Dandy Darkly

An Offer of Optimism

I don't like to think I'm naive. I prefer to consider myself, instead, an optimist. I like to believe my eagerness to find the hidden answer is what sometimes (lately more often) results in my less than favorable situational hardships. Take my shitty apartment for example. There's barely any plumbing. It's beginning to freeze at night. And a week ago, I found a winged rat had chewed through my loaf of bread.

But my particular pseudoscience is a reactionary one. The ghost haunts a house, so I take steps to shoo it away. And I do so happily. The same strategy applies with my apartment. I bought a gym membership (on credit) to shower, heavier blankets to stay warm while I sleep, and a cat to slay the rat. For the record Artemis Kitty hasn't killed it yet, but I'm optimistic.

This said, I attended the wedding of Sam Hain over the weekend. Sam Hain the Scarecrow King, the Master of Halloween, the Exalted Patriarch of Pumpkins, His Haunted Holiness... 

I arrived as planned to the wedding. The annual event was held in Prospect Park at a gothic pavilion called the Picnic House. Grinning pumpkins lined the twisting path through the ancient trees to the ceremony. Merely approaching the shrine, I was made giddy by the spiritual aura emanating from the location. All this before I even saw the paparazzi. 

Mayor Gloomberg was there, calling in some favors for his struggling re-election bid no doubt. Lady Gaga, too. A variety of Manhattan and Bergen's social elite, all seeking a favor from the only groom capable of shaping destiny with a nod of his head. And me. There I was in a tuxedo bought for me, with perfume obtained from rooting in garbage high on psychedelic tea, expecting to waltz right up to Sam Hain on his wedding day and then what?

Such blinding optimism.

While credentials were checked at the door, I caught a glimpse of chandeliers made from lush ivy wound around hanging elk skulls and lit by circling fireflies. Waiters in long nosed, Italian masks served guests dainty finger foods and frosted cocktails. A brutish ogre in an elegant, white suit examined my invitation, looked me up and down and motioned to an attendant who took me through the door, but not towards the festivities.

I was ferried to a side room where stacks of presents awaited the soon to be groom and his bride. Some were lavishly wrapped with towering bows while others simply sat on the table with little fanfare. Still my optimism refused to be broken. I thought certainly I'd been shown here to place my ridiculous sewer perfume before rejoining the costumed revelers. So stupid. I wasn't allowed to leave the room. I began to panic. My temper flared. I demanded an answer as to why I was being kept separate from the other guests. Eventually the doorman who had examined my invitation came to the room. My optimism was shaken, but still held firm, certainly this mix up would be resolved. No such luck. The doorman was resolute. He did indeed let me through the door, but I was not a guest at the wedding. I never had been. I was in attendance as a wedding gift to Sam Hain.  

I was dumfounded. I began to raise my voice. What was this idiot talking about? I was there as an offering? Was that even possible? I debated the ridiculousness of the entire situation. If I were a gift, as this dullard continued to insist, then who was I a gift from? He flipped through his notes, seemingly unable to find the answer to my easy question. Then he said the name.

"Kristakos. You are a wedding offering from a Mr. Kristakos."

And my optimism crumpled.

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.

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."

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!

Half Empty

Humanity craves the Extreme sandwich.

They put french fries on a sandwich, along with mozzarella sticks and chicken fingers. A swaggering jock-bro named Tommy seeks immortality with the invention of his very own Extreme sandwich. But Tommy will only get his name on the menu if our over-achiever-over-eater consumes five Extreme sandwiches in under forty five minutes. Tommy fails and vomits in a trash can. Folk legends aren't what used to be.

And up next on "Extreme Pig Outs" is the Heart Attack Cafe where waitresses (too-dog-faced-to-strip) wear nurse's uniforms and serve calorie soaked lunches to grossly obese, chauvinist pigs. A sweaty, chinned beast that resembles Tommy-at-fifty propositions a nurse-waitress for "mouth-to-mouth" after sucking on a lard slathered "quadruple by-pass" burger. The burgers are named after cardiac procedures and the establishment's owner is named, simply, Dr. Jon. 

Dr. Jon is not a doctor, by the way. Yeah, your world is rocked. Mine was too.

"Dr. Jon" informs the viewer that there's a grand reward for the littlest of sins: gluttony. Eat the whole thing and your choice of nurse will roll you out to your car in a wheelchair, and if you weigh over 350 pounds then you eat FREE, for LIFE! 

FUCK YOU HUMANITY! 

Fuck you. I'm HAPPY I'm powerless to save you. I've spent months freezing and starving in third world ghettos pursued by the nastiest creatures unimaginable, all for this? So fat Tommy can eat for life at the Heart Attack Cafe? Yep, I'm feeling bitter. Yep, I'm feeling useless. And for the first time in my life, I'm watching daytime television. And it's not a good thing! 

My new nighttime occupation serving less-than-Extreme sandwiches continues this miserable eve. Where once I vanquished nightmares and creatures of darkness, now I'm the vanquisher of midnight munchies at a Williamsburg greasy spoon. Once in Hungary a ghoulish horde cried for my brains. Now a hungry horde of guylined hipsters cry for organic, "violence free" fare. My secret words of power, once so familiar and now powerless, have been replaced with "do you want fries with that... sir?". 

And every single night, a shadow sits in booth twelve. 

And it recognizes me for what I once was, and what I am now: a failure. It pours sugar into a phantom cup of jet black coffee. And Patrick, my persistent manager, constantly reprimands me because booth twelve's sugar is half empty, but he doesn't understand what is sitting there! HE DOESN'T SEE IT! NONE of the sickening cattle who squat in those filthy booths and stuff their smacking mouths SEE it. You're all meat and bone and chicken fingers and nacho cheese ... and there was SO MUCH MORE to my life before all the death was taken away from me, and by the very fuckers who claim to protect you, the Church! That's the hilarity of all this. 

Maybe it's Death himself sitting in booth twelve? Is the master of The Void stirring his black coffee with a crooked, boney finger; his eyeless sockets fixated on my repetitive actions. 

Fill the sugar... 

Place the sugar... 

Fill the sugar... 

Place the sugar... 

Fill the sugar... 

Suddenly I'm one of the trapped repetitive specters I so pity. No...

I think I'm more like fat Tommy (aka fat Humanity) than I realized. My skills were renowned. I was on that menu board. I practically wrote the menu! Five extreme sandwiches? Fuck that. Give me eight, ten, a dozen! Destroy me and I will still be stronger than anything you can shove down my throat! (Vaguely sexual, yeah?) But it wasn't that midnight world who made me choke. It was Man himself.

In all my pride (another of our littlest sins) I failed to see my own arrogance had corrupted my journey. And here I am. What will happen if I don't fill that sugar? If Death runs out... will it be Patrick (humanity) who snaps first - or The Void in booth twelve?

It might hurt... but let's find out.

Quoth the Raven, “LOL.”

Associates of mine have berated me as of late for apparently losing my sense of humor. They say all the doom and gloom and portents of the spectral apocalypse have really been bumming them out.

Well, whatever!

Perhaps in another incarnation I had more of a jovial regard for what is comparably the fleeting fire of a match stick next to the eternal, frozen torment of undead existence. Being me isn’t exactly whoopee cushions and knock-knock jokes, but that doesn’t mean the world of spooks isn’t without a sense of humor.

Being from Georgia originally, I can attest that little of merit crawled its way over the state line from Alabama – unless you’re counting ghost stories. Alabama has a rich heritage of such tales – and one such legend is the many supernatural encounters of Alabama’s very own Arthur Dropsy.

Now Arthur Dropsy appears across several eras of Southern folk legend and across many states – pre and post War of Northern Aggression, colonial expansion, Trail of Tears, the 1996 Olympic Games. In some portrayals he’s African American. In most he’s white. In all of them he possesses a penchant for getting himself in trouble and being a bit of a scaredy cat. There are so many Arthur Dropsy tales, that I’m led to believe he was a dabbler in the occult himself. He was also what we’d consider today to be a homeless beggar and a pitiful drain on society.

But here I go taking the fun out of a simple story.

So one fine day our irascible tramp Arthur Dropsy was hanging out at the blacksmith’s begging for anything that could be spared, when the smithy offered a simple challenge:

“Arthur Dropsy, if you can spend the night up on Haunted Hill in that old witch woman’s abandoned house, I’ll give you the sweetest, biggest watermelon out of the patch behind my shop here.”

Well watermelon was Arthur Dropsy’s favorite food (again, Arthur Dropsy tales do retain a bit of that classic Southern charm) and when he peeked out back behind that shop, he just couldn’t help but let out a little squeak at the size and splendor of those green, ripe watermelons.

“I’ll do it! Ain’t nothing in this world that can scare Arthur Dropsy outta himself a delicious watermelon dinner!”

So that night Arthur Dropsy went a sneaking up Haunted Hill past crooked trees and hidden things in the dark until he found the battered shack from which he’d emerge victorious.

“They say this old witch’s shack is haunted. But I’m not afraid!”

You go, Arthur Dropsy!

And he did - right into that shack. At first he wasn’t afraid. Arthur sat boldly in that shack with broken windows and the wind whistling through the rafters. He even started a little fire in the oven. This was his mistake. Because that flickering flame cast shadows, and from those shadows Arthur Dropsy’s imagination began to work. And before he knew it, he’d done summoned the Devil himself.

Sitting right across from him, the Devil said, “Hello, Arthur Dropsy.”

This Devil was as red as the insides of the juiciest watermelon and his black eyes glittered like tiny seeds. His teeth were so long they cut through his rubbery lips, and his forked tail waved ever so lazily. A pair of long curved horns reached as high as the ceiling, and he patiently tapped the shack’s rotting floor with a pair of goat’s hooves as Arthur Dropsy stuttered out a weak reply.

“Hello, Mr. Devil.”

And then the Devil lunged at Arthur Dropsy to steal up the tramp’s soul and snatch him away to Hell. But old Arthur was too quick. He dashed out of that witch’s shack and hauled ass down Haunted Hill back towards the town. Wolves cried in the night. Bats screeched overhead. And the Devil himself came roaring down the path to catch the soul he’d chased now for years.

Arthur ran for what seemed like hours until he heard the tiny ringing of the blacksmith’s iron. He could feel the hot breath of the Devil right on his neck, but still he ran and ran and ran. As he ran, the clanging got louder and louder. And when the smithy came in view, Arthur Dropsy didn’t slow down one bit.

Instead he cried to the waving blacksmith, “You can forget them watermeloooooooooooooons!!!!”

And Arthur Dropsy kept on running right through the middle of town and out past the county line. And that was the last time they saw him (or the Devil) round those parts.

Hilarious, right?