Hellbound Hearts (45 page)

For a word he violates a small child.

There are some clues he could guess.
9) The taste of Janet Priddow's flesh (4).

He could guess. But he had to
know
.

(WE SEE THE PUZZLE FILLED IN, AND THE WORD IS
PORK
.)

All his life he had loved words; now he found his love to be a demanding, meticulous mistress.

His job was abandoned, following the fire that destroyed the museum and almost claimed his life.

NEWSPAPER HEADLINES POSSIBLY;
90 DIE IN MUSEUM FIRE
.

He no longer ate. His actions were solely defined by the puzzle . . .

And, in the end, there were only four spaces to fill in. One word. One clue.

50) The doorway (4)
.

And the thing that had once been Harrison Wordsworth grinned through messy, suppurating lips, and wrote:

(WE SEE THE LAST PLACE ON THE PUZZLE FILLED IN. THE INK IS REDDISHBROWN. BLOOD COLOR. THE WORD IS:
HELL
)

NEXT PAGE:

THE PUZZLE, COMPLETED, BUT THE MIDDLE OF IT IS IN FLAMES, AND THROUGH THE CENTRE OF THE BURNING PUZZLE WE CAN SEE AN INFINITE CORRIDOR, LINED WITH BURNING, TWISTING PEOPLE, BLEEDING AND CHEWING AT THEIR OWN FLESH.

THEN A HUMAN BEING, WORDSWORTH, NAKED, IN ABSTRACT, BEING RIPPED APART.

Ohhh the sweetling pulsing joy, the coming through the pain, Wordsworth feels the probe slide down the throat, pierce the wrecked anus, puncture the skull . . .

The plasma ceases to pump through the arteries, the liver no longer secretes bile, the urine dries to salt in the bladder, but the blood washes over us all . . .

In the night of hell, that glows with its own black light, I remember the burning spasms and freezing pangs that beset me when our lord took me and terribly refashioned me according to his will.

Will it ever, can it ever, be that good again?

Ripped to shreds and patched together, I knew then consummately what I was. What I am. What I always will be . . .

OK. NEW PAGE HERE. EXTREME CLOSE UP ON A BLURRED, DISTORTED WORDSWORTH, HIS HANDS COVERING HIS FACE.

THEN HE TAKES HIS HANDS DOWN AND OPENS HIS EYES. ONE EYE HAS A WORD –
STORY
– TYPED ON THE EYEBALL. THE OTHER HAS A WORD LIKE
LOVE
OR
DESIRE
OR
KISS
CARVED OR SCRATCHED ONTO THE WHITE OF THE EYEBALL.

THEN WE PULL BACK SLOWLY. HIS SKIN – FACE AND FLESH – IS A MASS OF WORDS. SOME CREATED FROM HOOKS, SOME FROM SCARS, SOME IN BRUISES OR TATTOOS. SOME IN BIRO, SOME HACKED AND CARVED WITH KNIVES, SOME IN BARBED WIRE, SOME UNDOUBTEDLY IN COLLAGE.

UP TO YOU WHETHER YOU WANT TO GO BACK INTO WORD BALLOONS HERE, OR WHETHER YOU STAY IN CAPTIONS, OR A MIXTURE OF THE TWO.

See me.

Love me.

Look at my words. (Examine the writhing tapestries of choice delight implicit in each scratching and each syllable.)

I guard the words.

I keep them tenderly, express them with my tangled flesh and tattered tongue.

Words that form stories, or tales, or patterns.

Words that can but hint at the delights of damnation, of the ultimate pleasures that wait for them all on the beyondside of pain.

NOW HE'S STARING STRAIGHT AT US AS WE PULL AWAY FROM HIM. WE CAN SEE THAT OTHER THINGS ARE CLUSTERED AROUND HIM, LISTENING, AS ONE DOES TO A VILLAGE STORYTELLER. WE CAN'T MAKE OUT ANY DETAILS, JUST THAT THEY'RE MONSTROUS, DISTORTED, DELIGHTFULLY SHATTERED AND REBUILT. ICONS OF THE PERVERSE. SLOWLY WE START TO PAN IN ON THEM AND WE'RE BACK ON A SIMILAR SEQUENCE OF FINAL PANELS TO THE OPENING PAGE, ALL HOOKS AND LEATHER.

(COULD WE SNEAK IN THAT IMAGE FROM
APOCALYPSE CULTURE
, OF THE HOOK THROUGH THE FOOT?)

Stay with me, my shattered children. Stay and listen and stare and learn. Was that tale good?

I'll show you another.

I've got thousands of them. I hold the stories. I guard the words.

Love me.

ENDS.

[1]
Lose this section in square brackets if you make it in a proper crossword.

[
2
] Actually the technical term should be coprophages—dung eaters—rather than coprophiliacs—dung lovers. But I think we can assume this bunch tended to do more than just eat the stuff.