IGKTW Round 4 -- The Collector (591 hits)
Category: NoneLabels: IGKTW
Rating: 1.95 on 22 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Coyote (View user info) at 2006-05-21 09:29:17 EDT
Luther Mercury awoke when it was very late and was disappointed, although not surprised, to find that the crumpled cigarette packet on the floor of his room was empty after all.
He coughed himself fully awake and shuffled across the room to hang the hog over the stained porcelain bowl, chuckling darkly to himself. It wasn't the splash of his piss in the rust-stained water that elicited the laugh, but the sudden recollection, spurred by the sight of the leathery appendage responsible for the splash, of the notoriety that he'd received for his no-holds barred rendition of "Black Snake Moan", back in the Chicago days. He tried to think of a lyric that captured the futility of an empty packet of smokes on a cold floor, but the effort made him nauseous.
Those were the days when Fame had dogged his footsteps like a hellhound, when he did his best to bear up under the barrage of drugs and women and Cadillacs that his outrageous fortune had flung at him without any sense of restraint. The days before scandal and the lockup, and most of all, before Hoengsong.
He'd have to go out for another pack.
Luther shook, dislodging all but the last tenacious droplets from his dick, and set about his routine, zombie-like. Gin, pants, shirt, lighter, squint, vomit, keys, shades, flask, hat, door. Door locked.
Locked?
Strange thoughts loomed and tilted horrifyingly at each other in the gloomier recesses of his mind, like elephant seals doing Swan Lake. He shook his head slowly in hopes of dislodging a nodule of reliable memory from the foul, tarry blanket that muffled and muted his thoughts.
No kernels of wisdom to explain why he'd been locked into his room were forthcoming, but he wasn't panicked, because Jana would know. All he had to do was wake her up and ask her and she'd explain everything and make it seem okay, and maybe give him a couple bucks so he could buy a cup of coffee to have with his cigarette.
He stumbled back across the room, avoiding his guitar more by instinct than by any clear idea of navigating around it, and poked his head through the doorway to look into the larger room where Jana slept.
She didn't look too comfortable sprawled half-across the couch, head lolling down almost to the floor, limbs flung randomly as if frozen by a strobe light in the midst of some jazz dance number.
Luther opened his mouth to ask her what she was doing like that, but the first syllable died on his lips when his brain finally processed the garish, grinning lipless smile marring her throat, the black pool on the floor beneath her, and the stiff formality of her absurd pose.
He grabbed at the table to steady himself, scattering a flock of empty beer cans, and sat down so heavily he broke the spindly chair.
The flies lifted briefly in irritation, circuited the room to investigate the disturbance, and returned to their pastime of sipping the congealing fluid from the corners of Jana's eyes.
Mercury was too befuddled even for shock. He stared numbly at Jana's body, unable to look at the inconceivable gaping maw of her throat wound, focusing instead on the lifeless heavy curve of her breast. It hung to the side in an alien, unpleasant way, and yet the feel of her nipple against his tongue was such a vivid memory that he could have sworn he could hear the peals of her laughter as she told him to stop fucking around and play another song.
"Baby, you the greatest there ever was. Luther Lightnin' Mercury, you ain't just a blues player, you're the blues itself. You gonna pick up that guitar and get back up on stage, or are you gonna pick up that bottle and give up on life?"
As a matter of fact, he rather thought he would.
He was still numb with shock, sitting in the wreckage of the chair, when a heavy blow caught him behind the ear and a hundred thousand fireworks exploded behind his eyes.
When Luther awoke later, the fog in his mind was gone, and grief keened a high, sharp note that sliced his flesh like a scalpel. He blinked to clear the blurring tears from his eyes, and gradually found his eyes focused on a man of medium build in a white suit, sitting in a folding director's chair, flanked by a pair of associates who looked like they belonged on the defensive line of one of the Oakland Raiders teams of the mid-70s.
"Ah, Mr. Mercury. I see you've rejoined us. How pleasant. No, don't try to get up, Bruno and Elwood get nervous when people can't sit still, and when the gentlemen get nervous, people tend to get hurt. They're good lads. Still, best not to risk it, so just rest easy."
Luther had no intention of moving. His body felt leaden; it was all he could do to glance over to the couch where Jana's body lay still, eyes bulging accusingly.
"B... bastards," he finally managed to say. As openings went, it was a good one, but he didn't have any followup, and lapsed back into grief-stricken silence as the white-suited man watched him with evident mild curiosity.
"Now now, Mr. Mercury. Lightnin'. May I call you Lightnin'? It'd be an honor. Like I was saying, Lightnin', you should watch that temper of yours. Anger can make a man do terrible things, just terrible. Why, just ask young Ms. Harris here." The man waved a hand in the direction of Jana's body, never shifting his gaze from Luther's face.
"Yes, terrible things. Especially if you're a washed-up, burned-out, old bluesman, forgotten by history, sitting at the back of the dollar bins, oh, and with that history of yours, that history of violence, that history with—dare I say? Young girls."
"The fuck you on, you pissant little cracker? I loved her. She was helpin' me get a few gigs, she was writin' a book about the blues. I loved her!" Luther didn't realize he was crying until he tasted the salt on his lips.
"Oh, I'm sure you enjoyed each other's company very much, Lightnin'. Very much indeed. Right up until that last terrible argument. I'm afraid as far as the police are concerned it's going to be an open and shut case. After all, you do have a record, and women have been known to disagree with you about the nature and mutuality of your love—disagree under oath, I might add. Yessiree, in a court of law."
"I never killed no one, and I ain't killed Jana, so either kill me or get the fuck out." Luther was pretty sure he didn't have anything left to lose; he'd been absolutely certain of it eight months ago, before Jana had convinced him otherwise. Well, now he'd lost some more, and he figured he'd be better off if those two goons actually got to do the job they quite clearly would rather be doing than standing listening to their boss talk.
The man in the white suit chuckled and held up a hand to keep the goons in place behind him.
"There's that anger again, Lightnin'. You don't get that under control, boy, it might get you in trouble someday. Now is that any way to talk to the man who's going to give you back everything you ever had, everything you ever wanted, and everything you ever lost?"
Luther understood nothing. Rage and bitter shock battled with his headache, leaving no room for comprehension. He gibbered and sobbed quietly.
"That's better! I knew you'd be willing to play ball. My name is Morrison. I represent a client with certain very refined tastes. Quite refined indeed, I think you'd find. Now, my client has been looking for something for many years now, and in his venerable opinion, you're the only one left on this Earth can help him. You see, he's very particular in his taste. My yes, quite particular." Morrison pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a pudgy finger, as if to better judge the minutiae of Luther's reaction.
Luther sat motionless and numb; Morrison nodded.
"You see Mr. Mercury, my client loves the blues." One of the thugs twitched imperceptibly and managed to convey the impression of rolling his eyes aat the other thug. Possibly they'd heard this speech before. Morrison was oblivious; he was warming to his topic.
"Yes Indeed, loves the blues very much indeed. About twenty years ago, he decided that he would collect the perfect blues song. It must have everything; clanging guitar, dirty low-down bass, screaming mournful mouth harp, just a hint of raunchy saxophone. And the lyrics, of course, must be perfect as well. Loss, humor, fatalism, complaint, sardonic wit.
"He spent more money and energy on his project to find the perfect blues song than someone like you could imagine. A small fortune in point of fact. Searching through old archives at universities; buying up record labels and studios and radio stations to get access to their archives and unreleased tracks. But do you know something, Lightnin'? Before long he became convinced that the perfect blues song had not yet been written. Every song he found had a flaw. Musicians could be found to improve deficient recordings, repair flawed performances, but the perfect song, sung by the perfect voice, simply did not exist."
This penetrated Luther's consciousness enough to elicit another of his dark chuckles, rumbling in his chest like a thundercloud with emphysema. "Yer boy obviously ain't never heard of Robert Johnson then."
Morrison leaned back in his chair and straightened his collar, smiling broadly. "Oh, to the contrary, Lightnin', most definitely to the contrary! And in absolute point of fact, my client has heard more of Robert Johnson than anyone else a-tall—barring of course the devil. Yes yes, musn't forget the devil now." Morrison wiped his sweaty hands on the white linen of his suit and paused, as if the effort of laughing had winded him.
"Now, where were we? Oh yes. So. Some time ago my client came to the conclusion that if he was going to find and hear the perfect blues song—he loves the blues, you understand, I may have already mentioned that—I say, if he was going to ever hear that perfect song, he was going to have to have it commissioned. The musicians were easy; they can be bought or bribed or bullied, and there's nothing a real wizard likes better than to show off for an appreciative audience. I have to say he picked his men unerringly, and we rounded them up with little trouble.
"They've been waiting for their song for some time now. Quite some time indeed! Oh yes. Detained on the pleasure of my client, shall we say, until the man who can write the perfect blues song can be found. And do you know something, Lightnin'?" the chair groaned under Morrison's weight as he leaned forward solemnly. "You're that man."
Luther would have laughed if he hadn't been five feet from the corpse of the woman he'd loved. "Fuck off, I ain't never wrote nothin'".
"Now now, Mr. Mercury, don't be so modest. One of my client's acts of philanthropy over the years has been to provide funding to certain students of the arts, historians of music, those starving graduate students working towards their masters, toiling away in the archives digging up old performances and artists. The only thing he asked in return for this beneficence was that they dutifully and without fail file reports on the whereabouts of any of a select few songwriters on a very short list of those who have the capability to write my client's perfect song.
Leadbelly, unfortunately, passed on long before my client ever began this project; any man who could barter a song for his release from jail—a Texas jail, no less!—probably had what it took. Tracking down a few others in his class was difficult as well. Some have died, some have took to drink, you know how it goes. But just when my client was almost convinced that the project would never bear fruit and he'd have to release the musicians we'd painstakingly collected for him, one of his... less promising... leads begain to turn up something very interesting indeed." Morrison paused and indicated Jana's body with a subtle inclination of his head before returning his focus to Luther, and the tale.
"Oh yes, Lightnin', it was no twist of fate, no accident, that the late lamented young Ms. Harris found you, nor that she was so fascinated by your early work back in the postwar days and the early fifties. However, just as you developed into our number one lead, she inexplicably stopped filing her reports. Without her work, we could never definitely connect you to pieces of great interest to my client. Pieces like "Whiskey Jack's Blues", for example. It is that failure to live up to her end of her bargain wiith my client that led her to her tragic end. And the regrettable necessity of terminating our contract with Ms. Harris gives us a neat opening for negotiations with you, I might add. A neat little opening indeed."
Luther felt his world crumbling around him; he'd thought himself numb to such pain for decades now, but this methodical destruction of hihs world was enough to cut through as many layers of protective cynicism as he could conjure. So Jana's love had been a fraud, she'd just been putting in the hours on a project, doin' time with the burned out bluesman to collect a stipend? And when her act had finally become real, when she'd found enough spark to bring her love across the threshhold from act to actual, she'd been killed for it.
No words could illuminate the depths to which Luther Mercury had fallen. He sat numb and let Morrison's flowery speech roll over him without reaction.
"I see you grasp the truth of my words. That's good, you're a smart boy, very smart indeed. Not quite smart enough to stay away from that underage poontang, or to know when to quit drinking, but then again, no man can outrun his demons. No sir, no man can do that.
"Now, Luther Lightnin' Mercury, here's the situation in which you find yourself. You are about to be discovered in this truly... delightful... apartment with the corpse of a girl 35 years your junior and traces of drugs in your system. You know as well as I do that's going to mean the rest of your life in prison. However, my client is a very powerful man, and it would be his tremendous honor to exert just a little bit of that influence on your behalf, seeing as you're an overlooked blues legend. And he does, I might have mentioned already, love the blues. If you'd like to avoid any trouble with the law, you're going to come with us now for a little ride, out to someplace secluded and quiet, where you can stay at our... private facilities... until you feel the muse strike you and you produce the perfect blues song for my client. Until that time, of course, you must remain our honored guest, but upon performance of the song to my client's satisfaction, you will be free to go, and handsomely compensated for your trouble, I assure you. Yes, very handsomely compensated indeed.
"So, shall I have Bruno and Elwood help you to my car?"
Luther was laughing again, a ragged little chuckle that built from something small and dark into a bitter cadence of harsh barks. "You sure got the wrong boy, Morrison, and yer massa ain't never goin' to get his perfect blues song, neither."
"I take it you are unwilling to cooperate? I urge you strenuously to reconsider, Mr. Mercury. Think of the hard time you'll do."
"I don't rightly know if I'd help you out if I could, you little shitheel cracker, but one thing I know is that I ain't the one wrote the Whiskey Jack. Come down to it, I didn't write the Plymouth Rag, Blind Soldier's Blues, or Backdoor Benny neither. I ain't never written so much as a limerick."
It was Morrison's turn to laugh now. "Oh come now Lightnin', surely. We have a recording from 1948. We have statements from people who saw you play, collected and confirmed by the late lamented Ms. Harris here. And we have her own notes, which state, and I quote "I've really managed to track down Luther Mercury, who played under the name Lightning in the 40s and 50s and was responsible for such legendary, almost mythical tunes as Whiskey Jack's Blues."
Luther looked up at his tormentor with a shocking grin. "And what was in the reports she never filed, cracker? You bother to find that out before you killed her?" Morrison's grin froze and turned ghastly. "My brother wrote all them songs. When he was in the Army. Why you think I ain't done shit in 45 years? Eddie got his face blown off in Korea by some commie chink. Poor fuckin' bastard; if only he knew he was getting' the good end of the bargain."
"Impossible. No one ever mentioned it. How could no one know?"
"No one ever asked. Until Jana. And I guess she didn't bother tellin' you." Luther chuckled agagin at Morrison's distress. "Looks like you may have moved just a little too quickly for your client's good last night. Bet he's not gonna be too happy with you Mr. Morrison. Fact, if I was you I'd be having second thoughts about my job right about now."
Morrison blanched almost as white as his suit and leaned forward as if to put a little distance between himiself and the hired muscle. He glanced rapidly between Jana and Luther. "Very clever Ms. Harris. Oh my yes, very clever indeed," he muttered, and produced a handkerchief that he used to blot the beads of sweat on his forehead. He cleared his throat and stared hard at Luther.
"Who else knows about this, boy?"
"No one but two dead people I loved."
"I think we can come to some arrangement. You see, I've already communicated to my client that the songwriter he's been looking for has been located. Preparations have been made; the musicians have been moved to our main facility. The recording equipment is on its way. Much depends on my delivery of the legendary lost Lightnin' Mercury, right on time. Much indeed.
"We can give you anything you want, anything you desire, life in the lap of luxury while you're our guest. All you need to do is write a blues song. Take your time. He'll know, you see, he'll know you're not the one, as soon as he sees it. But you can take all the time you need. Our organization is very respectful of the artistic process. And there's always the chance all those years so close to the talent mighht have rubbed off on you."
Luther chuckled again, with bitter irony. "So you sayin' you gonna take me away from all this, and put me up in some fancy-ass dungeon with wine, women and song, and all I have to do is pretend to be writing some masterpiece of the blues? But when I'm finished, we're both dead. And if say anything to anyone about Eddie, we're both dead. Is that it?"
"That's about the size of it, Lightnin'. How good a case of writer's block can you come up with?"
"Shit, had one my entire life, don't reckon it's gonna disappear anytime soon."
"I'm glad to hear that, Lightnin'. Now what do you say to a nice ride in a limousine, a nice deck of China white, and a couple of schoolgirls?"
Luther glanced around the room. There was nothing left for him here but the accumulated reminders of four decades of dissipation, and one very gruesome reminder of the pitfalls of bogus love. He stood up and forced a smile at Bruno and Elwood, who shuffled uncomfortably on their feet. They were still itching for a little more confrontation before the walk downstairs.
"I'm ready, Morrison. Just one question. What's yer boy think the perfect blues song should be about?"
"Oh, the usual," Morrison waved his hand dismissively as he stood and smoothed out his suit with his hands. Bruno, or possibly Elwood, folded the director's chair shut with a snap and tucked it under his arm. "Broads, booze, betrayal. Love and doing time. To be honest I don't know. I listen to polka."
The door swung to with a thud when Luther tugged on the knob behind him and started his long journey away from freedom.
User Reviews
Submitted by Alter (user info) at 2007-09-26 20:30:36 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No, Comment.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-25 18:18:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
In bringing up Herman Melville's classic piece, you are being compared to an irate, all white blubber beast.
Essentially, an American.
*steps away from the comment*
Submitted by Coyote (user info) at 2006-05-25 17:57:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-25 08:22:18 (#)
I'll be happily accepting any tips you have for improving my series.
-=-=-=-=-=-
Oh trust me, you don't want my tips. I'm a pathetically bad editor.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-05-24 19:02:10 (#)
"To the last, I grapple with thee... From Hell's heart, I stab at thee... For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee..."
-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Uh... "Call me Ishmael"? The subconscious is a weird thing, I was going to respond with that for some nagging unidentifiable reason until I had to go and google the quote. It must be 10 years since I waded through Melville...
~*~*~*~*~*~*
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-05-21 10:27:23 (#)
Coyote, great story. I see some things I would edit if it were my story,
but it ain't, so never mind.
-=-=-=-=-=-
I would have edited a LOT of things, if I'd had the time. Some of it's pretty painfully awkward as it stands.
Submitted by CaptainThorns (user info) at 2006-05-25 08:22:18 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I *knew* you would win this comp when I saw your Round 1 entry. Well played, good sir.
I'll be happily accepting any tips you have for improving my series.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2006-05-24 19:02:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
"To the last, I grapple with thee... From Hell's heart, I stab at thee... For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee..."
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2006-05-23 11:42:22 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-05-23 00:34:02 (#)
Ranking: 2
BAM, motherfucker.
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Uhm, dude? You got the 'W' flipped over.
Submitted by Stagger_Lee (user info) at 2006-05-23 00:34:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
BAM, motherfucker.
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2006-05-22 23:28:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very nice.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2006-05-22 21:50:44 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2006-05-22 21:37:30 (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm not good enough at math to dole out 1.8 ratings or anything like that - I just go with 0,1, and 2.
You get the 2. This was awesome
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Well I am, but I'm far too lazy.
Submitted by Circe (user info) at 2006-05-22 21:37:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I'm not good enough at math to dole out 1.8 ratings or anything like that - I just go with 0,1, and 2.
You get the 2. This was awesome.
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-22 05:27:16 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Sorted
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-22 05:27:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Not bad I fancy
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-22 05:26:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
+1.8 (how is my maths)
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-22 05:25:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+1.8
Submitted by redskieslookfake (user info) at 2006-05-22 05:25:21 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This was excellent- however I feel Jack has edged this +1.80
Submitted by supadupapupa (user info) at 2006-05-22 02:26:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
lovely, lovely, lovely
Submitted by ConorJS (user info) at 2006-05-21 12:53:58 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
-2DIE this SUCKED!
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-05-21 11:33:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Once again Saccy exhibits her awesome math skills. :-D
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-05-21 11:26:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
1.666666666666666...only because I'm rating for the comp.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-05-21 11:24:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Very good.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-05-21 11:24:10 EDT (#)
Ranking: 1
Surreal.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2006-05-21 10:27:23 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Coyote, great story. I see some things I would edit if it were my story,
but it ain't, so never mind.