MANDOG REPORT FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE
My name is Batts Jenga, comin' at you from Hell. There are lots of others with me; we just turn this huge wheel, over and over. It's rough but at least I'm not alone.
My life? Not what I had hoped, I'll tell you that. I heard about a job from a friend of a friend: get some magic book from some small neighbourhood in the middle of the nowhere. It was owned by the Whythes, supposedly they were witches. Me, my best friend Dagan, "The Man" Bobby B, and Rob Ashton—some crack head we picked up in Minnesota who somehow got his hands on a grenade—set off. Problem is the place had been blockaded by the feds, so we had to crawl through the damn woods like earthworms.
We arrived early in the morning at a park and I changed into fresh digs—I brought Momotaro jeans, a vintage horsehide leather jacket, and full grain chelsea boots with commando soles. My best friend Dagan, I call him my "son" because he's 17, spied some teens walking up the street with his binocs. I approached them, slick like vaseline, and offered the kids a Cuban cigar, surely handrolled by a grandma with leather mitts. They were delighted—thought I was the absolute cheese—and one kid offered to show me a magic trick. He did alright—he hit me with the Buddha Palm and sent me sprawling to ground. I've seen magic; I studied with monks in the Himalayas, sealed an Oni in Nagoya prefecture, and stole secrets from a hypno-sex cult in the Netherlands. Never had I seen such power from a mere child.
"Cool, kid," I said, "where'd you learn that trick?"
"My grandma!"
Great, looks like grams is the place to go if we want to find magic. I introduced him to Dagan, who is 17, but the kid wouldn't let us go to his house—he was tired, must've been out all night. So instead we went with his non-magic friend. We had breakfast and I showed him a little trick: maple syrup with lots of salt really makes scrambled eggs pop. But the kid was incredulous. We met his gay dads and they were unimpressed—work from home yuppy types.
Dagan and I trusted "The Man" Bobby B to take care of Rob, so we went on over to see grandma. Knock knock—a fine looking lady in her early 20s opened the door and I quickly made her swoon with my sartorial knowledge; I ID'd the threadcount in her shirt, the brand of her sweatpants. Then I shat a dog from my ass, I got it all twisted. I asked if her grandma knew "magic" and taught it to the kid; she immediately got shady, called for pops. Shit—17 year old Dagan tried to save it with the remnants of his childlike intuition, but it was all for naught. Back to the drawing board.
"The Man" met up with us, he left Rob in the midst of a "crack attack" on mainstreet, and suggested busting down the door. We heard doors slamming inside and "The Man" immediately suspected child abuse. He lost his cool; I'd never seen him do that before. I say you let others live as they will, but Bobby busted down the door and Dagan went in with him. Screaming issued from the house. Then I had a bright idea; I crept inside and found the daughter and her mother all crouched together and terrified. I told them I knew this would happen—I investigate the supernatural, and was sent to protect them from the "reverse cross", a group of Satanists that steal objects of power and pervert them to their use. They bought it, and I "rescued" Bobby, too. I sent them all to their friend's house and said I'd be on my way with dad and grams. I trusted "The Man" and Dagan to have gotten the goods.
I met the family at their friend's house. This one was all fucked up, covered in occultic tentacles and shit. I talked with the home owners; they were part of some cult, unrelated to the book we were looking for. They even had a trap door, but all it really led to was some goop. The occult in the west is usually like this, just a whole lot of nothing.
The lead was a failure, grandma had shit all save a magic scroll. But we learned that the Whythes—our main target—had been acting weird, and they lived right next door. Bingo, I thought then,—but I should've thought big no.
"The Man", Dagan, Rob, and I all conferred via radio. While Grandma did have a magic scroll up her bloomers, Rob's skill in Ancient Aramaic was of no help. Damn, I thought, we should've brought a Magic-user to investigate this magic book. No matter: "The Man" suggested the usual—break in to Whythes' place, bust 'em up, and see if they have the book. I wanted caution, but hey—it's a free world, fuck it. I took cover in a bush nearby and watched; I still wasn't in fighting shape after taking the Buddha's Palm.
Well weird stuff started happening right away. My "son" Dagan, the 17 year old, found a weird fuckin' guy wriggling in the dirt in the backyard. He killed him with a bear trap—SNAP!: just like that; then moved to the door and kicked it down. "The Man" checked the front, then wheeled around and joined Dagan. Rob and I covered them from the outside.
Silence. I opened a can of PBR and drank up. Dagan radio'd—he'd found a secret basement with a bowl of dog food. You'd expect bodies or some shit, not dog food. That was the first time I was scared that day. Then shotguns went off. I listened to the drum, drum of shells slugged at walls and waited. They radio'd for back up. Rob moved up and I took his position. About a minute later an explosion: half the damn house blew up, and my own best friend—at just 17 years old—was reduced to nothing but pink mist. Dagan, killed to death. I would not be able to kiss his forehead and usher him into the restless night. "The Man" was sauced, too—obliterated to the brain. I moved in; an admixture of fear, loathing, revenge urged me on toward something. Schemes whirled around but none seemed sufficient. Rob hit me up on the radio.
"I beat a woman to death; she had jello bones!" He was frantic, but alive. I got the feeling Rob could come through. He could get us out of this jam.
"Shh!" I responded. Then quiet, quietly I listened at the stairway. A window opened to the north. "A window opened to the north," I said, "can you cut him off?"
"On it, hehe, the bastard thinks he knows explosions, eh? I'll show him explosions." I listened briefly to Rob's mutterings then crept up the stairs. A closed door was at the top and I suspected a trap—the rest happened fast. An explosion rung from outside: I had hoped that was it, that whatever had killed Dagan, just 17 years old at the time of his death, had been revenged by Rob; a beat after I opened the door, crouching as far away as I could. Bang! I should've known—there were two Whythe sisters—but I didn't, I had forgotten: a lady stood poised with a shotgun, the pellets spread right over my head, knocked a hair out of place.
That was it for me, I didn't think I'd be able to fight against a jelly bones girl with a shotgun. I ran—I thought about running down into that basement my "son" had found, but changed my mind. Maybe Rob held off the monster, even for a minute, before he died.
Nah. I got hit by some sort of "transfixation" spell and could not move; my tendons tied themselves in knots, my tongue grew fat in my throat, my toes curled into the soles of my Crocket & Jones full grain leather commando Chelsea boots. I did not see what killed me, I'm just glad it didn't hurt.
Here I am. It pisses me off to remember it, and I guess other than turn this damn wheel there's gonna be a lot of remembering. If I had done things a little differently I at least could've escaped with my life. If you live you've got hope for a better tomorrow. Now it's all over, and I wonder if those days of adventure, love, pain, hope—even seething rage—I wonder if it was worth it at all, or if I should've never born in the first place.