Memoirs of a Psychic Investigator: the bouncing idol

Young girls screaming otherworldly voices and vomiting a whole banquet’s worth of slime maybe cinematic fare for Hollywood but life, in its own effort to preserve its equilibrium and thus avert the end of the world for now, sends a woman like me to do a man’s job: performing hybrid-psycho-religious exorcism on these poor Lolitas. It could be expected that millions of slums and ghettos in Latin America and Asia, with their observable conditions allow for sinister essences to occupy minds crazed by hunger and slowly murdered by malnutrition, while five star restaurants and fastfoods throw leftovers by the ton. Just a matter of distribution, remarked Azriel (see Anne Rice’s Servant of the Bones). Paranormal phenomenon like I’ve just mentioned have sent muy macho grandfathers, fathers, and/or loliteros elbowing each other for the only door in the confining room, their cojones up their throats, while I go about the business of sending the possessor back to the underworld where they belong. Move over Constantine, here comes the Latina chick with balls (I look like J.Lo by the way, sans the callipygian attraction). I have a lot of such experiences on my menu, but let me start regaling you with a recent case of mine in East Los. This young, bedraggled looking white guy came to my office, Stefana Reyes’s Investigadores de Fenomenas Paranormales de Todos Colores: Or Your Money Back! Located at the 11th floor, Paragon Plaza building in downtown L.A., complete with full-time staff, airconditioned-heatered comfy waiting lounge with the latest issues of Paranormal Vogue, hot-cold anti-negative aura mineral water dispenser with disposable cups printed with smileys and counter cruel intentions runes. You may ask, why the corporate façade when I’m just a glamorized shrink who tells people what they want to hear? Like, “Oh, your husband is right beside us now, he’s saying something to you, silence! I can’t hear him with all your whimpering, ah yes, he’s shouting, ‘you bitch! Look what you’ve done. Now I’m stuck for all eternity with your criada (housemaid) since the night you shot us both.’ (‘Serves you right, Casanova!’ retorts my client.)” Well, a rich Don paid me handsomely for curing his favorite tabby housecat. His cat was chasing the spirits of dead mice she had eaten, and this distressed the pet-loving Don so much. I’m gonna say how I did it but let me tell you, PETA people, I’m sorry, I’m just doing my job. I mesmerized the psychic feline with a rusted pendulum, then smacked it between the eyes with an enchanted wooden ruler, disabling its bothersome Third Eye. Right now she’s blind to spectral mice and very perceptive to Whiskas. I’m paying the amortization of my office space with the interest earned monthly from the time deposit of the Don’s largesse. Now where was I? Yeah the white guy, Clayton was his name. I’m going to tell you his story briefly since I just asked a favor from the hot and sexy writer of this blog to publish my story. I have an urge to tell but not to gain fame, you follow? Here goes.

You see, Clayton, a graphic designer who worked from home in his Florida pad, was surfing the net for teen porn when he caught sight of this blond, flaxen tressed and pubed vixen getting it on with a well endowed guy in one of the interracial offerings of pimpmygirlfriend.com.

He was smitten. After contending with security, directors, and actors as he sought to get hold of their star performer at the site’s filming venue in LA, he finally got a giggling yes from Tammy Torridd. They went out on a date, and he won her virginal heart. He convinced her to leave the business, and she agreed. The head honcho of the dotcompany was not the least bit pleased, but he was gentlemanly enough to demand that he be invited should the lovebirds wed, along with the cast and crew. He promised to pay for the reception as long as he could film an orgy at the venue once the celebration was over. Clayton sheepishly acquiesced. Tammy moved in with him two days after.

Tammy had no problem adjusting to a monogamous relationship with Clayton, during the day. However, at nights, Clayton had to keep Tammy from going out and seeking a satisfaction of her nymphomania. She allowed him almost grudgingly, to stop her, but she confessed later on that she needed a much more direct method of persuasion. She implored to be tied on the bed, and be administered sleeping pills. This is particularly distressing to Clayton so much so that in desperation, he erred in deciding to solicit the aid of the supernatural. One evening, he drove out to stop from hearing Tammy’s ravings in her sleep, he happened upon a small shop that had a sign saying “Cures and Charms”. He came in, the brass chimes rang with languid tones as the glass and aluminum closed. He gazed at an assortment of curious items displayed on the shelves flush with the walls, illuminated by yellowish bulbs. Floating tiger penises, hawkeyes, or hyena teeth in amber jars. A figure of an Egyptian god. Pictures of Elvis with dried up leis. Dolls of all kinds. Necklaces of bone, twine, beads, blood red rubies, with pendants of black and white photos of old folk staring back. Of shrunken skulls and skewered snakes. Something glinted in the far wall as a headlight flashed into the shop, and he walked toward it. A small idol of dark wood like a Congolese buddha with a thicklipped mouth open as if sucking in air, its hole extending deep in an otherwise foot-tall sculpture, with red agate for eyes. Clayton’s hand moved to grasp it behind for a closer look.
“You may touch. Is that wat ya seek?” A deep uvular voice made Clayton jump and whirl around, “That is the Inkatka god of cleansing. It absorbs bad juju, manners, and bad odour. Is dat wat ya want?” rumbled the shopowner in suspenders, shirt, and black pants. He wore dreadlocks and a thick curly beard.
“Say uh, mister, I didn’t hear you come in. Do you surprise customers like this?” Clayton demanded. The shopowner apparently wore black shoes with wooden soles. The floor though was carpeted.
“I don’t. You mind filled wid problem. Money? Girl?
“Yeah, my girlfriend, she’s…er…troubling me. You said this thing absorbs bad…”
“Bad manners, bad action, bad personalliddy, bad…”
“I got it. How much?” Clayton fished for his Louis Vuitton wallet.
“$300.”
“I’m outta here, Marley,” Clayton sneered. He made a step toward the door and the shopowner was already in front of him, hold under his nose a black plastic bag.
“$20, plus Dr. Phil’s pamphlet, ‘How to Make Your Girlfriend Love Your Womanizing’.
“Fair price. Here you go.” He gave him the amount. The guy told him to read thrice the inscription under the idol before her girlfriend. Clayton nodded and went to the door. The chimes rang again, louder and more plaintive this time.
“Yes, dat suck your girlfriend’s bad breath,” Clayton hurried to start his Ford Taurus, “but someone has to die…” In the backroom, a deep laugh echoed, as if from a large hollow container. The shopowner shudder.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Filed under: Behavior, Horror Thriller, Psychology, Sci-Fi, Short Story, Social Commentary, Writing, death, humor, love, lovers, relationships , love, paranormal, scary, serialized stories