now other than what we are. We are not something you may simply set down and leave behind. What we are resides inside you now. Growing. Metastasizing. And the words will come soon. The ones your friend spoke to you. You now will tell another.
As you sit, returning to the drudgery of your previous existence, you should give thanks. We have given you more than you desired. Satiety is a lie. Desires never die. They can only be satisfied like hunger until they return. We have freed you from this cycle and cut you loose from your bonds.
Speak of us, but know you will be misunderstood.
Transformation. Permanence. You simply found more than you hoped for. The life you led is over. Already our purpose grows. When the next full moon rises, the water’s call will be too strong. Do not fight this.
Embrace it.
Flee the familiar. Go home stranger.
THE HEAVY
CHERIE PRIEST
“Everyone already thinks I’m a goddamned hippie,” Mark bitched.
He gulped another swig from his Heineken and knocked his knuckles against the bar.
Josh threw back the last drops at the bottom of his glass, shrugged and signaled the bartender that yes, please, he’d like another double-dose of Jack. “If you didn’t want any help, you should’ve shot it yourself.”
“I did shoot it myself,” he insisted. “And where’s your friend? He’s late.”
Josh glanced at the ancient, nicotine-stained clock that hung crookedly above the roadhouse door. “He’s got another five minutes.”
“This is stupid,” Mark said for the twentieth time. “It’s going to turn out the thing that got those goats was just a big damn dog. And my wife’s going to kill me.”
“What for? You’re not paying him anything.”
“You said he doesn’t charge up front?”
“He don’t charge at all. He just fixes things.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
Josh cupped his hand around his freshly refilled drink. “Because sometimes, things need fixing. And that’s what he does. The Heavy fixes things.”
The jukebox lit up on the one side that still lit up, and “Bad to the Bone” began to play. Mark checked over his shoulder, wondering what dumbass was too new to know that A-13 wasn’t really Lynyrd Skynyrd anymore.
He didn’t see anyone he didn’t recognize, so he turned back around and shifted on his stool. “Why do they call him that?” he asked.
“The Heavy?”
“Yeah. How come?”
Josh made a grin with the half of his mouth that wasn’t wrapped around the lip of his glass.
Before the song’s first verse was over, the hinges on the door gave their signature squeal and the street lamp out in the parking lot poked its edges into the room, but just barely. Something big was blocking it.
“Holy shit, ” said Mark.
The man in the doorway turned sideways a notch to let himself in.
He was not quite as big around as he was tall, and he was six foot five if he was an inch. His bullet-shaped head was perfectly bald except for the chops that sprouted a wild retreat from his topmost chin. From the neck of his metal head T-shirt to the tips of his motorcycle boots he wore black over every last inch; and covering up the whole of his massive frame was a coal-dark trench coat that was bigger than a bedspread.
He tossed Josh a nod of recognition, and he stomped toward the bar. It wasn’t an angry stomp; it was a stomp of sheer mass. The big man pointed at a bottle behind the counter and the bartender picked it up and started pouring.
While he waited for that drink, the Heavy approached Josh and Mark with his hand outstretched.
“Hey there, buddy! I hear you’ve got a problem.” His voice was quick and friendly, and so was his handshake. He angled his bulk against the side of the bar, skipping the stool and letting himself lean.
Mark was speechless, so Josh got the ball rolling.
“Well, first off, by way of getting fancy—Mark, this is Kilgore Jones. Kilgore, this is Mark,” Josh said. “He’s the man with the problem.”
Kilgore nodded. He’d
As you sit, returning to the drudgery of your previous existence, you should give thanks. We have given you more than you desired. Satiety is a lie. Desires never die. They can only be satisfied like hunger until they return. We have freed you from this cycle and cut you loose from your bonds.
Speak of us, but know you will be misunderstood.
Transformation. Permanence. You simply found more than you hoped for. The life you led is over. Already our purpose grows. When the next full moon rises, the water’s call will be too strong. Do not fight this.
Embrace it.
Flee the familiar. Go home stranger.
THE HEAVY
CHERIE PRIEST
“Everyone already thinks I’m a goddamned hippie,” Mark bitched.
He gulped another swig from his Heineken and knocked his knuckles against the bar.
Josh threw back the last drops at the bottom of his glass, shrugged and signaled the bartender that yes, please, he’d like another double-dose of Jack. “If you didn’t want any help, you should’ve shot it yourself.”
“I did shoot it myself,” he insisted. “And where’s your friend? He’s late.”
Josh glanced at the ancient, nicotine-stained clock that hung crookedly above the roadhouse door. “He’s got another five minutes.”
“This is stupid,” Mark said for the twentieth time. “It’s going to turn out the thing that got those goats was just a big damn dog. And my wife’s going to kill me.”
“What for? You’re not paying him anything.”
“You said he doesn’t charge up front?”
“He don’t charge at all. He just fixes things.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
Josh cupped his hand around his freshly refilled drink. “Because sometimes, things need fixing. And that’s what he does. The Heavy fixes things.”
The jukebox lit up on the one side that still lit up, and “Bad to the Bone” began to play. Mark checked over his shoulder, wondering what dumbass was too new to know that A-13 wasn’t really Lynyrd Skynyrd anymore.
He didn’t see anyone he didn’t recognize, so he turned back around and shifted on his stool. “Why do they call him that?” he asked.
“The Heavy?”
“Yeah. How come?”
Josh made a grin with the half of his mouth that wasn’t wrapped around the lip of his glass.
Before the song’s first verse was over, the hinges on the door gave their signature squeal and the street lamp out in the parking lot poked its edges into the room, but just barely. Something big was blocking it.
“Holy shit, ” said Mark.
The man in the doorway turned sideways a notch to let himself in.
He was not quite as big around as he was tall, and he was six foot five if he was an inch. His bullet-shaped head was perfectly bald except for the chops that sprouted a wild retreat from his topmost chin. From the neck of his metal head T-shirt to the tips of his motorcycle boots he wore black over every last inch; and covering up the whole of his massive frame was a coal-dark trench coat that was bigger than a bedspread.
He tossed Josh a nod of recognition, and he stomped toward the bar. It wasn’t an angry stomp; it was a stomp of sheer mass. The big man pointed at a bottle behind the counter and the bartender picked it up and started pouring.
While he waited for that drink, the Heavy approached Josh and Mark with his hand outstretched.
“Hey there, buddy! I hear you’ve got a problem.” His voice was quick and friendly, and so was his handshake. He angled his bulk against the side of the bar, skipping the stool and letting himself lean.
Mark was speechless, so Josh got the ball rolling.
“Well, first off, by way of getting fancy—Mark, this is Kilgore Jones. Kilgore, this is Mark,” Josh said. “He’s the man with the problem.”
Kilgore nodded. He’d
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