Hell in a Dry Place

[Doktor Howl]

Here's the story I've been writing there (Obviously, the interlude is recycled):

Writing.  This implies a story, yes?  Then I shall tell you a story.  It isn't a pleasant story, but in the end we must remember that it is only a story.  A little nightmare to brighten up our endless days, here in the Happy Place.  Well, then...Where to begin? 

We'll begin at the beginning.

Part 1

I went to Hell in December of 1989. 

Sounds dramatic, yes?  At the time it was; time has taken all the theater from it.  Looking back, the road to Hell is very straight.  I walked that road, as millions had before me, in leather boots and harness, with a rifle in my hand.  There was a city, I remember, in Panama.  This city had an enormous sewer system, which had to be checked out, after the fighting was over.  There were concerns, you see, of holdouts and weapons caches.

What we found was a "doll factory".  I don't wish to talk about that now, I shall go into detail later.  Suffice it to say, there were armed men in the doll factory, and what followed was a chaotic, suicidal gun battle in that factory.  Perhaps a total of 14 armed men, blazing away at each other at basically arms-reach.  There's no need to explain that nobody could have possibly walked out of that room alive.  Instead, we ran, screaming back to the sunlight, without looking back.  This is important, so listen to me.  Listen to me.  Listen. To. Me.  In Hell, you never look back.

When we had reached street level, our officers - something that looked like our officers, anyway - told us to stop screaming, that it was over.  We were unable to do so, however, and before long we found ourselves loaded into a helicopter and sent back to Gorgas Army Hospital in the capital.  There, a psychiatrist, a Russian emigre named Ivan Petrov tried to convince Sergeant Murphy and I that we were in fact still among the living.

But we knew better.  Infantrymen know the score, and we knew that there was no way we had survived that fight.  But to make things easier on ourselves, we pretended that we believed him.  Private Guerrero, on the other hand, never stopped screaming, poor fellow.  I never saw him again.

Years spun past.  Desert Storm came and went, with all of its attendant horrors.  You really didn't see the war on television.  You saw green-on-black gun-sight footage that sterilized the war, that hid 300,000 blasted and screaming Iraqis.  Boring.  And that's the rub, isn't it?  Hell is boring  It is order, it is a place where the trains all run on time, and there is no hope of anything ever, ever changing.

In one of the countless years that followed, 1996 to be exact, I was injured during a training accident.  A stupid accident, a slip and a fall and a broken knee.  Though I healed, I was told that the army had no further use for me.  A crippled infantryman is no different than a horse with a broken leg...Except that you are disposed of with a medical board, rather than a gunshot.

I wandered Hell for a decade after that, through city after city, country after country...All the same.  All boring.  The grinding banality that is Hell.  Eventually, I landed in Tucson, Arizona, and took up my present occupation:  doing the devil's work, for a faceless corporation that you've never heard of, but that affects you in one way or another, every day of your life.  I like Tucson, it has very small sewers, with no room for doll factories.  Sometimes, the utility workers at the bar on Friday night will moan something about the ghosts of infants crawling in the pipes...We beat them and curse them until they leave.  Who wants to hear that?  In any case, it is Tucson, and their perceptions of events are not to be trusted.

An amazing thing: I ran into Dr Petrov here, in 2006.  He too had left the army, and was in private practice, consulting for the Veteran's Administration.  We met by chance, down in the legal district, and had a coffee.  I told him where we were, and he laughed.  "A Russian is in Hell from the day he is born", he said.  We have had many coffees since then.

Then, in 2010, we met an angel.  What an angel was doing in Hell is anyone's guess, but she too had a story to tell.

To be continued

Part 2

On August 10, 2010, the angel came to town.  You could tell she was an angel because she was alive, in Hell.  True, her wings had been torn out by the roots some decades ago, and her halo had been stolen, presumbably by the grabby-girls in the legal district...But there was no mistaking that she wasn't from Around Here.

We met her at The Meetrack, which at the time was the premier pervert bar in Tucson.  On that day, the bar was dead...It was just the bartender, myself, and Ivan.  We'd been nursing drinks for the afternoon, not wanting to get drunk, but not wanting to be sober, either.

Then She walked in.  It wasn't that she was beautiful; Tucson has its beauties.  It was that she was alive...You could see it in her face.  She was, my guess, part Black, part Hispanic, part...Well, there was a blend of all humanity in that face.  She walked to the bar, ordered some Old Crow, and then walked over and sat at our table.

"Hello...", I began.

"Good morning, Frank.  Long time, no see.", she replied, as if I knew her.

"Um..."

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss..."

"You can just call me Man Next."

"Man...?"  I was talking like an idiot, I knew, much to Ivan's amusement.

"Man Next will do just fine.  In any case, we have to get moving soon.  We're late already."

"Late for what?"

She looked me over.  "Man, those intelligence geeks really screwed you up, didn't they?"

I had no idea what she was talking about, but I am always up for any program, so I killed the last dregs of my Evan Williams, lit a cigar, and stood up.  Ivan followed suit; She slammed her bourbon in one swift gulp, then led us out the side door.

Out on the street, there was a body in the gutter, which looked like it had been on fire, at least partially.  Boring.

We got in the Jeep, and started driving.  She told us to drive to the City Center.

"But it's second Saturday.  The place is going to be mobbed."

She just looked at me, and said, "Drive."

Well, there's a saying around here...If you're going through Hell, keep moving.

I turned on the radio, for what it was worth.  We have the usual channels, here.  Country, classic rock ("All your favorites, all the time, same as every station in every city, and no this isn't an 'oldies station', no sirree!"), some vanilla hip hop (hip hop had something to say, back in 88-92, but They fixed that), that sort of thing.  I settled on the oldies, and got REO Speedwagon's I Don't Wanna Know.  There is nothing new in Hell.

We parked in the City parking garage, which is open for public use on the weekends, and got out of the car.  Without a word, she led us down to street level (Never park below ground level.  Trust me on this one.), and up the street towards the Hotel Congress.

We went into the hotel bar, which was just as empty as the Meetrack had been...Almost.  A couple were sitting at a table.  Some hipster with long blond hair, and a tiny little woman...Not a midget, but less than 5 feet tall, and slender as a reed.  She also had a black eye, and her eyes were puffy from crying.

The Angel looked at us.  "You deal with him.  I'll take care of her."

Ivan and I shrugged, and walked over.  The hipster looked at us, and said, "What are YOU two geezers looking at?"

Ivan kicked him in the face.  He fell backwards in his chair, and I walked over and started putting the boot to him.  The Angel had the stunned girl by the arm, and was leading her towards the door.  The bartender looked up, saw Ivan and I, and got busy cleaning clean glasses.

After a moment or two, Ivan leaned down and spoke to the wreckage on the floor.  "You will never speak to her again.  If you see her on the street, you will walk on by.  Otherwise, I shall get my axe.  My special axe, with which I did all those terrible things in Moscow."

The hipster looked at me.  I just stared at him.  He nodded, and then let his head drop on the floor.

We walked outside.  The Angel and the young lady were nowhere to be seen.

"Well, that was passing strange", said Ivan.

"It relieved the boredom for a moment.  I have no regrets."

We thought we'd seen the last of Man Next, so we walked down to a gin joint on 4th Avenue to finish what we'd started that morning.

We couldn't have been more wrong about not seeing her again.  And when we did, we broke even Tucson's lax societal conventions.  Badly.

To be continued.

Interlude:  The Doll Factory

Knuckles once asked me a difficult question a few years ago.  He asked me once to explain a comment I made about once having been so scared so badly that I've never been scared again.  It's been gnawing at my guts ever since, and I can't stop dreaming about a calendar page...December 1989, to be exact, and that calendar page is huge, wait, no...It's not a calendar page at all, is it?  No, it's a stage curtain, and behind that curtain is an Awful Thing, something so awful that I had to take extra pills this morning before I could write it down.  Anyway, here goes.

Knuckles, I bet you didn't know that I used to be a musician.  I don't want to discuss the exact instrument I played, because I don't want this to devolve into a technical discussion about tuning instruments or percussion or muzzle velocities or any of that stuff. 

Anyway, I was down in Panama, on a tour, and our manager sent us to a gig in an old sanitation district, you know, some kind of rave.  We were essentially supposed to check the place out, see if it was going to be a potential regular thing, you know?  It was kind of embarrassing, but we got lost finding the stage, like in Spinal Tap.  Took forever, until we finally walked out of one of the tunnels into a large room that used to be a pump station, and that's where the audience was.

They were a strange bunch, Knuckles, they were really a kinky crowd.  They were all standing around tables, sewing bags about the size of baseballs into what looked like little dolls.  But they weren't dolls, Knuckles, they were something else and that's not really important, and I don't want to talk about it.

We looked at them.  They looked at us.  We looked at what was on the tables.

We started playing. 

I think it was a death metal tune, because all of our lyrics sounded like howling.

And just like one of those good gigs, the moment we started playing, they started dancing.  They danced and they danced until I guess they got tired and fell down.  I'm not sure, but I think one guy actually danced his leg off.  But it was like one of those bad gigs, because the audience started throwing stuff at us, you know, and we didn't even have chicken wire in front of us.  One guy threw something at me and it carved a great big Goddamn gouge in my helmet.  Another guy thew a bunch of stuff that hit Guerrero right in his chest.  He went down, kicking and cursing.  Thankfully, Kevlar flak jackets are good for dealing with beer bottles or whatever it was they were throwing.  Guerrero played a special solo, just for that guy.

But like all performances, this one had to end.  We were exhausted, and the audience had all passed out or something.  We walked around for a minute, and we saw what they'd been stuffing bags of "party favors" into.

We ran.  Some gigs are just too much.  But we sang an encore on the way out, Knuckles, you'd have been proud.  It sounded like Danzig and Ramstein's weirder stuff and maybe a little Rolling Stones, you know, Gimme Shelter.  We ran until we hit daylight, and our manager was waiting for us and he kept telling us to stop singing, the gig is over, but we couldn't stop singing, dude, it was very strange.  We kept singing and singing until they brought the Limo to take us back to the hotel.  No, scratch that, it wasn't really a Limo, only the government has Limos, it was a helicopter with some other band's logo on it, a big cross.  And we sang and sang all the way to the hotel.

I guess we pissed off our manager, Knuckles, because pretty soon I had a new manager, we called him Doc Petrov.  Murph and I had stopped singing by then, but some of the other guys hadn't.  As I understand it, Guerrero is still singing an aria, somewhere.  Anyway, Doc told me that they found the dolls - only he didn't call them dolls - and how did I feel about that?  I told him that it was a funny place to make dolls.  He looked at me, and - here's where it gets really strange - he started to cry.  Then he left, and one of the roadies took me to another room and gave me a vitamin shot that made me feel lots better.

Eventually, it was determined that I was fit to join another band, and life went on.  I stayed in the biz til a silly rehearsal accident broke my knee, and I was forced to find a straight job.  Rock n roll involves a lot of jumping around, you know, and there's no room for a man with a gimpy leg.  But I was a little different about things after that, man, I don't get scared anymore.  I get mad, or I start laughing, but I don't get scared.  And I don't like dolls much, you know?

But now I live in Tucson, and this town suits me.  This town knows rock n roll, Knuckles, it understands what Bob Seger meant, you know, back in his glory days.  Fact:  Nothing Bad can ever happen to you, as long as Bob Seger is playing.  I like Bob Seger, man, I like him a lot.  He knows Tucson, just as it knows him.  And he knows The Truth, Knuckles, The Truth that is the punchline to all of this rambling, the end of the shaggy dog story, the gotcha line, the end of a joke that sometimes still makes me laugh all night:

You can come back baby, rock n roll never forgets.

To be continued.

[P3nT4gR4m]

When people tell me they've been to hell, I'm generally not convinced. Dunno what it is, something in the eyes maybe. Or the internet equivalent, whatever that might be. Punctuation?

Your doll story, tho? I know you've been there. Even though it was nothing like that when I was there. They'd changed the drapes, moved it all upstairs, taken away the bullets and switched the laws of physics but it was the same place. Of that, I'm sure. That's why I'd never insult you by feeling sorry for you. You have my respect. They really pulled out all the stops for your ride. I got off light.

And I'm loving the new shit, too. Looking forward to more...

[Doktor Howl]

When people tell me they've been to hell, I'm generally not convinced. Dunno what it is, something in the eyes maybe. Or the internet equivalent, whatever that might be. Punctuation?

Your doll story, tho? I know you've been there. Even though it was nothing like that when I was there. They'd changed the drapes, moved it all upstairs, taken away the bullets and switched the laws of physics but it was the same place. Of that, I'm sure. That's why I'd never insult you by feeling sorry for you. You have my respect. They really pulled out all the stops for your ride. I got off light.

And I'm loving the new shit, too. Looking forward to more...

Thanks.  I'm pretty sure it's going to be the last thing I write on PD, though.  Not sure how long it's going to go.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

I like the new chapter. Can't wait to see what Man Green has in store.

[Cainad (dec.)]

I dig it.

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

I think it's fantastic. And that bit about shitty radio makes it very relatable.
I don't even know anymore how many times I've been stuck in hell with no better options than REO Speedwagon.

[Left]

I'm digging it, I want to see where you take it.

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

Wow, this is fucking superb! Are the pagans appreciative?

[Doktor Howl]

Wow, this is fucking superb! Are the pagans appreciative?

Nope.  I got a smiley from one, agreeing with one of us.

Then nothing.   

(Thanks, btw)

[Mesozoic Mister Nigel]

I posted in the thread, maybe it'll generate some kind of buzz. It's weird that NOBODY from there has commented.

[Doktor Howl]

Part 3

February, 2011

"Pull over!", Ivan said, in an urgent tone.  I did so...I don't usually question things Ivan says, until after the fact.

"What's up?"

"That Man Next lady is back there."

"No shit?"  I backed the Jeep up.  Fortunately, Stone Street was empty.  Without ceremony, Man Next got in the back seat of the Jeep.  I put it in gear and started driving again.  After a few minutes, she spoke.

"We need to be at the corner of Pennington and Congress."

Okay, why not?  I made a right and headed over to Pennington.  There's actual parking there, so I pulled in across from the city courthouse...A dismal building that Ivan had once said belonged somewhere in Petrograd.  We got out and walked up to Congress Street.

"There is an art gallery opening occurring next to Monkeyburger", Man Next said, "In some deliberately shitty abandoned storefront."

"And we care about hipsters trying to look 'street'...Why, exactly?"  I was genuinely curious.

"Because they have been naughty.  Very naughty."

"How else would they act?  This is Hell."

Man Next just looked at me, without comment.  An appraising look, as if she were trying to decide if I was being facetious...But then, we were there.  It was deliberately crappy.  The inside of the storefront had gaping holes in the drywall, and there were unidentifiable stains on the parts that were intact.  Considering that legal district storefronts go for a song, there was no need for this, other than to convey the "starving artist" image that a certain type of person believes adds "authenticity" to their work.

Walking inside, we were treated to the usual hipster chic.  Brad pit hats, sweater vests, skinny jeans, the whole works.  One particularly ridiculous guy, many 40 years old, stood behind a table that had what looked like plastic jewelry on it.  Looking closer, I saw that it was bone.  This isn't too unusual.  The bones of cattle, coyote, and javaline litter the desert.

Man Next walked up to this person, and asked "Are these the straight goods?"

"You bet", the hipster responded, "dug 'em up myself."

"Why would you dig up bones?  There's bones all over the desert." I interjected.

"Because these aren't animal bones, Frank", Man Next replied, "These are the bones of Native Americans, dug up out of their graves, probably in the Santa Ritas."

"Wait.  This guy went and stole someone's bits, and made jewelry out of them?  What the hell?"

"Hey, now", hipster said, "I was getting in touch with my heritage."

"You little maggot.  You little ghoul...", Ivan broke in, "You are as Native American as I am.  Which is to say, not at all.  And even if you WERE, who digs up their grandfathers?"

"It is the heritage I have chosen.  You can't tell me what I am."

I looked at Man Next.  "So, what's the plan."

Man Next stared at the hipster.  "Do bad things to Tonto, here.  I shall return the remains to where they belong...Or at least give them some sort of burial."

The hipster puffed up his chest.  This was, after all, the legal district, and all you do in the legal district is talk.  That is what he believed.  His beliefs were incorrect.  Man Next disappeared with the bones, and Ivan and I delivered a beating, while the other artists looked on with disbelief.  They were fine; their art was merely bad.  It didn't involve grave robbing.  I overheard one of them say that she was glad, that Brad Pitt here had given her the creeps.

I turned to her, "Then find different friends."

Ivan looked up, "Yes.  You are judged by the company you keep."  Then he hit the hipster a couple more times, and we left before someone got around to calling the police.  Once again, Man Next was nowhere to be seen.

"You realize", said Ivan, as we reached the jeep, "We will need to hang out in a different part of town for a few weeks.  The police will not stand for this sort of hooliganry this close to the university."

"Small price to pay, Ivan.  Besides, how long has it been since we've been to South filth?"

"I think since the time we tried to liven things up at that radio station party.  But it should be safe by now."

We drove South.  Ivan was talking about something, but my mind was a million miles away.  I felt I should know Man Next, that she was somehow very familiar.  Then I dismissed it...She showed up, she asked us to do things we would have done anyway, then she left.  Angels, I seem to recall from Sunday school all those years ago, do that.

I also had a feeling that we'd see her again, and sooner rather than later.

I was right.

To be continued.

[Anna Mae Bollocks]

Pearls before swine, Roger. Happy you're X-posting here.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

This is a story about people who need the shit kicked out of them and get it. Me likey.

[Doktor Howl]

This is a story about people who need the shit kicked out of them and get it. Me likey.

There's going to be more to it than that, as Man Green's demands become more and more Old Testament.

[Cardinal Pizza Deliverance.]

This is a story about people who need the shit kicked out of them and get it. Me likey.

There's going to be more to it than that, as Man Green's demands become more and more Old Testament.

It's off to an awesome start.