spiked with sweet chili sauce, writhed with rebel-angel wrath for a split second but its ruddy face remained smooth.  “Actually, I’ve slowed down time for you and I – the red light, you understand.  Redshifting and that.”  The hell-dweller waved it all off, like changing universal constants was something it learned to do about the time it learned to stop shitting in its pants, didn’t everyone?  “So at this rate we can talk for an hour before pushing the limits on your little oath-problem.”

I looked around and it was true, Enemy Mine was pushing his face into the fishbowl, bobbing for guppies or some shit, a furious bubble-cascade frozen in place, shooting up from his glorious nostrils.  Man, that nose of his.  I returned my attention to the demon, who covered up a mock-yawn with a taloned simulacrum of a gentleman’s hand.  “Okay, so.  Whaddaya want?”

The demon smiled, exposing a triple-row of gleaming enamel shark-teeth.  An indivdual of lesser fortitude might have quailed at the sight of all that serrated, meat-slashing dentition.  Not I.  Because I am a fucking ogre, and I’m not scared of anything except having my heart explode.  And I have a pretty respectable set of chompers myself, each bronze tooth cast an aeon and a day ago by Nin-Agal in Sippar-Amnanum to microcubit specifications.  How I came to inherit them is another story entirely.  “Just to talk for a bit, my not-so-fallen friend.  Can’t we brother bastard-children of God exchange civilites once in a while?”

“Sure.  ‘Hi.’  Now get to the fucking point.”  A new bubble was inching its way out of Enemy Mine’s cavernous nose, and this timeshifting shit was playing merry hell with my perceptions: all around I was witnessing things that happen too quickly for normal people to notice.  Flashes in the upper atmosphere, sudden detonations of cosmic rays smacking into rogue atoms, quanta of insanity whirling in lazy outbound spirals before the mean-ass bitch of a teacher at the front of the room notices and WHACK down comes the ruler on those naughty knuckles.  Either that, or the blotter that Nose-Boy put in the juice was still fucking with me.

“Right,” the demon sneered and straightened its tie.  “I’m looking for a contract killer – id est, an ogre – to take out one of the opposition.  All I need you to—“

“Fuck no,” I interjected, the nectar of the Tuatha de Damn’d making me ballsy.  “I don’t sign contracts with demons.  What do you think I am, a fucking moron?”

The demon forebore to answer directly, merely venting a small quantity of exasperated hellfire from its nostrils.  “Kill the angel, and I’ll break your geas.  I’ll be in touch.”  And with that, it disappeared in a puff of Drakkar Noir and dead hopes.  The timesponge, having soaked up all it could of my attention, shot back to full-speed-ahead; Nosey making burbling noises in the depths of his fishbowl, something small and scaly flailing at the water in a mad, doomed effort to escape.

“Nosey!  You fucking freak, leave off tormenting that finny bastard and let’s get out of here, there’s a demon lurking in our spacetime.”

“Lemme grab a shower first,” replied my comrade, and inverted the fishbowl over his pink triangular ears.  Fishwater cascaded over his pork-pie hat, soaked the zooty shoulders of his cheap gangrenous-green polyester suit.  A piece of fake algae caught in his lank hair.  “Ahhh, refreshing.  Ready when you are!”

Bat Country

Posted in Dr. Dippie with tags , , on June 30, 2011 by Gary M

or Is That An Underwire In My Teeth

or I Bit The Hair Of The Dog That Bit Me And Now We’re Both Rabid

or Even Ogres Will Blarney For Blowjobs


I woke up to a screaming headache like cold-wrought iron bands wrapped around my skull, and the unwelcome sensation of my comrade, business partner, go-to guy, and ex-girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend slapping my face with an excess of vigor.  Seeing I was roused, he stopped, though the feeling of his palm impacting the dream-flesh of my cheek echoed back and forth through the next several seconds.  I opened my mouth to say Where the fuck are we and, sensing freedom close at hand, the contents of my stomach made a break for the exit.  Displaying uncommon good sense for his race and class, my Main Man in Wherever The Fuck This Is stepped aside from the oncoming coronal mass ejection.  When the throbbing convulsions had died down to a mere cement-mixer rumble, he made a show of studying the Pollockian spatterings on ceiling, walls, and floor.  “Pencil stub… a roach clip… six beer-bottle caps, all different brands… half a shot glass… a pair of panties….”  He rubbed his face, fatigue dripping from his frame like attitude from a boggart.  “I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

I found my voice.  “Wha’ happen?”  There was light in the room, nova-bright, glancing off something tiny, shiny, and faceted: the scattered reflections sending fiery armor-piercing angel-swords in through my eyes and out through the back of my head.  I groaned, swished puke around my fine set of bronze teeth, and spat.

“Elvish booze, man.  You drank too much, way too much – you turn into a fuckin’ animal on that stuff.”  My friend – and I’ll use that term loosely here, right now no one was my friend except perhaps a quart of tomato juice, raw egg, firewater, and tabasco topped with a sprinkle of powdered unicorn horn – twitched the curtain open and peered out, which had the net effect of making the room brighter but in a tolerably diffuse fashion.  The décor was ‘shabby dorm’ with heaps of clothing, piles of papers, an overflowing desk upon which was perched a shiny laptop with a big bite taken out of the corner of the screen, tar-black crystalline goop in a trail down the inside.

“Oh fuck,” I said.  “Did I do that?”

He nodded solemnly, still peering out the window.  “Too right you did.  You were taking bets, man, why you had all that stuff in your stomach.  I was worried you were gonna blow our cover, so I took a blotter from your bag of tricks and put it in the punch.”

I was too wasted to be angry about this flagrant theft of my personal property.  “Now what,” I croaked, and levered myself to my feet, pleased to note I still had my boots on.  Love those boots – big lug-soled vibram-cleated shitkicking motorcycle boots with screaming-skull toecaps in stainless silver.  Had those made up special by a weyland-smith in Vancouver.  Cramps walked up and down my back like hungry spiders, pausing to sink their fangs into especially tender spots.  Venom surged in my bladder.

“We gotta get outta here before she wakes up.”  He pointed to what I thought was a laundry pile: after a moment’s scrutiny I found an outflung arm, a bare thigh, a curl of coppery hair in the welter of clothing and sheets and Dana-knows-what.

“Waitaminnit,” I said, a sick, scary realization curling like a python around my brainstem.  “Are we in a girl’s room?”  Alarms of all kinds began to go off in my head.  “We gotta get the fuck out of here, man, don’t you remember?  I have a goddamn geas the size of Mount Olympus hanging over me!  If I spend a full day with a girl my fucking heart will explode!  What time is it?  It’s not noon, is it?”  My hands shook, and it took an effort of will to keep from diving out of the window into the screaming sunlight.

Enemy Mine pulled out his phone and poked at it.  “We’re cool,” he said.  “It’s only 11:45.”

The tension drained out of me like water from a flush toilet.  “Oh thank fuck, fifteen minutes is plenty of time.”  I looked around for strong drink, or failing that, raw flesh.  I had a powerful urge coming on.  “Is there any of that elven shit left?  My mouth tastes like a basilisk’s asshole.”

And then someone began to pound on the door.