Murder One

24

TO CALL THIS JOINT a closet would be to give it too much credit, Kirk mused, as he stared across the five-feet expanse at his host, who was soaking his feet in a porcelain pan, clamping a transparent gas mask to his mouth, and inhaling like a vacuum cleaner.

How did he end up in this dive? THE BODY BEAUTIFUL, the tiny sign on the front door said, although it was so small he missed it the first three times he passed by. It was easy to miss things this late at night, especially once you got away from the glittery bright lights of The Stroll’s main drag. Just as well—most people would want to miss this place, even the dark denizens of The Stroll. This shop was something else again. Something much more … extreme. Part innovating, part revolting.

“Wanna shot?” the man in the stained T-shirt said, holding out the gas mask.

Kirk shook his head.

“Your loss. Does me a world of good.”

“What is that, opium or something?”

“Oxygen,” the man said, drawing it deep down into his lungs. “Ozone, actually. Straight from the tank. Nothing better for you.”

“Can’t you get oxygen just from air?”

“Not like this, sonny.” He was a big man, burly, with long gangly legs and arms that seemed twice the length they should be. He had long blond hair that he swept straight back over the top of his head. His face was long and haggard, with deep crevices where cheeks should be and eyes set so far back they seemed to be on a different dimensional plane. “The air’s tainted, son. Has been for years. You need a shot of the pure stuff to really get your heart going. Take a few whiffs of this every now and again and you’ll be a better man for it, I guarantee.”

An interesting proposition, Kirk thought, but the man did not exactly strike him as the picture of health. Fairly cadaverous, actually. “I got the word from the bouncer at the Rainbow Boutique about you. Said you handled the body piercings.”

The man nodded, still sucking. “Piercings ’R’ Us, that’s what they call my place on The Stroll. I was going to put that on my sign, but I was afraid I might get sued or something.”

A distinct possibility, Kirk reasoned. “What kind of piercings do you do?”

“Oh, I’ve done it all, pal. You name it; I’ve been there.”

“Such as?”

“I can pierce anything you want pierced. Ears. Nose. Lips. Tongue. Navel. Nipples. I’ve even done a few genitalia jobs, not that I really enjoy them.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell ya a secret, bud. Most people who get their ding-dongs pierced live to regret it. After the initial rush wears off.”

Kirk shifted uncomfortably. “That sounds like it might be… uncomfortable.”

“Aw, hell, son—they’re all uncomfortable. Comfort lovers need not apply.”

“Which one hurts worst?”

The blond man pressed a hand against his forehead and rolled his eyes. “Aw, Jesus H. Christ. Not another one.” He shook his head from side to side. “Look, son, if you’re just lookin’ to get yourself hurt, go down to The Stroll and start a fight with a pimp or something. He’ll take care of you but good.”

“Been there,” Kirk replied. “Done that.”

“Huh. Wondered about that scar across your forehead.” He put down the gas mask. “Okay, how about going back to that Rainbow tattoo parlor? I understand the old man in the back never washes his needles.”

“Done that, too,” Kirk said. “Wanna see it?”

“Thanks, I’d just as soon not.”

“Good,” Kirk said. “I’d just as soon not show it.”

“I don’t know why I always get the pain freaks. Jesus, doesn’t anybody want a piercing just to look good anymore?”

“If I wanted to look good,” Kirk grunted, “I’d go to Dillard’s and buy a suit.”

“Fine, fine. So what do you want?”

“Anything. Everything.”

He sighed. “I can see this is going to be a challenge. Let me get my stuff.” He turned slightly and opened a desk drawer. “Got my scalpel, my stiletto, my sterilizer, maybe an ice pack—oh wait, no. You like pain.”

Kirk gave him a faint smile.

The blond man withdrew a syringe from the drawer. “Damn. Almost forgot my injection.”

Kirk raised an eyebrow. “More ozone?”

“Don’t be stupid. Human growth hormone.” While Kirk watched, the man lifted his shirt and injected himself in the stomach.

Kirk winced. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“Not enough to turn you on.” He held out the syringe. “Wanna hit?”

“No thanks.”

“S’good for what ails ya.”

“I thought that was just for midgets and stuff.”

“That’s what the doctors say. What do they know? Builds strong bones; keeps you together. Staves off the body rot that wears us all down.”

“And this is according to…?”

“It’s a well-known fact. Human growth hormone and vitamin cocktails. Like mother’s milk. Take them every day and you’ll never get old.”

“So you say,” Kirk said. “Forgive me for pointing this out, but—you got old.”

The man winked. “Only on the outside. Can’t do a thing about the flesh. But inside, I’m as young as ever.”

Kirk remained unconvinced. If he was as young as ever, why was he in this dingy room, sitting in a broken chair, soaking his feet?

“I’ve got some B-12 here, if you want to give that a try.”

“Thanks, I already ate. Could we possibly get back to the piercing?”

“Right, right.” He waved toward the small table beside him. “I’ve got everything ready. Just give me five more minutes to soak my feet.”

Kirk cast his eyes downward toward the porcelain pan. The water had a faint yellowish tint. His feet must’ve been in there for a good long time, because they were all shriveled and raisiny.

“Mind if I ask what that is?” Kirk asked.

“Course not. Urine.”

“Excuse me?”

“My urine, to be specific. Very healthy.”

Kirk stared at him. “You’re soaking in your own piss?”

“One of the most natural substances in the world. Why would God give it to us if it wasn’t good for you?”

“I don’t think—”

“You know, Gandhi used to drink his.”

Kirk felt his stomach twinge, and it wasn’t because of his tattoo. “Look, I didn’t come here for health recommendations. Could we please get on with the piercing?”

“Fine. Here it comes, fast and painful. Just the way you like it.”

“Good.”

“Unless … maybe you’d like to try something really different.”

“Like … what?”

“Well, you know, body piercing is really yesterday’s fad. So commonplace it’s trendy. Passé, some would say. Like tattooing, ten years ago.”

“So what’s hot now?”

“Mutilation.”

Kirk knew this would probably be a good time to get up and leave, but for some reason, he didn’t.

“Why settle for a mere needle when you can mess your body up with a knife?”

“Like … how?”

“Depends on what you’re after. Trying to impress a girl? Already got her name tattooed on your chest? “

“Not exactly.”

“And that didn’t impress her. So how about this? What if I carve her name on your back?”

“Carve? With a knife?”

“Well, I don’t think my fingernail would do the trick.”

“Wouldn’t that, like, bleed?”

“At first. Sure, there’ll be a horrible mess of blood and pus. Scabs and all that. But if I do it right—and I always do it right, money-back guarantee—a few months down the line, you’ll get scar tissue. A big scar in the shape of the name of the woman you love. Now won’t that be special?”

Kirk fingered his chin, considering. “Maybe.”

“Doesn’t have to be a word. I can do shapes, pictures. As long as it’s not too complicated.”

Kirk frowned. “What else have you got?”

“Oh, hell, you can do almost anything with a knife. You’ve heard that expression where they say someone speaks with a forked tongue?”

“Ye-ss …”

“Well, I can give you a real one. Won’t that look stud?”

“I don’t know.”

“Imagine how she’ll feel when you start frenching her with that thing. Problem is, your tongue does tend to lose some of its sensation after the cutting.”

“I don’t want that. I want to be able to feel everything.”

“Doesn’t have to be your tongue. I can split earlobes, lips. I even had one girl who wanted me to do her nose.”

“Would that hurt?”

“It always comes back to the same thing for you, doesn’t it?” He glanced down at his hand and, applying a sharp fingernail, pricked his own finger. Blood spurted out.

Kirk jumped out of his seat. “What are you doing?”

“Bloodletting. Good for you.”

“You’re kidding.”

“This from the kid who goes around trying to get himself tortured. Look, pal, people have been bloodletting for centuries. It’s healthy. Makes the body work a little. Freshens up the supply. You’ll feel good afterward. I know I do.”

Yes, Kirk thought, but you’re soaking in your own urine.

“Look,” the man said, “I’ve seen guys like you before. Want to mutilate themselves, cause themselves pain. This may not be in my best interests, but I’ll give you a tip. You’re making a mistake.”

“Izzat so?”

“Yeah, it is. You think that if you punish yourself long enough, you’ll be able to get past your guilt. Right?”

Kirk looked at him sideways but didn’t answer.

“Thought so. Thing is—it won’t work It won’t work because the only way to root out that guilt is to go after its source.”

“Source?”

“Sure. I don’t know what it is that’s making you miserable. Your boss, your landlord, your car, your girl—”

“Why do you keep talking about a girl? I don’t have a girl!”

“Uh-huh. Whatever. The point is—if you want to eliminate that guilt, you have to root out whatever is causing it. Nothing else will do. You can turn yourself into mincemeat, but it won’t help.”

“Who are you, Obi-Wan Kenobi?”

The blond man laughed. “No, I’m just a guy dripping blood from his ringer who sees freaks like you every day. And I know what I’m talking about. You won’t be cured until you confront the problem head on.”

Kirk fell quiet. “I … can’t do that.”

“You mean you don’t want to do that.”

“I—I guess—” He hesitated. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“I can’t say whether it would be right, not knowing what the hell we’re talking about. But it’s the only thing that will make you whole again.”

Could he be right? Kirk wondered. He stared out the one small window on the north wall, seeing little but his own reflection. Is that what he should do? Was it even possible?

He turned back around, but the blond man’s body seemed to be shimmering, fading. He was having a hard time focusing. He mumbled a few words, stumbled to his feet, and ran toward the door.

The night air was bracing, stark cold, but it didn’t clear his head. He was so confused, so lost and angry and … messed up.

One thing the freak had said rang true, though. Maybe it was time to confront the source. Someone had to pay. Someone had to be punished before he would ever feel whole again.

And maybe, just maybe, that someone wasn’t supposed to be him.