Squid Pulp Blues (19 page)

Thank god I went to Thompson last month.

In the corner, the longhead behind the drum kit started using the sticks to poke at the window until Chaps told him to chill out and get a beat going. Soon the whole room buzzed loudly; saxophone and horn sounds squeaked against each other while the drum made rapid fire beats that shook the knick-knacks from off of the shelves.

Chaps played his horn like a man on a mission. It was almost orgasmic for him, the feeling of connecting with other musicians, feeling the music move him in ways that friends or girlfriends never could. He was glad he had cancelled with Simon. This session was much more important.

 
Fuck friends. Fuck going out of the house. Avant-garde jazz is where it’s at.

The longhead on the trumpet took two steps forward and wiggled his ass. Chaps loved it so much he got up and did the little dance himself. This was it, he decided. This is what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. Then he thought about the longheads.

For the past few months he had gone into Thompson alone, wanting to spend some time finding
himself
. He thought perhaps trekking into downtown Thompson would help him but he ended up making friends with some of the longheads. Upon their request he even brought them some things: porn magazines, old vinyl records, a couple of straight razors, and a turtle.

It was all worth it, Chaps thought. Not only did he get a new band but they were also just about to record their demo. He just hoped his mom wouldn’t come up and disturb him. She always had the habit of doing that. Sooner or later he’d get a job and move out, he decided.

But once this demo gets out there, I won’t need to get a job.

He continued blowing his French horn and dancing along with the trumpet player. The music roared through the room like a high-pitched avalanche.

With his ass still wiggling, Chaps took his mouth off the horn and shouted over the music.

“This song’s
gonna
be called
LONGHEAD BLUES
!”

The saxophone player nodded his head and took one hand off the instrument. Slipping his hand into his pants pocket, he stepped closer to Chaps.

Then he pulled out a straight razor.

One of the last things Chaps thought about while he was getting his throat slit was how sad it would be that he’d never get to listen to John Coltrane’s
Ascension
LP again. Then he remembered that he had lent that album to Simon.

He appreciated the irony and let a great big smile grow on his face while the last of his blood bubbled out of his neck.

THE END

BONUS SHORT STORY:

BILLY
ROANOKE

The last thing he remembered was having his toes eaten by a transparent squid.

Then: darkness. And then: a gradual awakening followed by the smell of cinnamon.
Christ, is that mom’s apple pie?

When his eyelids finally unshielded his eyes completely, Billy Roanoke was faced with an unfamiliar ceiling. He turned his head to the right and saw an even more unfamiliar dresser covered with perfumes, face-creams, and all sorts of cosmetology goop. Billy turned his head to the left and saw a door.

Where am I? What the hell is this?

He was agitated. Regardless of any pain he had experienced during his life, he always was reassured if he knew exactly where he was and where he could go to get away from the situation.

He was also confused. The room was alien to him. It didn’t resemble anything he’d ever encountered. Billy thought there was something
off
about the room, something under the surface that made the reality of the room all the more terrifying.

Billy swung his legs to the left and stood up.

He fell to the ground face first, chipping his front teeth on the mahogany wood floor. “Fucking shit!” he yelled but then felt silly. Billy always believed that getting angry was only satisfying when someone was there to witness it. Otherwise, it was just like putting on a play without an audience.

His eyes went down to his feet but then Billy realized that they were gone.

It wasn’t a dream. The fucking squid ate my feet.
 

He almost cursed again but held it in. Swallowing his pride, he lifted himself up with his arms and dragged himself toward the door.

The cinnamon smell abruptly turned to smoke.
Mom, you’re burning the pie!

Billy’s nostrils twitched as he put his hand on the doorknob. He screeched in pain. The doorknob was like molten lava in the shape of a breast.

A velvety layer of smoke slid from under the door and entered the room. Billy almost thought he even heard the flapping sound of flames.

The house is on fire!

With all the energy that fear and adrenalin could provide, Billy dragged himself toward the other side of the room and sat up against the dresser. His shoulder bumped into it and a small vial of perfume fell over, rolled down, and fell on top of Billy’s head, shattering in the process.

One nostril sucked in the sweet fumes while the other choked on smoke.

Billy looked out the window and saw only a few feet of dirt and then a cliff.

Beyond that: grey water that stood still like glass. Billy also thought he saw something tiny out on the horizon.

“Here goes nothing, you stupid son of a bitch,” Billy said. He slammed an elbow into the window, smashing it. Shards fell on him like rain. His eyes were blinded yet again. He dragged himself out the window and tried to look over the cliff. All he saw was water but he thought he glimpsed his own reflection as well as someone else’s.

Is that…her?

Her.

Though his eyes were now wounded by glass and stung by perfume, he could make out her features. He cursed her and leaned over, sending himself into the water.
This is what I get for fucking the fisherman’s wife.

Out on the horizon, a boat sat serenely on the water which now shuddered with waves. On board, a man sat at a small table eating. He smiled and nodded to himself, shoving bite after bite of apple pie into his near toothless mouth.

Across from him a squid sat holding a beer bottle in one tentacle and playing cards with another.
“So, we playing or what?”

The man put the last spoonful of apple pie in his mouth, looked at the squid, and smiled. “Yeah, Smitty, we’re playing.”

And then they played.

During the first few games the two of them reminisced about their stint in the war. After losing several times, the squid put his cards down. “Hey,
lemme
ask you something.”

“Yeah, Smitty?” the fisherman said.

“Did that guy really fuck your wife?”

The fisherman smiled and threw up his arms.

“Who hasn’t?

And then they laughed.

THE END

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jordan
Krall
is the author of several bizarro books, three of which have been published by
Eraserhead
Press. He has been praised by such authors as Edward Lee, Matthew Revert, Tom
Piccirilli
, Gary Coleman, and Carlton
Mellick
III. Readers are encouraged to contact him at
www.filmynoir.com
.
Jordan
loves Italian cult films, squid, and pancakes.