Dandy Darkly

Tuxed and Taxed

I'm certain I broke my big toe. Ever since returning from the hallucinogenic haze of Little Beijing Market's sewers, it has ached terribly when walking. But my injury is a mere triviality to Kristakos and the sadistic shoe salesman trying in vain to wedge a narrow Oxford on to my swollen foot.

"Feet. So gross to look at. Like misshapen, stubby hands. Well it's your own fault. You knew how important this wedding is," the goat hoofed sissy snipped.

"I didn't do it on purpose. It happened. Ow!!"

The shoe was finally on. I gingerly stood and regarded myself in the store mirror. I pulled the cuffs down beneath the black tuxedo sleeve and adjusted my crooked bow tie. I must admit. I looked damn fine. With my abilities returned, the depressed funk I'd been in had moved on. Along with it went the daytime napping and Chubby Hubby night-capping. I haven't weighed myself, but I'd guess I've lost twenty pounds in the past three months. But beyond a little weight loss, there was something else there; a renewed confidence that only comes when you recognize something special in yourself that no one else can see.

"You look fat," remarked Kristakos. "Can you lose fifteen pounds by Friday's wedding?"

...

It was a downpour as I limped home with my boxes of formal wear, which Kris was kind enough to pay for, nonetheless! An email was waiting for me from a prospective client. She's apparently hearing chains in her attic. But any such diversions will have to wait in light of Sam Hain's quickly approaching, nightmare nuptials. There's still research to accomplish and a host of ritualized offering stances to memorize before Friday.

I'm also more than a little curious to see my old Brooklyn through the veil of this new, wicked world. I've yet to set across either bridge off of Manhattan island in the few months I've been here. How will this "New Norway" reflect my former home which I knew so well?

Big Tripping in Little China (part two)

Continued from Big Tripping in Little China (part one).

Mr. Hsu sat cross legged on an opulent pillow. His head was bald and covered with liver spots. He wore a shiny, silk robe. The owner of the Opal Trading House took a slow drag from an ivory pipe.

He narrowed his eyes in my direction and exhaled slowly, "Would you care for some tea?" 

The air in the small room was choked with heavy incense and tobacco smoke.

"No, thank you." I primarily wanted to find a suitable gift, whatever this shriveled man suggested, and get going.

"Please? I insist. It's very good tea," a claw-like hand, all dead skin and curled fingernails, passed me a teacup of bitter smelling, steaming liquid. The hand then darted back within the folds of his robe. I didn't want any tea, but if I've learned anything by Kristakos' example, it's that social graces can carry you far in this midnight version of Manhattan. 

I sipped the tea and we began to talk of gifts appropriate for Sam Hain, the master of Halloween. 

I stretched my jaw muscles and mouthed out each syllable, "Halloween. HAAAAlloween. HallOOOOween. HallowEEEEEEEEEn. I really like the sound of that one the best. Halloweeeeeeeeeen. So, anyways, what was I saying? Oh yeah. When Laurie decides to take on Michael Myers, she totally sets a major slasher film precedent about standing the fuck up to your Jasons and your Freddies and... wait..." 

Suddenly I was very confused. 

How long had I been sitting there? Had I really been talking to Mr. Hsu about Jamie Lee Curtis and how her portrayal of Laurie Strode paved the way for the modern, assertive scream-queen found in the contemporary horror genre?

Oh yeah. I certainly had been. It felt like I had been doing so for hours.

Mr. Hsu quietly regarded me and took another long drag from his pipe. I was sweating. I took another sip of tea. It blistered my tongue. He smiled at me. His teeth were jagged and sharp. The fucker had snake eyes! Keep it together. I was totally trying to tell myself, like... wow it was suddenly really hot in that little room. Or was it me? I drank more tea to cool down.

"So... your store is nice. What you got around in here. For weddings for... It's a nice store by the way. Much nicer than..." I was whispering.

Then I clumsily spilled my tea. And duh. The tea! Fucking tea. Fucking Chinese snake shaman dosed me with his magic mushroom tea. 

Mr. Hsu watched me from atop an emerald mushroom. His tiny head sat on the bloated body of a sapphire colored caterpillar. I stared upwards to his perch where he slowly smoked his pipe. I was knee deep in a field of daisies, and a lazy cloud of twirling, exhaled smoke took the form of a Chinese dragon. Above us twinkled a glistening diamond sky. And a manicured hand reached down and shook the serene scene.

The daisy field 
       flew with fury 
               far above before
                             fluttering back

                                                 as...

                dainty...

              deflowered...

flurries...

I returned the snow globe to the shelf with the others, each one a showcase of a joyous memory or a moment to forget. In one, a very young bride, swathed in burgundy and black, danced with her arranged groom on their Gothic wedding night. Her perfume smelled like lavender. In another, a father received a folded flag from two soldiers in dress uniform. Sparkling tears rolled down his cheeks. His sobbing now echoed from three rows behind me. It was a loathsome sound, emotion cut directly from the man's soul, forever destroyed. The wailing intensified as I crept closer.

There he stood in his own dress uniform. His son's flag was clinched beneath his arm, the barrel of a handgun in his mouth. His bloodshot eyes met mine. He pulled the trigger. The image vanished. Floating in its place remained a small crystal object, a perfume bottle. It shined like a diamond. 

I'd found my gift.

Then it fell to the concrete. I dove to catch it, but not fast enough. The splendid bottle broke. Lavender perfume stung my eyes and overwhelmed my sense of smell. I wiped away protective tears and examined where it had landed. There were easily a hundred exact replicas. I panicked. The perfume had shattered in to itself. I panicked. Which one was the original? I began examining each bottle. They were all the same! I continued digging through the pile of bottles.  

Suddenly my hands were covered with filth. Warm water flowed around me. My panic became terror as more liquid, stinking of raw sewage, flooded into the room. It covered my shoes,  then suddenly my thighs. I lost balance. I screamed like a little bitch! I was caught in a torrential flush of water. Off balance and completely submerged I tried swimming. Perfume bottles floated around me. I grabbed as many as possible, shoving them into my pockets and kicking against what felt like glass. Through the splotchy surface I saw stacks of jars with screaming human heads in them. I looked down for my body, but it was gone.

I was nothing more but a decapitated head in a pickle jar myself. I screamed even louder. 

The NYPD officers who found me said they were responding to reports of a crazy man in an alley way. And, yep, they were. When I came to my senses, I was soaked to the bone and rolling in trash hollering about my body. A few yards away, a sewer lid had been forced open. Considering everything I'd been through, I was surprisingly lucid. The officers threatened to issue a citation, but I played the gay mania card, sobbing that my boyfriend dumped me and that I was freaked out. They found that shit more distasteful than the actual shit on my trousers and opted to move along.

Mr. Hsu's home brew had left me in a bit of lurch. Following a hot shower and some nuzzling from Artemis Kitty, I began detailing the hallucinogenic imagery I experienced. It was then I remembered the perfume bottles. I ran to the trash bag where I stashed my stinking garments and began emptying my pockets. Wrapped in a bit of soggy newspaper, I found a delicate bottle of perfume. Upon the sparkling surface there was gilded lettering which read "Eau de Toilette."

The supernatural world is not without a sense of humor.

Big Tripping in Little China (part one)

It'd been six days with no word from Kristakos. He'd set out to find me a way into the wedding of Sam Hain, but having witnessed firsthand the results of his social bridge burning, I assumed the surly satyr had given up. Then yesterday Kris called with great news. He'd been able to secure an invite for myself alone to the Halloween's Eve wedding, one week from tomorrow in Bergen.

I'm excited, to say the least, but also understand how much work lay ahead of me the next few days to procure a properly supernatural gift for the Halloween master and his bride. My wedding shopping started with a call to the special orders department at a store known for having "everything the shopper needs, guaranteed." 

Wednesday, close to dusk, I pushed my way through the buyers and tourists standing shoulder to shoulder in Little Beijing Market's most popular destination, the famous Opal Trading House. Chinese clerks bustled among towering shelves carrying bolts of embroidered silk and intricately carved, jade statues. Row after row of porcelain rice bowls sat for sale alongside crystal glassware and polished silver cutlery. And most spectacular, from the ceiling hung the twisting skeleton of (supposedly) an actual Chinese dragon. The ancient serpent's embossed bones glimmered like gold in the ruddy glow of the setting sun. And past a wall of three-pronged daggers and curved swords, I found a nondescript staircase with a simple hand written sign. It read "Special Order by Reservation Only." 

Making my way to what felt like a basement, I met a woman in her fifties standing behind a cluttered desk. The piles of Chinese invoices were dwarfed by a gigantic, ancient cash register, like one you'd see in a wild west movie. The woman seemed ageless, beautiful even beneath the buzzing florescent lights of the cramped storage room. She quietly regarded me. 

Finally I spoke, "I'm here for special orders?"

She replied in English but with a very thick Cantonese twang, "Speciar oldel foul hundled dorrar."

I was dumbfounded, "I'm sorry. But no one mentioned it would cost four hundred dollars to--"

She interrupted, suddenly shouting and pointing, "Speciar oldel FRIVE hundled dorrar!"

"But you just said four--"

"Speciar oldel SIX HUNDLED DORRAR!", the woman screamed.

"OK. OK! Stop raising the price! Here! Here's the money."

I pushed a wad of twenty dollar bills into her greedy hands. The behemoth cash register mockingly ka-chinged. And without a hint of the former accent, the woman replied, "Thank you kindly. Please follow me this way. Mr. Hsu will see you now."

The lying, hateful woman disappeared into a small side door. I had to hunch to fit through it. I was ready to Yelp some nasty shit about Opal Trading House's crooked business practices, but any notions of internet revenge quickly turned to those of wonderment as we walked past the truly bizarre merchandise hidden beneath what must have been the main selling floor.

Here, the rows upon rows of lovely (but mundane by comparison) Asian wares were replaced by jars of monkey heads pickled in brine, some smiled serenely, others wore a death mask of sheer terror. We walked past an assortment of small, potted trees. Some sported small flowers, others thorns. One even held a small flame, like an oil lamp. Beyond another shelf I caught a glimpse of beautiful, pale faced dolls that seemed to giggle as a cloud of tiny, clockwork butterflies contently floated in place with no breeze needed. Further back, near some yellowed maps, there stood a statue of an ancient Imperial soldier, it's weapons stained with what resembled fresh blood. I looked into the statue's eyes. From deep within it, something violent glared back...

"Mr. Hsu will see you now." I jumped as though the sculpture had gutted me with it's spear. The attendant finally cracked a smile and motioned me to yet another even smaller door, the frame of which was warded with elaborate carvings. I crouched and entered. There inside sat Mr. Hsu.

Continue to "Big Tripping in Little China (part two)"

The Halloween Bride

Prepackaged hamburgers, vacuum sealed and ready for the radiated waves of a beeping glass carousel, and sugar sweetened water, carbonized and bottled in the plastic cancer that grows deep within Mother Earth's metastatic land fills. And to the dark sorcerer who conjured Man's first Funyun, my pointed hat s'off to you. For better or for worst. In sickness and in health (mostly sickness), these are the delicacies which sustain the masses in this modern world. Our first farms and fields, so lovingly and carefully maintained by early man, have been replaced by automated harvesters and growth hormones and genetically mutated grains. And almost gone are the ancient rituals associated with the end of the harvest and the blessing of the fields in preparation for next spring's planting.

Except for one such ritual -- the Halloween bride.

In the Night's Time, when the country sides and meadows were rife with creatures of The Void, the crones taught protective blessings to the farmers who tended Man's flocks and fields. They risked their safety living outside the growing cities, a risk casually dismissed by those walled away from the hidden things lurking between the rows of corn. 

One such blessing (the greatest such charm given) was the invocation of the straw man or the scarecrow, a delightful sort of golem who hung in the fields to shoo away unwanted gremlins and ensure a bountiful harvest throughout the planting season. Few ever saw this folksy effigy take from his pumpkin patch post to battle trespassers into his territory, but all written accounts agree in the deadliness of his dispatch, followed by a most charming display of local dance before settling himself back on his wooden stand.  

As it was in Night's Time, and still is today, nothing came without a price. The scarecrow, henceforth known as Sam Hain in honor of the harvest season's ancient name, required gifts to guarantee his protection for the next planting season. Once the fields were reaped and the livestock slaughtered, the rural townsfolk gathered in colorful costumes to celebrate the harvest and tempt that ragged scarecrow, Sam Hain, down from his peg to dance a jig.

And what a fabulous party! The spirits (evoked) of family passed mingled with the spirits (distilled) of fermented grain. Emboldened by their disguises (and the alcohol), the hardworking men and women of these rural areas threw caution to the wind, taking up chanting and dancing in circles with the cursed crones who were typically shunned, the wyld women who lived even outside of country society. There they celebrated another passing of the year, and paid tribute to the master who kept their plates filled, and families safe.

And once the festive frenzy hit a crescendo, that stitched sack of hay and twigs would suddenly jump down to the delight of the assembled guests. Kicking, shimmying, swaying and grooving, there Sam Hain danced while villagers and farmers laid at his prancing feet offerings both beautiful and profane, both a trick and a treat. 

You see, Sam Hain, like all conjured entities, exists in the world between Man and The Void. And the gifts for his services had to be equally exquisite yet grotesque. A lovely carved knife stained with demon's blood, for example; or a detailed painting of a crying child, one enchanted to actually sob out loud; or thirteen white doves, all skewered on a silver arrow; are all documented examples of a few gifts offered in harvest rites gone by.

And as the years passed, old Sam Hain had time to think about his situation hanging up on that stick, roasting in the summer sun or swaying in an autumn breeze. The scarecrow realized how lonely his life had become. He came to anticipate his tribute with increased emotion. And he found himself envious of Mankind for their loving relationships. The crooked crones relayed Sam Hain's wishes. He now wanted a bride, one every year to continue his blessings on the harvest, or else he'd let the monsters of The Void ransack their farms.

The farmers had no choice in the matter. And now a young, virgin bride (or groom -- being a scarecrow, Sam Hain naturally swung both ways) was selected from their midst to keep him company for the long, cold winter. She'd travel with him into The Void and bid goodbye to Man for eternity.  

There are rumors that in some of Man's cities (those with a strong connection still to nature such as Atlanta, Bergen and Portland) elaborate, costumed weddings to Sam Hain still exist. Halloween brides are said to be chosen at birth, and raised with the knowledge their destiny lay within The Void, and at the side of the Master of Halloween. And the lucky guests who give gifts to that dancing scarecrow are entitled to all manner of blessings for the year that follows. But only if your gift exceeds old Sam Hain's expectations.

And only if you're on the wedding guest list...

Enter Sam Hain

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. Click. Clack.

The sound of silver satyrshoes striking cobblestone kept a fast pace as I set out to explore the elite side of Manhattan nightlife.

"HURRY UP!!! We must be at Alexio's before 11, or we can fucking forget about getting into Club Wyld. It'll be fast. Kiss, kiss, a little drinky and on our way."

"To Club Wyld?"

Kristakos the social satyr scoffed, "Noooo! Oh my goodness! Do you even go out at all? Wow! Club Wyld is an after hours club. And we must visit Charles' gallery after Alexio's. Do you know Charles? About this high. A bit of a party boy, but sooooo talented - if you consider photography art."

I briefly wondered if "after hours" meant an experience outside of regular time. Perhaps a chance to exist as past, present, future all in the same moment. There'd be the early twenties version of myself, all Italian disco wear and gypsy curses. Maybe I'd have a chance to chat with the ghastly doppelganger who lured me to this world? I asked Kris if "after hours" meant between normal time or simply meant--

But I was interrupted... again...

"Are you CRAZY!? Have you ever been out to a club?! It just means the place stays open late. Wow. Where are you from again? Wow! Do they have bars in your dismal world? Wait til Alexio hears this one. Wizards and their crazy notions. How much of that shit did you smoke anyways?"

"Not much," I lied.

We finally ended our brisk, Green Witch Village walk at a pair of towering red doors, framed in gold. An equally tall, dark skinned doorman in a black suit intercepted Kristakos as he headed for Alexio's bar.

"I'm sorry Mr. Kristakos. But you're not on the V.I.P.--"

"What!? What the FUCK are you talking about? I'm on the V.I.P. list. I'm a VERY V.I.P.! Get the FUCK out of my way or I will FUCKING have your job! DO YOU HEAR ME YOU LOW PIECE OF SHIT. Wait until Alexio hears this! This is OUTRAGEOUS!!! Where is Alexio?"

"I'm sorry Mr. Kristakos. But this comes down from Mr. Alexio himself. You are not allowed on these premises." The giant of a man maintained a calm demeanor as the satyr raged at his kneecaps.

"FUCK YOU, ALEXIO!" Kristakos shrieked into the night. A trio of young men whispered and giggled as they easily passed the doorman, "And fuck you too, stupid Jersey tunnel-trash!"

Kristakos spun on his hoof and grabbed my arm, "Let's get the fuck out of here. This place is nothing but low rent hookers and shitty music!"

CLICK! CLACK! CLICK! CLACK! CLICK! CLACK!

It was a similar scene everywhere else we went. Security refused to let Kristakos inside their property. We ended up at a decidedly 'before hours' diner, where between furious bites of souvlaki, I heard of the bitter demise of Manhattan's party scene, how Kristakos was (by his accounts) the number one party promoter in Manhattan, how everyone unfairly turned their backs on him and how no one knows how to throw a good party these days.

The satyr stole a curly fry from my plate, "Well except one person. That person being Sam Hain, of course... Yep. I'm certain I'm tight in Sam Hain's book. So long as those bitches haven't filled his ear with their lies. Yeah... Sam Hain..."

He chewed and waited. Of course he wanted me to ask who Sam Hain was. I didn't want to...

But I dully acquiesced, "Who is Sam Hain..."

Kristakos' eyes rolled, "You don't know who Sam Hain is? He's the number one dude around these parts. He's the guy who can get you anything you want! Wow. Just WOW. You are so like... Wow. Doesn't know Sam Haim? Wow. Sam Hain is the Master of Halloween!"

I was beginning to understand how this belligerent half man, half goat had become a blight on Manhattan nightlife. But with the mention of Sam Hain, his mood had certainly brightened.

"That's it, man! That's it. Why didn't I think of it sooner! You gotta meet Sam Hain. I probably can't get to him, but you can. You totally can," Kristakos was absolutely beaming now.

"OK. What bar is he at? Are we going tonight?"

"Oh wow! He's not at a bar! Sam Hain doesn't go to bars. He's waaaay above bars," the satyr chuckled to himself while he sucked strawberry milkshake through a straw.

This was getting exhausting. But maybe someone as connected as this Sam Hain guy could answer my questions about how I ended up here. I took a deep breath, "Soooo... where can I find him then? How do I get to meet him?"

Kristakos said plainly without a hint of jest, "Easy. You need to crash Sam Hain's wedding on Halloween's Eve."

Home Hung Overhead

My head hurts.  

But worry not intrepid purveyors of blog mine. Unlike my previous bouts of painful brain syndrome, this is not some maleficent side effect of miscast magic but rather the ill effects of drinking an infamous elixir called the 'Dok Suni Saketini', four to be exact, at a popular Korean restaurant. It was all in celebration of a new friend's birthday, followed by two vodka sodas and several beers at a local bar. Happily, the ancient potion called coffee is helping to ease my brain's burden this blustery, New York morning... And 3 pm is still morning when you've just woken up. OK?

Ah, the wonderful life of a gay bachelor: social networking, binge drinking, making a home in the filthy remains of a coffee shop adjacent to Tompkins Square Park. The elderly Irish woman on the third floor, apparently her son is the slum lord, wrote me out a lease the day I said, "Sure. I guess."

I'm not convinced I'm not illegally squatting.

I'm also realizing more and more that I didn't map out this journey to (new) New York as well as I could have. There's a space heater in the storeroom where I sleep on a cot. I brought no winter clothes with me, and already the front area gets cold in the evenings. I packed more dried up specimens in jars than I did underwear. Good news is I did bring most of my books, but daily I'm reminded of something forgotten when I go rummaging in my suitcase. I've helped myself to anything in the store's boxes, mainly broken junk and paperwork. I found a small frame with a dollar in it. I pocketed the dollar and replaced it with the Metrocard that brought me here. It now hangs above where I sleep.

The storefront window is obscured with graffiti, so I painted over the interior of the glass in black. Over that I've taped charts, maps of Manhattan, a particularly weird Cathy comic I found in the trash. The front doors are permanently chained shut. I come and go via a small back door near the washroom. There's usually a junkie passed out, tripping the pavement fantastic, in what (according to my lease at least) should be my own private alley way. I've stacked most the dusty chairs and tables against the far wall. On the floor I've begun a rudimentary circle for casting and scrying. I'm detailing it's perimeter as my journey here unfolds: trinkets, candles, etchings. I find in the long run this process creates a richer tableau for the spells worked within. 

And I have a roommate, too. A week after I moved in, dead mice began appearing on my door step. Soon after, the huntress introduced herself to me. She was a black and white tabby who readily took to an offering of tuna. I named her Artemis because the patterns of her coat shift based on the phases of the moon. Today while she makes kitten biscuits on a pile of parchment, her coat is primarily white. On Sunday (my birthday by the way), she'll be an even black and white. And on the 18th she'll be jet black like the moonless sky. The details of this magic kissed New York are making themselves more apparent as I look for them. But only if you want to see them.

My friend from last night's drunken soiree, for example, is a darling, 29 year old, slutty satyr named Kristakos. The average person on the street doesn't want to know he has goat's feet and little horns, so they don't see such. Unlike the contemporary mutants who demanded recognition, the mythological folk who've been here forever are quite content to glide under society's radar.

My coffee is cold now. I'm gradually getting back into the exorcism business. It's a tricky game, as the haunted sometimes hold less sway than the ones doing the haunting. So far I've met a few promising (paying) clients through Craigslist. Kris (Kristakos) says he knows the best connected individuals who can help me answer some questions. We're hitting the town this weekend to meet who he calls the real movers and shakers of New York nightlife. Yay... Until then, going to climb back into bed. 

Head. Hurts.

Wicked Little Town (part four)

Peer into the astral plane, and still today you'll see two teetering infernos of spinning fire. The columns stretch from the blistered pavement up to the mocking cosmos. Shrieking harpies with bat wings and barbed whips ride the updrafts of scorching air, seeking helpless souls to pluck from the chaos and drop to the ground below. From beneath the fallen beams crawl demons the color of carnage, and a gentle, southwestern breeze supports a rotten-candy cloud of ash, burning jet fuel, and soot covered, contorted faces lost in the dark and gasping for air.

No trip to New York is complete without an obligatory visit. There's the construction pit, offerings of flowers and cards. Annual ceremonies remembering those we lost. Elaborate murals illustrating what's to be. Though it never shall be. The site is cursed. We all know it, but can't accept it.

Look into the past and remember that day. The bravest among us, fire fighters, police, ordinary men and women who dropped everything to help the injured or the fleeing. The wall of dust held razor sharp teeth and goring horns. They found monsters in the narrow canyons of Wall Street. That morning the Veil between worlds fell with the towers. Cowering behind that car. Clutching his briefcase. Everything covered in ash. Alarms and police sirens and explosions, but all he heard was the breathing. And the growling.

Reading a comic book under the covers. Mom and dad are arguing again, but just keep reading. The flashlight's translucent glow pours through the thin paper page and casts a prismatic spray of distorted images on to the insides of the blanket. The safe blanket. Rotate the flashlight, the image shifts. The monsters and heroes melt together beneath the blanket. Count backwards and study the image. 3. Mom screams. 2. Dad screams. 1. Pull back the blanket. There's a monster in the room. Scream.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! DIE MOTHER FUCKER!" - "The fucking thing had two legs and four fucking arms and a fucking spikes here and and and a fucking mouth of giant fucking teeth!" - "fuck where did it fucking come from man!?!?!!?" - "FUCK ANOTHER ONE! THERE!" - "Keep smashing it with rock! SMASH IT'S FUCKING FACE IN!!!" - "FUCK WHAT IS GOING ON?!" - IT'S THE END OF THE FUCKING WORLD!!!!"

The matron has arrived, and she has the artifact. The older witches are exhausted. Many of the younger are dead or flying wounded out of the blast zone. The matron steps quickly, her focus absolute. Demons three times her size roar and sprint in her direction. They leap and instantly vaporize into sand. Her thin lips move silently. She manipulates something small swiftly and delicately within her withered, ancient hands. The women rise as she glides past. They follow in her wake. They know her sacrifice is imminent. Their most loved; their eldest. The Green Witches' tears hit the charred cement near where the drops of the matron's blood has fallen. She who was here when Manhattan was born. The matron bids them stop. There's so much more they must accomplish this dreadful day. She opens her tiny palm. To her hand she's painstakingly sewn a wooden button. The witches turn and flee from their loving mother, sister and friend. 

The conspiracy theorists say it's a government cover up for a secret radiation or nuclear testing facility beneath the World Trade Center Site. Think about it, the infected mutants in the Chelsea biohazard zone got loose and somehow busted a reactor core or something. Whatever. If you study the tapes you'll clearly see a green explosion happen at the base of the second tower a full hour and twenty minutes after the collapse. Pause it. Right there. See it? What is that green light? 

It's a sunny morning in the month of September before the September we know was. A gentle breeze blows to the southwest. Three regal women stand on the banks of a wild, untamed island. The natives claim the forests are cursed and want no ownership of it, but are willing to sell it in exchange for a few mystical trinkets. The witches confer and return with a handful of thirteen buttons. Supposedly these buttons have the power to close any door, seal any break and mend any tear. The natives refuse the thirteenth, as their shaman is highly suspicious of the number, and instead accept twelve of the magical fasteners as payment for the blighted land they call Manhattan. The matron puts the lucky thirteenth button in her pocket for safe keeping, and begins helping the sisters of the Green Witch Coven unload their tiny boat.

Wicked Little Town (part three)

From Wiccapedia:

The Stonewall riots were a series of spontaneous, violent demonstrations against a police raid that took place in the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, at the Stonewall Inn in the Green Witch Village neighborhood of New York City. They are frequently cited as the first instance in American history when people in the mutant community fought back against a government-sponsored system that persecuted genetic minorities, and they have become the defining event that marked the start of the mutant civil right's movement the United States and around the world.

When the spinning beer bottle of Miss Calamari Antoinette (a tentacled, drag queen) made solid contact with the head of Vinny Laurenzo (a mustached, beat cop) could anyone have predicted what the next 30 years had in store for mutants?

After Stonewall, mutant activists rallied by Civil Right's leader Harvey Milk made bold strides in gaining acceptance from a middle America who, by instinct, had learned to fear anyone different than themselves. Hollywood also took charge in changing popular perceptions. From Wart and Burnie on Sesame Street to a fish faced Carol Brady, folks couldn't get enough of mutants. Bird beaked models graced the catwalks of Paris, and revelers glued fake fingers to their hands to trick the doormen at Studio 54. In 1979 there was even rumor of a Federal Constitutional amendment granting citizenship status to any Americans born of dissimilar Darwinian descent. Then, in 1981, the BURP plague appeared in primarily mutant neighborhoods, like the Castro in San Francisco and New York's Green Witch Village. 

Everything went to shit from there.

The Blatta Upper Respiratory Parasite, aka the BURP, prematurely labeled MRRI (Mutant Related Respiratory Illness) and jokingly called "the Coughroach" is best known as the Bug. It's a bug. To be precise a mutated species of cockroach that infests the patient's chest cavity. Feels like asthma at first, but if ignored turns into coughing blood and roaches peeking out from one's nose. Eventually they eat through the lungs. It's a slow and wheezy death. Then a thousand flying maggots burst through the skin, and a pandemic is born. 

At first, America was fairly nonchalant to the potential health risk. The infestation was contained to mutant ghettos. But in 1983, teenager Bryan White lost consciousness in a public pool and received mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from a mutant who was BURP positive. Bryan's subsequent infected status became a rallying point for the Clean-Gene movement and the forced relocation of ALL mutants -- regardless of BURP status. Infected humans, including Bryan White, were also quarantined. Entire neighborhoods were simply walled up and left to their own management. Monthly deliveries of food, supplies and medicine have continued for the past twenty years, and to date no government official has confirmed hearing any communication from the ostracized mutants.

Urban legends do persist of bug covered mad men banging on subway car windows, but there's far spookier things in underground New York than a few short of breath mutants.

Pat yourself on the back, America. The relocation seems to have stopped the Bug. With that notion public perception has slowly began to shift. Fifteen years ago, a baby born with a pig's snout would have been shipped off to the nearest bio-hazard zone. But today's mutant kids are welcomed, for the most part, at some public schools. There was even a mutant winner of American Idol. Viewers had their suspicions confirmed when the rocker parted his gelled hair and winked at the paparazzi with a guy-lined, third eye. And as part of his Promise to America, President Barney Frank has vowed to open the mutant slums by 2012. 

It's hard to be skeptical of anything in this world, but just dropping in for a friendly hello after two decades of incarceration is something I'll believe when I see it. If the mutants come out wanting revenge (I would), can we handle two wars in this city?

Next, I'll conclude my profile of nightmare Manhattan with a focus on the wyld womyn of the Green Witch coven. And 9/11: When the veil between worlds ripped apart, and New Yorkers came together to push the infernal hordes back to their pits of Hell. And we're still fighting...

Wicked Little Town (part two)

Welcome back!

It's cold for early October. I'm shivering 86 floors above Manhattan on the Empire observatory deck wearing only a sweater and slacks. Suffering so I may highlight some of this super(natural) city's most infamous neighborhoods. I hope you recognize my sacrifice as you sip hot cocoa, draped in your Snuggie, an unseen presence reading over your shoulder. "Unseen presence?", you scoff.

Trust me. It's there.

Did you also know the best neighborhood in which to raise a family is the beautiful Upper West Side. There's a minority owned, organic grocery on every corner and an abundance of pet boutiques. Young mothers (on maternity leave from their fulfilling, high powered jobs) attend infant and mommy yoga classes, while making time for shopping, laundry and being their daughter's bestest friend ever! The brightest kids in America benefit from the bilingual preparatory academies and a vast selection of wholesome after school activities. And all the children are gifted! The fathers are creatures of a new era, men able to succeed in the kitchen, boardroom and especially the bedroom. And every very happy family owns a spacious brownstone with original interior accents, hard wood floors and some form of a delicious, nasty secret hidden away in the attic, screaming to be released for all the subtle amusements of their very happy and very competitive neighbors. And once such a family shame is let loose, the nightmare in plain sight of the Upper West Side is revealed. Paranoia, gossip, knowing smiles at the organic market, picking through one's trash for more tidbits of salacious information, all forms of social cannibalization followed by subtle (yet totally obvious) group shunning.

"Why didn't the Michaelsons invite US over for Trivial Pursuit night?"

"You HAD to have one more glass of wine and talk about little Timmy's condition!" 

And once the ostracized family has no more anguish, no more shame, nothing else for the "alphas" to savor... they somehow disappear. The herd has been culled. Perhaps jackals took them away in the middle of the night? Instantly a social void is formed that must be filled. Perky real estate agents with fresh baked cookie scent appear on the scene. "Available: 5BR/2.5BA UWS Townhouse. GREAT Find! Original Details! Amazing View! Great Schools! NO FEE!!!!" A drop of blood on the floor or a small crack in a window is easily overlooked when the promise of the American Dream is so very close. Another career mom, another sensitive dad, another pair of gifted children and a puppy named Rex or Poncho move in right away. And the process starts all over again. 

Some folks say the Upper West Side elite are psychic vampires. Others swear they're praying mantis people. Only the foolish know them as their neighbors. 

Further down the West Side of Manhattan, the sterling white teeth of the Upper West Side are out shined by the luminescence of New York's famed Broadway theater district. Dreams can come true on Broadway, nightmares too. Every night cabaret acts can be found where any audience's fancy will be staged for the right price. There's a never ending supply of chorus boys and starlets eager for their big break - broken bones included.

And when the dazzle of Broadway's shine leaves you thirsty for something less family friendly, look no further than Times Square. This is where those previously mentioned, bruised starlets go when the more reputable venues will no longer showcase their classical talents. There they stand, on every street corner, eager for another audition - another chance to impress a daddy figure, to be told they're good enough. The Void is their pimp now, and it's a mean sonofabitch when the girls come up short. Fans of games of luck can also find ample opportunity to part with their cash in Times Square. Sports betting, card games, illegal gambling and pit fights (man versus man, animal, monster and anything in between) exist in every bar backroom.

Times Square is the cancerous heart of the city. It beats irregularly as a nonstop flow of taxis, buses and pedestrians choke it's filthy, crowded corridors. And high above the litter and human trash of Times Square, in a world of steel and glass, a powerful cabal of suit wearing wizards view the chaos beneath them and manipulate all assortment of details to their direct advantage. From the worth of foreign currency to next Fall's television line up, nothing that has a discernible value is left to chance. The CEOs and Presidents of these multi national conglomerations consider themselves modern era gods and goddesses. But even deities face termination when a potential trend is not noticed or an opportunity for expansion not seized upon. Everyone in Manhattan has a higher power to pay tribute to.

Monday I'll continue my third segment of mystic Manhattan with a gay jaunt to the Chelsea bio-hazard zone. Mutant plague sucks, ya'll! And we'll meet the descendants of the original founders of Manhattan, the Green Witch Coven.

Legend has it they bought the whole island for a few magical buttons. It's true!

Wicked Little Town (part one)

On a clear evening, from the rooftop observatory of the Empire Tower for Astrological Sciences, one is afforded an unobstructed, three hundred and sixty degree view of my new home, the lovely necropolis called Manhattan. 

Down Fifth Avenue, past the Flat Iron Building, the crowded shops of SoHo and the ornate golden rooftops and winding alleyways of Little Beijing Market, you can see the razor sharp spires of the Bergen Bridge. Their elegance sits in stark contrast to the dull, squat masonry of the massive toll bridge, Goblin's Crossing. 

Both bridges deposit the traveler in the state of New Norway, the eleventh state of our great nation which geographically encompasses the entirety of Long Island. One of the oldest settlements on North America, New Norway was discovered circa 1100 AD when the viking explorer Thorkell Leifson (son of famed adventurer Leif Ericson) made contact with America's indigenous people there. The civilized Norsemen admired the Lenape tribe's deep sense of honor and rich pantheon of powerful deities. They were equally impressed by the natives' giving nature and capacity for deadly retribution if threatened. The two groups were fast allies long before the Spanish sorcerer Giovanni da Verrazzano's ships sailed past the Narrows in 1524. And almost a century later, when Henry Hudson's expedition glided up the river that would later bear his name, the two races were indistinguishable as one.

Much of New Norway's capital city, Bergen, is visible tonight. The towering totem poles, carved with likenesses of Odin and Freya, are as impressive as their unique homes and buildings, ecological and architectural masterworks cradled within the limbs of hulking, living trees. And sure, occasionally a sacrificial scream or two echoes across the Hudson, way more during their hedonistic full moon rituals. But for the most part, the tribes of New Norway are good people and amicable neighbors. 

(If only the same could be said for our Eastern state, the toxic swamp people of New Jersey. Seriously.)

Back in Manhattan, further north from Little Beijing Market, the colorful murals featuring laughing, round faced children riding whiskered dragons abruptly disappear. In their place are filthy, graffiti covered brick walls with broken windows. Buzzing neon signs point out tattoo parlors and absinthe lounges. In the East Village, pierced young people grind away a life of self-destructive bliss. And the old ones, the ones who somehow managed to survive it all, they roam the shadows, hungry for any scrap narcotic The Void tosses their way.

Midtown... bleh. Busy little gnomes busy making piles and piles of cash. Next!

Moving around the observatory walk... gross. There's a winged rat sitting perched facing the Upper East Side. No, it's not a pigeon. In my Manhattan the rats actually have wings -- black raven's wings to be exact. They're gross. Shoo, rat.

A perpetual fog hangs over the Upper East Side. New York's most influential, original families still own sprawling residences among the grim granite buildings and stuffy English pubs here. It's in this dreary neighborhood that you'll find the Mayor's mansion. Mayor Gloomberg, laughably running yet again for re-election, holds the post in perpetuity. And, yes. He's a ghost. A very, very old ghost to be certain.

I sincerely hope you, delicate reader, don't find these dreadful admissions to be too shocking. Tis simply the world I've come to inhabit. I consider it my honor and duty to share it's secrets with you. Moving on --

New York's enormous, fifth avenue museums form the backbone of the fence separating Central Park East from the rest of the city. The spiked barricade runs the entire perimeter of the 800 acre park. Most New Yorkers think the barbed wire and razor sharp spikes are in place to limit the access of the gardens and lawns to those who reside in Manhattan's wealthier neighborhoods. In honesty, it was erected to keep Central Park's myriad nasties from interrupting the rich folk's genteel croquet matches and well earned steak dinners. But occasionally something truly twisted does get loose. 

And it runs its ten legged, twelve eyed self straight to Harlem!

Wouldn't you know the black folk just happen to got stuck with the side of the fence that no one can seem to keep repaired? And that's precisely why Councilwoman LaShawndra LeFay went into politics. Fed up with how the city was dumping all their shit on her Harlem, she's now become one of the most influential politicians in the entire state.

There's also a persistent rumor that Ms. LeFay is the infamous Voodoo Queen of Harlem with hexes on Manhattan's most powerful movers and shakers and a horde of blood thirsty zombies at her disposal. But you can't believe every rumor you read on Page Six. Can you?

OK. That's enough for now. I'm not convinced your suspicious natures can accept the fantastical things you've read on this interdimensional diary of darkness.

In the cards for tomorrow:

The bohemian west side of our horrific hamlet: Are the jovial families of the posh Upper West Side any happier than the smiling troubadours gracing the prosceniums of Manhattan's famed Broadway? Not really. Both groups are paid to look happy.

And once again Times Square is a cesspool of low morals and filthy pleasures!