Excerpt: DOOM MAGNETIC!

- THE MAN WITH THE CUE BALL EYE -

“Fill ‘er up.” says Doogan, slamming his dirty beer mug on the countertop of the bar. It was his fourteenth tonight and he was just gettin’ started. The barkeep takes his glass, pulls back on the tap handle, and fills the mug up to its rim – not even a centimeter of head sits atop. The barkeep returns the glass to Doogan’s dirty, bleeding hands. Doogan tips his brown Stetson hat toward the barkeep and takes a sup.

It’s been a pretty good night. So far, there have been four separate barroom brawls that have broken out. Nothing gets a man’s heart a’thumpin’ like good old fashioned brawlin’. Eighteen men have died tonight here in this very saloon – three at the hand of ol’ Doogan. It’s been a slow week. Many of ‘em have nothin’ to look forward to ‘cept the weekend beatings down here at Crunch’s Saloon. They all secretly hope that they too will one day die fightin’ - to be a man who stood for somethin’. They all wish they could be so lucky.

Doogan spins around on his bar stool, his back now facin’ the bar. He studies his surroundings, the aftermath. Only two round wooden tables are left standing upright, the rest have toppled over or have been broken into kindling. It’s dark, ‘cept for the stage - where Five Japanese geisha-girls are dancing nude, covering their goodies with large wooden fans. The pain in Doogan’s fist is starting to return. He clenches it tight and feels his arthritis stiffening around his bones. He chugs the rest of his beer and slams the glass back down on the bar. He needs to drink faster – loosen up a bit.

Beer number fifteen.

“…oh, yup yup, she’s a beaut’ alright!” There are two men sitting at the bar to the left of him who are showin’ off their guns to each other. “Where’d you get somethin’ purdy like that, Dale? Down there at that gun shop on Twelfth?”

“Are you kiddin’? They ain’t got nothin’ but toys down there at that shop. If you want a real gun, you gotta go through the jailer.”

“The jailer? Ah, you is pullin’ mah leg, aintchee?”

“No shittin’, the jailer! Slip him a twenty and he’ll let you have your pick of the lot. He just don’t want you mentionin’ his name if you get caught with one of ‘em.”

“Fair enough. I ain’t no squealer no how!”

Doogan steals a peak at the boaster’s canon. Ha, it ain’t nothin’ but a dollied-up .38. It ain’t nothin’ compared to the boom-sticks ol’ Doogan has held in his day. Hell, it ain’t nothin’ compared to the boom-stick he’s got on him right now. But Doogan ain’t one to brag. In fact, Doogan ain’t much of a talker period.

“You wanna see it in action?”

“Heh, yeah buddy!”

The man with the nice purdy gun snaps back the hammer and unloads hot lead into his comrade’s skull. Blood sprays the walls. Bits of brain and bone shower the men sitting at the table behind them. The men wipe the blood off of their faces and pick the gooey bits of brain from their beards, before standing up to pulverize the man with the purdy gun.

“Hey, hey, hey!” the barkeep interrupts, “You’ns all heard what the Sheriff said! If’n we can’t keep the murderin’ down here to less than twenty a night, then I have no choice but to close up shop! You don’t want that and I don’t want that. So now, I reckon you boys best be playin’ nice from here on out, or you can go and get yer beer somewheres else!”

The men give the man with the purdy gun a nasty look and then quietly return to their seats.

“I suggest you best be puttin’ that purdy lil’ cannon of yours away. I don’t want no more killin’ tonight, y’hear?” advises the barkeep. The man heeds his advice and buries the gun back into its holster.

Doogan takes out a hand-rolled cigar from his left shirt pocket, lights it up. He pushes the butt to his lips and takes a draw.

BOOM!

A bolt of lightnin’ strikes down from the sky and makes contact with the ground in front of the saloon. Everyone in the bar is quiet, startled by the close vicinity of the bolt. The saloon doors swing open and a pack of strange black critters scurry into the bar. The critters look strange, definitely not human. They’re deep black in color, short – about two feet tall, and have large shiny yellow teeth, sharpened at the tips – as if they all had mouths full of daggers. None of ‘em have eyes, but somehow they all seem t’ be pretty aware of their surroundings. They pile into the bar, about a hundred of ‘em in total. They are all croaking like giant toads, deep and guttural. The entire bar is filled with the symphony of a swamp. The acoustics in this ol’ saloon ain’t too shabby, either – it kinda sounds nice, peaceful.

No one in the bar had ever seen such a sight – no one ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. Doogan knew all about these critters. In fact, ol’ Doogan even spent a summer out on Mopervista, the critters’ home planet. His line of work requires him to travel such distances. Doogan also knows that these Mopes are mean sonsabitches – whatever they’re doin’ here, it ain’t no joke. If two or three of these Mopes get a hold of somebody, then two minutes later there ain’t nothin’ left of ‘em but their shiny white bones.

Doogan exhales. Good cigar – damn good.

The saloon doors swing open again. A tall, bald Japanese man, holding a long black scepter with a white stone shinin’ atop, enters the saloon. He is wearing a long dark blue kimono and a large kasa hat made from Japanese cypress that covers most of his face. He has a long gray and white bushy Sam Elliot moustache with no beard. He stands in the doorway and quite dramatically raises his head so that everyone in the saloon can see the face beneath his kasa. The man has a cue ball for an eye. The ball is much bigger than his socket. It looks as if it had been beaten into his face and his skin had just healed on up around it. The man speaks.

“I’m looking for a man…” the Japanese man speaks in perfect English. “His name is Maundin. Can anyone here tell me where he is?”

Maundin? Doogan knew that name. What the hell were they wantin’ with Maundin? Doogan turns around, now seeing the man for the first time. The man with the cue ball for an eye! Could it be? Is it really him?!

Doogan stands up and walks over toward the Japanese man. The Japanese man sniffs at the air and smiles.

“Maundin is here! I can smell him!”

Everyone in the bar is silent. The girls onstage are struggling to wiggle back into their clothing.

“You!” the Japanese man says, pointing to the man with the purdy gun, “Tell me where Maundin is!”

“I don’t kn—“

“Tell me where Maundin is or die!”

The man looks around at the Mopes, suddenly surrounding him. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who Mau—“

The Japanese man gives the signal. The Mopes pounce on the man and strip the meat clean from his bones.

“You!” the Japanese man says, pointing again at another stranger in the crowd. “Tell me where—“

“Now you just calm yer bones there, Mister!” interrupts the barkeep, “You just broke the law now… now I hafta close up fer the evenin’! Everybody, get on outta here! Go on, get!”

“No one is leaving.” says the Japanese man, calmly.

“I ain’t got no choice in the matter. It’s the law!” says the barkeep.

“I AM HIGHER THAN THE LAW, I AM A GOD!” shouted the Japanese man.

The bar is quiet again.

“Now somebody better be giving me some information on the whereabouts of Maundin and give them to me quick. I am beginning to lose my patience.” says the Japanese man, burying his frustration. “Barkeep, the next round is on me.”
The barkeep nods and starts distributin’ drinks all around. Doogan knows it is him that the Japanese man smells. He gets up and casually walks toward the swingin’ doors of the saloon.

“Tut! Where do you think you are going?” the Japanese man asks him.

“I need some fresh air.” Doogan quips.

“Then remove that foul stogie from your mouth and have a seat.” Doogan slowly pulls the cigar from his mouth and drops it to the floor. “The show has only just begun! One of you, turn on all of these lights!”

One of the men from the back of the bar walks over and flips the main switch. The bar lights up like a goddamn shoppin’ mall.

“Now, I’ll ask again…” the Japanese man says, “Where is Maundin?”

The saloon remains quiet. Doogan looks around at all the others.

“I know he is here, this whole god forsaken place reeks of his presence!” He is getting angry. “Do any of you even know who I am?”

No one else in the saloon seems to recognize him.

“My name is Qoser. I have come from the fifth realm. I can peel your skin with a flick of my wrist and turn your bodies inside out.”

Just about everyone in the saloon is a’shittin’ in their britches right now, ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. Doogan is playin’ it cool.

“I don’t want to have to kill every last one of you, but I will not lie to you, I have been known to do worse. Give me what I want. Hand him over and I will let you be.”
No response, only silence. The Mopes are droolin’ so much that little puddles are gathering down on the floorboards. There is gonna be a feast tonight!

“Ahhh…” Qoser closes his eyes and takes a deep whiff, “I can smell your hatred! You would like to kill me wouldn’t you? Hahaha…. your anger can only make me stronger! Look what I can do with your hatred!”

Qoser lifts his right hand into the air, as if conductin’ a symphony. He has a silver ring on his pinky finger that slithers and wraps around the bone like a tiny snake. Its tail comes to a point that extends about half an inch from the tip of his finger. Qoser takes a deep breath and howls as he tears into the air with the tip of his ring. The air splits apart as if he were tearin’ into latex. Inside of the tear is absolute darkness, a vacuum. The further down he tears, the stronger the suction becomes. The men and women in the saloon secure themselves to somethin’ stable. The suction becomes stronger and stronger. After two men and three or four Mopes are sucked into the void, Qoser licks his thumb and index fingers and pinches the slit closed.

The crowd is stupified.

“Kill them all.” Qoser orders, almost under his breath. He is tired of all this lack of cooperation. The Mopes spread their black lips and reveal their jagged dagger-teeth just before pouncing on their prey.

It doesn’t take a hundred Mopes but a minute or so to strip all of them men’s bones… well, all of ‘em but ol’ Doogan’s. Doogan stands firm in the far corner of the saloon. He finds a half-empty mug of beer on the table beside of him and gulps it down. When the Mopes finish their snacks, they easily sniff out Doogan’s blood and come a’chargin’, a pack of about fifty of ‘em - all at once. Doogan throws his empty beer mug to the floor and quickly draws his cannon from its holster.

The gun is a purdy little, shiny automatic handgun with the words “Do it or die…” engraved on the handle. It’s the kind of gun only professionals carry. It’s the kind of gun only found in the underground.

Doogan unloads hot lead into the tiny brains of every Mope that comes his way. Blood, brains, black flesh and teeth shower the saloon. When Doogan is finished slaying the last of ‘em, Qoser begins to clap.

“Bravo! Bravo! Great show old chap, really, just marvelous!” Qoser continues to applaud. “Dare I ask your name, old boy? Perhaps I already know?” Doogan just keeps a’starin’ back at Qoser, still aiming his cannon. “Maundin?” Qoser stops clapping. His grin tightens into a menacing snarl. He holds his hand up in front of him and quickly yanks it back toward his body. All of a sudden Doogan’s body, over twenty feet away, goes hurlin’ through the air comin’ to an abrupt stop just about a foot away from Qoser. Qoser keeps him there, hangin’ about two feet off of the ground. Qoser takes a deep breath in through his nostrils. He exhales.
“No… you are not Maundin, but you have his smell all over you. You know where he is, don’t you?”

“Fuck you.” Doogan says, spittin’ down in Qoser’s face. The wad of mucus slides and hangs limply off of his cue ball eye.

Qoser loses his temper and flicks his wrist. Doogan’s skin begins to tear and separate from his body, his internal organs spill across the floor. His skin stretches out like a blanket and folds itself back around the hanging skeleton, inside-out. Qoser allows the body to fall to the floor, lifelessly.

Qoser takes his sleeve and wipes his cue ball eye clean. The entire saloon is now covered with buckets of blood, brain and bone. I make my way through the mess, grippin’ a length of steel wire pulled tightly between both of my fists.

I make a mistake, I step on a sliver of skull. The crunch echoes throughout the otherwise quiet saloon. Qoser quickly turns around.

I wrap the steel wire around his neck and pull… tightly… with all my might I pull! As the wire cuts into his neck, it does the same to my hands. Both of our blood mixes and pours onto the floor below. Still, I pull harder and harder. I hear him gurglin’. He is spittin’ up blood. He mumbles somethin’.

“Maun… din…”

I begin to alternate hands, first pullin’ with the left, then the right, then the left again – a sawing motion. Qoser’s head is finally severed completely from his body. It hits the floor with a heavy thud, crackin’ his cue ball eye.

I take a moment to breathe and doctor my hands – rippin’ off a sleeve of Qoser’s kimono and tearin’ the cloth into thin strips. I wrap my hand tight to stop the bleedin’.
Doogan – he was a hell of a partner, but a necessary sacrifice. I’ve got to be smarter than this, they’re catchin’ up.

I take my coat off of the rack and exit through the swingin’ doors of Crunch’s Saloon.