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Had this been a novel I would’ve disclosed how Jarrod’s call went. Suffice it to say that Clayton could put two and two together, but he was partially distracted and complimenting Tammy on her industriousness with outdoor and indoor lawnmowing. He was about to dismiss Jarrod’s call when the phone rang. It was Doyle. He shakingly confessed to him that ever since the night they went out to dinner, he kept witnessing his doppleganger walking toward his loft’s balcony, 9 sotries up, and jump. When he looked down from the stainless steel round bar railing, he got treated to a vision of his splattered alter ego on the pavement, beckoning at him to follow suit.
“Clay, I have some hashbrowns and squeezed orange juice for you,” Tammy ebulliently offered.
“Just leave right there honey,” he monotoned.
“Hey, honey, you look possessed. By a brilliant idea for a magazine perhaps?”
“I’m okay.”
” I wouldn’t want to derail your money train of thought. I’ll be in the laundry room.”
“Thanks sweetie.”
“See you later, in bed,” she purred.
Clayton’s misgivings were mounting exponentially. If that thing had something to do with my friends, and my friends are telling the truth, then the next call would come from…
The phone rang.
“Hello! Aunt Maylene?” What he heard was a woman laughing hysterically. He slammed the phone. That was when he rifled through the yellow pages and never bothered to make an appointment with me. He brought along the item in question in a Coleman all weather ice chest.
There was a long line of supplicants when he rushed my front desk receptionist, lugging the chest and put it down on my desk, an altar that is a marble affair sold to me by a struggling orthodox church.
There was an uproar in the lounge. Haitian immigrants stalked by smiling zombies of their irate moneylenders, gypsies who tampered with an Egyptian relic with a minor curse that enthralled them to stroke every cat they came across, even somnambulists who were pestered by “Don’t Walk” signs in their dreams, and geeks who never get dates or ever invited to college parties, they all sported pouting, disappointed faces.
Apologizing profusely and giving me the lowdown, I got moved by his lovelorn but terrified countenance. Whether he was going to pay cash, credit card, check or with fresh produce, I didn’t care. So I immediately blurted out my professional opinion.
“Then destroy the damn thing.”
“But Tammy, she might go back to being…”
“Being a whore? What’s the name of the nearest hospital to your residence, gringo.
“Mary Johnston.” I pressed the intercom and spoke to my receptionist.
“Tanya, please call Mary Johnston Hospital in Boca Raton, Florida, ask them if there is an increase in admissions within the last 5 days, with special mention for mysterious maladies. Tell them it’s urgent. Scream at ‘em if necessary.”
“Yes, señorita.” After 10 minutes, the receptionist reported an affirmative.
“Mister Clayton, you heard that. More would get sick, haunted, and eventually lose their life if you don’t smash it,” I squeeked.
“All right, for my dear Auntie. Would she be okay?”
“No time to check. Bring it out and give it to me.” He lifted the lid off the chest. He took it and quickly laid it on the desk next to my name plate. It stared at me with sneering eyes. That’s the only time I sensed by my own Third Eye that its mouth was really siphoning life forces upon inciting fear, and his reading the inscription underneath had summoned entities cursed to do the task. I could sense on a very weak spectrum the energies channeled from his woman then sent off to a receptacle probably based in Florida. I took out from a metal cabinet holy water disguised as Clinique Happy perfume and preserved lock of beard from a Buddhist monk and a plain mallet. I wrapped the hair around the head of the mallet, sprayed it with the water, and muttered my prayers in Latin, Sanskrit, and Chicano-laced Brooklynese. I raised the esoteric tool when both of us jumped at a whiny voice, beseeching…
“I am just a courier, you know. No courier, no mo’ problem. And the porn girl will remain as she is.” With that, the mouth liquefied and sealed itself. I hammered the idol, which flew apart, then turned to ash, and got dissipated by an unseen wind.
“That’s it?” Clayton questioned.
“I don’t think so,” I quavered, “There’s a spiritous receiver somewhere who supplies your woman qualities that she did not learn or have, then feeds off the life-forces stolen from people who might be either dying or already killed. Those might be people who were attracted to her, with the exception of you of course. Most likely it inhabits an artifact similar to the one we just vanquished.”
“I bought it…” Clayton began.
“I know already. You purchased that from a shop selling curios and esoteric items from all over the world,” I pronounced.
“My, you are really truly psychic. So you know where it’s at?” he probed.
“No, lead the way please.” We passed by the queue at the reception lounge. Groans started to fill the room. I raised a finger.
“We’ll be back shortly. He’s in love.” I jerked a thumb at him, who raised both his hands.
“Aaahhh,” was the collective amazed reply. I also told them to order pizza, on the house. I went to the adjacent room to my ‘weapons locker’. It was crammed with bishop’s croziers, Hogwartz wands, garlic powder bombs, holy water guns, incantation books, spirit hunter night vision goggles, worn-out miracle crusader microphones and megaphones, not to mention some ancient PKE meters bought at ten cents apiece at a Universal Studios garage sale.I brought out my personal favorite: a kindhearted logger’s axe that was accidentally forged with a shard of St. George’s spear. Legend has it that when the logger held it, he suddenly had an epiphany and swore never to cut trees. With Clayton on the wheel, we drove all the way to Florida.
TO BE CONTINUED…
Memoirs of a Psychic Investigator: the bouncing idol Part IV
{ December 1, 2008 @ 7:11 am } · { Behavior, Psychology, Sci-Fi, Short Story, Social Commentary, Writing, humor, love, lovers, relationships, thoughts }
{ Tags: comical, funny, laughs, occult, paranormal, spirits, very John McKinneyish } · { Leave a Comment }
To go to Part III please click this link!
We arrived at the store, alert for any violent resistance or apparition. We came in and the storekeeper was calmly peeling a banana astride a stool near one of the shelves to our right.
“Where is it?” Clayton asked me.
“It’s at the back, the stock room”, nonchalantly the storekeeper informed.
“There’s no time to waste”, waving the axe like a Viking wife on testosteroids, I charged, heading for the door leading toward the back. The shopkeeper adroitly dropped the banana peel on my instep. It was then I wished I had J.Lo’s butt when I slipped and mine met the scratched parquet floor hard. I accidentally threw the axe in the air. Clayton caught it like a good midfielder. The guy ran outside like a screaming banshee.
“My contract’s done!” he shouted.
“Do it, Clayton! You’re our only hope! My ass’s hurting, the cheek’s dislocated,” I groaned in pain.
“You can count on me, Stephanie!”
“Huh?” He disappeared into the gloom. So deep into the dark he did not know where the light switch lay. The more vocal charms and amulets were kept there to prevent the freak outs of customers and window shoppers.
“Buy me, and you’ll dance to the championship at ‘Dancing with the Stars’, purred a sultry voiced pair of tight formfitting glitter pants hung from a hanger.
“I’m a toupée that never gets pulled, sire”, a British gent.
“Wear me, you’ll be invisible in the boys’ locker room, you flaming queen!” spieled something that sounded like Carson Kressley of the Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.
“What?” Clayton spat. Suddenly a blinding light shone on him directly in front of him, and it took him several second to understand that the backdoor had opened to intense sunshine and a vertical trunk like wood totem with a large carved head was bouncing on the pavement of the back parking lot. A bass voice issued from it as it tried to make some distance between it and Clayton.
“Mercy, don’t chop me, mercy, just trying to defeat death…mercy!” The thick wood of the idol thumped as if filled and heavy with contents.
“It’s you!!!” Clayton roared. As fast as his legs could carry him, he gained at the cumbersome Toltec like graven image, “Timber!” he swung the axe over his head and it arched down at furious speed,” for Aunt Maylene!”
“Oh dear…” was all it could say, in the English words that emanated from it, among others. It cracked cleanly down the middle, the halves falling in opposite directions. Unseen by Clayton, refuge destroyed, the dark spirit within sunk under the pavement while the life forces streaked in all directions, to return to their rightful owners.
Epilogue
After so much haggling we finally settled on a $500 professional fee, and it’s not simony. I have to pay the salaries of researchers, informants, shamans, consultants, white witches, and janitors. I had to maintain the mausoleums and gardens of the deceased who had lent their ethereal hands time and again, and that costs money. Clayton’s back all by his lonesome in Florida, and among other projects, he’s rushing a graphic novel of my exploits. Doesn’t hurt to advertise, if you ask me.
Aunt Maylene, to both our relief, wasn’t visited upon by the nefarious consequences of her nephew’s indiscretion. She advised, a prayer a day keeps arthritis away. I take her word for it.
Tammy Torrid returned to the adult entertainment biz, but she promised to retire early once she earns a bundle and to film “normal” sex scenes only. When I asked her about him, all she could remember was being a “prisoner of love”.
A lot of people susceptible to Tammy’s attractiveness got sick and gone schizo-spooked, but they recovered afterward. Jarrod thought it was a bad dream, but Doyle wasn’t so lucky. We attended his funeral some two weeks ago. He died in an auto accident. Apparently his visions had stopped, but he picked up a hitchhiking spirit of a Japanese girl that had a propensity to lead drivers to crash. And that, is another story.