burgundy, ceilings, masked smiles, etc.

Mark was lying on a couch when I came in. He had a book in his hands that he held high above his face as if he was trying to contrast the text with the ceiling. He put the book down and lit a cigarette as I closed the door. “Mom and Dad are out,” he told me. His eyes were glazed over and he looked like a languid lizard stretched out on cushions.

I took a seat in the bucket chair across from the couch. “Famished?” I asked. Before responding, Mark absently scratched at a sizable, discolored section of skin on his cheek. It was a purplish patch that faded to an unhealthy yellow near the fringes. “Like I haven’t eaten for days,” he replied distractedly, managing to get a couple fingernails under the rotten skin. He pinched it and tore the whole piece off. He let it drop to the ground and continued to stare at the ceiling in his oblivious way.

I felt a little out of place, as if I suddenly didn’t belong in the room, the way a tourist might feel when he finds himself lost at night, caught in a back alley of a foreign city, not knowing the language, the customs, formalities or other trifles that everyone holds so differently, so preciously. I shifted my weight uncomfortably in the bucket chair and glanced at Mark’s exposed cheek. The flesh was already regenerating over the exposed muscle. It was like watching yeast rise in the oven while a tapestry was being woven over it by an invisible pair of hands.

“The doctor said that I’m risking a heart-attack at the rate my flesh is rotting.”

“That’s no good,” I said, “Did he tell you anything you could do?”

Mark laughed. “Yeah, stop injecting hirkin.” The idea made me laugh a little too, but the laugh felt like a cough. Hirkin was the reason I was sitting in Mark’s living room.

“Speaking of hirkin . . .” I began.

“How much do you need?” asked Mark.

“Fourteen, if you have enough to spare.”

“I do, indeed, have what you need.” He lolled the words and they swam out through the air that seemed to have congealed in the short time since he had initially mentioned hirkin. My mind reeled as he pulled out his stash from a cushion beneath him. There was a hazy flash of a man and woman leaning over me, shaking you and whispering. I shook my head and reached over for the bag Mark held out to me.

“Fifty,” he said. I pulled out a wad of purple bills. They felt like pudding in my hand. Play Land money.

“Careful with it,” said Mark, putting his head back down into a pillow while pocketing the money, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He scratched his elbow where another purple patch had begun to grow.

“You know me,” I told him, holding my arms out theatrically, “I’m Mr. Diligent.” Then I stood up and stuffed the plastic bag into my right pant pocket.

“I know you,” lolled Mark as I left the house.



I walked back to my apartment like a robot in its jerky death throes. It was only a few blocks and I made it home in twenty minutes or so. I bolted the door behind me and yelled “Foul weather for the popery!” Lindsay didn’t answer, but I knew she was home because of the tobacco smoke crawling out of the kitchen.
She was sitting at the kitchen table and didn’t turn to greet me as I walked into the room. It was still daytime and sunny outside, but she had the shades pulled down and the place was dimly lit with the unnatural, shaded yellow of a waning lamp.

I put my hands on the back of her chair and leaned over her shoulder. “I said hello darling. Aren’t you glad to see me?” She brought her cigarette up to her lips and took a drag. When she exhaled, the smoke rushed out in a controlled stream that I imagined steeply banked by a poetic lethargy. “You really should quit,” I told her, dancing around to the other side of the table and taking a seat, “It’s a nasty habit that.” She smiled sardonically. I threw the bag of hirkin onto the table between us. I noticed she had a red patch spreading on her chin.
 
“How much?” she asked.

“Fourteen.”

“Nice,” she sounded like a sister patronizing her younger brother for catching a frog. I reached across and tore the patch of rotten flesh from her chin. “Thanks,” she said, taking another drag. I threw the skin peel over my shoulder in the general direction of the trashcan, though not bothering to look to see if I managed to actually get it in.

“Famished?” I asked her.

“Like I haven’t eaten for days,” she said lamely. I laughed. Everyone in Play Land was a broken record.

I walked over to the cabinet and pulled out the percolator. I held it open under the faucet and let some water into it. I brought it over to the table and plugged it in. Then I opened the bag of pills and put three of them in the grinder on top the percolator. I closed the lid and slid a petri dish under the nozzle. I pressed the only button the machine had. It began to grind the pills and hiss while it heated the water.

“Has your flesh been rotting more than usual,” I asked over the noise of the machine. Except to put out her cigarette, she hadn’t moved since I had come in. I was worried about the red patch I had just pulled off her chin, but I noticed the skin had already regenerated.

“Not especially much,” she said with a sigh. “Why?”

“When I was at Mark’s . . . he wasn’t looking too good. He’s losing huge patches of skin at a time. And his skin is growing back weird, scaly. He looks like a reptile.”

“Poor guy. Were Mom and Dad home?”

“No, Mark said they were out.” Lindsay pulled a cigarette out of her pack, looked at it, then apparently decided against smoking it and slipped it back into her pack. I walked over to the silverware drawer and took out the shooter. At the same time, the percolator quit its mechanic cacophony. A thin, greenish liquid steamed in the brimming petri dish.

“You know,” I said, dipping the tip of the shooter into the liquid, “I did get the sense like Mom and Dad were there at one point. It felt like they were shaking me.”

“Interesting,” replied Lindsay, her eyes firmly fixed on the green liquid rising in the translucent cartridge of the shooter.

“Indeed,” I said, pulling the shooter out of the liquid and studying the contents of the cartridge. “Indeed,” I repeated after a lengthy couple of seconds. I screwed the nose onto the shooter. “Ready?” I asked. That drew another weak smile out of her.

“I suppose.” I walked behind her and she pulled her hair over to her shoulder so that the side of her neck was exposed. I studied the submerged rivers of blue that showed through the pale flesh. I decided on a particularly fat one and gave it a short smack with my open palm. “Oww,” she said.

“Hold still.” I pushed the little needle on the nose of the shooter into the vein and pulled the trigger. The liquid vacuumed out of the cartridge.

“In Burgundy,” I whispered in her ear as her head dropped against the back of the metal chair. I watched a dark vapor spread beneath the glossy surface of her eyeballs as I stood there. Her lips parted slightly and she let out a blissful moan. I smiled and walked around the table to fill the shooter with the rest of the hirkin.



Jacques walked off the plane with a couple of brown, leather suitcases dangling from his arms. A crowd of passengers had congregated on the tarmac at the base of the staircase that led out of the plane and he had to push with his bags to get through them. Everyone talked excitedly and some were stretching out their legs after the long flight.

From his window on the plane, Jacques had watched the sunrise over the horizon of the ocean and now the same sun was high in the sky. The air was warm, but not stifling, and Jacques took a deep breath of it. As he looked around, a porter in a red coat with gold buttons ran up to him. The man had a thin, black mustache that curled up slightly at the tips.

“M. Chopin?” asked the porter, stretching out his arms for Jacques’ luggage.

“Thanks,” said Jacques, handing his suitcases to the porter.

“Right this way.” Jacques followed the porter towards a parked taxi a couple hundred yards from the plane.

“Mme Wintry asked us to pick you up and drive you to the hotel immediately.”

“That was nice of her,” said Jacques with a pensive expression. The porter put the suitcases in the trunk. Jacques handed the porter a few coins as he stepped into the backseat of the cab. “Merci bien,” said the porter, bowing graciously.

“We go to the Parque Fontier?” asked the cab driver, turning around when Jacques had shut his door. The driver had a swarthy complexion and scrunched his thick eyebrows when he asked the question.

“If that’s what you were told,” replied Jacques. The taxi pulled up to the airport gate and the driver rolled down his window. A soldier with an assault rifle hanging from his shoulder stuck his head in the car and glanced around. The driver and the soldier, in a dialect Jacques couldn’t understand, exchanged a few short words before the soldier withdrew his head and the driver rolled the window back up. The gate opened and the taxi drove through.

“No problems with the customs,” said the driver, looking back through the rearview mirror at Jacques.

“That’s pleasant,” said Jacques.

“Have you been to Burgundy before?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“Beautiful city,” the driver raised his hand, “And you came at the perfect time of year. The sea is beautiful, warm. And the girls!” He made a circle with his fingers and then kissed them. Jacques laughed.

“I don’t know how the Mrs. would feel about the girls.”

The driver laughed back. “Anything can happen in Burgundy you know.” He winked at Jacques in the rearview.

“I heard that. That’s why I came.”

They didn’t exchange words for the remainder of the trip and Jacques spent the time watching the city scenes slide by outside his window.



The cab came to a stop in front of an opulent-looking hotel. After the driver had retrieved the suitcases from the trunk, he handed Jacques his calling card. The name on it read Adolf Trunper and there was a phone number written beneath. “Call me if you need a ride, Monsieur, it would be my pleasure.” Jacques reached into his pocket for some money. “Mme Wintry has already paid me,” said the driver, waving his hands at Jacques. “Please, do not worry.”

“Well, here’s a tip anyway.” Jacques handed Adolf a few coins. “I’ll call if I need a taxi.” Adolf bowed and got back into the taxi. Jacques picked up his luggage and headed towards the lobby.

The clerk at the front desk was typing on a computer when Jacques walked up. He looked up at Jacques and smiled a sanguine smile. “I will be your clerk today, M. Chopin.”

“You’ve been expecting me?” asked Jacques in surprise.

“Oh yes, Mme Wintry described you down to the very last detail. I believe she is very anxious to see you. She is staying in room 314. Here is your key to the room. And, please, let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” said Jacques. He took the key and picked up his bags.



Jacques unlocked the door to 314 to reveal a luxurious suite. The carpet was plush enough to sink into and there was a bar against the sidewall with a mahogany tabletop with a glittering myriad of bottles and bottles of liquor on the shelves behind it. Heavy maroon drapes hung from the windows, letting in only thin strips of sunlight that angled across the room. In the filtered, mid-afternoon sunlight, the room struck Jacques as a dream, a sort of chimerical vision that he had suddenly become a part of.

“Hello?” he called. Nothing answered him. He brought his bags into the adjacent room. A giant bed rested in the center of this room. The bed was still neatly made and a mint chocolate lay on one of the pillows. He put his suitcases down, walked over to a window and pulled the drapes slightly aside. The window looked over the street in front of the hotel. Below, the cars rolled lazily down the street and the small groups of people were sauntering away their leisure hours in front of shop windows and cafes. He let the drape fall back into place, stretched his arms out and yawned. He decided to lay down for a bit.



While sleeping, Jacques dreamed that he was writhing on a floor as he stared up at a dirty, yellow ceiling. He could barely breathe and his eradicate breaths would come out in sharp gasps. He reached out in his spasms and clutched a leg of a metal chair. It came crashing down right next to his head and the noise sent him curling into a fetal position, rocking back and forth. Oh my God. Oh my God. I kept repeating it over and over again, tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I swear my chest was about to explode, but then the terrible vision began to dissolve from his conscious.



He felt a gentle hand rubbing his shoulder. “Mom? Dad?” he asked quietly, not opening his eyes. He was aware of a cold sweat collecting between his skin and clothes.

“It’s just a nightmare honey,” said a familiar, feminine voice. Jacques opened his eyes and a woman, leaning over him, materialized. Recognition slowly sifted into him and he sat up, placing his arms behind his back for support while he took deep, steady breaths.

“Lindsay,” he said.

“Did you get here alright?” she asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” he felt himself recovering as the hotel room around him came into focus, “Just fine. Thanks for sending the cab. Great room too.”

“Mark set it all up for us. You should thank him at dinner.”
 
“Mark’s here?”

“Apparently he got in a little before I did. I told him we’d meet in a couple hours at the restaurant downstairs.”

“What time is it?” asked Jacques. He looked down at his wrist, but realized that there was no watch on the other end of his gaze.

“There’s no time here, silly silly,” chided Lindsay playfully. Jacques noticed how brilliant her smile seemed. Swiftly, he grabbed her by the arms and rolled her over his body so that he suddenly lay on top of her, pinning her to the mattress. He leaned in close.

“But you just said we have to meet him in a couple of hours,” he said smiling, trying to simultaneously point out her faulty logic while still sounding seductive, “A couple hours sounds like time to me.” She raised her head and pecked him on the lips.

“Two hours is as long as we want it to be, honey,” she said, smiling in an innocent, almost childlike way. “It’s night already and I just think that we shouldn’t take forever.”

“It’s night already?” asked Jacques, shooting a glance at the draped windows.

“Mhmm” nodded Lindsay.

“You just want it to be night,” he said almost accusingly. He felt a little childlike himself.

“Maybe. But you want it to be night too.”

“It is more romantic that way,” said Jacques thoughtfully. He dropped his head to kiss Lindsay. Lindsay giggled and then her expression became serious and she kissed him back.



A couple hours later, Jacques and Lindsay went downstairs to the hotel restaurant, which was adjacent to the lobby. The host, wearing a tuxedo, stood behind a wooden podium as they walked in. “Bonsoir,” he greeted them with the slightest bow, “Mme Wintry et M. Chopin?”

“Yes sir,” nodded Lindsay.

“Right this way.” They followed the host towards the back of the room. The restaurant was only half-full and everyone seemed to be talking in hushed voices so that the background noise was little more than a muffled din.

The host led them to a lavish, red leather booth near the back of the room where Mark was already sitting with his feet up on the shiny, black tabletop. He was smoking a cigar and idly looking up at the ceiling as they approached.

“You made it,” he said, sluggishly swinging his legs off the table and sitting up straight. He had on a bucket hat and a sly smile. Jacques thought he looked exceptionally handsome in the soft light of the restaurant. His tan was a near perfect hue and his body gave off a muscular, vital aura.

Jacques and Lindsay slid into the booth across the table from Mark. “Yes we did,” smiled Jacques, putting his palms down deftly on the table for emphasis. Mark took the cigar out of his mouth and used his elbow to lean across the table towards them.

“Hate to spoil the trip, but I can’t ignore it anymore,” he whispered conspiratorially, his smile disappearing. “We got a major problem. I think we’re fucked.” He leaned back into his seat. “Fucked,” he mouthed silently, looking around.

Lindsay and Jacques exchanged glances. “What are you talking about?” laughed Jacques, “Did you forget your VISA card? I got a pocket full of coins if that’s what you’re worried about.” Mark stared back at them blankly. Jacques stopped laughing and asked again, “What are you talking about?”

“None of this feels odd to you?” Mark looked from Jacques to Lindsay and then back to Jacques. “You haven’t noticed anything strange?”

“No,” said Lindsay, shrugging her shoulders.

“Listen,” said Mark, “Mom and Dad are here. I know this for a fact. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure the police are crawling everywhere. This all has the feeling of a set-up. I’ve been too afraid to sleep. I’m positive that we’ve been set-up.” Mark puffed anxiously on his cigar.

“How can you be sure?” asked Lindsay in a legitimately panicked voice.

“They’re not materializing correctly. Someone else is in control. They all know my name without me wanting them to know it. A-and they’re looking for something.”

“Can I get you anything to drink?” came a shrill voice. All three of them gave a nervous start. There was a small man standing next to the table, apparently the waiter. Like the host, he was in a tuxedo and had one arm held behind his back while the other was held out in front of him like a towel rack for the long, white napkin draped over it.

Mark looked the waiter up and down suspiciously. Jacques narrowed his eyes and Lindsay touched Jacques’ thigh under the table. “No, we’re still deciding, go away please,” said Mark after a few dramatic moments.
“That is just fine,” said the waiter through a heavy accent, “I will return in five minutes.” The man turned on his heels and strode away.

“Did you just put him there?” asked Mark with a tinge of trepidation in his voice, glancing back and forth between Lindsay and Jacques. “Was that one of us that did that?”

“I don’t think I did,” said Jacques hesitantly with an addled look on his face.

“I can’t be sure,” admitted Lindsay, “I don’t think I did.”

“Shit,” said Mark as he ran his fingers through his hair. “Alright, well we can’t get too paranoid or else we’ll start to confuse ourselves. That’s the last thing we need. Just keep a clear head. Keep it cool. Something is going on, and we need to figure out what.”

“You said Mom and Dad were here?” asked Lindsay in a low voice, obviously trying to quell the panic in her voice.

Mark suddenly started laughing. “You should see your guys’ faces.” He put his head back and laughed hard at the ceiling, “Oh boy,” he wiped his eyes and tried to swallow the laughter into his wide smile. “I was just kidding, everything’s cool. I was the one who put the waiter there. I was just fucking with you guys.” He chuckled again.

“Oh, thanks Mark, you dick,” said Jacques resentfully. “I was actually worried.”

“Nice one, Mark,” said Lindsay with a nervous laugh.

Mark let out a contented sigh. “I couldn’t resist, I just couldn’t,” and then he chuckled again. “Anyway,” regaining his composure, “I did bring you guys some of this.” He slid a clear dime bag across the table. It was filled with a purple powder.

Jacques picked it up and held it in the light above his head. “What is it?” he asked.

“It’s Good.”

“Good?” asked Lindsay.

“Yeah, does battle with evil, makes the world worth living in, saves starving children from hunger, the whole shebang, but for fuck’s sake, Jacques, stop holding it up for everyone in the fucking restaurant to see!”



Jacques and Lindsay were in a stall in the women’s room. “I can’t believe I came all the way to fucking Burgundy to do Mark’s drugs in a fucking bathroom stall,” complained Jacques.

“He said it’s Good,” said Lindsay reassuringly.

“Whatever,” sighed Jacques, laying out a purple pile atop the ceramic back of the toilet. He pulled out a card and sliced the powder into two long, thin lines. “Do you have something I can use?”

Lindsay pulled a plastic straw out of her purse. “You go boy,” she said in a chiding, playful tone. Jacques leaned over and took an entire line in a single, fluid inhalation. He straightened up, stuck his nose in the air and snorted loudly.

“Arghh, it burns,” he said, sounding like he just came down with a cold. “It really burns.”

Lindsay was looking at the olive green siding of the stall. “Look at this,” she said, pointing to some small words scribbled in black sharpie. “It says: Close Your Eyes.”

Jacques had a hand on his forehead and looked dazed. “This stuff is Good, Lindsay. Fucking Good. What the hell does that even mean?” And he closed his eyes.



You’re surrounded by dark and the only thing you sense is a monotonous, incremental, and high-pitched beeping. You listen to the beeps, slightly annoyed but too tired to do anything. Soon the dark begins to fade a little and there is a light that is illuminating the other side of your eyelids and its lambent glow diffuses through you as you take hold of your consciousness. You feel sedated and weak, but the steady, intrusive beeps give you the impression of an electric pulse. As you listen, you realize that the beeps are coordinated with your heartbeat and soon you can also feel your breath go in and out, in and out with the beeps. You don’t open your eyes, but you know that you’re back in time. You measure the passing moments through each beep, each heartbeat, each breath. You rest here in the soft, formless light.

Then, from outside of you, there comes a masculine voice. It sounds excited and familiar. You hear the voice say, “Christie, Christie! Jacqueline just stirred. I just saw her stir.”

“Oh my God,” you hear another voice say, this one is feminine but it also sounds familiar. There is some ruffling, some shuffling, and then the feminine voice, really close to your face, says “Jacqueline, baby, it’s Mom, baby, can you hear me?” You can feel her warm breath on your ear and you smile weakly, but still don’t open your eyes.

“I’m going to get the doctor,” you hear the man’s voice say, “Stay with her.”

“Jacqueline, baby, can you hear me?” Not only can you hear her, but you can also sense the repressed tears from the paroxysm you’ve inspired in her. Then the glow starts to fade and soon you’re enveloped in darkness again.



Jacques and Lindsay were sitting at the table with Mark. “What is this stuff?” asked Lindsay in a detached tone, “It’s really strong.”

“Good?” asked Mark, replying in question.

“Yeah, I mean, yes, like I’m floating,” said Jacques through a stoned smile. “What are we doing here?”

“Waiting,” said Mark, glancing around the restaurant. “Are you guys hungry?”

“Not particularly,” said Lindsay. Jacques was staring at his fingers. Tiny patterns were swirling and taking shape on the surface of his fingernails. A dragon took form and smoke billowed from its bearded mouth. As the smoke wafted out, it began to take on the form of a rabbit. “Boo!” said Mark to his fingernail. The rabbit, scared, jumped off his fingernail and onto the floor. He watched it leap away, weaving between the tables until it was out of sight. He giggled after it.

“The carp will win,” sighed Lindsay.

“What’s up?” asked Mark, looking a little confused.

“There is a carp that has lived in Burgundy all his life,” began Lindsay, in a slow, calculated voice, “Which is to say he’s always existed and he has therefore never existed. Somehow knows his days are numbered, despite the timelessness of his existence. This knowledge puts the gleam in his eye. Personally,” her face took on a mechanical and expressionless air, “I don’t believe in hoaxes, but I’m starting to believe in the carp. It seems clear that he will triumph soon.”

“Triumph soon?” Mark’s face showed a slight amusement.

“Not long ago,” said Jacques, turning to make eye contact with Lindsay, “I, too, heard a similar story.”
“You guys are making absolutely no sense,” interrupted Mark. But Jacques continued as if he hadn’t heard him.

“There are many ways we could handle the carp and his gleam. The method with the most potential . . .” he paused for emphasis, then, annunciating each word carefully, “. . . involves a small pillbox and a ragged blade.” Lindsay’s eyes suddenly slid back into her head and she slumped back into the red leather. Her body started to convulse and Mark stood up quickly, cursing under his breath. He tried to get over to Lindsay, but Jacques shoved him back.

“What the fuck are you doing,” yelled Mark, but Jacques began throwing wild punches from his seat. Iron bars were rising all around the table and Jacques was yelling something about being framed. He ripped at the orange jumpsuit that had managed to appear on his body.

Instantly, the chaos subsided and Jacques found himself sitting alone on the concrete floor of a cell. Thick, iron bars caged him in on all sides. Outside of them was black nothingness, void. He seemed to be the only thing generating any sort of light in the environment.



His eyes traced the bars upwards. He couldn’t see where they ended because they disappeared into the pitch-black abysm that hung overhead. He stared up into the nothing for a little while. Then he looked down at his hands and wished that he had a ceiling to look at.