More of the Losers

Part One here.

  And so, having mostly buried Silica, he went back inside and put on his favorite movie, popped open another beer (Natty Light, nectar of the trash gods), and fell into his couch, which still reeked of dog, even though he hadn’t had a dog for a couple of years now. His date would be arriving in an hour or so (who knew, with kids these days; time was completely relative), and he soon fell into a deep, strange sleep.

   He dreamed he was standing in Know-it-all Nick’s organic farm, leaning against the barn, looking out across the rows of fruit trees in bloom, white flowers rustling in the cold wind. Something nudged against his leg. An old mangled German Shepard stared up at him with marble eyes, its gray muzzle toothless and dripping drool. Amadeus. The old warden of the barn, a stinking, ancient mutt who ruled his kingdom of filth upon a dilapidated recliner. What is it, boy? The dog turned its hoary head toward the fruit trees. There was a haze descending, a thick fog-like mist that seemed to settle even on his eyeballs. Something moved beyond the trees. The old dog whined and turned to go, its arthritic joints creaking. What was it out there, among the mist? A specter conjured from childhood terrors? He wanted to see what it was, but he was scared. It could be anything out there in the fog. Looking past the approaching shape, he realized that the haze resembled the cloudy interior of an enormous terrarium rather than a low cloud. There were more things behind the figure now, bipedal creatures with stunted tails and slavering jaws. He screamed and turned toward the barn, tripping over a root. The earth opened suddenly, and there was Silica, hand outstretched, welcoming him into a half-ass grave.

   The Cretin woke up sweating, covered in spilled beer. On the television, Rip Torn had just awoken to find his house in Pakistan. 

 

…

   “How much did she cost you?” asked mustache cop.

   “I… don’t want to talk about it,” the Cretin replied.

   “Good god, look at the knockers on her. Ever seen anything like that, Louise?”

   The woman cop gave mustache cop a look that clearly conveyed her disapproval of his comment.

   “So am I being charged with anything?” he said.

   “You want to get rid of this thing?” asked mustache cop. “I know a good place to put it.”

   “Hell no, Larry, you’re not pulling this again,” said Louise.

   “Come on, the guy dug a hole in the ground and buried it. He obviously doesn’t want it. Don’t act like there’s some quid pro quo going on.”

   “Is there some quid pro quo going on?” the Cretin asked.

   “Depends on how much you want for it,” said mustache cop/Larry.

   Louise had a notebook open, in which she was writing furiously.

   “What’s your name again?” she asked him.

   The Cretin told her his name. He hated the sound of it on his lips, puckering them like a sour beer.

   “Well I think I’m going to have to confiscate this, for evidence,” said Larry.

   “Don’t touch that thing, Larry, or I swear to god I’ll do everything in my power to see that you’re fired.”

   “It’s alright,” said the Cretin. “Take it. I willingly give it to you. It’s better this way. For everybody.”

   “Hey, thanks a lot!” said Larry.

   “You’re going to have to come back later to get that thing. I’m not letting you put that in the backseat of the cruiser,” said Louise.

   “The guys at the station would love to see it…”

   “What about the women at the station, Larry? What do you think they’ll think of it? Christ, what year do you think it is?”

   “We’ll get a naked man for the girls! That way, everything is even.”

   The Cretin stood next to the hole, looking down into its black depths. Five feet transformed into an abyss, and he was seized by the urge to leap into it, to wave goodbye to the ridiculous circumstances of his life. Instead, he looked up into the sky and saw an enormous circle descending from the moon like the marble eye of a fallen god. It was growing larger and larger, and he realized with horror that it was the terrarium from his dream. There was a slight tremor in the earth, and his knees buckled, while the sky took on a cloudy, fogged appearance. Am I slipping? Is this what it feels like to lose your marbles?

   “Woah, what was that?” said Larry. “Felt like the ground shook.”

   “I didn’t feel anything. You’re not drinking again?” asked Louise.

   “Man are you on my case tonight. What’s the harm in a little drink every now and then?”

   “On the job? As an officer of the law?” said Louise, incredulous.

   “Yeah, it’s stressful! This is a hard job. We should get certain liberties.”

   “Does the sky look like it’s covered by a giant fish bowl?” interrupted the Cretin. They both turned to look at him but followed his finger upward.

   “Looks like darkness to me,” said Larry.

   “I do see something. Maybe an atmospheric effect. Swamp gas, who knows?” said Louise.

   “Swamp gas? Where is there a swamp around here?” asked Larry.

   “I’m trying to give a rational explanation. Do you think that it is rational to assume that we’re covered by a giant fish bowl?”

   “I don’t know, I’m not the one who sees any… well, hell, there is something up there. Looks like the clouds are on the other side, don’t it? Maybe that was the noise we heard.”

   “The fall of something immensely heavy. Something improbable. Unimaginable,” said the Cretin.

   “Well you imagined it,” said Larry.

   “I think we’re done here,” said Louise.

   “Are you going to investigate that?” asked the Cretin, again pointing upward. He knew it was a stupid question, but that had never stopped him before.

   “Yeah, I’ll hop in my rocket ship and check it out,” said Larry. “Say, could you put that doll by the door? I’ll swing by after work and pick it up.”

   “Do you know who we could call about the fish bowl?” pressed the Cretin. He had an overwhelming intuition that he should not let the appearance of the terrarium go, that if he did so, something terrible would occur, an event apocalyptic in scope. Of course, he’d had hunches before, but they’d never amounted to much. Still, you couldn’t ignore your senses, right? Improbable didn’t mean impossible? Was there truly anything that was impossible?

   “I really wouldn’t worry about it,” said Officer Louise. “Check the news. Probably won’t even notice it tomorrow.”

   Somehow, the Cretin knew she would be wrong.

…

   An hour later, he couldn’t sleep. The moonlight pouring through his window was altered; it appeared creamier, as though someone had spilled milk into a clear glass of water. He had to get up, get dressed, grab another beer. Outside, the air was also different. Thicker. Stale. Perhaps heavy with carbon dioxide. The Cretin opened the door of his Mustang, a canary yellow beater from the early aughts, and hopped inside. The engine didn’t exactly roar to life, but it made him feel slightly better to hear that his car sounded normal, at least. He pulled out of the driveway and steered through town, heading out to State Road 56 where he could build some speed. I’m just delirious. Tired. Sapped from dealing with the aftermath of another aborted attempt at sex. He told himself a lot of lies on a daily basis as a coping mechanism, a method of survival. Something buzzed in his ear, and he swatted at it reflexively. A mosquito. Parasite. Bloodsucker.

   The moon shone down ahead of him like a spotlight anticipating his movements. He turned up Millerbrick road and climbed its steep hill. A beater truck pulled ahead of him, seemingly spawned out of nowhere, its driver a young degenerate in a trucker hat, and the Cretin almost gunned it, but the faint surge of testosterone petered out before his foot could hit the pedal. Fuck off he yelled into the wind as dirty diesel choked his lungs, and the truck rocketed into his moonlight. He had a homicidal urge to open his glove compartment and take out his handgun and empty the clip at the hillbilly, yet the feeling subsided as he noticed something glimmering at the top of the hill, a shimmering distortion of darkness. The truck driver, however, did not slow down, either oblivious to the anomaly or confident in his ability to barrel through any obstacle. An instinct told the Cretin to slam on his brakes, and he did so just as the redneck’s pickup reached the summit of Millerbrick. The darkness lit up like a torch; bright red fire erupted across in spiraling waves, the truck caught, sinking slowly into a maw of magma. The Cretin opened the Mustang’s door and stood halfway atop the hill and watched. Tendrils of light moved upward, curving into the sky, illuminating the enormous dome that extend over the town and the surrounding countryside. Jesus he whispered.

   “Jesus,” said someone. He turned toward the side of the road and saw a woman standing there. There was dirt on her hands, chipped red paint on her fingernails. Her figure was the same improbable combination of impossibly large breasts and petite features. The eyes even had the same dull glow.

   “Silica,” he said, his voice faltering.

   “Silica,” replied the woman.