Sean and Wormwood, Canto II, Part iii

The fourth installment of the weekly serial.

Sean and Wormwood, with the intern floating alongside them, walked through a garden of erotic topiary, a court of disturbingly violent marble statuary, and between the legs of the colossal gold figure of a long-haired man with an electric guitar. The relentless Malibu sun beat down on them, despite the Pacific Ocean being so close they could hear the waves crashing.

Sean, tall, pale, and dressed in a black suit, showed not a hint of perspiration on his cadaverous skin.  A drop or two of sweat emerged from Wormwood’s tousled red hair and ran down the back of his neck, but he showed no discomfort as he ambled along.  The intern, on the other hand, was dripping. He wasn’t sure what he was dripping, but it was green and viscous, and he hoped whatever substance it was, it was something he could spare.

Eventually they went up the wide, curved, sun-bleached front steps of a mansion so ostentatious that when it appeared on “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” Robin Leach had declared it “a bit much.” At the top of the stairs was one of the most lauded, most hated, and most comfortably retired heavy metal gods of the eighties and nineties, Trevor Von Deviant. His silvery blond hair was receding, but still flowed magnificently over his shoulders, caressing the jean-jacket he wore over  a simple black tank top. On his bare arm was a single tattoo, a heart with ribbon running across it reading “Your Mom.” He waited, smiling widely, until they got to the top of the stairs, then enthusiastically threw the horns.

“Sean! Wormwood! A flying mucus ball! Woo! Come on in, guys!” Trevor whooped in a voice made rough and gravelly by decades of cigarette smoking, song belting, and bat swallowing. 

“Hey, Trev!” said Wormwood. 

“Greetings, Trevor,” said Sean. His voice was like a moth’s last grateful breath as it died to the heat of an incandescent light bulb. 

“Wait a second,” said the intern. “I know you.” He fought through the fog enshrouding his memory. “You were in the news a while back, after your fans killed and ate a security guard at one of your concerts!”

“Guilty as charged, blob guy!” said Von Deviant. “Or wait, no. Acquitted as charged!”

As Trevor led them through a massive gleaming white hallway and up a massive flight of gleaming white stairs. Wormwood refreshed the intern’s hazy memory. “Trevor was the frontman of Von Deviant, a band known chart-stomping hits as ‘Kindergarten Cutter’ and ‘You Should Kill and Eat a Security Guard at One of Our Concerts.’ He’s just one of the countless current and former Rock ’n’ Roll stars working for us.”

 “You sold your soul to these jerks?” asked the intern. “I gotta warn you, that ends up being kind of a dick-ass deal.”

“No way, man,” said Trevor. “I’m not as dumb as my album covers. I just write and perform songs that convert impressionable listeners to the nefarious purposes of our lord Satan.”

“Wait, didn’t you recently record a bluegrass album?”

“All part of the plan, mucus mio!”

They entered one of Trevor’s thirteen recreation rooms. This one was a relatively cozy space, about the size and dimensions of a tour bus, but strewn with low mirrored tables, beanbag chairs made of rhinoceros leather, and plinths.

There was already an open bottle of red wine on one of the tables, surrounded by three elegant skull goblets. As Sean and Wormwood sat, Trevor poured wine for each of them. Wormwood took a healthy swig from his; Wormwood politely held the goblet but did not drink.

“So Trev!” said Wormwood, his small frame half-sunk into the beanbag chair. “Remember that magic toilet seat you bought when your second album went platinum?”

“Oh, yeah, man!” said Trevor, taking a seat and throwing one leg over what would have been the arm of his beanbag chair, had it not been a beanbag chair. “Man, that was tough to get a hold of. I had to outbid Margaret Thatcher, David Bowie, and ALF to get it. Totally worth it, though. That was an amazing toilet seat, so luxurious. I started upping my fiber just to have a chance to use it more.”

“Well, it turns out we need it.”

“Sorry, dub-dubs, I got rid of it.”

“You got rid of your priceless enchanted toilet seat?”

“Yeah, I got a Japanese one. It beeps!”

“Beeps? The Seat of Power can chant in six dead languages.”

“Yeah, you know, it turns out that was kind of a downer. Plus my new one has an automatic warm-water bidet!”

“Ooh! Yeah, okay. Automatic butt-washing beats demonic chanting any day.”

“Yup,” said Trevor. “Just like the saying goes.”

“Okay, then,” said Wormwood, pouring himself another glass of wine. “What did you do with it? You didn’t smoke it, did you? Did you smoke it on up?”

“I don’t smoke fixtures anymore, man. I stuck it in the Cave of Trials.”

“Well, yay!” said Wormwood. “Just tell us which Cave of Trials.”

“Santa Monica, man! The rockin’ one!”

Wormwood cocked his head in puzzlement. “I thought the Santa Monica Cave of Trials got turned into a strip mall.”

“Nah, man, you’re thinking of the Cavern of Travails.”

“They turned the Cavern of Travails into a strip mall? I loved that cavern!”

“I hear you, man, I practically grew up in that cavern.”

“That cavern had the best frozen yogurt.”

The intern, fearing madness from listening to their unholy small talk, floated over to look at a plinth. On top of the marble column was a golden bowl, and in the golden bowl were paper-wrapped razor blades and tiny spoons. He wafted over to the next one, which held lighters, matches and small metal clips.

Man, thought the intern. I wish I was rich enough to use solid-gold bowls as my junk drawer.

“Well,” the intern heard Wormwood say, “That diabolic artifact isn’t going descend into a dark and eerie grotto to endure a series of cunning and lethal challenges to unlock mystical wards and procure itself.”

“Just like the saying goes,” said Trevor. “So is there anything I can do to help you out? I have a huge and incredibly skilled household staff working for me. Want to take one along? You could tie their arms and push them ahead of you with a sharp stick to trigger deathtraps.”

“No thanks,” said Wormwood. “That’s what the intern’s for.” 

The intern, already yards away and not too thrilled with the deathtrap talk, decided this was as good a time as any to make a break for it. He was between them and the exit, so he floated as fast as he could toward the door. “As fast as he could” ended up being about the speed of an excited toddler chasing after a duck. 

Frustrated with his lack of speed but sticking with the escape plan, the intern floated into the hallway, downstairs, through the foyer and outside. He didn’t so much as hear footsteps behind him, so he headed down the stairs and back through the legs of the golden colossus. 

Still no footsteps. No shouts, nothing. He came to a stop and turned around. He could make out Sean, Wormwood, and Trevor just outside the front door of the mansion. They appeared to be exchanging goodbyes with no particular urgency.

The intern turned around and started floating away again, albeit with somewhat less determination. He couldn’t imagine that Wormwood would just let him escape, but he knew the front gate’s bars were widely spaced enough for him to slip through. After that, there was nothing but freedom.

He made it halfway through the court of statuary before he felt the air collapse out from under him. It was a unique sensation, one he could never have experienced in his former life. It was if the air itself was a pillow placed on a trap door, and someone had just pushed the big red button. 

He hit the ground like a scoop of ice cream, spattering globs of himself over the white concrete. Every ounce of him was sputtering with electric pain, like pins and needles but somewhat more literal. Even the parts that weren’t attached to him anymore hurt. It would have been a very curious sensation if any part of his consciousness wasn’t devoted to going “ow ow ow.”

After what seemed like minutes but was actually about half that many minutes, Sean and Wormwood came up to him and the pain faded. He had rotated his eye upwards in his writhing, and now he saw Wormwood staring down at him with his charismatic grin.

“Remember the bit about writhing in pain if you tried to escape the complex? It also applies if you get too far from me.”

The intern saw a man in a white tie and black coat step into view. He was carrying a pooper-scooper.

“Go ahead and bag him up,” Wormwood said to the man. “A little time in the A/C and he’ll be as horrible and disgusting as new.”

I really hope he washed that scooper, thought the intern.