Flyblown and Blood-Spattered Page 9

  The first thing he did when the sun came up was flip through the yellow pages and look for a plumber. Well, that's not entirely true; the first thing Willard did was sneak out of his apartment with the crock pot hidden under an old sweater. He tip-toed down the stairs and peered around corners, hoping not to be noticed. He didn't dare use the trash bins in the front of his building, so he walked a block over and disposed of his shame in a dumpster behind a fast food restaurant. He pushed it down deep and piled trash on top of it. When he was done, he walked back to his building, feeling a private humiliation, even if he was unnoticed, and climbed the stairs.

  He got out the giant yellow phone book and called the first listing he found for a plumber.

  The phone rang. “Hello, AAA plumbing, this is Royce. How can I help you?” A brawny voice answered.

  “Yes, hello, Royce is it? I'd like to have someone out to my house as soon as possible. I live at--”

  “It's gonna be two weeks, at least, before somebody could get to it.” Royce interrupted.

  “Two weeks? I can't wait two weeks. I have an emergency.”

  “Is your house underwater? Are you standing in shit right now?” Asked Royce.

  “ No, I'm not,” Willard admitted.

  “Then it ain’t no emergency then. Call me back when you're drowning.”

  Willard pleaded with the man. “Isn't there any way you could send someone earlier?”

  “Sorry, were a little backed up right now.” Royce said, and howled laughter into the phone. “What's the matter, don't you get it? You called a plumber and I tell you we’re backed up. Backed up!” he repeated.

  “I'm afraid this isn't a laughing matter,” Willard said, sternly. “If you can't help me, I'll have to find someone else who can. Good day.”

  “Yeah, lotsa luck with that, pal. You have a real good day, too,” Royce said, and hung up.

  Willard stared at the closed bathroom door. A cold shudder passed through him.

  He dialed the next number down, and it proved just as useless. He had the same luck with the next number, as well as the three after that; all he got were recordings apologizing for the inconvenience and prompting him to leave his name, number and address so they could get back to him as soon as possible.

  He was down to the last number: Warlock Rooter and Sewage.

  He dialed the number.

  “Yeah, this's the Warlock,” a voice answered, sluggish, disinterested.

  Willard cleared his throat, “Yes, hello my name is Leigh, Willard Leigh, and I need to have someone out to my house immediately.” He gave his address.

  The voice at the other end of the phone paused for a long time. Willard heard papers being shuffled around, before finally getting an answer. “Okay, Willy, I'll tell ya what I can do. I can fit you in tomorrow between three and four-thirty, how's that sound?”

  “No that won't do at all. I need someone here today, right now, if possible. It's something of an emergency.”

  Another long pause from the warlock's end. “Hmm... emergency, huh? What kind of emergency ya got?”

  “I really can't describe it over the phone.”

  “Oh, a secret. The man's got a secret emergency.” Willard could hear a smile in the warlock's voice. “It turns out we're having a special on secret emergencies. Today only, Yessir. Let me ask you Willy, you got cash? 'Cause you don't sound like you got a lot of cash.”

  A low gurgling sound began to emanate from behind the bathroom door.“Yes, I have cash, whatever you want just get here as soon as you can.”

  “That's the spirit, Willy. Let's say a thousand gets me out there in twenty. That's a thou. for starters, of course. Sound good?”

  “Fine, fine, just please hurry,” Willard almost begged.

  “Well, since you said please, I'll see you in fifteen. Bye bye now, Willy.” The warlock hung up.

  Willard stood holding the phone to his ear, listing to the hum of the dial tone.

  Fifteen minutes later, and the warlock barely had time to knock once before Willard's door flew open and he was yanked inside.

  “Take it easy, willya,” the warlock said. “I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “I'm sorry,” Willard apologized. It's just that-” He took the man in. He was tall and thin, dressed in dark chinos and a tight white t-shirt with an intricate skull design and a gold chain. He wore rings on most of his fingers. “You know, you don't really look like a plumber.”

  “Is that so?” The Warlock said. “Well, you don't look like you have a thousand dollars. So I guess we'll both have to trust each other. I'm sorry I'm not some lard ass with his crack sticking out. I know a guy like that, though. Here,let me give you his number. You go ahead and call him, see how long he takes to get here.”

  “I'm sorry,” Willard apologized again. “I didn't mean to insult you.”

  The warlock looked at Willard, “Yeah? Well, I'm sorry I said we should trust each other, 'cause frankly, I don't. So why don't you give me the dough and we'll get started.”

  Willard paid the man and waited impatiently while he counted it. “Everything looks good here. Why don't ya show me to the head and we'll see what's what, okay?” The warlock said shoving the cash into his chinos.

  “It's this way.” Willard led the man to the bathroom door and stopped in front of it.

  “Ya know, you never told me what's wrong with your toilet.” The warlock said, suspiciously.

  “Yes well, it's,” Willard stammered, “...it's right through there,” he pointed at the door. “You'll just have to see for yourself."

  The warlock didn't budge. “I think I'm starting to see what's going on here. You're not one of them creeps are ya?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “ I once had a call, this woman, her toilet was clogged. So I take a look and it turns out she killed her husband, chopped him up into little bits and flushed him down. Piece by piece. SPASH! Right down the tube. Just like that, clogged the works up something fierce. You got creep written all over you, too. Just like that woman. It's always the nervous types. I'm keeping your cash, ya know. You already spent it, pal”

  Willard was furious. “Let me tell you something. I don't like you. I don't like the way you've spoken to me from word one. I don't like you taking advantage of my situation. I think you're a crook.

  And I think what you're doing is tantamount to extortion. I will not be accused of.. of... whatever you're accusing me of, by a thug like you. I won't, do you hear me. I've paid you, and I've paid you well. Now get in there and fix my toilet or the the next fucking ape of a human plunger I hire will be fishing chunks of you out of my septic tank!”

  The warlock was taken aback by this outburst. “Okay, fella, I didn't mean nothing by it. If you were in my line of work you might be suspicious too. Lotsa creeps out there is all I'm saying.”

  “Fix. The. Toilet.” Willard Reiterated.

  The warlock narrowed his eyes at Willard, but said nothing more. He opened the bathroom door and stepped in. Willard shut the door behind him. The warlock said something, but Willard didn't care to answer him.

  He stood listening. There was the faint jingle of the toilet handle. And for a long time afterward he heard nothing. He was beginning to wonder if something had happened when, loud as a choir chorus, he heard the familiar spectral wailing. The moaning of the damned, he thought. The smell of decomposition drifted from under the door like a fog. “Is everything alright in there?” Willard asked.

  No answer.

  He pounded on the door, “Hello, are you okay?” His voice rose to a frantic pitch. Still no answer.

  “I'm... I'm coming in, okay? Don't be alarmed, now, I'll just come in there and I'll see if I can...” But what could he do? Chances were the warlock had been sucked down into the hellish depths of the tunnel, doomed to reside in the pit of nightmares for all eternity. Willard reached for the knob. He prepared himself for what he might find: an empty room most likely, maybe a single shoe next to a toolbox with just a small
dab of fresh blood on it. Fingernail marks scratched into the tile leading to the toilet.

  Willard opened the door and screamed.

  The warlock stood in the doorway. He crossed the threshold calmly and closed the door behind him.

  The two men stood in silence until Willard could no longer bear it. “Well,” he said, “Is it fixed? Is the toilet running normally again?”

  The warlock made a fist and coughed into it. “Well, to start with, I gotta tell ya, I seen some bad ones in my day, but that was a doozy. Seen a few worse, but not by much.”

  “You've seen a few what?” Willard could scarcely contain his excitement. “You mean you've seen something like that before? And you fixed it? What was it?”

  “Oh yeah, I see stuff like that all the time. What you got there is your basic demonic portal/gateway to the underworld.”

  “But did you fix it?”

  “Oh, sure, ran a snake down there, a little Drano, it's good as new.”

  “I must say, this is fantastic. Really it is. Best thousand I ever spent.” Willard grabbed the man's hand and shook it wildly. “I can't thank you enough. I have to ask, is there any possibly of recurrence? Are there measures to take that would prevent this in the future, if, you know, my bathroom is prone to this sort of thing?”

  The warlock though for a moment. “Well, it's hard to say. Lots of factors come in to play here. For instance, do you know if your bathroom was built on a Indian burial ground or anything like that? Maybe it was the location of some tragic event? I'm just guessing here, but it could have been the site of some horrific train wreck, or a Civil War battlefield.”

  Willard was dumbfounded. “A Civil War battleground? Indian cemetery? In the bathroom of my fourth floor apartment building?”

  The warlock doubled over with laughter. “I'm sorry buddy, I couldn't resist. To tell ya the truth, I don't know what the fuck that is in your toilet. I was just pulling your leg. Jesus, but I had you going, didn't I? See, a lotta plumbers have a sense of humor, ya gotta if you do what we do. It's... not a pleasant occupation.”

  “Yes, I experienced this hilarity on the phone earlier today. I'll tell you, I fail to see the humor in any of this. If you'd been through what I have, I don't think you'd be cracking jokes. And I'll tell you another think, you're going to refund my money. Yes, every cent. I'm not paying you for a fucking comedy routine.”

  The warlock was suddenly serious. “Look, my friend, don't get carried away, here. That money's mine, fair and square. The deal was a thousand gets me here. I'm here. I showed up willing to preform whatever task was in my ability to preform. You showing me something that's, let's say, outside my area of expertise doesn't negate the deal.”

  “But.. but...” Was all Willard could manage to sputter before the Warlock cut him off again.

  “Ifs and buts, candy and nuts, I'm keeping the dough.” Willard started in again, but the warlock raised his hand to silence him. “Hold on there, don't blow a fuse. Like I said, I don't know what the hell's going on in there,” he said pointing to the bathroom, “but I know someone who does. And what's more, he works cheap and will, more than likely, show up within the hour.” The warlock took out a burgundy Velcro wallet and peeled it open. He fished around inside and produced a business card and handed it to Willard. Willard took the card. “Now, that ain’t so bad is it? Whaddya say?”

  Willard studied the card. It was matte black with one word scrawled in red in the center and a phone number below it. It wasn't even embossed. “It remains to be seen,” Willard muttered.

  “It remains to be seen?” The warlock repeated. “Buddy, let me give you a nickel’s worth of free advice: learn some fucking manners, or someone's gonna learn 'em to you.” And he left, slamming the door in Willard's face.

  Willard turned the cheap black card over in his hand. The back was blank. There was no information, just a number and above it, one word scrawled in red ink: BOKOR.

  He answered on the first ring. “Hello?” The accent was thick and Willard thought it sounded vaguely African, though he couldn't say for sure.

  Willard sighed heavily, he hoped this was the last call he'd have to make today. “Hello my name is Leigh, Willard Leigh, and your services were referred to me by--”

  “Address,” the voice demanded. “I come.”

  “I see,” said Willard, maybe his luck was changing. He gave him the address. “And you'll just come over then? Just like that?”

  “I come.” The voice said again, and hung up the phone.

  Willard sat down at his kitchen table. He didn't know what to make of any of this. They had never discussed payment. Payment for what? Thought Willard. I don't know what service I've hired this man for. I don't even know what a bokor is. Or maybe his name is bokor. He looked down the hall toward the bathroom door. He wasn't sure, but he thought he could hear a faint moaning from within. Well, in any case, I just hope he gets here soon.

  He didn't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes after he hung up the phone, Willard heard a knock at the door.

  The man standing in the doorway when Willard opened up was short and fat. He was dressed in immaculate white, even his shoes, except for a bright red cravat like a fashionable neck wound leaking down his collar. He carried a faded black duffel bag with him, and it jingled with the sound of glass bottles when he set it down.

  The man smiled at Willard politely, waiting for him to speak first. “Yes, so you must be bokor?” Willard held out his hand.

  The man made no move to take Willard's hand, he just let it dangle in the space between them. “Bokor,” he agreed.

  “Bokor, is that your name or...” Willard trailed off.

  “Bokor.” The man said again. Willard was beginning to think this was a mistake.

  “Anyhow, I'm not sure that it matters. Let's just get down to it, shall we? I've been having problems recently. The nature of which is... Well it's difficult to describe. Perhaps you'd better have a look at it yourself.” Willard made a motion to lead the bokor into the bathroom.

  The man folded his arms across his chest and planted his feet. “You pay,” He said. “You are cursed. Spirits,” he waved his hand in the air, “all around. The devil likes you.”

  “All around?” said Willard. “Are they not mostly in the bathroom?”

  The bokor nodded. “Bathroom, yes. All around. You pay, I make them go away. I tell the devil 'go to hell.' Do you hear me, the devil? Go to hell, I say,” he shouted into the space above him.

  “How much is all this going to cost?” Willard asked. “The warlock mentioned you were affordable.”

  The bokor smiled. “Affordable, yes. You will pay me one-hundred and twenty dollars.”

  “Yes, that's very reasonable. I think I can manage that. Is that all?”

  The bokor gave Willard a grim look. “No. You will pay more. I must have what you can never take back. Something precious.”

  “Oh my,” Willard swallowed. “I didn't know about that. I don't think I'm prepared to offer...”

  “That.” Said the bokor and he extended his finger to point at something behind Willard.

  “What.” Said Willard, confused, looking around his counter top “you want my toaster?”

  “Yes.” The bokor walking across the room. He picked up the toaster and examined it. “Is good. Four slots, extra wide, for bagels.”

  “Deal.” Said Willard.

  They stood outside the bathroom, Willard wringing his hands nervously, the bokor holding his duffel bag. He rooted around inside the bag, pulled out several candles, he dug out dozens of small brown bottles holding them close to his face as he read the labels. The bokor set a few aside and put the rest back in the bag. His arms disappeared back into the canvass bag for a long time until, finally, he came up with a chicken.

  “Is that alive?” Willard asked.

  The bokor pulled a long knife out of the bag next. “Yes. Alive. I make him to sleep. Most comfortable.” The Bokor stood and began filling his pockets with the var
ious bottles and candles he had set out.

  When his pockets were filled, he turned to Willard and handed him a small bag tied with a drawstring. “Salt. Very good.” He said. “When I have entered, you must pour it out, here.” He made a back and forth gesture with his finger, pointing along the doorway. “This way, the devil cannot get out.” The bokor turned to the bathroom door and began pounding on it with the knife handle. “Do you hear me, the devil? When I get in there I will fuck your ass. I will fuck you with your own horns.” The bokor threw back his head and laughed, looked at Willard, who was turning pale.

  “Do you think it's wise to mock him like that?”

  “Yes. He must know that he has no power here. I will go inside now. Do you have the salt? Remember, very important.”

  “I'll remember.” Willard promised. “Good luck.”

  “Do not look so worried,” The bokor said, swinging open the door. “All will be fine.” He turned and gave Willard a bold grin before shutting the door behind him.

  As soon as the door was closed, Willard opened the bag and poured the salt along the threshold.

  He stood at the door and listened. The seconds ticked by in agonizing silence. He wasn't sure how long voodoo rituals or demon exorcisms or whatever this was usually took, but he thought they must take a while. He walked back to the kitchen table and sat down, head in hands, tapping his foot impatiently.

  He watched the minutes pass on the oven timer. At the quarter-hour mark he began to hear rhythmic chanting in an unfamiliar language, muffled behind the bathroom door.

  A few minutes later, the odor of spices drifted throughout the apartment.

  He smelled sage burning, and heard the flutter of wings, and the chanting continued.

  Forty minutes after the bokor had vanished into the bathroom, Willard heard a hurricane rush of wind. The sound filled the apartment. It was deafening, and Willard covered his ears. A stench like rotting flesh accompanied the wind and overpowered the smell of burning spice. All around him rose the screams of the dead. The mournful shrieks and wails of doomed souls formed a harmony of dread.