David Ohle - The Pisstown Chaos

During an unscheduled appearance by Reverend Hooker in Witchy Toe, an anti-Hookerite rushed out of the audience and slapped him repeatedly across the cheeks and then escaped through a back exit in the midst of the confusion. No one was surprised. When the Reverend makes a public appearance these days, its like a falling leaf breaking the surface of a pond. It awakens creatures long asleep at the bottom.

Recovered from the slapping, the Reverend gave this statement to reporters: "The town is frolicsome tonight. Its just a bagatelle. I remain joyful and confident. "

The miscreant who did the slapping was apprehended and taken into custody and will be dispatched to the Templex for a parasite check, and then to Permanganate for a long, unhurried stay.

A charcoal burner who, about a year ago, was shifted to Indian Apple, attempted to kill his family with a handsickle. A third-stage stinker, he returned to his cabin at about ten a. m. and said to all members of his family but his son, who was out shoveling coal, "I have just taught myself to use this tricky sickle and now I want all of you to stand up. " In order to humor him, they rose. He tied their hands with a piece of cord, which he knotted on the rafters. Holding the sickle, he commenced cutting his family, inflicting some dreadful wounds.

As he completed his work, his son returned, covered in coal dust, and was alarmed by what he saw. Chasing his father from the cabin, the son then went back to help his severely injured loved ones.

A posse was formed, but as yet the charcoal burner remains at large.

An early traveler on the National Canal described Permanganate thus: "There is a small island in the Canal a hundred miles downstream from Pisstown on which no vegetation or animation can exist. Bones that have drifted to the island invariably turn to ashes within eight to ten days. One imp has ossified merely by lapping the water in a stagnant ditch. Box turtles anchoring at the island to sunbathe on its logs have suddenly gelled and dripped away like candle wax. Caustic permanganate in the soil is blamed both for its odd violet color and its toxicity. "

Moldenke is in Indian Apple, appearing nightly at the Imperial His earthly father's head is pickled in a jar onstage beside him. In some way Moldenke is not only able to make its lips move, but to reproduce his father's voice with perfect fidelity. Moldenke tells the audience he is "in his father's head" when he spins his long yarns of the world beyond. After every tale the head solicits contributions in a bubbling voice and the mouth spits a coin into the fluid to encourage tithing. "Please give generously " it says. "Only in that way will I be kept alive. "

Not long after Ophelia was shifted, other shiftees began to arrive at the Balls mansion. With Templex records listing it as abandoned property, it was only a matter of a few days before all the rooms were spoken for, even the butler's quarters, and noisy children were sliding down the banisters and screaming with excitement.

Red moved into the potting shed with Peters and fashioned a bed out of peat, straw and sheets stolen from the clothesline. "I don't know who owns this bedding," he told Peters, who didn't mind sleeping on the bare ground, "but as sure as Hooker is the American Divine, they owe it to me. After all, I cook for fifty or sixty every night and empty their chamber pots every morning. Two sheets is no great loss, and I richly deserve them."

The pantry in the main house kitchen was soon empty, all the wild-picked urpflanz gone, and the basement larder devoid of anything but rat droppings. Red was at a loss as to how he would continue to feed his unwanted but needy guests. "Too bad Mrs. Balls is gone to Permanganate. She would have thought of a way to cope with this. We've already trapped all the imps on the property."

Peters said, "I'll go into town and get a breeding pair. We'll raise them in cages. "

"What will we feed them?" Red asked.

"We'll just have to find stinkers that want to be put down. That's all they eat nowadays is dead stinkers. They lost their taste for grass somehow."

"Putting down a stinker is dirty business," Red said. "I won't do it."

"Heck, all you have to do is tie them up. I'll put them down."

"All right then."

Peters walked to the far edge of Pisstown, taking circuitous routes to avoid the still-smoldering fires of the Chaos. The city abattoir always had a pen reserved for sickly imps that were sold cheaply. Peters picked out the two best-looking ones and told the clerk he wanted a pair of breeders. "We've got shiftees up to the neck out at the Balls place. They've got to have some meat once in a while."

"You don't want those two. They're old, half-spent. I've got a much better deal for you. This is a one time offer, for your ears only."

"I'm listening."

"How many bucks you got?"

"I got ten."

"Come over and look at these little experimental imps I've got here. It's a mating pair. The Reverend's raising them on a commercial basis. Not only will the female bear six young a year, they'll re-meat. You go in there, in their pen, and you say, 'Dinnertime,' they'll come right on over and show you their butt end. You cut off whatever you want. There's a little bleeding involved, but even that can be used in making bloodwursts. And by the next morning the same little imp can give you enough fresh bacon to feed twenty or thirty."

When Peters leaned over the pen to look the imps over, they were lying still, side by side, asleep. He saw raw places on their hindquarters in the process of re-meating. "What's their weight?"

"Twenty each right now. They'll top at a hundred or so when they grow up. The Reverend guarantees them for twelve years. If one fails to re-meat, I'll refund your money or give you another pair."

"How much you want?"

"Ten for two. This is an introductory offer. Like I said, they're not really on the market yet. That's why they're cheap."

"What will we feed them?"

"That's the beauty of this new kind of imp. You don't feed them anything. They feed on one another. And they'll eat their own feces, too."

The clerk stunned the two imps with a mallet and put them into sacks, which Peters carried across his shoulders at the ends of a wooden yoke.

Before starting the long walk back to the mansion, he stopped to drink a Jake or two at the Zig Zag Lounge, just down the road. As soon as he entered, having left his imps in the alley, he saw Roe sitting in a bright cone of smoky afternoon light that poured through a jagged hole in the roof. His once-blonde hair was a dark, tangled mess, yet his face had been scrubbed raw with pumice-soap and he'd doused himself with an odor retardant.

"Hello there, young Roe. Long time no see," Peters said.

"Who arc you?"

"Peters, the yard man. Don't you remember me?"

"Oh, yes, Peters."

Roe ordered a pitcher of Jake and an extra glass. "I'm dying of thirst. I've already had three Jakes and I haven't quenched it yet."

"You look a bit rough, Roe."

"I might have the parasite. I'm not sure. I'm weak. And I've been shifted again. This time to Witchy Toe. I'll be working in a willy plant. Back breaking, probably. I thought I d rest up at the house for a few days."

Peters drank the last of the pitcher, rinsed his mouth with Jake, then spit it on the floor. "There's no room there, Roe boy. We're up to our necks in shiftees. Not a bed left. Things up there are as sorry as things can get. The septic tanks overflowed a while back and leeched into the well. The only thing that comes out of the faucets is a sticky drizzle of yellow algae. So we sure could use some rain. The pond is so dry the fish have died. Your poor grandmother, she's going to faint away when she sees what happened while she was gone."

"Thank you for the information, sad as it is. I'll get a room at the Orienta."