LITMIR.BIZ

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of wine. Mr. Pash had several excellent vintages in his larder.

      He explained to me that special copies of the store’s top-renting movies had been instilled, through a series of complex rituals, with his own living essence. These mad dollops of his soul absorbed mental energy from our renting gentlemen. Mr. Pash would then take the movies and transfer the accumulated energy from the cassettes and DVDs into the magic televisions. The power built up so far was truly incredible: the merest spark had been used to persuade Mr. Trisk, with remarkable results.

      Of course, Mr. Pash was correct—about magic, that is. You have to make it up as you go along. My employer handed me an urn. Her name had been Spoon, so I used a spoon to insert her ashes into the magic players. We then plucked the diamonds from the cocktail ring and tossed those into the players as well.

      “Are you sure this won’t hurt the machines?” I said. I picked up a cassette, looking vainly into its little windows for some sign of Mr. Pash’s magic essence. “Mr. Spoon used to mix Holy Water with the ashes.”

      “You needn’t worry. Our purpose is holy, Roger,” Mr. Pash said, removing his shoes and socks. He started to unbutton his shirt. “Are we not preparing for a wedding?”

      I pushed the cassette into its slot. Soon all of the tapes and DVDs were in place.

      I looked into Mr. Pash’s eyes. It had been his generosity, his royal largesse, that had convinced me to follow his path. I knew that once the new way was in order, I would be rewarded handsomely.

      “Mrs. Spoon, Wanton and Licentious One,” I intoned, making up the words, “rejoice: from this moment on, you shall be known as Gaea, the Earth Mother. Prepare to receive the seed of Uranus, the Sky Father.” Mr. Pash removed the last of his clothes. His flabby body was a miracle of the grotesque; shallow, ribbonlike grooves covered every inch of his abdomen and legs.

      “From this union shall spring Titans,” I cried, taking a swig of wine. “With their Father, they shall reign supreme throughout the universe. O Gaea, take from the magic televisions the mind-power of our gentlemen, our unknowing congregation…”

      Mr. Pash stood amidst the magic players, arms outstretched. The tops of the VHS players bulged into round pods which soon opened, spewing forth yard after yard of tape. The tapes coiled and writhed around Mr. Pash’s body, sliding through the fleshy grooves. Curling metal vines grew from the tops of the DVD players—vines dotted with spinning silver blossoms. The vines also slid through the grooves, side by side with the tapes.

      I continued to drink wine and rant. In retrospect, I believe I should have set the bottle aside. “Noble Earth Mother! Arise from death! It is at last time to meet you. What shall you be cooking for us, sweet Gaea? We have already eaten Mr. Spoon. Arise: your new husband awaits.”

      A cloud of ash rose from the players and formed itself into a translucent grey succubus. Sparks danced through the apparition as it lavished its affections on Mr. Pash.

      On the screens of the magic televisions, scenes from the movies played—but with a difference. The prodigious creatures now wandered from movie to movie. Hulking cannibals stormed the Atlantean city. Immense carnivorous plants tried to steal a cocooned victim from the Liquifier. Outsized winged goats trampled helpless villagers in the jungle dimension.

      Mr. Pash shuddered and groaned with ecstasy. Wires snaked up from the players and plunged into my employer’s heaving gut as he consummated the marriage ritual.

      The expression of rapture on Mr. Pash’s face was simply too ridiculous—or at least, so I thought at the time. Drink can turn the kindest man into an unfeeling Judas. “I’ve had a wonderful time,” I said, “but I’m afraid that I have overstayed my welcome. Where was my mind? What must you think of me, Mr. Pash? But then, what must I think of you? It’s dreadfully impolite to rut in front of guests.” So saying, I laughed and laughed and laughed like a mad boy.

      Poor Mr. Pash—scoffed by his own disciple! The rapture on his face was replaced by a look of terrified doubt. With a cry of triumph, the ash-temptress fled through a crack in the basement floor. Undone by his own momentary uncertainty, Mr. Pash was at the mercy of reality. I watched helplessly as the wires in his belly fried him alive. A horrid, oily steam rose from his body. I ran up the stairs and out of the house.

      Bottle in hand, I wandered the streets of a changed world.

      Mr. Pash had perished, yes; but not before he had consummated the union, passing the magic on to Mrs. Spoon. I’m sure that his sacrifice had only served to strengthen her.

      A winged goat larger than any ocean liner soared across the moon, bleating thunderously. A monstrous Venus flytrap shot up from the turf of a children’s playground and snuffled ravenously at the swings and slide.

      Screams of pain and horror echoed through the city. The earth thundered as impossible monstrosities lumbered through the night. From the shadows, I watched giant cannibals tear the heads from policemen at a doughnut shop. With great slurping noises they sucked the spinal cords from their victims. A few blocks down the road, a Liquifier slathered its web into a parked car and trapped a pair of lovemaking teenagers. Another Liquifier draw near to watch its sibling feast.

      * * * *

      The Titans are everywhere. Spider-demons, cannibals, winged goats, vile plant-things. They see me, but leave me be. In fact, they regard me with trepidation. And why not? I am the usurper of their father’s throne. In their eyes, I am capable of unspeakable devastation.

      I am writing this in a luxurious penthouse apartment. I had to walk up sixty floors. Mr. Pash, Mr. Pash—all of this should have been yours. I am sorry that I laughed. So terribly sorry. I had planned to throw myself off the balcony, but in the end, I could not.

      Just as I was about to jump, an enormous pair of snarling, oddly inviting lips opened up in the pavement below.

      BUCKTOOTHED BOY, BELOVED BY MILLIONS

      “Little Perky! Come home this minute!”

      Mommy’s calling for you, Little Perky, little bucktoothed, black-haired boy. Mommy found a firecracker in your room. Firecrackers are so very naughty! You could lose a finger if you’re not careful.

      Brush those heavy bangs out of your eyes and look around. Look around with those large round eyes, those shiny black eyes, those sweet mischievous eyes (beloved by millions!).

      There’s Mr. Finkle’s house. Mr. Finkle is so funny when he’s mad. The veins stand out on his face and neck like big icky worms.

      Way down the block—that’s where the Widow Prim lives. That noisy old crow! Her long nose is just like a beak. She always yells at you whenever you walk on her grass. “Get those big clodhopper feet off my grass, Little Perky, or I’ll tell your Daddy!”—that’s just what she yells.

      Finkle, Prim, Finkle, Prim… Yes, visit Mr. Finkle today. A good long visit. You should wait a while before going home. Daddy teaches school to big kids, and he’s got some pretty old-fashioned ideas about discipline. That firecracker might have made him mad enough to get out the Board of Education (yee-ow!).

      Mr. Finkle is working in his garden this afternoon. Oh, it’s a nasty garden, all weed-choked and silly. The tomatoes are tiny and hard! The cucumbers look like green bite-sized snack sausages! The lettuce is wormy and wilted (just like his face!). His garden was a lot better last year. Remember? You used his watermelons for slingshot practice.

      “Well, if it isn’t Little Perky.” Mr. Finkle harrumphs at you as he hoes at the soggy clay. “In trouble again, I’ll wager. Didn’t I hear your mother calling?”

      “Gee, Mr. Finkle—I don’t think so!” Your big eyes roll with glee. “That was Mrs. Finkle calling for you!”

      “Oh, dear! Coming, Bitsy!” Mr. Finkle drops the hoe and trots off toward his tidy little pink-with-blue-trim house.

      Dig deep in your pockets, Little Perky. You’ve got lots of firecrackers—might as well put them to good use. Wouldn’t the Finkles like a nice tossed salad…?

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