DOOM MAGNETIC! - CHAPTER ONE: THE MAN WITH THE CUE-BALL EYE
William Pauley III
“Fill ‘er up,” says Doogan, slammin’ his dirty beer mug on the bar top. It’s his fourteenth tonight and he’s 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. He returns the glass to Doogan’s dirty, bleedin’ hands. He tips his brown Stetson towards the barkeep and takes a swig.
It’s been a pretty good night. So far, there’ve been ‘bout four separate brawls that’ve broken out. Nothin’ 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 hands 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 to 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 hoohaas with fancy wooden fans. The pain in Doogan’s fist is startin’ to return. He clenches it tight, feelin’ his arthritis stiffening in 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 sittin’ at the bar to the left of him, showin’ off their guns to each other.
“Where’d you get somethin’ purdy like that, Dale? Down there at that Gertie’s Guns and Bait?”
“Are you kiddin’? They ain’t got nothin’ but children’s toys down there at that place. If you want a real gun, you gotta go through the jailer.”
“The jailer? Ah, youse 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’n you get caught with one of ‘em.”
“Fair enough. I ain’t no squealer no how!”
Doogan steals a peak at the boaster’s cannon. Ha, it ain’t nothin’ but a dollied-up .36. 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 straight 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 their faces and pick the gooey bits of brain from their beards, ‘fore standing up to pulverize the man who had caused it to be there.
“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 gentlemen give the man with the nice 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 takes 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!
The whole place shakes somethin’ awful as a bolt of lightnin’ strikes down from the sky and makes contact with the ground directly in front of the saloon. Everyone in the bar is quiet, startled by just how close the bolt hit.
The bat-wing doors of the saloon swing wide open and a pack of strange black critters scurry into the bar. The critters look strange, definitely not human. They’re deep purple in color, short, ‘bout two feet tall, and have large shiny teeth, sharp at the tips. Mouths full of yellow daggers, they have. 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’re all croaking like giant toads, deep and guttural. The saloon is filled with the symphony of a swamp. The acoustics in this ol’ place ain’t too shabby neither. It kinda sounds nice, peaceful—although something in my gut tells me they’re not here to make peace.
No one in the bar had ever seen such a sight. No one ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. He knows all about these critters. In fact, Doogan even spent a summer out on Mopervista, the critters’ home planet. He knows that these Mopes are mean sonsabitches and whatever they’re doin’ here, it ain’t no joke. If two or three of these Mopes get ahold of somebody, then two minutes later there ain’t nothin’ left of ‘em but glistenin’ white bones.
He 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. He’s 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 black bushy Sam Elliot moustache with no beard. He stands in the doorway and dramatically raises his head so that everyone in the saloon can see the face that lies beneath that giant 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. Ugly motherfucker.
“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 knows the name. He turns around, now seeing the man for the first time. The man with the cue-ball eye! He puts his hand on his gun. Fuck.
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 strugglin’ to wiggle back into their clothing.
“You,” the Japanese man says, pointin’ to the man with the nice 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 any Mau—”
The Japanese man raises his finger. The Mopes pounce on the man and begin to strip the meat clean from his bones.
“Okay now, how about you?” the Japanese man asks again, not wasting a single second to select another stranger from the crowd. “Tell me where—”
“Now you just calm yer bones there, Mister!” interrupts the barkeep, “You just broke the law…now I hafta close up fer the evenin’. Everybody, get on outta here! Go on, get!”
“No one is leaving,” says the Japanese man.
“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!” shouts 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’m beginning to lose my patience,” says the Japanese man, strugglin’ to bury 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 over towards the swingin’ bat-wing doors.
“You there,” the Japanese man says, stopping Doogan before he reaches the exit. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I need some fresh air,” Doogan replies.
“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! Go on, sit down and enjoy the show. One of you, turn on these lights!” the Japanese man says pointing at the dusty chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
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. Where is Maundin?”
The saloon remains quiet. Doogan looks ‘round at all the others. Everybody is starin’ into their beer mugs as if ignoring the guy is gonna somehow make him magically disappear.
“I know he’s here, the whole goddamn place reeks of him!” he says, gettin’ pretty riled up again. “Do any of you even know who I am?”
No one else in the saloon seems to recognize him.
“Alright. My name is Qoser. I’ve come from Planet Japan. I can peel skin with a flick of my wrist and turn all your bodies inside out.”
Just about everyone in the saloon is shittin’ in their britches right now, ‘cept for ol’ Doogan. Doogan is playin’ it mighty cool, especially for a man standin’ so close to the action.
“I don’t want to have to kill every last one of you, but I won’t lie, I have been known to do much worse. Give me what I want. Hand him over and I will let you get on with your night in peace.”
No response, only silence. The Mopes are droolin’ so much that little puddles are gatherin’ down on the floorboards. Oh, there’s gonna be a feast tonight!
“Ahhh…” Qoser closes his eye and takes a deep whiff, “I can smell your hatred. You would like to kill me, wouldn’t you?” he laughs. “Your anger only makes me stronger. Just look what I can do with it.”
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 out 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 stretched 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 even 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 stupefied. Qoser calls this the Doom Magnetic, but he doesn’t let anyone know that tonight. Tonight, he’s beyond frustrated.
He waits for someone to speak up. No one does.
“Kill them all,” Qoser orders, under his breath. The Mopes spread apart their black lips, showin’ off their jagged dagger teeth just before pouncin’ their prey.
It doesn’t take a hundred Mopes but a minute or so to strip all them men’s bones clean…well, all of ‘em but ol’ Doogan’s.
Doogan stands firm in the far corner of the saloon. He finds a half-empty beer mug on the table beside him and gulps it down.
When the Mopes finish with the other men, they come a’chargin’, a pack of about fifty of ‘em, all at once. He throws his empty beer mug to the floor and quickly draws his cannon from its holster. The gun is a shiny little 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, purple flesh and teeth shower the saloon. When Doogan is finished slayin’ the last of ‘em, Qoser applauds.
“Bravo! Bravo! Great show, really, just marvelous!” Qoser continues clapping. “Dare I ask your name, old boy?” Doogan just keeps a’starin’ back at Qoser, still aiming his cannon.
“Maundin, is it?” Qoser stops clapping. His grin tightens into a menacin’ snarl. He holds his hand up in front of him for a couple seconds, then quickly yanks it back towards his body. Doogan goes hurlin’ through the air, comin’ to an abrupt halt just in front of Qoser. Qoser keeps him there, hangin’ about two feet off the ground. He takes a deep breath in through his nostrils, then exhales.
“No…you’re not Maundin, but you have his stench all over you. You know where he is, don’t you?”
“Fuck you,” Doogan says, then spits in Qoser’s face. The wad of mucus slides and hangs limply off his cue-ball eye.
Qoser loses his temper and flicks his wrist. Doogan’s skin tears and separates from his body. His internal organs spill out onto the floor. His skin stretches out like a blanket and folds itself back around the hanging skeleton, inside out. Qoser drops the body to the floor, where it stays, lifeless. He then takes his sleeve and wipes his cue-ball eye clean. The entire saloon is now covered with buckets of blood, brain and bone.
I begin to make my way through the mess, grippin’ a length of steel wire I always keep with me in the pockets of my trench coat. I grip it tightly between both my fists.
But I make a mistake. I step on a sliver of skull. The crunch echoes and bounces off the walls of the quiet saloon. Qoser spins around, but before the bastitch has a chance to raise his hand, I wrap the steel wire around his neck and pull. With all my might, I pull. As the wire cuts into his neck, it does the same to my hands. Our blood mixes and pours onto the floor below. I keep my grip. I pull harder. He’s gurglin’, spittin’ up blood. He mumbles my name.
“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 finally snaps off and rolls away 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 strips of Qoser’s kimono to wrap my hand up tight, stop the bleedin’.
Shit. Doogan. He was a hell of a partner. I’ve got to be smarter than this, they’re catchin’ up.
I take my hat from the coat rack by the door and exit through the swingin’ batwings of Crunch’s Saloon.
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The Man With the Cue-Ball Eye
© William Pauley III, 2009
All rights reserved.
TDMT 1.1: "The Man With the Cue-Ball Eye"