Goop

I awoke this morning to the blurry view of a ceiling that was not my own. The delinquent beams of golden sun that poked their wandering light through minor imperfections in aged drapery painted the news of a new morning. The haze of sleep hung heavy in my mind still, making every thought nothing more than background noise, but it would become deciphered once the fog between my ears and behind my eyes began to finally dissipate. My body made the executive decision to begin the day before my mind could once again stifle the advances of time. I peeled the heavy down comforter and smooth linens from my skin and briefly mourned the loss of their embrace. Feet met carpet as my legs swung over the side of the bed. I appeared to be wearing nothing more than silken boxer shorts. My eyes stared blankly ahead, deciding the time had not yet come to focus on anything in particular, resulting in nothing more than a nondescript haze of dimly lit shapes around me. My thoughts began to become apparent, as if I were finally zeroing in on their frequency through thick static. My left hand began to grope the smooth surface of the table beside my bed, eventually finding a cigarette and delivering it to the dehydrated surface of my lips where it stuck and hung loosely. As my lighter sparked and smoke filled my throat, my mind, body, and senses finally found a commonground. The carpet beneath my feet was smooth and short, clean and economical. The dark wood paneling on the walls was stained with the same deep chestnut as the furniture around the room. The walls above the handrail were painted, or perhaps papered, with a shade of what must have once been off-white, but had developed warmth with age, giving off a vague nostalgia reminiscent of a grandmother’s kitchen first thing in the morning. I stood and pulled back the curtains covering the window, immediately flooding the room with blinding light. As my eyes began to adjust, I scanned the room for details that my mind had failed to retain of the previous day, or had it been longer? I walked a few short paces from the window to a desk, upon which was a notepad with the heading Bergenheim Luxury Hotel & Suites. The surface of the desk was covered with a glass pane, the majority sprinkled with remnants of various substances. Torn, crumpled, and otherwise discarded pieces of notepaper littered the floor. Most of the scraps contained nonsensical words, number sequences correlating to nothing, and bizarre scribbles and doodles. One had what appeared to be a portrait of Richard Nixon with massive eyes and lips that looked as if they could burst through the page and the words “FEAR MONGREL” scribbled over it. I crossed the room to the French doors that divided the suite and stepped into the sitting area, or at least what remained of it. The couch had been overturned and shredded to pieces, a new touch tacked on this time to an all too familiar scene. The powder blue wallpaper had been scorched, gouged, and scribbled upon with more queer images and meaningless characters, the phones had been violently ripped from the walls, leaving scars and tattered wires where the connection had once been, and empty liquor bottles were strewn about, some broken, some still full. I took in the scene from the doorway of the bedroom in the same detached but shocked way one takes in the scene of a horrible accident from a distance. After all, what was another hotel room? At least this time I had made it inside. Surely I’d be asked to answer for my crimes and the damages I had caused in my drug induced fugue, but worry evaded me. Now was not the time to panic, plus the “James Clover” that had reserved the room would cease to exist as soon as the doors of this hotel closed behind me. I heard a knock at the door. The sound froze me in place.

“Housekeeping,” said a questioning voice from a world I was not yet ready to be a part of.

“No.” I said. Short and sweet. That should buy me some time.

“Just to remind you, checkout is in one hour.” said the voice. I dared not reply. The ember of my cigarette advanced upon the delicate skin of my fingers as I listened to the faint squeak of the housekeeping cart continuing down the line of rooms. I stepped carefully down onto the cool marble, weary of the glistening shards of what were once liquor bottles, ready to strike if approached without consideration. I was delighted to find a small brown vial unbroken amongst the carnage. Giving it a slight swirl, I unscrewed the top and scooped out a bit of the fine white powder within, raising it to my nostril and inhaling sharply. I felt the inside of my nose and mouth go numb as my head kicked back. It was time to get moving. After all, I had a job to do.

In case you were wondering who exactly I am, my name by birth is Goopenforth Worcestershire Benson. My first name was the name of my dear departed father, Goopenforth R. Benson. He was one of the greatest big game hunters ever to walk this Earth in his prime, and his weapons of choice for hunting big game- tigers, bears, lions, panthers, and the like- were nothing more than an Indian hatchet, a fixed blade buck knife, and his bare fists.

It was in this name- although I prefer to be called Goop- that I inherited his fortune as a young man, quickly tripling it, and became a figure of pure mystery in the eyes of those who have come and gone from my life. The average existence is dull and tedious, much like the average name. Joes, Toms, and Harolds went to work each day, putting in honest hours doing honest work, ensuring the next day of work would come and go right on schedule. The name Goop tells not of worn features and rugged hands, or of a cottage on the waterfront with two small children inside, it never could. Any sort of category used to define average folks by their average names simply didn’t cut it. What short arrangement of syllables could conjure images of rare automobiles racing through barren salt flats, of cabbages being flung from balconies onto the roofs of taxis, or of psychedelic fur coats draped upon suits of pure velvet, silk, or Vicuña. For a man such as myself, there is no standard or reasonable definition. I am the one and only.

I returned to the bedroom and shut the doors to the other half of the suite. I scanned the floor for more surviving artifacts from the previous night, discovering my dark grey suit miraculously intact beneath the bed. I discovered the bowtie I had worn with it as nothing more than ribbons inside the breast pocket, as if it had been run through a paper shredder, but I considered this to be a worthy sacrifice, and was all the more grateful to discover my intact leather loafers beside the bible in the nightstand drawer. I also discovered a gold watch with a black leather band, not mine, but functional nonetheless. I entered the bathroom for what appeared to be the first time since my arrival, splashing cool water on my face and attempting to make myself look as presentable as possible. After twiddling the ends of my mustache to a point, I was ready to go about my business.

I was on my way to do what I had done many times before. In a few short hours, I would watch the life drain from yet another innocent face. It had to be done. I could tell by the state of the still smoldering room I had left behind that I was quickly running out of time to hold up my end of the bargain, and the longer I waited, the worse it would become. You see, people do not remain as wealthy as I have simply through hard work, dumb luck, or family inheritence. There always has been, as there always will be, much more to it than that. Allow me to explain.

The year was 1840, I was twenty five years old and living in the swamplands of what is now Louisiana. It had been ten years since I had been orphaned, the sole heir of my parent’s estate. I was in search of a woman by the name of Madame Laretta, some sort of priestess who, it was said, could fulfil the heart’s deepest desire, but I had only heard bits and pieces of legends, rumors, and hearsay. I was skeptical, but years of guilt and existential dread had brewed unquenchable curiosity within me. I made my way to a small dock to find a man gazing pensively into the early morning fog hovering over pale green waters. The sun had just risen, and the world remained still and silent save for the buzz of insect wings and the groan of the dock-man’s chair beneath him. “Good morning, kind sir.”

“Mornin’.” he replied in a dull rasp, his gaze still fixed straight ahead.

“I was wondering if I could borrow a rowboat for the day, and possibly some directions. I’d be willing to pay, of course.” the man finally looked over in my direction over his shoulder, looking at me top to bottom from beneath a straw brim and bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows.

“You sure you wanna risk wettin up them fancy shoes? Ain’t nothin out there for you boy, now why dontcha get on back to wherever ya came from.” he sneered in his creole drawl.

“I’m not sure you’re understanding me, sir. I absolutely must have this boat for the day. I’m on my way to see Madame Laretta, and I’m told this is the closest dock.” the man’s eyes widened at the sound of her name. Suddenly, he stood, moving in closer to me and speaking much softer now, his eyes holding equal parts aggression and fear.

“Keep ya voice down, boy. You wan the church down here burnin up my dock?” his thick pointer finger jabbed into my chest as he spoke.

“I’m not sure I understand what you-”

“The Madame Laretta is the finger puppet Lucifer himself. No man who speaks to her is ever quite the same as he was. It’ll change ya. It’ll eat ya up inside until there’s nothin left to eat up in there, boy.” with one final jab to my sternum he lowered his finger, resting both hands on his hips.

“Pish posh. Now are you willing to rent this boat or not?”

“I’ll tell you what, boy. You can take it. Just know that once you belong to the bayou, there ain’t no turnin back.”

“Where can I find her?”

“You just head straight for them willow trees, go right on under and she’ll find ya if you’re worth findin’, god help ya.”

Although a bit unsettled by his strange reaction, I tried to put it out of my mind as I made my way through the murky waters. The wispy vines of willow trees enveloped me as I passed through them, and soon I was surrounded by thick greenery in all directions. Birds and insects sang in harmony with the wooden oars pushing me through the swamp. Occasionally the watchful eyes of a crocodile would pop up above the surface of the water, revealing powerful scaley forms just beneath. After about three hours in the densely humid air, I began to think I had been sent out here to die. That’s when I saw a dingy shack appear around a bend. It was built of rotting and nearly black wood, with a plume of white smoke rising from the cobblestone chimney. I pulled my boat onto the muddy riverbank and walked slowly towards the structure. The windows were dingy with years of neglect and humidity, but a pale orange light shone through them. Tangles of vines and overgrowth nearly consumed the shack, and the roof seemed to be made entirely of moss. I slowly approached one of the windows and wiped the glass with my sleeve, peering inside, the scene too hazy to clearly make out.

“Looking for something?” said a voice from behind me, startling me. Before me stood a beautiful young woman in a black cloak, matching both the color of her silky straight hair, that poured out over her shoulders from behind the hood of the cloak, and of her lips, slightly curled in a curious grin. From her neck hung a silver amulet with a large ruby in the center.

“Terribly sorry! Really, I didn’t mean to intrude. I must have the wrong place.”

“Oh? And where is the right place?” she asked sweetly, her eyes fixed upon mine.

“I’m looking for a woman by the name of Madame Laretta. It seems I’ve lost my way.”

“Have you, Mr. Benson?” the sound of my own name was jarring.

“How did you- that’s impossible. Madame Laretta is said to have lived in these swamps for the last 50 years! You couldn’t possibly be-”

“Come inside, Mr. Benson. We have much to discuss.” Through the door, which was barely clinging to its hinges, was a surprisingly neat interior. There was a large main room and a door that I could only assume went to another, smaller room in the back of the shack. The main room had a window on each wall, each with a unique layer of filth obstructing their view of the outside. There was a round mahogany table with two chairs in the center of the room, rather elegant I might add, with a beautiful red persian rug beneath. This was in sharp contrast to the aging, greyish wood that made up the rest of the interior. Around the perimeter of the room, jars and vials of various liquids, herbs, and animal parts sat upon rows of shelves. Below these were rows of thick, leather bound books whose titles had long worn away. “Have a seat, Goopenforth.”

“Please, call me Goop,” I paused a moment. “How do you know my name already?”

“I know many things. That is why you’re here, is it not?”

“Is there any hope of me getting a straight answer out of you, Madame?”

“That all depends if you ever ask the right questions, Mr. Benson, and how willing you are to see the truth. Now sit.” I sat down at the round table, almost as if I were guided there by an unseen usher. In the center, a gilded eagle’s claw held a white crystal ball that shimmered with flecks of color deep within. “I’ve been waiting for quite some time now for you to arrive.” she said as she traipsed around the room’s perimeter, running a thin pointer finger along leather spines.

“What on Earth do you mean? Not to offend, but I’ve only a few moments ago learned that you’re more than the subject of folktales.”

“Are you entirely sure of what I am, Mr. Benson?” She stopped, removing one of many near identical books from its place on the shelf, opening it and reading briefly before replacing it. She appeared to glide across the room to the table, sitting directly across from me. “You have just learned of me, but so certain are you that I am just learning of you. You see, I’ve been observing you for quite some time, my darling.” She crooned, one hand motioning around the crystal ball. Electric nerves radiated from the pit of my stomach to the tips of my fingers. Surely she was lying. All these years alone in the bayou must have knocked her off her rocker.

“Nonsense. Do you really expect me to believe that this oversized marble allowed you to spy on me?” I said, snidely. this sent her into a cackling fit that nearly had her falling out of the heavy wooden chair beneath her.

“Allow me to show you.” Her hands reached out for mine and held them with palms facing the ceiling.

“Why should I trust you?” Her dark lips twisted into a smile.

“Because I can satisfy the darkest regions of your heart, Mr. Benson.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because I know, Goop.”

My mind raced, matching my frantic pulse. My eyes followed hers to the crystal ball in the center of the table. Strange images began to form within, muddled in smoke. Suddenly, I was engulfed in darkness. I looked around only to find a vague sense of familiarity. I turned to my left to see the Madame looking back at me, smiling wider than ever, black lips curling over ivory teeth. One frigid hand held mine as our eyes met, and the other began to extend forward. As her head turned, mine followed. Panicked recognition filled me in an instant. I was home, my first home, standing just a few yards from a blazing inferno. I saw a boy, only fifteen years old, standing frozen on the grass as the house was slowly consumed by flames. I felt his fear, his anger, his pain, for it was all my own. I attempted to close my eyes to no avail. There was no avoiding the memory. I felt again the heat against my face, watched as layers of paint curled into wisps of smoke, brilliant flames carrying sparks and embers towards the heavens, and felt my heart thumping against my chest, nearly moving me with each beat. I saw the door flexing and bending as my father threw every ounce of his weight against it to no avail, heard wood crackle beneath the heat, slowly drowning out the screams of agony falling upon my motionless ears. I felt the same sense of knowing I had felt then, knowing I could pull the doors open, knowing I was not too late, knowing I could do something, or at least shout for someone who could, but yet remaining perfectly still. Flames burst through glass, making their way onto the roof. By now the flame that just moments ago had sat atop a candle’s wick had wrapped its reaching arms around the entire structure, sending ash into the sky and back to the Earth like delicate December snow. The screaming had stopped, only to be replaced by the hissing, popping and crackling of flame. The odor of wood and charred flesh filled my sinuses, and as suddenly as I had left, I found myself back at the round table across from Madame Laretta, her smile unchanged.

I leapt from my seat and stumbled backwards into the doorframe. “How did- why would you- how did you-” My mind and tongue failed to reach an agreement.

“Perhaps I should inform you as to who I am beyond those silly folktales. By now, you’ve heard that I’m a minion of the Devil, toying with lives as I please. You’ve heard that I possess forbidden knowledge, and that I should be feared. Well, I’ll have you know, they barely scratch the surface of what I’m capable of, Mr. Benson. You will respect me, or you will die. This being said, I believe you and I can discuss something that will benefit us both.” I hesitated to speak, carefully choosing my next words. If she was making me an offer, I was certain that I was in no position to refuse it. “Are you ready to have a discussion now, Mr. Benson?” I felt myself move back towards my seat at the table, my mind feeling like stormy seas. My eyes darted around the room briefly before landing back on hers as I sat. They were now almost completely black, and they held my gaze magnetically.

“What do you desire, Mr. Benson? I want to hear you say it. My heart pounded in my chest as beads of sweat began to form upon my brow. The screams of my mother and father echoed between my ears.

“I-. I want to be forgiven for what I’ve done.”

“No, darling, if forgiveness was truly what you desired, you would have sought out a church, or perhaps a temple, but here you are. I’m sorry to inform you, but what you seek is to be absolved of your guilt, of your fear of facing a similar fate. You wish to be comfortable, not forgiven, you and I both know that.” I was unable to argue. I was able to break her gaze briefly, and much to my relief, the screaming had stopped.. “What I can offer you, Mr. Benson, is precisely that. The opportunity to indulge in life’s comforts without that pesky heart of yours shutting itself down and forcing you to face your creator. I can rid you of fear, of guilt, and of poverty, .” I remained silent. “Is this what you want, Goop?”

“Yes.” I said, looking down at my lap.

“I want to hear you. Look at me.” I looked up and met her eyes, feeling them pierce my very soul.

“Yes, Madame, anything. I want to be free.” she smiled wide and sat back in her chair.

“Of course you do. And perhaps you will be. But relief does not come without exchange. You’ll have to supply me with some payments.”

“How much money?” she was sent into a cackling fit once more. The sound sent electricity down my spine and into my gut.

“Not money, Mr. Benson. Lives. Every 33 years, beginning when the moon rises on this night, you must take the life of another to take your place. In exchange, you will be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, free to explore the dangerous thrills of this universe without risk, never having to face the world beyond the one which you inhabit.”

“But I’m not a killer!”

“I suggest you save the act, Mr. Benson.”

A pale digit that could have belonged to the reaper himself began to extend towards me. As her hand became exposed beyond the cavernous sleeve of her gown, I noticed nails red as the very blood in my veins. The Madame looked straight into my eyes as the nail touched just above my heart. Suddenly, a sharp burning sensation pierced my chest. I screamed in agony as I fell to the floor, clutching the left side of my chest.

“What the hell are you doing to me? For the love of God, make it stop!”

“God is no longer your ally, Mr. Benson,” Madame Laretta said as she stood over me. The smile on her face had been replaced with a pursed-lipped glare. “If you are to fail me, if you can not take the life of another, I will find you.”

“What, are you planning to kill me, is that what this is? Some sort of sick game of torment?” the burning sensation suddenly grew more intense. I tried to scream, but my open mouth produced nothing more than a stream of warm air.

“No, death is no longer an option for you, unfortunately. If the time comes for you to kill again, you will kill. That is not up for debate. The longer it takes for you to take a life, the more of yourself you will lose. While your soul is eternal, it is, how should I put this, stained. If you try to disobey me, the stain will grow, and if a life is not taken, it will consume every bit of humanity remaining within you. Once it is gone, you will be nothing more than an animal. Remember this feeling, right here and now. Remember your pain, your helplessness. The pain will grow, and you will be driven mad until you are unable to recognize what is staring back at you in the mirror. You must never forget that this gift does not come without cost or without consequence.” The pain in my chest suddenly subsided. I jumped to my feet, gasping for air and still clutching my chest.

“What have I done?” I whispered to myself.

“Fret not, Mr. Benson. It is a small price to pay for my eternal love.” Madame Laretta grabbed my face and kissed me deeply, sending grotesque images of death, destruction, and carnage flashing through my mind. I stumbled backwards and out of the shack into the damp evening air. The sun was just beginning to set. I made my way to the rowboat in awe of what I had just experienced, only half sure it had actually happened to me. I turned to look over my shoulder at the shack before departing, only to find that there was nothing in its place except a patch of scorched earth in the otherwise luscious greenery. When I reached the town from which I had departed, night had fallen, and the world was illuminated only by thin blue moonlight. I docked the boat and began walking the streets, a part of me still hoping to wake up in a familiar bed from a particularly vivid nightmare. I needed to be sure.

Ahead of me walked a single man, nothing more than a silhouette from where I stood. I followed him through the night, unseen but not trying particularly to hide my presence. I made sure we were alone, quickening my pace to catch up. I began to gain on him, and when I was only a few feet behind him, I pulled the .22 caliber pistol from the inner pocket of my jacket and fired three rounds into the back of his skull. The flash from the muzzle allowed me briefly to see the fine mist of crimson spouting from the impact points. I looked down at the body at my feet as the blood pooled around his head, reflecting the moonlight. Then, placing the gun back into my jacket, I ran off into the night with a single tear streaming down my cheek. I never even saw his face.

I approached the bank of a stream, gazing into the dark flowing water. I let the cool, refreshing liquid run over my hands, erasing the final traces of what I had done. Then, without taking a breath, I held my head under and began to count. Ten seconds. Thirty seconds. One minute. Two minutes. As the seconds passed I began to realize truly that my fate was sealed. This was real, and there would be no dramatic awakening. My lungs did not beg for oxygen, nor did my lips fly open beneath the rushing water, gasping for relief. I could no longer die, at least, I could no longer drown. Before I left, I tried once more, just to be sure.

That day had been the last day of my true humanity. The year is now 1972, and the burning in my chest has returned. It’s time once again to pay my debt to Madame Laretta. With each kill I feel myself grow further and further from human, and as time passes, I realize that I have not been absolved of, but rather have been given guilt renewed, simply left with more opportunity to mask it, but drugs can only make a man so numb. There are only so many blacked-out rampages a man can go on before recognizing fully that what is done can not be undone.

As I followed the nameless, faceless victim down Bourbon street, my hands began to tremble. “Please don’t turn the corner. Please don’t let me be alone with you. For the love of God find a different way.” I begged him from within my mind, hoping he would somehow hear me, but it was no use. The man with dark hair and a red flannel shirt turned the corner into an alleyway. We were alone now. It was around 2 o’clock in the morning now, and the moon illuminated the Earth as it had so many times before. I approached him from behind, making sure he was aware of my presence. I wondered if he knew this was the night he was going to die. “Excuse me, hate to be a bother, but have you got the time?” I asked, my right hand clutching the handle of the blade in my pocket. I felt the cool steel of the blade meet smooth wood against my trembling fingers.

“What?” he said, mildly startled, as he turned towards me, revealing a face no older than twenty-five. The knot in my stomach clenched into a monkey’s fist. “Uh, yeah, hold on. It’s, uh,” he said, squinting at his watch in the darkness. Before he could finish, I plunged the blade deep into his abdomen and twisted. I pulled the blade back, stabbing him once more through the neck, collapsing him to the pavement. A river of smooth, dark liquid poured from his neck and onto the pavement. It was then that I witnessed the unmistakable moment of mortality. It’s all in the eyes. Any trace of what was once a happy young man was now lost, perhaps to be found again in another life, or so I hoped. Although his eyes remained open, the lights were off, the show was over. As I gazed down at the lifeless figure I began to wonder. Had he, perhaps, wished for release as I had? Had he been consumed by guilt and grief so vivid that reality had become a warped caricature of itself? Or had he perhaps been a righteous man, now on his way to join Jehovah's chorus?

“Sorry about that. Nothing personal.” I said as my fingertips gently closed his eyelids. I tossed the knife into a nearby storm drain, gazing up at the moon as it washed away towards the sea, never again to pierce living flesh. A single tear ran down my cheek as I made my way to the bus station. From my pocket I produced two yellow tablets and swallowed them. Everything was alright, for now.

END