Sects and the City

1

Clark

Well, the world didn’t end, so I had to open the bar.

Didn’t really expect the world to end, you understand. I mean, that sort of thing doesn’t usually happen on a Tuesday night, when the moon is nothing special, and there aren’t even any shooting stars, much less a comet of ill omen.

Here’s the thing, though. The way the gruesome foursome had been talking lately, I thought it might really happen this time.

Most of the people who come into my bar, Zoth, are the kind who treat occultism as a game. Play stuff, like horror movies and the stories Lovecraft published.

Heck, there are even two live-action roleplaying game crews who run their campaigns here on Thursdays and Saturdays.

My little east side bar is the toast of Portland’s weirdos.

And I mean that affectionately. After all, I’m one of the weirdos, and they’re the clientele I was aiming for when I opened Zoth two years ago.

Even decorated with them in mind. Matte black for the walls, floor and ceiling, but with symbols from the Simon Necronomicon books done in dayglow colors here and there, and lit up with black lights for extra funk.

Posters on the walls from horror movies with a heavy emphasis on Lovecraft adaptations like Re-Animator, Dagon, and The Resurrected. Even have an original poster from The Haunted Place behind the bar next to the crowning jewel of my décor.

A shoggoth in a jar.

All right, it’s just a gelatin mixture made with a blend of oils and glycerin in a suspension that’s mostly water. But with its stand rotating under its own black light, it looks like a shifting mass of something you can’t quite see.

Great conversation piece, for the right kind of people.

I’ve got two big rooms done this way, connected by wide hallways that feel like continuations of the rooms. Wraparound bar in the middle, with a small kitchen, so I can serve my patrons anywhere they hang out. Tables in the back, dancing in the front.

For the music, I play a lot of old goth stuff mostly. Bauhaus. Siouxsie and the Banshees. Sisters of Mercy. Dead Can Dance. But I mix in some Darkest of the Hillside Thickets, to go with the general theme.

I don’t play the music too loud, either. People actually like to talk in my bar.

Which brings me back to the gruesome foursome.

First of all, I never call them that aloud. Last thing I want to do is offend one of those guys.

See, those four, they take their occultism very seriously, with a heavy emphasis on the cult. Guys like these are the basis for horror films. And the stories Lovecraft didn’t publish.

They started coming in about six months ago. Every Wednesday, like clockwork. They creep me the fuck out, but they tip well.

Plus, on Wednesdays, they were my whole lunch rush. Which I had to hope was coincidence.

I was thinking about them as I opened up that day. Wondering if they’d be in. If they’d be pissed that the world hadn’t ended. Or … rather, if one of them would be pissed. The one whose crew was supposed to end it.

See, far as I can tell, they’re all cultists, but they’re part of different cults.

Which one was talking about the world ending last night?

Couldn’t remember. I’d been too busy doing inventory when I’d heard that key phrase: and the world shall end at last.

They didn’t come back to it, unfortunately. And it didn’t feel like the kind of thing I could come up and ask about.

So I let Frank close up for me last night, and spent the night with Cindy, my sometimes girlfriend. Just in case.

I unlocked the back door at the crack of noon that day. Flipped on the saddest thing ever.

The regular lights of a bar.

A bar under regular lights just looks sad. Or at least mine did. Like seeing a clown without makeup, or that one lonely guy at the end of the bar, casting about desperately for someone to go home with when he hears those fatal words, last call.

The night cleaning crew did a good job though. Floors, tables, bar, bathrooms. I could even smell the lemon of their cleaner, rather than spilled beer, or something worse.

Hey. Even weirdos sometimes throw up in bar bathrooms.

But the night cleaning crew did good. This made three days in a row I didn’t have to tear their shift lead a new one. If they went a whole week, well, getting them a cake could be interpreted as sarcasm. But I’d come up with something.

I threw together a grilled cheddar on sourdough from the block of Tillamook I kept for myself in the fridge, and washed it down with water while I double-checked the beer taps.

One of them was clogged. No cake for the night cleaning crew then. It was the Guinness tap, too, which sucked, because one of the gruesome foursome liked his beers thick and dark. Like his life.

Otherwise, the flow lines were good, and everything was together behind the bar. I still had about a dozen things to do — not the least of which was double-checking the night’s receipts — but I needed to open up if I wanted to make any money that day.

And my bills didn’t pay themselves.

I shut down the sad lights and turned on the regular bar lights — dim in most places, but black lights where they counted.

I thought about putting on some music, but didn’t. I’d put some on if I got enough customers, but if it was the just the gruesome foursome again, well, I wanted to eavesdrop.

I unlocked and threw open the front door, hissed against the spring air and sunlight — purely for effect, you understand — and let it close again.

I flipped on the neon open sign.

Didn’t even reach the bar before the first member of the gruesome foursome came in.

I was about halfway across the dance floor, on my way back to my station behind the bar, when the door opened and my first customer came in.

Eamon, in his usual uniform — black long-sleeved shirt, buttoned up all the way (much like his personality), black jeans, black belt, black loafers. He kept his hair black, and cut short enough to show off his widow’s peak.

For the first month that Eamon came in, I thought he was one of the vampire wannabes. He had the pale and skinny look down pat, like he was three years out of undergrad and still sleeping in a coffin in his mother’s basement. Even wore the kind of cologne I associated with the vamp wannabes — subtle and exotic.

But that silver chain around his neck didn’t hold an ankh. It held a goat’s head inside an inverted pentacle. And the only times he talked about blood, he was either talking about magic or sacrifices.

Not to say he never drank any. Don’t really know.

I was pretty sure by now that Eamon was a Satanist. Well, maybe not a Satan Satanist, but something along those lines.

Salutations, Clark, he said. A bottle of Teufelsbrau red and one of your fine cheeseburgers, extra rare.

Didn’t need to ask what kind of cheese. He always wanted swiss. But one thing he did vary.

Sure thing, Eamon. Fries today?

No. Onion rings.

He proceeded straight to their regular table at the back of the back.

I’d just gotten his food going when I heard someone else come in. I poked my head out of the kitchen to see the next member of the gruesome foursome arrive.

Harley.

He looked like any of the guys you might see on their way to a Timbers game. Plaid flannel shirt — blue today — over blue jeans. Shaggy brown hair and even shaggier brown beard. Big guy, too. Like he should’ve been riding his namesake.

Real backwoods vibe. Even carried a strong scent of outdoors with him. But there was always something else underneath that smell of trees and dirt. Something alkali, and slightly unwholesome. Off-putting.

From little things I’d heard him say, Harley was part of a sect that worshiped the actual Cthulhu.

Yeah. I used to think those stories were all fiction too. I sometimes long for those blissfully ignorant days…

Harley was grumbling when he looked up at me, and I thought his dark eyes looked angry. Might’ve been his folks failing their Armageddon test last night.

Fried tentacles, he said by way of a greeting, and sour mash whiskey. Lots of it.

No Guinness for him today? Must’ve been my lucky day. I mean, even apart from the world not ending.

I threw some calamari in the fryer for him — fried tentacles was my menu listing for calamari — and poured him a double. I slid it along the bar to him as he reached the back room. He caught the drink, tossed it back, and zinged the glass back to me.

I poured him another double, and this one he carried to the table where Eamon was already waiting.

Zed was the next one in.

They say that serial killers look just like everyone else. If so, Zed might’ve been one. Seen the guy every Wednesday for six months and I still might not’ve been able to pick him out of a lineup.

Zed was short and slight. Not too pale. Hair such a nondescript brown that I didn’t even remember what color his hair was, the first month he came in.

Hell, I introduced myself to Zed three times. Three. And part of the reason my regulars are regulars is that I never forget a name or a face.

Maybe I just wish I could forget Zed. Far as I was concerned, he was the creepiest of the lot.

Part of that, I think, was that he didn’t seem to have any smell at all. I mean not even a cheap deodorant or anything.

But even beyond his lack of odor, there was just something off about him. Something wrong. Like the air itself didn’t want to touch him.

It was springtime, and the Blazers were in the playoffs. So Zed’s human camouflage had him wearing a Damian Lillard tee shirt and cargo shorts, along with simple leather sandals.

I had no idea what the hell Zed worshiped, and I kind of hoped I never found out. I only knew he was part of something because I occasionally heard his quiet voice say something along the lines of the others say or we have something planned for tonight.

Clark Phillips.

Even hearing Zed say my name gave me a chill. Like he was reminding me he knew my name, where I lived, and probably where my parents lived. Just in case he ever needed the information.

I had to clear my throat to speak to Zed. Always had to.

How you doing, Zed?

No answer to the question, of course. Just the most nondescript order he could place.

Burger with fries. Pabst Blue Ribbon.

He continued on to his table.

All three of their meals were ready by the time Sebastian came rolling in.

I smiled despite myself when Sebastian entered the bar. He just had that kind of effect on people. He was tall, blonde, gently muscled and movie-star handsome, with a perpetual smile on his lips and in his blue, blue eyes.

Tell you something. I’ve always thought of myself as straight. But if Sebastian hit on me, I don’t know if I could say no. I don’t know if anyone could. He just had this aura of vibrant sexuality to him.

Anyway, he was dressed for the heat. Soft brown Utilikilt over well-broken-in leather sandals. He wore a blue tee shirt that matched his eyes. Its material was too shiny to be cotton, but I didn’t think it was silk.

Like with Zed, I had no idea what Sebastian worshiped. Unlike with Zed, Sebastian’s cult might tempt me.

Pleasure to see you, Clark, he said in a rich baritone, as always.

He stopped just across the bar from me, close enough that I could detect his insinuation of a cologne. Masculine, subtle and enticing.

What’ll you have, Sebastian?

His eyes flicked over me for a moment in a way that made me feel as though I was on the menu and under consideration.

Mind you, Sebastian was only twenty-two — which made him a decade younger than me. Plus, you know, he was a guy. A member of the sex that had never been my personal brand of whisky.

But damn if my heart didn’t beat a little faster as he made and held eye contact while ordering.

Chili burger with extra cheddar, he said, as though sharing a dirty, intimate secret. A side of chili cheese fries. And to drink … a chocolate daiquiri. Extra whipped cream.

Where the hell he put it all I had no idea.

I hustled to get his order together, and not just because it was for Sebastian.

I had the distinct feeling they were going to talk about something important today. And I needed to hear what.

The gruesome foursome were quiet as I brought Sebastian his indulgent lunch.

Sure you don’t want some water with that?

Sebastian just smiled and shook his head while picking up a french fry dripping with chili and cheese. I averted my eyes before the fry made it to his lips.

Anyone ready for refills?

Eamon and Harley were ready for more Teufelsbrau red and sour