Whispers From The Abyss (21 page)

“Finally,” Charlie said to himself. “Finally some light at the end of this godforsaken fudge tunnel.”

“Yo! Dudes! Stop crying!” Wilbur paced the stage, pleading for calm, “C’mon, man, I know you’re bummed! But it’s gonna be cool, I swear!” It did no good. The kids were devastated. Wilbur was losing them again. He crooked his chin low and spoke directly into the microphone clipped to his lapel. “Dudes! Frickin’ chill, alright?! ” Even with the boost his voice was lost in the sobs, growls, and laments of a flock that had just lost their god. Wilbur stomped to the edge of the stage. Wound up his leg up and punted a of mound of sacrificial offerings into the audience. A spray of fish and hot shit exploded over the first three rows. “YO! BUTT-NUTS!!!” Wilbur’s nasally rasp pitched to a howler monkey screech. “JUST LISTEN FOR A MOMENT, WILL YA?! YOU KEEP CRYING LIKE THAT, I WON’T TELL YA THE SUPER RAD SECRET OF THE OCTOPUS KING!!!”

It took a few seconds for the meaning sink in, but the brats began to simmer. Tears and tantrums slowly eased into quite suspicion.

“Yeahahahaha…that tickled yer fancy, huh?” Wilbur clapped his hands. Smiled. The kids peered back with dilated eyes. Hungry eyes. Full of spiritual longing. If Wilbur didn’t deliver these kids
would
devour him. Time to turn on the charm. “Ya see, the raddest secret of the Octopus King is you don’t
need
TV to be with ‘em! Oh, it’s true! After today’s show the miracle of the Octopus King will be FOREVER! Serious! All ya gotta do is sing the Octopus Song before you go to bed tonight! And wish really, really, really hard for him to awaken! And BOOO-YA! He’ll come to your home, just like Santa Claus!
It’s that frickin’ easy!
”

Goddamn, if the kid
s didn’t love that! It was like Wilbur had just swung a giant bat and busted the fun-pinata over their heads. The little dudes were howling with joy! They started chanting again…

“Cthulhu fhtagn!”

“Cthulhu fhtagn!”

“Cthulhu fhtaaaaaagn!”

Wilbur spread his arms wide and welcomed the animal cries. Pure rapture, that’s what it was. Pure, uncut celestial bliss! These kids were tasting the same spirit juju Wilbur had the first time he’d swallowed Boonliang’s blood wine. “Yeah, frickin’ awesome, huh?! Okay…okay…” Wilbur laughed. He checked his wrist for a non-existent watch. “So I’m lookin’ at Mickey, and he says we only got about ten minutes left. So before I do the Good-Bye song one last time, I wanna tell ya a story. And I want you dudes to take it to heart, alright? Ya feel me?”

Wilbur didn’t need an answer. Their faces said it all. In these last few minutes a bond had formed. These kids could feel what he felt. Feel his pain, his joy, his deepest intentions. Like a needle in the groove, they were feeling those vibes clearly for the first time. Somehow, Wilbur had managed to pry their little third eyes open.

“Cool…cool…” he said. He nodded to Stan to bring the lights down.

The studio went dark.

A single spot flicked on.

Wilbur became ringed in a lonely, angelic glow.

“Now, there was once a man, this dude,” Wilber started, “And he may not’ve been the brightest guy in the world, or the best at anything, but this dude? He had a good heart. All he wanted out of life was to make people happy. Make ‘em laugh. But ya know, he made some mistakes along the way, and that made John Law very, very mad. So mad, in fact, it landed this dude a five year stretch in the big house—where the food was crap, everybody was mean, and this dude? He got his butt kicked damn near everyday. I mean, it totally sucked, right? And there was one dick from the Aryan Brotherhood, right? And he did other really mean stuff to my butt. And the world? It became a sad, sad place…” Wilbur’s eyes slid closed. Voice trembled. Slowly exhaled the pain. It could’ve been a whimper.

A deadening silence descend over the place.

“BUT THEN I HAD A PERSONAL MIRACLE!” Wilbur exclaimed. His spine went rigid. Eyes bright as speeding headlights zeroing in on a soon to be dead deer. “I had a dream unlike any other! And it EXPLODED! In my BRAIN! And when I woke up and I was done crying my tears of joy I wrote on a piece of paper, ‘Hi! My name is Wilbur and the Octopus King  has shown me how to be HAPPY!’ It was the best thing to ever happen to me!” A joyous smile was slammed across his face. The words were flowing fast and easy. For the first time in Wilbur’s life, he felt complete. He knew exactly who he was and why he’d been dropped onto this miserable reality. For all his failures, all his fuck-ups, all the time he’d chosen stupid over safe—there’d been a plan! He just never knew it! For so long he’d hidden behind the greasepaint smile, never aware of that path had been chosen for him. Clown college. The drug bust. All the beatings he’d suffered. All the nights of stark terror. It was all leading up to this one single moment! The most important ten minutes in the entire history of fucking everything! With absolute certainty Wilbur knew someday history would call him ‘Messiah.’

“Nothing matters!” Wilbur continued, “The King’s gonna rise and wipe it all away! So maybe Wilbur’s lost another job, so frickin’ what!? Maybe your parents suck dick, so frickin’ what!? It’s all gonna be seafood someday, man! And who worries about seafood? The Japanese! But that ain’t your problem, right?
Right!
”

And with that, it was time.

The final close.

The last laugh.

“Stan, cue up track five! The Good-Bye song! Let’s do this!”

The music started. A gentle plucking of strings. The soft tones of a
n organ trickled in. Wilbur clasped his hands. Swayed to the beat. Then began...

And now, the end is near

And so I face the final curtain

My friends, I’ll say it clear

I state my case, of which I’m certain

When Wilbur pulled the knife, no one cared. Why would they? A sharp object in Wilbur's hands was nothing special, not on the
Happy Fun Time Show
. He kept knives for juggling, bayonets for swallowing, even something called a "Nepalese kukri" for his famous William Tell routine. So when Wilbur dipped into his coat and returned with a six-inch blade, everyone (especially Charlie) expected another dumb trick. One last twirl of the knife before the clown said good-bye.

I’ve lived a life that’s full

I’ve traveled each and every highway

And more, much more than this

I did it myyyyy waaaaay

Wilbur kissed the blade. Felt its weight. Rubbed a thumb over the chrome skull that was its pommel. Although he'd kept this knife on him from the day it found him, Wilbur had never once used it on-air. No, this knife wasn't for show. This one had a name.
Skullfucker
, he called it, and he knew its every contour as if it were his own tattooed cock. Skullfucker may not have been a real ceremonial dagger,
but screw it!
For something purchased in a Vancouver head shop, it was totally bad ass! And Wilbur had done his best to consecrate the blade. It wasn’t like anyone was going to miss a few cats from under their porch. Or wonder why the chemicals for the Chuck Daily’s pool had gone missing. Not in this town. Although the break-in at the funeral home had turned some heads. Didn't matter. They'd all soon know.

Regrets, I’ve had a few

But then again, too many to mention

I’ll do what I have to do

And see it through without exemption

Wilbur traced the blade through the air, making the sign of the First Cult. The cult of the Old God, the dark faith that had preceded man, the religion that dwelt in the black hearts of simian predators and in the dreams of every primate's unconscious. Wilbur continued to sing. Pulled a fist of human ash from his pocket. He dragged the blade across his palm, mixing fresh blood with the burnt remains.

I planned each charted course

Each careful step along the highway

And more, much more than this

I did it myyyyy waaaaay

Wilbur belted out the final verse, then took a humble bow. The audience went nuts! Wilbur had sung this song so many times, but never before did it ring so true. He'd given the performance of a lifetime, and the kids loved every minute if it! They howled and quaked with fervent approval.

Eeeeyoolll!!!

Eeeeyoolll!!!

Eeeeyoolll!!!

Their chant was deep and guttural. Inhuman, even. And soon, it could be heard echoing throughout Tranquil Bay. From out of trailer parks and the miles of tract homes, from the rec center and the church daycares—those same animal grunts were coming from the mouths of children. Every kid in town had tuned in, to kneel before their TV sets and press their little palms against the screen. Wilbur could feel it. The warmth of countless eyes watching. Their energy, their love, their collective zeal—it poured over him like gleaming pink confetti. And now the time had come.

The last laugh.

The final revelation.

Wilbur clasped both hands around the knife. Raised it high. Then shrieked, “N’gout g’wagga urla’koup! Cthulhu fhtaaaaaaaaaaaagn!!!”

The knife plunged down.

A shock of hot pain.

Fresh spots of red bloomed across the front of his coat.

Blood on paisley. Blood on his hands.

Wilbur squeezed the knife hard, firming his grip.

Almost there…

Almost done…

“For he so loved the world, he gave his only begotten clown!” Wilbur cried. Then, with a single, determined jerk he plowed the blade up into his ribcage.

Metal on bone.

Metal touching marrow.

Wilbur’s stomach hit the ground with a wet splat.

“N’gout g’waggaaaaaaa…” He began to intone the sacred words a second time, only to have it cut short when his face plowed into something hard, wooden, slick with blood and shit. The floor. He’d just hit the floor.

Backstage, Charlie stood frozen in a zombie pose, his booze soaked brain struggling to process what his senses were telling him. First there’d been a knife. Then a lot of screaming. Then crying. Children laughing. A wailing and gnashing of teeth. Now Wilbur was down and writhing in a puddle of sick red hues. “Jesus,” was all Charlie could manage. Back in college Charlie had known a guy, a paramedic, who liked to claim his job was “delivering hot pasta.” This was because, according to him, under the skin everyone looked like mashed rigati in a meat sauce. Charlie blinked. Realized those long, tangled ropes snaking out of Wilbur were intestines…intestines in a goo of thick crimson paste.

Rigati.

Meat sauce.

Vomit.

Suddenly Charlie was on the floor, all hands and knees—heaving, choking, gagging on what was a Category Five stomach purge. In a matter of minutes the entire contents of his liquid lunch were on display. A taste of scotch and bile. It was in his mouth, in his nose, running down his chin. His tie hung low, soaking up the mess. Charlie squeezed tears from his eyes and tried to focus. This wasn't right. Nothing was right. He should have been freaking out right now, or scared. Panic seemed like the appropriate emotion. But Charlie felt none of those things. Not even concern for his dumb brother-in-law, who'd just donated his organs to showbiz. No, as Charlie's reflection stared back in the vomit, the only thought Charlie could hold onto was the acute knowledge that he’d never enjoy pasta again.

“Duuuuude...hey dude....”

A sickening chill crawled up Charlie's spine. No. Please. He didn't want to see this.

“Duuuuude...I'm over here....”

Slowly Charlie raised his head, eyes leveling to meet Wilbur's gaze. Somehow, the sad bastard was still breathing. He let out a wet cough. Smiled. A fine ruby drool coated his teeth, spilled from his lips.

"What do you want? " Charlie said. Wow...that sounded a lot worse than intended.

“Dude...” His words came slow and weak, every syllable shot with quivers of raw pain. He gasped. Shivered. A weak chuckle bubbled out of him like loose phlegm. Finally he said, “...thought that’d hurt more.”

His hands trembled, eyes rolled back. Then nothing.

Wilbur was dead.

*     *     *

Charlie didn’t get home until late that night.

Very late.

After Wilbur’s stunt, there’d been police to talk to. Forms to sign. There’d been an ambulance. A medical examiner. A crime scene photographer. And all sorts of other “fancy” specialists that had needed to be called in from the next county over. The local sheriff’s department was in no way equipped to deal with that kind of mess. Then again, neither was Charlie. At that point, all Charlie had wanted was a stiff drink, a bag of weed, and enough valium to keep him sleeping for the next week. Instead, what he’d gotten were meth-addled parents barging into the station, screaming about lawsuits and threats of imminent violence. And then, of course, there were the two critical phone calls that had to be made.

A call to the station owner.

A call to Charlie’s wife.

Through the a haze of alcohol, fatigue, and soul crushing stress, it was difficult to recall which had gone worse—although Charlie suspected it was the one that began with,
“Hi honey. Your brother just committed suicide on live TV…”
Predictably, Sharla had seized upon the moment to scream a lot and blame everything on Charlie. Yeah, it was probably wrong to tell her Wilbur was better off dead, but fuck it. After all the goddamned restraint Charlie had shown that evening? He’d
earned
the right to speak frankly. The entire night had been a parade of assholes, all wanting to talk to him—snotty cops, loudmouthed parents, ambulance chasing attorneys. Hell, outside the station  a pitchfork mob of “concerned citizens” had shown up, all calling for Charlie’s head. A local pastor had even arrived, megaphone in-hand, to conduct an impromptu sermon in the parking lot. And then, of course, there’d been the press.