CBTT Presents: The Crystal Menage (Updated 12/31)

[by-the-throat]

Chapter 1 - A Sticky Situation

It was 4:48 PM on a dull grey Friday and despite the stack of bills angrily impaled on my desk I was about ready to give up waiting on the new client my charming young secretary had penciled in for the end of the day, turn off the neon sign and get reaquainted with my good pal Drunken Stupor, with whom I had a dinner date at 5 sharp. I could hear Carmen's keyboard clicking idly, though what she was doing (at 9.50 an hour, no less; I'm too good to that woman but lets face it, my business would be even more boned without her) this close to closing time was beyond me.

The silhouette in the frosted door made me reconsider in a moment, as any good private eye always regrets his job less when seeing a curvy long haired shape through frosted glass. The knob turned, and she stepped inside, one long leg at a time. Both Carmen's and my eyes clicked to her immediately; she was definitely a sight for the sorest of ocular cavities, and as she made her slow, hesitant way to my secretary's desk, we both shared a mischevious wink. Our day was looking better already.

She was short-maybe 5'4" at the outside, with a body that pulsed with living sin. Her hair fell in dark, carefully permed ringlets that tumbled around her spa-tanned skin, and her carefully manicured fingernails were wringing nervously at a brown manilla envelope. She had a long trenchcoat on that did little to hide her curves, and a pair of sunglasses were sticking out of the pocket, but the dress that showed from beneath was raw coutre, probably with a name I couldn't pronnounce. "Mind if I smoke?" were her first words, and Carmen, god bless her, said with all the professionalism she could muster in wet panties "Not at all."

The woman pulled out a menthol and fondled it nervously, and looked around my admittedly unimpressive office. "Not quite what I expected from your website."

"Bandwidth is cheap, Mrs...." I started in, though Carmen shot me a jealous look. I came up behind her and lit her cigarette for her, close enough to feel the nervous heat rolling off that tight little body in waves. I couldn't resist grinning at my wife, who by now had retaken her seat.

"Mrs. X, but call me Serena," she replied. "I'm paying cash and I want this discrete-even from the IRS. That's why I came to you," and here she gave my dismal office a pointed glance, most notably the stacks of bills on my desk, "instead of someone more reputable-say, someone who would report his findings to the proper authorities."

"We speak the same language, Mrs. X," I said smoothly, and she finally seemed to ease up a little. She slide out of the heavy trench and plopped it across the back of her chair. I could see Carmen taking a discreet peek up her dress, and I made it a note to ask her what color her panties were as I took another rickety chair and straddled it backwards beside her. "So what can I help you with?"

"Well, it seems I'm missing a husband and...well, a trinket. A family heirloom, of no value to anyone but myself..." I could already smell trouble, but as I lit a cigarette of my own and I watched my secretary lick her red lips I decided the trouble would be worth it. "The husband can take a flying fuck into the arctic for all I care, but I need the trinket back."

"Mmmm." I dragged off the cigarette. "So you want something, presumably worthless, and you don't want it reported to the IRS?" She flinched a little, and I knew my blind toss had hit it's mark. She fidgeted some, uncrossing her legs with the whisper of silk against flesh, and I could see Carmen, the consumate minx, squirm a little in her computer chair. "Probably also need it aquired under the table, without your husband's knowledge." I licked my lips, and breathed deeply of the woman's scent as she held me pinned with those dark, glimmering blue eyes. I smelled some perfume with a name long as the Amazon and something else. Something familiar-desperation. I gave her a comforting smile. "I can probably handle both for you." Actually, the aquisition might be a problem, but I knew a group of specialist that would work for dope.

"Oh, thank you," she breathed, and I could smell the gin on her breath. Probably working up her courage all afternoon to walk into a place on this side of town. She leaned in and suddenly that red mouth was hot and slick against mine-just for a second, perhaps before she realised what she was doing. "I'll do anything...anything to get it back. Here." She pressed the envelope in my hands. "This is everything I know. Please...hurry."

Carmen quietly inserted herself in that moment, stepping beside us and wiping up the lipstick with her little pink bandanna. She kissed me as well and said "Don't forget your hat," she said, warmly and wickedly. "I'll have Serena stay here for now, so I can get the relevant case details out of her." Which was as good as code for 'I'll have her panties off by the time you get back, sucker, and you have to go to work.' I guess I lost that round, but really, I don't call that losing. Besides, I had bills to pay.

As I reached over behind my desk for my sawn-off 870, seeing Serena's blush as she realized that Carmen and I were an item, I couldn't help but chuckle to myself. Looks like it was going to be an interesting case, and if I played my cards right, I might not even lose money this time.

Naturally, I'd never even mentioned price.

I caught the bus to 54th street; I wasn't made of money and christ knows I couldn't have afforded a cab. Settling into a seat on the back of the dingy bus behind some immigrants chattering in Portugese, I broke out the case files and had a glance through it. There was a photo of the husband, a potbellied bald little spitfuck that had no business diddling "Mrs. X" in any just universe, which probably meant he was loaded. Insurance files on the trinket, which was insured at three quarters of a million. That made me whistle. The fact that it had not been claimed yet was telling-it was clearly worth more than .75 million dollars to my client. The blurry photo revealed it to be some kind of jeweled tiara in a weird fish motif and it was categorized under 'archaelogical find.' Interesting.

And here was a happy surprsie - an advance marked 'for expenses' with five $100 bills tucked in another envelope with lipstick on the seal. It smelled like her perfume, and a little like fear. I took a moment to savor it and thought of my lovely little wife spreading our client's creamy, trembling legs on top of my hardwood desk. That thought kept me warm as it started drizzling the minute I stepped off the bus. The envelope went back into the large interior pocket of my coat and I headed through the Cooze district's maze of one way streets and reeking alleys until I came to my bar.

They called this bar the Prancing Unicorn, but despite that it wasn't a gay bar-just a run down two story joint wedged between a headshop and a 24 hour bail bondsman. The door was propped open to let some cool evening air in; as usual, it was still stuffy inside despite the dozen or so lazily circling fans overhead. There was almost no crowd; the money demographic for this place is second shift at the tube factory so it wouldn't fill up until midnight or so. For now it was just two wasted Italians arguing over the TV and a single soggy drunk looking dejectedly at an empty pitcher. I breezed past him, gave a nod to the bartender John, and wandered over to the piano and laboriously plunked "Chopsticks" on the out of tune keys. With a click and a grating sli-i-i-i-i-de, the wood panel behind the piano slid out of the way, revealing a staircase leading down.

The hooch door is the city's worst kept secret, and leads to the back parlor where most of the real business is conducted at this bar. Anyone can go there if they need a little privacy, whether for a shady business deal or a quick hummer-Carmen and I had used it for both in our time. Today it was business rather than pleasure, but I had a few calls to make first.

I rang her phone first. Voice mail. Bitch was probably eyeball deep in fresh pussy by now; I'd never get ahold of her until she was done. I really needed those case details, but we took a vow on our wedding day to support one another's hobbies. Instead I took a deeper look at the case files Serena had handed me, shuffling through the insurance papers while I smoked another cigarette. Ah, here was an interesting item-a certificate of authenticity was included, from the "Dunwich Historical Society" dating the item back to the 1700s. In the insurance documents, it was stated that the certificate would be necessary to make any claim on the item. So the husband can't file without the cert, and the wife can't file without the tiara. Hm. Not that I assumed this was about the insurance money, but it never hurts to consider every angle.

John sent me down a shot of scotch on the dumbwaiter, and I sent him up a crisp hundred, which would hopefully bring my tab down to the point he stopped dipping his nutsack in my drinks. That would be nice, wouldn't it? I held the shotglass up to the light and checked for pubes, then downed the shot in a rush of smoky caramel fire. That helped drive the chill from my bones, and I continued flipping through the case info.

Here was another interesting item; court documents for a civil case between the Miskatonic University History Department and several members of the Marsh family. Apparently this was a hotly contested item. The suit was for posession of the item under the precedent set by various Native American tribal artifact suits, claiming it was a sacred relic of the Marsh family and citing documents linking it with the town's founder, Obed Marsh. I shuffled through the stack of legalese and came to the ruling, which granted posession to the university. "Family trinket" indeed.

I shuffled more papers and made my next call. Let me tell you, being a private dick isn't all car chases and stripping the panties off hot heiresses-half of my goddamn time is wasted jockeying the desk or manning the phone. The sexy salt in my wound was that my lovely wife was probably doing the panty stripping right now. The call was to my buddy J-Rock, who, despite his unforgiveably stupid name, was a man with his ear to the ground on the movements of stolen property. It wasn't a gangster name; he was an independent insurance adjuster with a penchant for talking like street trash. Still, a good man to know for cases like this. I made the requisite noises for his answering service and they promised he would call me back.

Well, it was a start anyway. John sent me down another scotch and I nursed it for fifteen minutes or so waiting for my phone to ring, but it didn't happen so I stepped out of the speakeasy and into the street. There I lit another cigarette and started hoofing it towards the bus stop. At least the rain was letting up.

The bus stop was empty when I sat down, but before I had even finished my smoke two big motherfuckers stepped up in front of me. They were goons, they even walked like goons, even though they wore Miskatonic U. Varsity jackets and nice chinos. Both were white and had pale blonde hair, coarse cheekbones, deep set eyes, bulging foreheads. And their smell was off too, odd somehow. Salty and alien, like the seaweed they used to wrap market fresh lobsters. They had to be brothers or...something. One of them held out his hand to me and said "Mr. Goldberg."

"Vance to my friends," I said. The guy was using my #2 credit card name; I'm about as Jewish as a pulled pork sandwich. That was a telling bit; it isn't the name on my website. I took his hand and shook it, though the clammy touch of his palm gave me the skin crawlies. "And who do I have the honor of addressing?"

"Mickey Marsh, and this is my little brother Randolph." One lump gestured to the other, who simply grunted. A Miskatonic ring, platinum with onyx insets, glittered at me.

"Class of 2009," I said, tilting my head to look at the ring. "And those are wrestling letters, I bet. How's Coach Brawner?" I faked a vacous smile here. The weight of my shotgun on a draw clip tucked under my coat was a great comfort to me at this stage of negotiations.

"We've hunted you up for business, not pleasure, Mr. Goldberg." This was Mickey, Lump #1. "We're looking for our little lost sister. Serena Marsh. We have reason to believe she has contacted you."
To cover my nervous tension I lit another cigarette, drew on it to give me time to think. "And why would your little sister come to the big city looking for a private dick?"

Lump #1 furrowed his pallid brow in consternation. "I do not know," he replied, "but her computer records indicated she recently viewed your website."

"If that were the case," I said, "why didn't you go to my office? And during business hours, for fuck's sake?" Alarm bells were going off hard in my head here. Honestly, if I had half a brain I would have just ratted Serena out, but damnit...I had taken her money. And I had a feeling that this would be a most unpleasant fate I was turning her over to.

Lump #2, the one called Randolph, finally spoke up. "ENOUGH!" he spat, and he made it sound weird, like he was saying it around a mouthful of something wet and disgusting. He reached out for me with his ham hock hands, fingers flexing hungrily, but his brother intersposed a meaty arm and drew him back.

"Randolph," said Lump #1 sternly, and then looked back at me. "Turn over whatever family materials she has handed to you, and we will allow you-and her-to go in peace about your merry business." Ah. So it wasn't about the little sister, it was about the fucking money. Now we were speaking the language of 'Vance Goldberg' and I stood up, lifting my chin, facing them down with the arrogance that only comes from having no fucking idea what you are dealing with.

At the time, I didn't exactly take very detailed notes-but here's how I think it went down. I was in the process of telling the Lumps to back the fuck off when one of them-I think Lump #2-jacked me hard in the jaw with a fist the size of an 80's cell phone. I'm no pussy, I can take a hit, but I felt my knees buckle when I ate that big canned ham sandwich. I was reaching under my coat for the shotgun when the other one hit me in the guts. I had a hand on the gun for a half a second and then my world dissolved under a meaty rain of punches that ended with the bitter taste of wet pavement. I heard papers rustling and knew they were taking my case files, and when I started to protest one of them kicked me in the ribs and put an end to that notion right fuckin' quick. As I laid there looking at their shoes (High top nikes, what is this, 1994?) I saw the flash of police lights and the two morons took off.

The sad part is that it wasn't even the low point of my day.

Officer Friendly wanted to know if I wanted to press charges and I didn't; if this was a family affair, I was being paid by the client to keep it that way. Anyway he offered to give me a ride to the hospital and I declined; it was time to get back to the office and make sure everything was all right. I called Carmen and got a voice mail again. Greedy bitch-must be a hot little number she was playing with. I admit it, the prospect of all that soft warm flesh waiting for me when I got back was a better painkiller than the two tylenols I dry swallowed.

Fuckers had taken my money too, the whole damned envelope. I couldn't even get a cab with just the cash in my wallet. It took me almost an hour to get back to the office, which doubled as our apartment. I smoked a cigarette in the foyer and looked in the mail slot and got my first dribble of real, steel tasting fear-it had been forced recently and messiliy. There was a wide gap where the lock had been pried away with a crowbar. "Fuck me," I breathed around my cigarette. Very carefully not touching the metal, I flicked open the hinged box and discovered exactly what I expected-nothing.

I felt my adrenaline kick into overdrive. If they had been here, the trouble was uglier than I expected. The nagging aches in my jaw, ribs and nose were tuned out behind a crackling screen of furious nerves as I took the stairs three at a time, shotgun in one hand and cigarette in the other. My office was on the seventh floor and by the time I crossed the threshold pretty much all the pain had returned, along with burning lungs as an added bonus. The elevator dinged at the far end of the hallway, going down. Otherwise the hallway was silent.

It took me a moment to get ahold of my breathing, my eyes flitting restlessly from doorway to doorway. Only my frosted glass door was open, though lights were under the cracks of two others. Suddenly a lifetime spent telling the neighbors that the strange moans and slapping noises in my apartment were normal didn't seem like such a great idea. With care, I crept towards my own front door, shotgun held at the hip. There was no footfall sound to give me away, but it would be masturbation to insist it was because of any great stealth techniques; there was a heavily padded carpet. As I got closer, I listened carefully.

There were some rustling sounds like a box being turned over, and then clattering. I heard a muffled curse. The door was close now, and I could smell a strange, bitter scent. The lights were on and burning brightly, every light in the place must have been on. As I got closer, I leaned up against the door frame and found I could catch the conversation much more clearly.

"Fucker doesn't even have a credit card reader," came one voice, thick, with a rural East Coast accent. There was a rustle of soft chuckles at this comment.

"His wife is pretty hot though," came another. I recognized it immediately; Lump #2, AKA Randolph Marsh. Now I was really pissed. Its one thing to kick the shit out of me at the bus stop-that's just business. But throw my wife into the mix and the genre changes. This was officially a horror story now, cocksucker, though of course time would prove to me later how right I was.

That told me my girl wasn't there, thankfully. The conversation went on.

"No sign of our dear sister either," came another voice. Lump #1. Murder welled in my heart like a throbbing hardon.

"He's probably still in the hospital after the way you guys worked him over," came a never voice, more nasal, yet somehow very tightly controlled. It put me in mind of the way some very educated guys speak a foreign language-correct even to the slang, but rote somehow. "We've got time. Randolph, why don't you run down and keep a lookout in the foyer? Keep me posted if anyone shows undue interest." Sounds like he was the one in charge. Still, my course of action from here was crystal clear.

I slipped back to the stairs and watched through the cracked door. Sure enough, Lump #2 came lumbering out of my office and bumbled towards the elevator, thumbing the call button. Perfect.

I took the stairs at a dead run again, no longer even a little tired, just pissed off. I beat the elevator down by a full minute, enough time to shoo Mrs. Merryweather back upstairs and pull my shotgun. I shucked a shell into the chamber and stood by the elevator. Also, I made very sure to have a big shit eating grin on my face. If Lump #2 played his cards right, it wouldn't have to be the last thing that he saw.

The elevator dinged and the door opened. Lump was standing there with my #1 Husband mug in his hand, and his jaw dropped when he saw me standing there. I widened my grin and smacked the coffee mug upwards with the barrel of the shotgun, sending the steaming liquid into his face. His broken backed dog howl was more satisfying than I'd care to admit, but there was no time to enjoy it. I rushed him then, using momentum and surprise to substitute for force, and with my left forearm shoved him all the way to the back of the elevator. It shut behind us and I smashed the emergency stop button, the barrel of the shotty pressed up under Lump's chin.

"Hello, Randolph," I said. He started to struggle and I shoved hard on the shotgun, making the flesh of his throat dimple around the barrel. That made him go still right away. "Big, but not stupid. I like that in a goon." Coffee was streaming down his face like hot, black tears, and his eyes were wide and pale. "Let's have us a chat, shall we?"

"Your dead, you fucker," he rumbled.

I smiled sweetly at him and pressed harder, right on the adam's apple, and watched him gag. "Maybe, but we aren't here to talk about me. Hands on your head, or am I going to have to fuck start your pee hole?" I reached down to caress his nutsack with my free hand, and that made him jump faster than the gun to his voicebox. It's a miracle what a little gay action can do for a detective in a tight spot. Uh, no homo.

He put both hands on his buzzcut. "I'm gonna get you, Goldberg. We're going to fucking find you, and the crown." That was interesting, but I had more pressing concerns.

"Where is my wife?" I snarled in his face.

"She wasn't there when we got there," he snapped back. "I saw the photos you have lying around though. Maybe I'll come comfort her after they bury what's left of you."

"Maybe I'll come comfort you in your jail cell," i said, and touched his dick again. I had no real incentive this time but it made him jump and that made me feel better. "You lie to me, I won't even wait-I'll fucking rape you right the fuck here in this elevator."

"My brothers are right upstairs," he replied, but I could see the fear in his eyes. I believed him about Carmen. She was a smart girl, probably out the fire escape the minute they kicked in the door. With her new little friend in tow, no doubt. Besides, this cretin didn't have the brains to lie to me and get away with it. Still, I had to fuck with him.

"You ever had a dick in the ass? It feels pretty good when you learn to relax." Here I was breathing hard, letting him smell the scotch and menthol on my breath running over his neck around the cold gun barrel. "Sort of like taking a shit in reverse, you know? Warm and invasive and rubbing all up on your prostate..."

Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead and I was having fun for the first time since I left my office before. His lower lip quivered, but the jury was out on whether it was a snivel or a sneer. "I...you...aren't you supposed to be asking me questions?"

I pressed my hand against his crotch, leered, breathed on his neck some more. "I'll, uh, ask the questions! What the fuck is your game? Why are you wrecking my office?"

He was squirming like a worm on a hook now, trying to avoid both my hand and the shotgun barrel at the same time. "Fuck you!" he said desperately.

I twitched my hand. "I feel you getting hard down there, sailor." I couldn't, but he wouldn't really be able to tell that. "You must be enjoying this."

"NO!" the big man squealed and I laughed in his face. That was when he started sobbing. Good. Now he was less likely to tell this little story to his brothers. No time to ease up though.

"What is the signifigance of this artifact?" I pressed, and he choked. I thought it was on snot. "Why are all of you looking for it? Why are you willing to ditch your sister to find it? AND WHY THE FUCK DID YOU KICK THE SHIT OUT OF ME AT THE BUS STOP!?!?!" Then I squeezed his nutsack and twisted-hard. He twitched and slobbered and fell to the floor.

I was about to sit on his chest and press the interrogation, but he stopped and arched his back up like a man being electrocuted. His eyes rolled back to show the whites and I saw black mucous oozing out of each nostril, forming a dark ring around his now foaming mouth. I didn't even have time to think 'What the fuck?' before he started babbling around the foam.

"RED STAR RISING...KEYHOLE TO OBLIVION...R'YLEH...IAH...IAH...CTHULHU FTAGN" he rasped, bit by painful bit. "LOST DAUGHTER...MUST BEAR THE SON...TO OPEN THE WAY..." Now lump was reaching up for me, hungrily, where before all he had wanted was to get away. I had not noticed before, but his fingers were webbed all the way to the fucking cuticle. "SPAWN OF THE VOID...CROWNED WITH A DRIFTWOOD CROWN..." And here there were bits of red coming up in the white foam, and a steady backbeat of Lump #2 beating his head against the floor of the elevator.

I have to tell you, folks-at this point, I was absolutely shittin' it.

"SEA TOUCHES SKY...SKY TOUCHES SEA...THERE THE TWAIN WILL MEET." His voice swelled to fill the elevator like a rising tide, and involuntarily I took a step back. Blood was spreading from a wound in his scalp, and I scurried to keep it off my boots. His voice dropped to a rasp, then a rattle, and he lay still at last, with one final whimper. I can't be sure, but I think it was "I'm not gay." With his last breath, he denied his boner.

His chest stopped rising after that, and I didn't think I was going to miss him. Which is good, because shortly after that, the smell of crackling pork fat rose off him in a stinking cloud, and his pale flesh turned black and rendered down into a thick muddy stain on the grimy floor, pooled around a Miskatonic varsity jacket. No bones, no organs-just a goddamn stain on the carpet. In this business I like to think I've seen it all. But this was a new one.

"Fuck me," i said. It was all I had. I thumbed off the emergency button, stepped out of the elevator. There was no crowd. What the fuck was I gonna do now? They were going to come looking for him soon-he was ugly and maybe a little bi curious, but still family. So, with some effort, and maybe a slight wrench in my overall mental health, I pushed the weirdness of it all down to a tightly secured footlocker at the bottom of my mind and lit a cigarette. God, it tasted good.

The first thing to do, I thought rationally as I exhaled over the stinking stain on the elevator floor, was confound the investigation. Not the police-I had a gut feeling that the police wouldn't be involved if the Marsh family had anything to do with it. But they would do their own investigating and I had no desire for 'Vance Goldberg' to be spread out over a fish god altar and fucked to death with a ritual athame.

With the tip of my Winchester multi-tool I pried the elevator control panel loose and used the pliars to rip out a large chunk of wiring. That would force them to use the stairs to start with. I knelt just beside the grisly Lump stain and very carefully gathered up his clothes, storing them all in one tied off pants leg and keeping the ick well away from my body.

My phone rang. J-rock. No time now; I let it go to voice mail.

With some effort I pried open the elevator door and slithered out. Mrs. Merryweather was standing there with a resigned look on her face. "Is it out again?" she said with a sigh.

"Yes," I told her, hoping the bacon frying adrenaline in my guts didn't show in my voice. "I think those little Negro boys down the hall wrecked it again."

The tired old racist explanation was a slam dunk for her and she launched into a familiar tirade while I helped her up three flights to her apartment. From her living room, with her still ranting about the Civil Rights Act in my left ear, I dialed Carmen again and nearly applauded when I got her on the first ring.

"Babe, listen. Trouble," I said.

"I'll say," she panted in my ear. "Bitch just won't stop! Uh-uh-UUUUUNGH jesus serena! Business!" I had to grin despite everything.

"Where are you?" I asked her.

"Serena's hotel." She listed a hotel and room number.

"Listen, stay there, but get ready to check her out," I told my lovely wife, while Mrs. Merryweather lit a cigarette and offered me a demerol for helping her up the stairs. She's such a sweet old lady for a racist.

"That bad?" My wife's tone was instantly serious despite the apparent cunnilingus.

"Worse," I told her. "You have a gun?"

"You know it, my love. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, but you may need it. I'm on my way." I hung up quickly and checked my voicemail.

"Yo, Pee-to-the-Dee!" That was what J-Rock called me, short for, wait for it, private-to-the-detective. Goddamn moron. "I ran the numbers on that item. It hasn't been claimed, but there are a number of sealed contractual clauses you aren't going to get short of a Federal subpoena. That policy is a hundred and nine years old, dude! Chulte FInancial, out of Boston. They were not happy that I called about it either. You okay, bro? Hey, hit me up later, I got some killer X for you and your ol' lady. PEACE!"

I sighed and closed my phone again, regretting not closing up shop when I had the chance. Mrs. Merryweather was talking in my ear "...and I mean, the whole point of the game is to run, shoot and steal! Why would anyone think it WASN'T a UN conspiracy?"

"Damn right, Mrs. M," I told her. "I've got to go, though. Thanks for the, uh, enlightening lecture."

"Of course dear. Would you like a cookie?"

Of course I did. Would a racist cookie taste so sweet on my bleeding gums? Yes. Yes it would.

[DannusMaximus]

Fuckin' A, BTT! Hell of a start!

[223shootersc]

thank for the new writings, need more

[DTyra]

I have a feeling this is going to be good.

[ZMace]

Awesome! Looks like I voted for the right story...

Great start, can't wait to see where it goes.

[by-the-throat]

Just a few quick notes about this story and formatting.

These are going to be long updates, a chapter at a time. One thing I found when working on my last story was that the broken narrative occasionally hampered me and I'd find myself going over things too much or using the same word or phrase too often in the same chapter. Because of that, they might be updated slower.

In case you are curious about this project, it all started off as a teaser for an erotica project I was kicking around a few years back. In the end, though, the genre bores the crap out of me if I don't have my dick out, so I shifted the focus and went with Lovecraft. My love of Lovecraft is blind to the status and placement of my dick. Still, I had to keep the Unicorn Hunting detective as part of the story-simply because it pleases me. But don't look for hard sex scenes; the sex isn't the point, the horror is. (Fake Edit: Also, please don't ban hammer me. )

Glad some of you guys like the premise; I am looking forward to writing this story.

[Manliest]

If anyone bans you before this story is completed, I will hunt them down.

[by-the-throat]

Chapter 2 - Something Fishy About This Case

The idiot goons were still dicking around in my apartment when I left. Just the thought of them rooting through my private space (and our truly impressive dildo collection) made my stomach hurt. Or maybe it was the vast howling black void blocking the realization that I had just melted a man with gay innuendo in my elevator. Either way, I had to cautiously smother the urge to kick in my own door and start laying about with fists and buckshot; I didn't want to chance those kind of long odds.

Really, though, the Marsh family fucked up. They took a case that was about money and a pretty face and made it personal. As I hoofed it twelve blocks to Serena's hotel with a cookie in my pocket, I chewed over the details of the case in my head. The sounds of the city, my city, swelled up around me, a comforting drone of cabs rumbling in great swarms like yellow jackets. A homeless asian guy lying under a wilting tree lifted his head to shriek at me, stopped when he saw me, eyes widening with recognition. He grinned, making his leathery old face crinkle like the ripples in a peanut butter pie, and held out one gloved hand.

"Otis," I said without preamble, handing him a cigarette, "You see anything weird come through here lately?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, see many weirds, rots of things. Smell like robster." He pantomimed cracking the shell & eating a lobster with disturbing accuracy for a hobo.

"So you saw them? The Lum, uh, Randolph people?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Not people. Fish things. Monsters maybe. Seaweed smell, gills behind the jawbone. You see soon." His eyes brightened. "You got your frask? Maybe a drink for ol' Otis?"

"Not today, but here." I handed him the cookie, and he bit it like a gold coin in a western. Sheesh. You can't ejaculate without hitting a crazy person in this town. "So you saw the, uh, fish monsters? Where did they come from?"

"Parking garage, 91st & Briarpatch. I see them when I park my car." Otis wasn't strictly homeless; he lived out of an old VW bus. "Big brack car like a boat...or a coffin." His eyes shimmered with something I didn't quite recognize.

I gave him another cigarette and pondered while I smoked one of my own. It might be a good idea to hit up the parking garage before the Marshes got wise to the disappearance of their ugly-ass brother, but I didn't want to chance them catching me alone. I had the distinct impression that my last "warning" was probably the only one I would get. There was something big at stake here, and not just money. On the other hand, if I had a lead here and I let it go, that would put me right back where I started in the case, minus the fat advance. In the end, the decision was a war between my professional side and the side who cared about his own skin more than anything.

No contest, folks. I went on to the hotel. The fact that my hot little wife was there waiting with her new girlfriend probably had nothing to do with that decision.

As always, half of my detective life was spent on the phone. I was dialing and walking like the worst spray tanned New Jersey mall zombie as I made my way to the hotel. The first call I made was to Pescadore, a local professional gutcutter of the MS13 persuasion, albeit quasi retired. He owed me a bit of a favor, but his phone was turned off. Story of my freaking life. I left him a voice mail for when he woke up, probably about noon tomorrow when he finally recovered from his bender.

Next I called the local police, reporting a break in at my apartment. The fact that the Marshes were avoiding public scrutiny meant that the sirens would drive them off before they wrecked too much of my shit. Money and guns were safely hidden in a wall safe; I doubted they would have the time to crack it before the po-po showed up. And if one of them got tasered, well, I wouldn't weep for him.

Hope they don't ask about the stain of human DNA in the elevator or the soggy discarded pair of pants in the dumpster something chirped gleefully inside me, and I felt a painful mental twitch like a tourettes tic. Can't think about that shit now. Moving on. For a second the towering housing projects around me looked papery and rough textured, honeycombed with apartments like a great wasp's nest that buzzed and buzzed and buzzed almost like talking...with a great, groaning effort, I wrenched my gaze back to the sidewalk. Nice, clean, normal sidewalk. The phone was ringing again; apparently I was dialing somewhere. No one on the other end; the number on my display was 999 999 9999. The doo-Dee-DEE of a disconnected line cut off when I shut the phone, too hard-it was starting to sound like a squealing puppy. I shuddered and went on, the rain picking up and dripping off the edges of the old grey fedora.

The hotel room helped revive me immediately; nothing gets me back on my feet like the smell of girl sex. There is nothing like the smell of two turned on girls once, that tangible, sinful scent that brushes against your face like hot, damp jungle leaves, both girls distinctive from one another, but part of the same delerious foliage. I stepped in the door and breathed in deeply, feeling my mind settle a bit. If they could bottle this ambience, I wouldn't need so many Xanax. Side note: pick up Xanax from J-Rock when I go visit him later. My hands shook a little less when I lit my next cigarette and said "Love?"

"Here, darling." Carmen, strictly professional now in a black turtleneck and business casual skirt, was shouldering our bailout duffle. It rattled comfortingly when she picked it up. Behind her, Serena looked out of the bathroom with smeared lipstick and a glazed look in her eye that I knew well. Despite the craziness, I shared a wink with my wife.

Carmen was on me in a second once I stepped into the light. "Oh, your face!" She ripped the medkit off the tear-away panel mounted on the outside of the bag. Her hands smelled like Serena, which soothed me far more than the swipe of orange betadine and the light in my eyes. "Jesus, they really did a number on you."

My first instinct was to say "You should have seen the other guy" but that was a dangerous line of reasoning to me because the other guy was currently a stain and I still couldn't figure out why. I stabbed my cigarette out in the ashtray and turned to Serena.

"Mrs. X," I said crisply, "do you have a lot of brothers? Big creepy motherfuckers?" ...who melt into goo when interrogated... my mind scrabbled past the glass wall around the event on little pale mouse feet.

Her face fell. "Oh, oh no. Did they find you? How did they find you, I was so careful..."

"They mentioned your computer records,"

"Elijah, then. He's the computer literate one. And where you find Elijah, you find Mickey and Randolph. Oh God, I'm so sorry." She hugged me, all trembly from the recent exertions. That was a comforting thought too, holding what I recognized as a budding meltdown at bay.

"You're ready to go, then?" I said to Carmen, who was appreciating Serena's backside with her cute blonde head cocked sideways.

"Always. You gonna brief me on the way?" I could see her 10mm Sig tucked under her shirt in a belly band, appendix position, right hand draw. Her manicured (and also pussy smelling) fingernails caressed the butt of it cautiously. Those emerald eyes were alert and steady, focused on me.

I looked at Serena again, holding her by the shoulders, enjoying the silken texture of her cream colored blouse. "Any reason these brothers of yours could find you? Did you pay with a credit card?"

"No, cash, and I registered under another name."

"Your vehicle?"

"I rode the bus. I don't have a car with me."

I contemplated that for a minute. They'd be fleeing back to their own car pretty soon, given the average response time for police in my neighborhood. Just the sirens should drive them off. They'd either prowl the streets looking for her or resort to some other method of tracking her. "Is this Elijah guy pretty computer saavy then? Is there anything else you looked up on the computer about this case?"

"Well, I price matched hotels on Priceline..." she said, and a slow trickling horror appeared on her face, sure to be mirrored on mine.

The door kicked in by the time I could articulate the thought, flying off the hinges so hard I thought it had to be an explosive charge. My shotgun was in my hand though I don't recall drawing it and I could hear Carmen's double action Sig shoveling a big fat glaser safety slug into the chamber behind me. And good old Mickey Marsh barreled in over the shattered door, roaring and glaring his creepy eyes at me over the canted front sight of a cheap AK. His finger had just started to tighten on the trigger when two 10mm rounds zipped over my shoulder and intersected him just below the left nipple, almost the same spot. Damn I love this woman.

He staggered forward two more steps and then fell, and I pumped a round of buckshot into his back for good measure. No one else came through the door, and as Carmen and I cornered up automatically on each side we saw no one even close in the hallway.

Serena looked down at him in horror, her pretty little mouth hanging open. It was as if she was trying hard to talk, but just couldn't get it past her tongue. Damnit, I'd never get my dick in this girl if I kept killing her family members.

I stepped over the corpse to comfort her, Carmen still keeping watch at the door, and put my arm around her. "It's OK, Serena." I was looking forward to the opportunity to stroke her hair, despite everything.

Behind me, Carmen said "How the fuck did he just kick this door in half?"

"N...n...no," stuttered Serena, shaking her head and shivering against me.

"Shhh, it's okay, but we have to go." I pulled back a little, gently tugged on her arm.

"Seriously," said Carmen, with the first hint of fear rippling in her voice, "this is a boot print right here." I looked back; she was kneeling next to the shattered door. "He just kicked it in, one kick, broke it in half. Look at the fucking frame.

Something grabbed my ankle just as Serena managed to squeal "HE'S NOT DEAD" and the floor leapt up to meet my chin. I heard the gun go off twice more, and a sickening smack that made my heart lurch. Shaking out the stars, I heroically flipped to my back and leveled my shotgun at the blur that was currently grappling with my wife.

There was a muffled crack; she had jammed a knee up under his chin hard. I could see his jaw angling all crooked when my vision cleared, the bead sight of my 870 coming into sharp focus at the base of his pelvic triangle. Couldn't fire-buckshot might penetrate too deep. Still, the only chivalrous thing to do was to make the lump get his goddamn hands off my lady, and soon-probably more lumps coming.

Then my wife simplified matters with her Benchmade folding knife-in one smooth motion she flicked it out of her bra and performed a bit of impromptu bowel surgery. It was so graceful that she made it look like a dance move, some sultry salsa stomach caress, but his eyes widened and his grip on her throat slacked off into twitching. There was a wet tearing noise like sailcloth and then a cloying, fishy scent filled the room-along with a great gout of white-yellow gunk that splashed around Carmen's sensible shoes in a noisesome rain. I tried very, very hard not to notice the little pale things wriggling in the gunk.

"His guts aren't right. Baby...baby, his guts don't look right." I could see Carmen's toes edging away from the spreading mass of goop.

"He's not dead either," piped up Serena's voice a moment later, suddenly confident. Great, somehow the sexy dame client is the only one that isn't rattled here. When the fuck did I stumble into a parody? Her heels clicked as she walked past me, pulling a large, resturaunt style salt shaker out of her bag. She drizzled it on the goop with a fierce set to her jaw.

Carmen and I were not ready for the howling, a tiny choral howl from thousands of throats. We jerked away again and instinctively bunched together, weapons pointed at the floor. A faint, acrid odor replaced the cloying fish reek and I felt another gear slip in my brain. "Jesus," breathed my lovely wife beside me, and the warm breath on my neck anchored me as my understanding of the cosmos flapped and sparked like a loose power line in a hurricane.

Tears were shining in Serena's eyes when she turned around, an oddly compelling feature in the darkened room. I could hear the banal sounds of hotel staff nervously returning to our floor and knew we had to get out soon, but somehow my feet were really far away from my screaming brain. Carmen, beside me, appeared similarly transfixed.

Serena did the right thing, of course. She kissed both of us on the mouth, one after another. For a moment, I could taste my wife's essence on the girl's eager, slick little tongue, and it blocked out...well...wait...what was I thinking about?

That grounded me, as much as anything else did. I had barely caught my breath again by the time we were running down the hallway, feed pounding, bail out blags flailing, I think my shotgun was still out, still no goddamn money in my wallet...jesus, what a mess.

Still, I'll take a hot mess over a dull day anytime. Carmen kicked open the emergency door and we fled into the city, with the indignant cries of the service industry trailing us...along with god knows what else.

[223shootersc]

good chapter, thanks

[ZMace]

Love it, you've got me looking for some Lovecraft to read.

[by-the-throat]

Chapter 3 - A Hot Mess

We ran like hell.

Not that I was particularly afraid of the Lumps, and I knew damn well that Carmen wasn't either-the girl could handle herself in a fight and I could usually pick up any pieces that slipped through her fingers. I doubted that the Marshes could field anything as effective as we were in a straight up brawl. But that fight wasn't what we were running from; rather we ran from the shattered ruins of logic involved in a case where people were goddamn melting all over the place. We were running from a black sinkhole of pure crazy.

It just doesn't seem like the kind of thing you can outrun, but we tried anyway.

Our feed pounded on the posh hotel carpet, me in the lead, Carmen just behind me with Serena in tow, bail out bags flailing and weapons in hand. The shocked hotel security, two fat shitbags in tactical khaki, just gaped at us as we rounded the corner, hit the emergency door running, and fled down the steps three at a time. My already battered body was screaming protests in some distant corner, but whenever I started to flag all I had to do was picture the white wriggling things in Mickey's bowels with their tiny, perfectly formed alien features all opening their mouths to sing an old, old song...

"Bottom floor," panted Carmen, yanking me back from that toxic line of thinking. Serena sobbed for breath behind us, but there was no time to mollycoddle our sexy little client; instead I chambered a front kick, shared a nod with my wife, and kicked open the emergency door. Like liquid, Carmen flowed in after my kick and rushed through the fatal funnel, pistol in hand. The dark parking garage loomed in front of us like a yawning mouth, cool air rushing in to caress my sweat dampened neck.

The parking garage stretched ahead of us with the sunken ghost ships of cars glimmering in the substandard lighting. It was connected to the hotel by a narrow tunnel. Hotel security was slowly huffing and glomping their way down the stairs above us; there was no time to dawdle.

"Clear," said Carmen, her voice hovering somewhere between professional and terrified. We rushed in after her, Serena first, then me. I turned around and thought about blocking the door somehow, but there was no time; instead we moved quickly through the tunnel and into the parking garage proper. There were eight or nine cars on this level; a sign indicated we were in the underground parking.

"Up the staircase," I said, just as the elevator door dinged at the far corner of the lot. Together we bolted for the staircase door, about midway between the door we had just emerged from and the elevator. As I ran, I kept the bead sight centered on the elevator shaft, but I shouldn't have worried; it was just an old woman that shrieked and dived back in the elevator as soon as she poked her blue haired dome out. We rushed that staircase, feed pounding, Serena sobbing for breath behind me. Her hand was warm and damp in mine.

Less than 30 seconds later we were at street level, blinking in the light. The hotel stretched above us and a herd of cabs like gas scented buffalo droned around the circle drive picking up and dropping off passangers. I looked to my lovely wife, her buxom chest heaving like a romance novel heroine. "Seize a cab?"

"Can't take the heat," she advised me, and silently I agreed. "We'll have to get at least a couple blocks on foot."

"There's an alley behind the hotel that runs all the way to Richland dr," panted Serena, now leaning that tight little body against me. I tucked away my shotgun to draw less attention and saw Carmen do the same with her Sig. We started moving immediately back towards the hotel, drifting southwest and catching the narrow alley between the hotel and the parking deck.

The thing about this goddamn city as that even the nicest hotels have a back alley that smells like piss and rotting garbage. There's a philosophical lesson in there somehow, but damned if I knew what it was at the time. We fled up the alley in single file, not running now, just walking quickly, Carmen facing forward and me watching our 6. No one followed us and we hit the intersection of the two alleys without incident.

"Serena, luv," panted my wife as we started heading up the other alley, weaving between puke puddles and garbage bags, "you're gonna have to tell me more here."

"I'm rather interested to know as well," I put in mildly, peering down the alley.

Serena sighed softly, a painfully poignant sound against the wail of oncoming sirens. "I promise, Carmen, I'll tell you everything." She let loose with a muffled sob and leaned into me; I could feel that cleansing heat burning away a host of unspeakable terrors. "My brothers...those stupid fucks...and Gran'pa...they want the crown. They'll kill for it, Carmen, you know they will."

"Why do they think you have it?" I asked, my professional curiosity piqued. It didn't exactly jive with the story she dropped on me, but then, it would hardly be the first time a client has lied to me.

As usual, my wife's interest was tactical rather than investigative. "How many of them are there?"

Serena sighed wearily as we ducked down another side alley to avoid a hobo dice game. "Forty brothers, sixteen sisters, about a hundred cousins."

The little procession ground to a halt. "The FUCK?" my wife and I said simultaneously.

I bulled forward with "And they'll all be looking for you? Girl, you don't need a private dick, you need a fuckin' private army."

Unbenknownst to Serena, a short, private conversation went on between my wife and I here, upon which her ultimate fate surely turned.. After you've been together a long time, you sort of develop your own private language of eyebrow waggles, shrugs and head cocking that lets you have almost a full conversation over someone's head. It went something like this.

ME: Too much trouble, are we bailing?
CARMEN: We took her money.
ME: It isn't feasible for us to duke it out with over a hundred and fifty people.
CARMEN: No, it isn't...but I like her.
ME: Damnit.

The matter settled, we all took a deep breath and ducked behind an electrical box. I lit up a cigarette and looked up and down the alley. "Can't go back to the apartment. We can probably make it back to the Unicorn if we try. They aren't local; probably won't find the hooch parlor for a couple of hours."

Carmen nodded thoughtfully, chewing on her lower lip and clicking her tongue ring against the back of her teeth. It's her thinking face. I let her think, taking the time to draw Serena back against me and put my arms around her. She didn't object, settling that perfect ass in the hollow of my crotch. I felt tactical considerations bleeding away (along with some metaphysical considerations I was trying not to think about) as she snuggled into me.

After a time, Carmen said "I think it's our best shot. We can go upstate, call in some favors." I knew exactly what she was talking about and approved. Somewhat reluctantly I let Serena pull away from me, finished my cigarette, and tucked it away.

By some miracle we made it to the Unicorn without further incident, though there was a close moment when two police cruisers rolled by slow and cautious just on the other side of a privacy fence. Jon was wiping down some glasses and his son JJ was rotating out some old gin bottles; they both gave us a knowing nod as we walked in with a pretty girl. It was just after 10 so the tube factory would let out pretty soon; the noise would give us some cover against eavesdropping. Indescribably weary, I plunked out chopsticks to open the hooch parlor. I tried not to linger on the imagery of a wooden mouth swallowing the three of us up.

We settled in next to the dumbwaiter and all of us lit up a cigarette simultaneously. Another psychic conversation flickered between Carmen and I in the interim.

CARMEN: We need to find out more on this case.
ME: Can't I at least get a taste of her first, ya greedy bitch?

Seeing my wife laugh, Serena looked over at her curiously. My drinks came down on the dumbwaiter, hopefully nutsack free-a rum and coke for me, a chocolate vodka martini for Carmen, and our usual "Love on the run" drink for Serena-a seven layer Pousse-Cafe. God bless Jon; a sympathetic and discrete bartender is a must for any private dick.

My phone rang; Pescadore. I let it go to voice mail and started fingering out a text message in the meantime, quick and respectful. I had a feeling we would need him more than ever with this being a ruckus rather than an investigation.

Carmen lifted her martini glass. "To new friends and new adventures," she said with a mischevious glint in her eye.

"And amen to that," I replied. We clinked our glasses together and I downed most of mine in one go, as did Serena. The stress of the day settled into my bones like a hurricane.

Serena shook her hand. "Damn, that burns!" And laughed as she wiped her cute little bow of a mouth. We focused on it; it was the best thing to focus on, given the circumstances.

We focused on it for quite some time.

It was two good hours later before I finally settled back into my chair and wiped my forehead weariliy. "Jesus Christ!" I said, unsure why I had been so upset before. The table rattled; as usual, my wife wasn't done with our cute little client. I had another 45 minutes to nurse my fresh drink and absent mindedly flip through the case files before I had the chance to talk again. Let me tell you, a girl on the edge of death can go for broke in some ways that would make Cosmo magazine writers slit their wrists and die in the bathtub-and deservedly so, fuck that goddamn lie rag.

Maybe, somewhere deep in the core of me, I could still hear that howling void, still see that stupid motherfucker dissolve in his clothes while I tickled his nuts, but at the moment, the pleasant sights, sounds and smells that filled the little hooch parlor blocked it off like a noble gas, creating our own little pressurized environment far away from the crazy. As my wife finally lifted her head and wiped her greedy little lipstick smeared mouth, I passed her a lit cigarette and smiled. "I see why you like her so much," I opined, and both of them giggled.

As we settled into our seats and clothes once again, I updated Carmen on what had happened to me so far, though I glossed over the elevator melting part with the old Jack Bauer bit about dying under interrogation. She listened soberly, though her eyes were still a bit glazed and I could tell she was drunker than she had meant to be. Once I ran all that down, we simultaneously turned to Serena, who was just sending up a wad of bills to pay for our drinks. Seeing that, I was determined to keep her alive at all costs-who ever heard of a hot date who pays the bar tab?

With a deep breath, she said "Okay. I owe you two one hell of an explanation, and I promise you'll get it." She paused for a coquettish giggle and went on "I've already given you damn near everything else."

"And we don't mind a bit, honey," interjected Carmen, and smiled.

"But we do need to know," I said.

She nodded soberly, lit another cigarette, and started her tale. The two of us crowded in to listen.

In retrospect, it was our biggest mistake yet.

[ZMace]

Eagerly awaiting more, great stuff as usual.

Also, thanks for the tip on the Lovecraft stuff, I've been working my way through it, don't know what took me so long to find it. Very reminiscent of Poe, and I love his stuff.

[ShieldWolf]

Damn fine story BTT...I grimace at the remembered smell every time someone lights a cigarette and smile at the descriptions of the female scents wafting through the story...As a former smoker, I don't think a real life smoker could detect the subtle odors you describe. Eagerly awaiting the next chapter.

[223shootersc]

good stuff, need more, thanks

[by-the-throat]

EXHIBIT B-41A From the Tape Recorder of Carmen Mephistola (DEFENDANT)

(OPEN TO RUSTLING, DRINKS CLINKING. AN OBVIOUS BAR NOISE. FEMALE VOICE STARTS, OBVIOUSLY DISTRAUGHT WITH HEAVY BREATHING)

Okay.

So you both know a little bit about my family right? Old New England Puritans...although you'll see how funny that word is when applied to us...going all the way back to Columbus days. Mostly they were fishermen and traders with the occasional heartless robber baron building a textile mill and stocking it with imported Chinamen. When they weren't in business, they converted the local Indians to corpses. It's cheaper than Christianity and they had to stay well under budget-Obed, the great white patriarch, was a tight fisted goddamn Yankee if there ever was one. Besides, religion would always be a sore point with our family.

I've been told the Marshes are Scots-Irish or maybe something older, something Pictish, but I've never verified. I don't like to look into it too much, y'know? Anyway, by the time I came along things were pretty well crumbling. The town Obed had seen built was falling off into the sea, a brave, salt sprayed ruin overlooking a gloomy bone white reef. Everything smelled like fish and woodsmoke; for some reason the fishing was always good and nine out of ten houses still burned wood for heating. The first electric line didn't come until five years before I was born, and there still isn't a computer in the whole of Thule county.

For women, the role in the family is pretty simple-breeding. They expect you married by 14 and even coach you on how to lie to State CPS. Five or six children-sometimes twins-are not uncommon in our family. Marriages are arranged, and usually to a first cousin or even an uncle sometimes. There's a chart that is at the core of this thing, in the back of the family bible, that records all of these pairings and tracks them, all the way back to Obed and his thirteen brides. As a kid you normalize it, but as a spunky young college girl I question it all. The men all go to the Coleacanth Lodge to plan the future of the family-the women just spread their legs and pop out more Marshes. Fucking ridiculous is what it is.

So no surprised that I fucked off, right? My lucky break was Gran'pa. Gran'pa Marsh was a mean old drunk who was locally famous for buggering dead farm animals, but he had a soft spot for me. My future husband to be, Randolph, was off at college and I was 13, and I convinced the old man that it would be best if I went to join him at Miskatonic to learn to serve him better. Ugh-sorry, just threw up in my mouth a little. Anyway, not very many members of the Marsh family get to go to college, so the other girls all thought I was lucky, being betrothed to Randolph...but they didn't have to look him in the eye. Of all of us, he's the one to watch-trust me.

It was easy to please Randolph; a sandwich and a blow job as he was studying and he was happy to ignore me. God, what a life. I stayed there all through his undergrad days, and even the first three years of grad school. He liked academia; he knew there was some grim, terrible work waiting for him when he got back, or at least that was what I gleaned from our infrequent pillow talk. The lazy shit couldn't even manage to knock me up, and you can rest assured that there were some angry calls from home about that. Anyway, I knew even then that I was biding my time, learning about the outer world through TV and internet and eventually a few sneaked classes, mostly in art history.

For his part, Randolph devoured the outside world, as all of the Marsh clique who were allowed to leave did. Come on, a whole wide world of freaky decadence at the click of a mouse? Frankly, I'm surprised more of us don't run off...but that early conditioning goes deep, it goes real deep, and they deliberately don't equip you with the skills to survive outside of home or academia. You know how long it took me to figure out a credit card? Insmouth-that's my hometown-is just a weird little cultural artifact, barely out of the Puritan age-except for all the sodomy.

Oh, Jesus. I'm sorry about the waterworks, guys. No, don't get up. Anyway...anyway...I knew I had to make my move soon. I had a little cash from night shift at the coffee shop, Randolph's ATM card and this outfit. And I had something else, something golden-an opportunity.

They were secretive about it. But more of us-a lot more of us-had been filtering into town, especially on campus. You can always tell a Marsh, especially the men-most of 'em look quite alike, as you saw. Jaques, Victor and Randolph had been up all night walking around campus, especially around the archaeology department. Pretty odd for Randolph-he was a CompSci major. Anyway, I had gotten out eavesdropping that they were going to steal the...the artifact. And not only that, I knew when-during a staged riot after a Squids game.

They had been filtering family members into town for some time. I'm sure you saw the riots on TV a week ago-but you probably didn't see where it started. College kids are simple, brainless creatures; they start throwing rocks as soon as they see one other person throwing rocks. So it was a matter of planting some forceful rock throwers after the Squids lost-and they had a riot in a can. In the chaos, with alarms going off everywhere...well, I'm betting it was a pretty simple smash and grab. They took more than just the crown...but what they didn't factor in was me.

Randolph had been drinking when he came home, and he wanted me. And I gave it to him, contenting myself to know that it would be the last time. But I knew, even then, that I had to hurt him, that I had to fuck up his plans...and I had the perfect fucking device to do it.

He...he kept it in the wall safe that he thought I didn't know the combination to, along with his gun and credit cards and some insurance paperwork. Once he was done with me I saw him put it away and then collapse in his computer chair, grinning like a fucking idiot. So I did what any red blooded American girl would do-I took everything in the safe and left the fucking oven in with a bucket of oily rags, hoping it would solve my problems all at once, especially after I removed the fire alarm and threw it in the toilet...but I'm guessing he didn't burn.

Anyway, that was when the really weird shit started...

(SOUNDS OF CRASHING AND FEMALE SHRIEK. CURSING IN SPANISH)

[by-the-throat]

INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

SUBJECT: JOHN DOE (REFUSED NAME)
CASE FILE: 09991355285
INTERVIEWING: DR HANNAH WEST, PHD
ASSISTING: SGT BRICK MOBLEY
0644 ZULU

DR WEST: This is Dr West conducting a preliminary interview on subject number 2 to determine his culpability, in any, on the events that are described in the case files. Sgt Mobley is here assisting me as well as overseeing personal security. (Brief Pause) Go ahead, Sgt.

(Sound of door opening. Chains rattling. Subject coughs twice.)

JOHN DOE: Jesus Fuckin' Christ.
DR WEST: Have you reconsidered giving us your name?
JOHN DOE: Sure, which one do you want? I got names, doll, I got lots of names.
DR WEST: You are facing very serious charges; perhaps you should reconsider?
JOHN DOE: You don't have the slightest clue what I'm facing, doc. What all of us are facing.
DR WEST: Please elaborate. How did you get involved with Serena Marsh?
JOHN DOE: The same way I'd like to get involved with you, Doc. What color are your panties under that lab coat?
SGT MOBLEY: Shut up, you fucking ape.
DR WEST: Please, sergeant. Well, then, "Mr. Goldberg," perhaps you can tell me this: why hasn't anyone filed a missing person report for Serena Marsh? I checked with both Thule county sheriff's office and Massachusetts PD; I even hunted up the constable for New Dunwich, and by all reports she is there, she has been there the whole time-even filed her unemployment paperwork at the county records office yesterday.
JOHN DOE: Oh yeah? What's the name of the Thule county sheriff, I wonder?

(Sound of papers rustling)

DR WEST: I'll indulge you just this once, Vance. Looks like Jebediah Marsh.

(Sound of male laughter, belonging to the subject)

JOHN DOE: Well thanks for that, Doc. Say, hows about you and me ditch the meaty douchebag standing there with the cattle prod and get acquainted? I usually feel more talkative after...

(Electric sizzling sound. Subject screams)

SGT MOBLEY: Shut up! Doc, you want him out of here?
DR WEST: No, sergeant. And please restrain yourself. Vance, or whatever your name is, you and your, um, wife...how long have you been together?
JOHN DOE: Oh, the disarming personal question with the hint of a threat. (Coughing) Hey, put the shock stick down, chuckles, I'm answering the fucking question. We first met at Burning Man about ten years ago. I remember she was wearing this American Flag strapon...
DR WEST: That's not relevant, Mr. Goldberg.
JOHN DOE: ...and she was smoking a blunt the size of a fucking table leg...or was that the strapon? I don't remember. Anyway, I was just hustling my home made hooch when out of the blue she...

(Electric sizzling sound again.)

DR WEST: You are not helping your cause by playing the debonair rogue, Mr. Goldberg. The fact is that both you and your wife could be in serious trouble.
JOHN DOE: Oh, I knew it was serious trouble about eight hours ago.
DR WEST: And how did you know that?
JOHN DOE: By my count, I've been here for thirty two hours and I haven't been charged with anything. Your storm troopers flash government credentials around, but I've never heard of your agency. They black bag my head in the car so I can't see where I'm going. And I can't even count the number of personal human rights you've violated in the short time since I've been enjoying your hospitality. It seems to be the kind of thing that only happens to people in...how did you put it? SERIOUS...FUCKING...TROUBLE!

(Sound of a struggle. Electric sizzle and cursing. Loud thumping noise)

DR WEST: Sergeant, please secure the subject to the chair.
JOHN DOE: Kinky! (Coughs)

(Sounds of chains rattling)

DR WEST: Tell me, Vance Goldberg, do you recognize this artifact?
JOHN DOE: Sure, it's the Anal Queen Crown for 1971. Weren't you the winner in that contest?
SGT MOBLEY: Listen, you motherfucker...
DR WEST: That won't be necessary, sergeant. Sophomoric humor aside, we both know what this is. We also happen to know that it was stolen from our vaults very recently-and that the picture you have was very clearly not taken in the museum display case. You could be facing...
JOHN DOE: OUR vaults? How very interesting...
DR WEST: Wait, I never said...
SGT MOBLEY: Oh, shit.

(Electric sizzle)

[by-the-throat]

A bit of explanation about the non-content:

This is the halfway update stuff you get when I am working out the actual plot of the story, which is harder than I thought it was going to be. I am woefully uneducated in detective, police and government work, having been a scumfuck for most of my waking life, so things are progressing but slowly. While doing so I elected to round out the last chapter with the bits of flotsam and jetsam that might surround the mysterious situation that "Vance Goldberg" and his lovely wife have found themselves in. There might be a few more pieces like this but I am officially working on the next chapter now.

If you notice any glaring plot holes, a wizard did it.

Thanks for reading.

[Manliest]

Reads food to me

Sent from my SCH-I800 using Tapatalk 2

[DannusMaximus]

Says Maximus: "Bumpity!"

Says BTT: "Holy shit! A story that I haven't updated SINCE AUGUST has been bumped to the top of the fiction section!! Guess I had better get crackin' on the next chapter of this fab tale!"

Says the Moar Zombies: "Huzzah!"

[ZMace]

Huzzah!

[Griffworks]

MOARPLZ!

[by-the-throat]

I suck guys

I'm working furiously on my commercial project and am in contact with a couple of different publishers and it is more or less taking up all of my writing time.

Things should settle a bit before long with either a slew of rejection letters and disappointment or some euphoric preview post in the books section. Either way, I'll have the MOAR for you then. But I have to triage for the project that can theoretically pay the bills.

I appreciate the continued interest in this weird little project; I love you sick fucks.

[by-the-throat]

Chapter 4: Arkham Blues

Sometimes in life, you have to wonder: How did I get into this fucking mess?

The taste of spoiled meat in my mouth told me I was alive at least. I couldn't remember much about how I had been captured; a flashbang went off I think, or something else that made me blind and deaf and apparently disgustingly easy to manhandle. There was a long period of moving and muttering over the dull whine of (...the endless void with uncaring stars the stars that tick and hiss and gurgle a sound like my name over and over but it can't be my name how would they know my name...) tinnitis and then I was here with a big bleeding gap in my memory. I often get that way after being tasered. Electric shock does many things-ask me how I know-but it doesn't clarify memory. The last thing I remember before the first Alternating Current Bondage Hour with Doctor Fuckoff and the Indomintable Goon Squad was Carmen's hair laying across Serena's silky white thigh while I was reaching...well, it isn't important now.

What is important is that I'm wearing a blue hospital shift with no shotgun, no wife, no client, no money, no case details and apparently no civil rights. My world has now shrunk to an 8 by 5 cell painted institutional puke green with one caged light, one sagging bed with unidentifiable stains, and a brand spanking new chemical toilet. Sometimes I hear screams and sobs down the hall, but the door in my little slice of heaven lacks a window so I don't know if there are other cells or just random people whimpering in the hallway. I haven't heard anyone familiar sobbing at least-a small comfort, considering the circumstances. There are cracks in the floor-all of it is poured cement, and rather shoddy workmanship at that. I've worried at the door (naval gun grade steel-what are they keeping in here?) with my fingernails, climbed the bed to poke at the light fixture, listened at the door and both walls, read the label on the toilet, paced the two and a half steps of my cell endlessly, and jerked off twice. That pretty much describes my entertainment regimen for the past forty eight hours. In the process, I've gleaned three things.

#1: Whatever is holding me here is not government. There hasn't even been the pretense of legal proceedings here, to say nothing of the inhumane conditions. Even the nastiest shadow government actor would have let some G-speak platitudes slip at some point, but Doctor DeSade talked like an academic.
#2: They buy their supplies at a Home Depot not too far upstate from my city. Some jackass left the receipt stuck to the bottom of the chemical toilet. It was mostly illegible due to the rain, but after carefully drying it in the light cage I had been able to read the store telephone number.
#3: I am completely and utterly fucked until I think of a better plan.

Besides the sublime satisfaction of using my keen deductive skills on this thorny problem, my only pleasure has been in needling my interrogators. Their methods are crude-these people don't do torture for a living. Carmen does a better job of torturing me during our Switch Day than these naughty little peons. I've been back for a session about every three hours for the past forty eight, give or take about an hour.

The routine is the same, and that part is utterly bombproof. First bang on the door. If the asshole in the hospital gown doesn't get up against the back wall, open the door and apply at least a half dozen oversized douchebags with cattle prods until he does. Learned that one the hard way. Once he's up against the wall, black bag his head and zip tie him at the wrist and elbow like a chicken. Not much chance of a dynamic James Bond style escape. Still, any predictable routine can be broken with one wrench in the works. I was waiting for it more than I figured I was going to cause it, but it had to come sometime. These rubes didn't understand what a lovely big titted serpent they were holding to their bosom in the form of my beautiful double jointed wife...and apparently Serena had fangs of her own. So it was a matter of surviving long enough to exploit the inevitable opening.

My hands had stopped smelling like girl. Bad news. I think it was the only thing keeping me sane, especially when the sizzle of the taser started to talk to me.

I groaned when the banging started again. Wearily, still feeling the burn marks on my arms and neck and chest, I got up and faced the rear wall, putting my hands up way over my head. "You know, at least in jail they call you Pumpkin," I said as I heard the squeal of the hinges. My quivering gelid mind slid greasily around how much that squeal sounded like a soft, off key hymn.

They were quick and quiet about trussing me like a thanksgiving turkey; I didn't even have time for another quip. I felt the zip ties biting into the well worn grooves in my wrist and elbows before the darkness of the bag enveloped my head. My arms had already started to go numb. I heard the warning buzz of the hungry stun gun behind me before I could even think of twitching. One meaty hand, unnaturally cold, landed on the back of my neck to guide me out of the door.

In darkness, I was led up the hallway. I tried not to reveal that I knew the route well by now, even without seeing it-left out of the cell, thirty five paces on an institutional tile floor. Down a single flight of concrete stairs and ten paces to the right out the door to the stairwell on some kind of industrial rubber floor. Through a double door that someone buzzes me in and out of with the strong smell of urine and feces. Down in the chair. Bag comes off and here come the questions.

Ol' Doc Hannah West could really be a looker if she cared to, even if she was a bit severe. Darkish blonde hair, pale skin and a sort of delicate greek face, fine cheekbones and watery green eyes. A little light in the boob department, but I bet she shagged like a minx. She looked at me while Sergeant Chuckles clamped a pair of leg restraints to my ankles. I sagged against them, letting them think I was beaten. She spoke into her tape recorder then, never taking her eyes off me. "This is Dr West conducting a preliminary interview on subject number 2 to determine his culpability, in any, on the events that are described in the case files. Sgt Mobley is here assisting me as well as overseeing personal security." She paused, looked to the pissed off slab of asshole meat behind me. "Go ahead, Sgt."

"Jesus Fucking Christ," I said, and coughed for a bit. Purely dramatic effect-I wasn't sick or anything. There was the soft scuff of boot leather behind me as my captor settled in close, but not so close I could reach for him.

The worst part is that once they talked to me like I was already dead. Not once did they try to conceal their names or explain their actions. The doc tapped her fingernails on the tape recorder a couple times before going on. "Have you reconsidered telling us your name?"

I forced a grim smile. "Sure, which one do you want? I got names, doll, I got lots of names." Once again my eyeballs clicked over the room. Bare concrete again-everything in the hallway echoed the same way so I'm thinking that was more or less the standard down here. My torture dungeon has much better aesthetics if you ask me. One rusty six-inch steam pipe ran on the back wall behind Dr. West, dripping a bit of water. There was a large circular grate in the floor that I tried not to contemplate the purpose of. The room was about ten by twelve, with the door directly behind me. The doc sat behind a scarred wooden desk.

Dr. West folded her delicate fingers together and looked at me over them. "You are facing very serious charges; perhaps you should reconsider?"

The bitterness in my laugh wasn't faked. "You don't have the slightest clue what I'm facing, doc. What all of us are facing." Neither did I but that was no reason not to play it like I did; I had a feeling that once they were done wringing me out, I'd wake up in three seperate garbagebags.

"Please elaborate. How did you get involved with Serena Marsh?" Her tone was earnest; this was the item she really cared about.

"The same way I'd like to get involved with you, Doc. What color are your panties under that lab coat?" I leered at her then, leaning in as close as possible. The header and date of a paper on her desk was just barely visible from my vantage point. It said "Bington Police Dept." Miskatonic U. And the date was from the night of the riots.

"Shut up, you fucking ape." That was the charming "Sergeant" Mobley. Involuntarily my skin crawled behind me in anticipation of searing electricity, but none was forthcoming, probably because of the look she shot him when he started to move.

"Please, sergeant. Well, then, "Mr. Goldberg," perhaps you can tell me this: why hasn't anyone filed a missing person report..." Dr. West droned on for a moment detailing why my story couldn't be true. Her tone was smug. She was really telling me two things-one, that she was connected enough to check up on my backstory, and two, that nobody official would come looking for me. Not that I wanted them to-at least, not more than a little-but I liked picturing her muff diving in prison. Sue me.

I was laughing again by the time she was done. " Oh yeah? What's the name of the Thule county sheriff, I wonder?"

She frowned, but was kind enough to shuffle the papers some more so I could catch a bit better info. The header on the next paper that flashed at me was for Chulte Mutual, the insurance company J-Rock had told me about, that handled coverage for the crown. "I'll indulge you just this once, Vance. Looks like Jebediah Marsh." That got me laughing; I didn't actually expect it to be that simple. Of course creepy fish-god patriarch isn't going to report this little incident. Police coverups, like incest, apparently makes for a game the whole family can play.

I couldn't resist another bit of sarcasm. "Well thanks for that, Doc. Say, hows about you and me ditch the meaty douchebag standing there with the cattle prod and get acquainted? I usually feel more talkative after..." My nerves lit up like a brushfire and I jerked helplessly against the chair. The pinpoint in the small of my back was cold, but the rest of me blazed, one constant sonorous screech of pain from my teeth to my toenails.

Sergeant Fuckface snarled something behind me that I couldn't understand through my own coughing. I came in as the doc was talking again. "...your name is, you and your, um, wife...how long have you been together?"

I groaned inwardly. Trying to scare me by threatening my wife? That was new, and not very pleasant. I didn't even know for sure they had her in custody. "Oh, the disarming personal question with the hint of a threat." I heard movement behind me and added quickly "Hey, put the shock stick down, chuckles, I'm answering the fucking question. We first met at Burning Man about ten years ago. I remember she was wearing this American Flag strapon..." I rolled right over her when she tried to interrupt me. "...and she was smoking a blunt the size of a fucking table leg...or was that the strapon? I don't remember. Anyway, I was just hustling my home made hooch when out of the blue she..."

Everyone's a critic; I jerked hard this time when Sergeant Mobley jabbed the shock stick into my back again. The chain came loose somehow on my legs; I had kicked out my legs involuntarily and something had slithered free between the chair and my leg. Bloody amateurs.

Dr West piped up again as I wobbled on the chair, coughing and gasping for breath while the molten hell retreated slowly from my nerves. "You are not helping your cause by playing the debonair rogue, Mr. Goldberg. The fact is that both you and your wife could be in serious trouble." Obvious warning is obvious.

"Oh, I knew it was serious trouble about eight hours ago," I rasped. The thug was hovering right behind me now, too close for his own good.

"And how did you know that?" Her voice was frigid, but her eyes flickered with something recognizable-a loathing that could not be mistaken. I was starting to get under her skin at least.

I was happy to exposit. "By my count, I've been here for thirty two hours and I haven't been charged with anything. Your storm troopers flash government credentials around, but I've never heard of your agency." Her face was darkening with my every word, and her knuckles were white while she gripped the wad of paper on the desk. "They black bag my head in the car so I can't see where I'm going. And I can't even count the number of personal human rights you've violated in the short time since I've been enjoying your hospitality. It seems to be the kind of thing that only happens to people in...how did you put it?" I grunted, inched my legs forward slowly, and screamed to cover the sounds of the chain as I pressed my feet against the bottom of the desk. "SERIOUS...FUCKING...TROUBLE!"

Her face was a thundercloud, and I had frankly seen enough of it. I kicked forward hard. The desk honked like an irate goose as it slid backwards and hit her in the gut hard, and I threw myself backwards violently by pushing off the desk. The metal folding chair collapsed and I hit Sgt. Chuckles hard on the way back. Almost immediately I rolled over, my hands still secured over my head, and headbutted him hard in the crotch on my way up. He started to sag and I helped him to the ground with a low kick at knee level.

The shock stick clattered to the ground and I kicked him again, hard, behind the head. He grunted but his big meaty hand was crawling towards the shock stick. The crunch when I slammed my bare foot down on it was quite satisfying. Then I turned around to glance at the lovely Doctor Hannah West, with murderous intent. I swiveled my head just in time to catch the barrel of her revolver across the bridge of my nose and my world collapse in a grisly crimson tide of agony. I don't remember falling, but I was looking at the ceiling the next time I forced my eyes open, with the shock stick descending. Somehow the pain of the broken nose and the cattle prod were entirely seperate entities.

Fuck.

The big ape manhandled me back into the chair and I didn't have to fake the weakening groan this time. Tears were still blurring my vision when I looked up at the doctor again, who had her Smith & Wesson beatstick sitting on top of my case files now. She rifled through them with interest. If my nose didn't hurt so bad, I could probably have smelled Serena's perfume.

Her tone was cold and collected when she spoke again. "Sergeant, please secure the subject to the chair." I heard more than saw his actions; I didn't take my eyes off the doc.

"Kinky!" I opined, then coughed a few more times. Ol' sarge was moving around like he didn't even feel the broken hand or any of the righteous whupping I had just laid on him. He gave me a glower as he rose, eye level with me for a brief moment, and I remember thinking this fucker doesn't even feel it. Oddly enough, that thought was followed by like a dead man. It didn't make any sense at the time. His fingers were skewed in eight crazy directions and he just settled in behind me like he was made of granite.

The doc was holding up a picture from my case files now, the cheap polaroid Serena took of the crown. "Tell me, Vance Goldberg," she said, spitting the sodden alias, sodden with contempt, "do you recognize this artifact?"

No reason to play nice now. "Sure, it's the Anal Queen Crown for 1971. Weren't you the winner in that contest?" I could see a flicker of fury pass her face like a Tourettes tic. Behind me, Sergeant Mobley growled something intelligible.

"That won't be necessary, sergeant. Sophomoric humor aside, we both know what this is. We also happen to know that it was stolen from our vaults very recently-and that the picture you have was very clearly not taken in the museum display case. You could be facing..."

I laughed inwardly and couldn't resist the taunt. "OUR vaults? How very interesting." I had a sweet, sweet moment of pure panic on her face. I gathered this was one of the things she wasn't supposed to admit.

More words flew then like bullets and I flinched in advance when I heard the stun gun firing up behind me. The expected agony never came though. Instead I heard a whump behind me and saw Doc West's eyes widen suddenly. Then I heard the two sweetest possible sounds that I could ever hear in this life or any other-Carmen's strong contralto, and the safety clicking off an AR. "Recorder off," she said. "And keep your hands away from that wheelgun." Very slowly now that she was in the hot seat instead of me, Dr. West slid her hands over to the tape recorder and thumbed the stop button. "Up against the wall, bitch. Hands on your head." Her white labcoat rustled as she moved to comply, and I felt a lovingly familiar hand on my wrists, followed by the tip of a knife.

"Took you long enough," I groused as I rose, rubbing my raw wrists. Before anything else, I snatched up the revolver.

"Love you too," she said.

I spun the chambers of the smith and wesson, slid out a single dull round to find it loaded with FMJ's older than God. "Dumb-dumbs?" I said casually, snicking the weapon closed. "In this day and age? Really? I see why you use it as a club."

"It...it was my father's," said Hannah weakly. I glanced at my wife for a moment, who was standing with her foot on Sgt. Mobley's back, his jaw all askew where he had apparently caught a rifle butt.

"Well, now it seems we get to ask the questions," I drawled lazily, taking a few steps towards the now very nervous doctor in the corner.

My wife sighed lustily. "No time for recreation, dear. Pursuit is probably coming."

I was snatching up crap from the desk, papers and notes and the tape recorder and everything else with writing on it. But I took a moment to step up behind the doc, close enough she could feel my breath on her neck. "Are you sure?" I whined softly, grinning when the blonde doctor flinched.

"We still have to find Serena," said Carmen. She did sound disappointed though.

"Lucky for you, Doc," I said. "Still, I do owe you something...what was it?" And I bashed the butt of the revolver down just behind her ear with a dull flat crash. The impact was doubled when her face met the concrete wall. (I wasn't sorry.) She didn't even fall, just sort of leaned into the corner with just a little blood trickling down her neck, twitching as she stood there.

It probably didn't kill her. Probably.

[ZMace]

Great addition, and even better to see you working on this again!