Kindle Edition
Borne Wilder
Category:
Literary Fiction
Publisher: Createspace
ISBN-10: 1516828615
Type: Fiction
Pages: 242
Copyright: August 8, 2015
ISBN-13: 9781516828616
Price: $2.99 (eBook)
The most undeserving man in the world has figured out the secret to eternal life.
All Nolte ever really wanted out of life, was to commit a nice mass murder and perhaps get his name in a few history books. But an abusive, overbearing mother and a timid; self-preservationist version of Jiminy Cricket had robbed him of every opportunity, at every turn. As far as Nolte was concerned, he had wasted his life. Until, a visit from the Reaper put all the cards back on the table. The only good Nolte is a dead Nolte.
A lifetime of bad choices and debauchery had put Nolte on the highway to Hell. With an eternity afloat on the Lake of Fire, an absolute certainty in his future, Nolte was obliged to either stay alive or face the music. Of course, Nolte knew no one could live forever, until he stumbled across a witch in New Orleans, who changed his mind.
She sells him a spell, which will link Heaven and Hell to the dimension of Time, allowing him to rise from the dead. After that, things start looking up.
On the third day he will be risen. But now that he’s finally dead, everyone wants him to stay that way. Nolte has other plans and all he has to do, to make the spell work, is cheat a Canaanite god, rip off Satan, elude a Special Ops team of Archangels, get his key to eternity back from his thieving sons and stave off the End of Days. The good news is; he has three whole days to get it done.
Excerpt
Nolte marveled at himself and his most ingenious plan. How God decided who goes up and who goes down, was beyond Nolte, he had assumed it was merit based, and up until a few hours ago, he had always held out a little hope, that God liked him, but that did not seem to be the case.
Televangelists, the hickerbilly sisters, even road signs, all proclaimed the availability of forgiveness and mercy, and to Nolte all that shit seemed fine and dandy, but with all things considered, his history. even in the most favorable lighting, didn’t have much of a shine to it. Though he tried not to dwell on the thought too much, it had always been in the back of his mind that the fires of hell were in his future.
It wasn’t the brightest of futures, but what was a man to do? Fall to his knees and swear fealty to some cloud king, a dude that probably had never tasted pussy? Then what? Walk around the rest of his life, grinning like an idiot, vomiting ‘Praise be’ and ‘Bless you’? Not him, he had some fucking pride, thank you very much. So what to do? What do stubborn fools, facing an eternity adrift on the lake of fire, do? They get fire insurance.
When the hooker in the French Quarter told him of a witch who could turn men into women, old men into little boys and raise the dead, a brilliant idea had formed in his head. When shitheads die they go to hell, the key word being die, so to remedy that bullshit, Nolte decided he would live forever. If the hooker’s witch could raise the dead, surely, it was feasible she could fiddle with the infinite, perhaps, tweak his time a tad.
Nolte was always coming up with brilliant ideas and dazzling plans that boggled his mind and this one was brilliant with a capital B. It was right up there on par with sliced bread and the self-flushing toilet. Even though none of his brilliant ideas and dazzling plans had ever reached fruition, or even the drawing board to be honest, he had high hopes for this one. However, there was one catch, though the hooker had nice tits, she was nuttier than squirrel shit.
Her story had sounded convincing enough, she had even produced a pickle jar with a dick in it, which she swore up and down, used to be hers. Nolte thought the thing looked more like two turkey gizzards; pickled in rancid piss than a willy johnson, but he had humored her. If it was a real pecker, it probably belonged to the last john who tried to leave without paying. Nolte had been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, nonetheless, he wanted to meet her witch.
Common sense viciously attacked his high hopes. Along with neck hair, Nolte relied heavily on common sense, but was reluctant to let go of a dream without thorough scrutiny. Common sense told him, if someone had found a way to raise the dead, he would have heard about it on television, on the nightly news. The most astounding breakthrough in modern science wouldn’t have come to him, by way of a fifty-dollar prostitute who advertises her former masculinity with a dick in a jar display. No one could reverse the aging process, if someone could, Oprah would have had them on her show and Dr. Phil would have been sent packing.
Common sense was winning. It wasn’t until she showed him the room with the boy and the old man did Nolte become convinced that at least some of what she was saying might be true.
***
An obese white man sat in a tattered Lazy-boy in the center of the room. A fat banker type, who probably ate Doritos and worked foreclosures, was Nolte’s immediate assessment. A reading lamp arched over the back of the chair, its wrinkled shade directed light through a small cloud of mosquitos and gnats, illuminating what, on closer examination, looked to be a very sick man. He was sweating profusely on account he was fat and it was Louisiana in the summer, but he appeared to be panting out a heart attack.
Fat men and N’awlins’ summers have long been sworn enemies, but it had been Nolte’s observation that the two were as inseparable as farts and black beans. Admittedly stereotypical and a full blooded racist, Nolte was willing to bet one couldn’t fling a bowl of jambalaya in July in the French Quarter, without hitting a fat banker with a shrimp. It was even odds on whether the fat man’s suit would be white, or powder blue.
This banker was naked, whether or not he was, for sure, in foreclosures was indeterminable without further inquiry, as the fat man’s suit was nowhere to be seen. Nolte’s attention was more focused on the two black women who were tending to the fat man. One knelt between his legs with a basin of water, humming softly as she washed the man’s dome of a belly, the other combed clumps of gray hair from his scalp. Nolte wished he had known this was on the menu, he liked a bit of brown sugar now and then.
“Go look, motherfucker, see if I ain’t telling you the truth.” The hooker crossed her arms in front of her defiantly. “The only time I lied to you, was when I told you your dick was big.”
Nolte entered the room, and walked over to the chair. The kneeling woman leaned to one side so he could better see what was going on. The fat man appeared to be fighting for air, his big gut heaving with each spittle-spraying gasp he took. Protruding from the man’s belly fat was the lower half of a black infant. The rest of the child, from just below the arms and up, was somehow embedded in the man.
The woman dipped her washcloth in the basin and gently washed the baby’s bottom; its tiny legs scraped at folds of flesh, as it tried to gain a foothold in the banker’s sweat slick stomach. Where the man and baby were connected, the skin was seamless and smooth. The only separation appeared to be where the different skin colors mingled and blended sharply. Nolte had seen some crazy, fucked up shit in his life, but this just topped the list.
Nolte looked from the helpless baby to the man’s greasy face; the fat fuck looked up at him.
“I think it’s working.” The fat banker stammered, and formed a half-hearted smile.
“What do you think is working?” Nolte asked. “You have a fucking nigger kid sticking out of your gut, is that what’s working?”
“You should have seen that motherfucker this morning, he was eighty years old.” The crazy hooker said, as she moved next to Nolte. “He start suckin’ at that baby at the crack of dawn. He’ll be done in a few more hours. The younger he get, the faster he can suck it up.”
Nolte’s eyes darted back to the baby, to look for stitches. There was no way this was real, he was born at night, but… “What in the fuck do you mean, he’s suckin’ it up?”
“He’s absorbin’ the youth of the young’un, maybe you should do this.” The hooker smiled. “Then you get hard ones a cat can’t scratch, yes?”
Had Nolte, any sense of decency, her nonchalant attitude, concerning his cock and the death of a child, would have appalled him, instead, his high hopes were back. A chill ran up his spine, this is the stuff dreams were made of.
Nolte ignored her, the sight before him had him sickly amazed. He couldn’t take his eyes off of what was happening. It was like a car crash with multiple fatalities strewn about; something deep inside you made you look and kept you looking.
He had seen his first kid being born, and had decided the so-called ‘miracle of life’ wasn’t all that miraculous, but this shit was amazing…a real miracle of life.
Over the next four and a half hours, Nolte watched the unholy spectacle, as intently as a copperhead might watch a drunken mouse stumble by. Inch by inch, the fat banker’s pus-gut slowly devoured the baby. The hooker having gotten bored and annoyed at the lack of attention she was receiving, left after half an hour claiming she’d seen the process too many times to feign interest in it again. She informed everyone, as she excused herself, her pussy wasn’t going to sell itself.
The normality of the ordeal, and the casual familiarity of the ‘attendants’ actions inspired Nolte, professionalism might have come to mind, had the room not been filthy and reeking of piss.
The two worked on the man cheerfully, dapping at sweat and periodically giving him sips of water from a sticky looking glass (that Nolte wouldn’t consider using to wash his scrotum), with no apparent empathy for the baby, who was now, nothing more than two small feet protruding from the fat banker, who was more flabby, than fat at this point. Nolte had thought about asking where the kid came from, but realized he probably didn’t really want to know. However, he did ask the fat man what he did for a living.
“Exotic cars.” He said, instinctively reaching for a business card, too late to remember he was naked. He played it off by scratching his nipple. So much for the foreclosure theory, Nolte thought.
As the soles of the baby’s feet faded and the soul of the baby was recycled, a young man’s face sat atop stretched slabs of skin layered like unspooled bolts of white man fabric. The car salesman, who resembled a banker, looked years younger than he had when Nolte had first entered the room. He now looked to be in his early thirties, though his skin hung off his frame, like wet towels draped over a clothesline, he no longer looked sickly. There were fresh wisps of blonde hair in scattered patches around his head. His face, except for some light stubble, was as smooth as the baby’s butt; he had just sucked into his stomach. If the man had any remorse for the child’s life he had just robbed, the youthful smile on his face betrayed it.
“I feel like a million bucks.”
“You sit tight, pretty Boss, Doc be here tomorrow to take you in a notch. Right now, you look like you wearin’ a parachute.”
“Hey ladies, what else can this witch do?” The two women stopped washing the man in the chair and looked up at Nolte; both wore the same big grin.
“What do you need, Sugar?”
“I need a life insurance policy.”
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