Whispers From The Abyss (19 page)

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! YOU NEED TO WAKE HIM UP!”

“Wake him? Dude, it’s totally daytime. I don’t think so!”

“WAKE! HIM! UP! WAKE! HIM! UP!” Their squeaky little voices rose into a chant, feet stomping with each word. Occasionally a lone, shrill cry would cut through, screaming “He wants to awaken!”

Wilbur laughed. Shook his head. “So, like maybe you’re right. But you know, there’s only one way to wake an octopus and that’s to...” Over the in-studio PA a jaunty music box melody began to play. “...SING!”

Deep down in the bubbling blue there lives the Octopus King!

He came to Earth long, long ago, but then he fell asleep!

The water bubble bubble bubbles because he snores!

But he likes it when we sing!

Join me now in this song!

Let’s sing to the Octopus King!

On cue, the kids heeded the call to join in. Standing on their seats, one by one, they began to yap the words and mimic the dance Wilbur was performing—a sort of slow spinning jig with head held high and hand twirling. Finally the music box tune sputtered to a close.

The audience fell silent.

Wilbur turned, looked to the keep. The Octopus King was still a no-show. “Well dudes, I just don’t know. Maybe the King is hung over or something.”

The audience sparked up, all fifty-three child voices squealing together, “NOOOOOOOOOO! YOU FORGOT THE LAST PART!”

“Oh...oh wait! You’re totally right! Yeah dudes, we need to sing the song in Octopus words now! I totally forgot he can’t speak Amer...” The music kicked in again, this time a little louder and faster. Without missing a beat, the kids started up before Wilbur could even finish...

Ph-nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu!

R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!

N’gai, n’gha’ghaa, bugg-shoggog, y’hah!

Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtaaaaaaaaaaaaagn!

*     *     *

Cool tones oozed from the boombox nestled under Charlie’s desk. Pink Floyd.
Dark Side of the Moon
. The perfect chaser to a belly full of scotch. For all the things Charlie hated about this job, at least the office was always clear by three. What little staff WDDT could afford was either in the studio right now, or on their way home, back to their trailer parks and cigarettes and bathtub cooked meth. “Breathe...breathe in the aaaaair, don’t be afraid to caaaaare...” Charlie crooned with the music. His hands spilled over the keyboard, finger tips going numb. Strings of gibberish threaded across the screen. Charlie blinked. Tried to erase the error, only adding to the mess.
Shit
. The booze was hitting him hard. Wino physics had kicked in.

“Fuck it...” Charlie slurred. He pushed away from the computer and slumping into his chair, felt the squelch of wet leather as he sunk deep into sweat drench
ed cushions. His whole body was caving under the weight of a universe gone heavy. The room swayed. Spun. Turned bleary against the dusty light that pushed through the open blinds. Outside the bug zapper was crackling away, executing flies like a neon god of electric death. It blended into the Floyd seamlessly, the spits and sizzles becoming something of a rhythm track. Not a surprise, really. The disc had clicked to track three, which was all bleeps and blips, anyway. The zapper only added to the effect.

Charlie wiped a palm over his face, closed his eyes. “Relax, man. Relax and just ride the buzz,” he whispered to himself. “Feel the tension leak out. Remember, man... I am in control of my world and my body. I deserve good things. I can allow myself...” He trailed off. A light breeze had drifted through the window, which at that moment struck him as being more interesting than sifting through his brain for the affirmation. Didn’t matter. The booze had already gotten him to where he wanted to be. The breeze on Charlie’s skin was hot and moist, sticky like a dog’s breath.

“Dog breath,” Charlie muttered, “That’s what a Michigan summer is...a face full of goddamn dog breath.” For a second Charlie considered writing it down. That was the kind of clever shit he could put into a screenplay. He knew someday he’d get around to writing one. It’d make him famous. Be his ticket out of here.
Dog Breath Summer
, the words gnawed through Charlie’s imagination like piss black piranhas. That could be the title! An indie drama-comedy...
a dramady!
A man with an artist’s soul. A hot but quirky high school girl who is wise beyond her years. Together these two find each other in the most unlikely of places, a go-nowhere town in Michigan! The plot began to come into focus. He’d open to a scene of...

The phone rang.

“Shit!”
Charlie wrenched forward, instantly alert. By the second ring the receiver was pushed against his ear. “Hello, you’ve reached WDDT, provider of the finest local programming in the greater...” Before Charlie could rattle off the whole script the guy cut him off, “Git that queermo faggot off muh TV! What the hell you think yer doin’ showin’ my kids that faggot devil-talk!”

A voice.

Charlie heard a voice.

High-pitched. Nasally. Potentially dangerous.

“Wha...what?” Charlie sputtered, “Who is...ummm...how can I help y...”

“Don’t fiddly fuck around with me, buddy! I oughta kick yer ass! I oughta come down there right now and beat you so hard ya piss blood fer a week! Ya hear me?! I don’t know what passes fer entertainment up there in yer cushy TV building, but we’re good Christians in this town!”

What the fuck?! An angry call? Now? During kid’s hour?
Charlie struggled to connect the dots, but his brain hadn’t quite come back online. “Sir, if you could please jus...”

“Dang it! Are you is dumb is ya sound?! I ain’t callin’ to talk! I’m telling ya if  you don’t get that Satan worshippn’ clown off muh TV, I’m gunna come down there and put mah size ten boot in yer ass!”

“
Clown?
You mean Wilbur?!” Charlie jerked his gaze to the on-air monitor. His stomach dropped.
That stupid motherfucker! He was at it again!
Onscreen Wilbur was prancing along side one of the interns—Jack or PJ, or whatever the hell his name was. Charlie just knew him as “the fat one.” And right now, nearly every ounce of that pale, hair flecked blubber was on display, broadcasting live to hundreds of kids. Charlie blinked, parts of his brain refusing to accept what reality was showing it. Squid mask, black Speedos, and a Batman cape. The Octopus King costume left little to the imagination. But it was the dripping clumps of...
what the hell was that? Was he smeared in KY-jelly!?!

“Sir,” Charlie groaned. There was a taste of bile on his lips. “I will take care of this. Immediately. In the meantime, just turn off your TV or something.”

“Turn it off?!”

“Or change the channel. Whatever.”

“Hell no! I told ya! That devil clown, he’s got muh brats all riled up! I tried turnin’ the channel! Muh kids, they started biting me!
Turn it back! Turn it back, Papa!
There’s piss and shit all over the place!”

“Sure. Well, we all have problems.” Charlie slammed the phone down, then reached for the bottle of Dewars. Took a hard swig. Wilbur’s toothy grin beamed at him from across the room, a mouth full of rot jammed into the lens. Nausea squeezed at Charlie innards. My god did he want to knock those teeth in. “Stay cool...stay cool...” he breathed, “Gotta be the better man here. Can’t afford to lose this job...not yet. I’ll do what I do best, I’ll handle the situ...”

The phone rang.

Fuck
.

Charlie thumbed it over to speaker phone this time, not caring enough to expend the effort it’d take to lift the receiver. “You’ve reached WDDT,” he droned, “Provider of the finest local programming in...”

“It ain’t right what you’re doing!” A voice squawked back. Female. Probably middle aged. Definitely a smoker. “To children, of all people! To CHILDREN! How could you?! You make me sick!”

“Ma’am, we’re sorry for...aw, screw it.”  The sound the phone made as it collided with the on-air monitor was almost satisfying. The brittle crunch of plastic. The cracking glass. The call crackling to static before becoming dead air. The last thing the woman said before she cutout was something about “...making the little baby Jesus cry!”

*     *     *

Charlie shoved past the double doors and into Soundstage 2. Instantly his entire body went from damp to salty wet. The jump in temperature would have affected him,
should
have affected him, but the mix of alcohol and rage gave Charlie powers beyond that of mere sober men.

“Mister Foster, you can’t do that! Them mics are hot!” someone gasped. A stagehand.

“The hell I can’t!” Charlie spat, not bothering to make eye contact. Charlie didn’t have time or brain cells to waste on some piss ant part-timer. Charlie’s sights were locked on the stage. Locked on target. Locked on motherfucking Wilbur.

Charlie stomped down the aisle, hot veins of anger throbbing in his forehead. All around him the kids were going berserk, sneering, shrieking, hacking out mad laughter like squeaky machine
gun fire. Charlie kept moving, scarcely aware of the cacophony, that is until he heard the chant, “
Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!
” The phrase echoed into the rafters, carried up by the helium-pitched squeals of children in the grip of what could only be described as pious rapture, “
Cthulhu fhtagn! Cthulhu fhtagn!
”

Octopus talk.

Mother! Of! Shit!

These brats were chanting Wilbur’s made-up language! They’d fucking memorized it! Were certain to return home blabbing it! The very thing that had every toothless redneck parent in town crying for Charlie’s head on a pike! Didn’t matter that he was about to pull the plug! This octopus crap would drag on for days! Weeks, even! Kids in
Tranquil Bay were bored and stupid, fiending for stuff to annoy their parents with! It was the only reason Wilbur had an audience! Visions of the inevitable fallout exploded in Charlie’s mind...

More irate phone calls.

More threats of violence.

And public harassment? He might as well tattoo ‘abuse me’ on his face.

“What the fuck did I do to deserve this!?” he snarled. It came out sounding more like a primal growl.

On stage, Wilbur was shaking his ass under the glow of a single spotlight, a pair of chrome Elvis shades hooked over the bridge of his nose. Music was blaring out the PA system, garbled and distorted, nearly lost to the roar of the audience. Meanwhile,
Fattie in the mask swayed to the beat, hips jiggling side-to-side. His timing was off. The guy had no sense of rhythm. Wilbur, on the other hand, did. In those giant shoes of his, Wilbur spun, kicked, perfectly mimicked a Van Halen jump, then broken into song....

Well, if the stars betray ya!

And ya got a tale to tell!

Well, take a nap beneath the sea in the--

City ya dwell!

Oh ya been so lonely...

Oh ya been so lonely...

Oh ya been so lonely, but...

Even death, it can die!

“What the hell?” Charlie gasped. Was that
Heart Break Hotel
Wilbur was massacring?! It was hard to tell through all the noise. Stepping past the last row of seats Charlie came to the foot of the stage. There, kids were pressed body to body, ramming the guardrails, clamoring to get closer, reaching out, screaming, clawing for the Octopus King. No wonder Fattie kept a distance. He didn’t want to be ripped limb from limb by rabid seven-year-olds. Charlie waded into the crush of bodies. Barked an authoritative, “Outta my way! NOW!” His words disintegrated. Swallowed whole by the whirlwind. So he opted for a more direct approach, one he’d learned in lacrosse—hunch forward, shoulders out, and...GO! Five short strides and Charlie was up and on the stage, a mass of kids tumbling in his wake.

In the glare of the spotlight it took Wilbur seconds to realize what was going on. A man had just hopped the stage and was crawling to his feet. White shirt, thin tie, pants straight out of a Dockers commercial...
Oh crap! That was his boss!

“Well, if the stars betray...” Wilbur’s voice trailed off. He took a step back. Charlie was up now, fists clenched, knuckles white, a napalm gaze burning behind bloodshot eyes.

“Gimme.” Charlie mouthed, reaching for the microphone.

Wilbur choked. Complied.

“I’ll deal with
you
in a minute.” Charlie turned to the crowd. Felt every eye in the place on him. Dilated pupils. Gnashing teeth. A sea of tiny faces in the grip of a kind of warped
Beatles
mania. This could turn ugly. Fast. “Kill the music. Just kill it.” Charlie said through the mic. “I want the music off and the lights on.”

Working the booth today was Stan, WDDT’s resident tech. The old socket jockey lifted his head from behind double-paned glass, flicked Charlie a thumbs up.

The music cut out.

The lights rose.

The audience didn’t even notice.

Jeez, Charlie thought,
these kids are so dumb they think this is part of the show
. Well these
were
Wilbur’s fans.