Part 2: Bad Coffee, Deep Buttfuck and the Big Bad Fucking Book.

Part 2: Bad Coffee, Deep Buttfuck and the big bad fucking book.


The coffee tastes like shit but free. Jessica and Jack sit in the booth across from me and try to make small talk. Talking about people I don’t know and don’t care about, places I’ve never been and will most likely go. I think they can tell I’m bored when I absentmindedly start playing with my phone. The topic is changed. Jack starts telling me the evenings plan. How we’re going to meet up with Steve and Jacob and go to the old hang out The House.
Steve and Jacob could be called the third and fourth in our little group, cool dudes don’t get me wrong but I’ve never seen them as being as good of friends as I used to see Jack. Always the guys who crashed first, who had to be home by curfew, who didn’t let you smoke in their cars. They’re tourist hell raisers on a brief holiday, taking pictures and asking the obvious questions. And the old hang out, Christ I’d almost forgotten about it. A huge old abandoned house at the Buttfuck nowhere part of town that the city planner just seemed to forget about. It’s set on what is probably the biggest piece of property in town. Hell I’d heard that the mayor was pushing to have it torn down after the prom night a few years back where his daughter (smart beauty with the full ride next year in college) found her dreams cancelled by some cheap beer, the star quarterback and some rubbers of very questionable quality.
We finish our meals and head back out. We decide to take Jack’s car as getting to Buttfuck from here is no easy task. On the drive over I keep noticing that Jessica keeps looking back at me with a look of concerned sweetness on her face. Her look fills me with a slight unease.
I ignore it.



20 Minutes Later: Deep in the Buttfuck.

As we pull up our headlight illuminate the house and two figures leaning on the green door of the 95 piece of shit that I haven’t seen in 6 months. All four look just how I remember them.
Steve and Jacob.

I get out of the car quickly bashing my head on the door frame (son of a bitch that hurts). Jacob and Steve seem like a happy middle ground between my look of don’t give a fuck provided by the generous people at goodwill and Jack’s college hipsterness. But overall they still look exactly how I remember them. Steve the slightly pudgy, vaguely Mexican looking sweetheart. This is odd since I’m fairly sure that he’s one hundred percent that he’s fully white. Jacob the tall skinny one, who’s so pale he almost, glows in the dark. Standing there in his old Smashing Pumpkins concert tee. But honestly I still kinda get the feeling that he looks like someone who 5 years down the line would have newspaper articles written about him that heavily feature the phrase “ He seemed like such a normal guy”.
The grass crunches with each step as I slowly approach the two but am met half way by the skeletal embrace of Jacob’s Jack Skellington arms. He pulls me in close for a warmly intended hug and says it’s good to see me again. After a few somewhat uncomfortable moments he lets go and Steve also offers a hug to me.
We head into the house and aside from some new damage to the outside, looks exactly the same as the last time I saw it. Same graffiti, same broken in window, the barn off to the side still looks as oddly untouched as the last time I’d seen it.
The Porch makes a creaking snap sound as I step on to the top step and head to the door with the three times broken lock.
Jack pushes the door open with a similar creaking sound.
We enter.
We’re in the old dusty living; the place looks like it’s been ransacked. Empty beer cans and old discarded condoms everywhere. Jack flips the light switch, the bulb flickers on and a half a second later pops out. The old sofa looks tattered and worn. And stained by the residue of countless numbers of foolish impulse driven youth, absolutely driven and determined to act. Flipped over coffee table that may have been worth something at one point. If not for the cigarette burns and warped spots from lack of proper drink handling. I survey the room a bit more, using my phones flash light app to guide my sight. At the end of the room is a small bookshelf. Strange!!! It’s new; I can still see the tools used to assemble this fine piece of Wal-Mart dorm accessory. But strangely there is only one book on it. The books thick and leather bound and looks like an old high end bible. But instead of assurances of holiness the golden lettering reads something alien, unidentifiable hieroglyphics and arcane symbols. Its old but I can tell its pages are gold leafed or at least at one point had been. I pick it up and it feels wrong in my hands, like its emitting a hateful black radiation. The palms of my hands feel like they’ve been coated in a living tar, almost crawling and if I don’t put it down it’ll shallow me whole.
And yet I can’t put it down. It calls to me. It’s whispering dark sweetness to my soul. I open the book with and old paper cracking sound and see that the first page has been defaced, manic red writing reads:

LISTEN YOU DUMB FUCK, PUT THIS GODDAMN BOOK DOWN.
DON’T FUCKING READ IT, FOR YOUR OWN SANITY DON’T READ IT, DON’T SPEAK IT
JUST DON’T DO IT YOU STUIPD FUCKING BASTARD!!!!
IT’S TOO LATE FOR ME, LORD HELP ME.

And around the borders of the page random words read:
MEAT, BONE, SODOMY, FUCKING JOKERS, FIST FUCK, BURN KILL KILL KILL, UNCLEAN.
MY ASSHOLE WILL NEVER BE THE SAME.
And various other things that are either horribly misspelled or illegible.

I turn the page and a much calmer written message reads:

You deserve what happens next.

Hmmm, a tad melodramatic, I think to myself.
I flip the pages briefly scanning them. Surprisingly all the text is written in English. But every page or so seems to have a well-drawn illustration of horrid scenes and nightmare fuel creatures.
Have I wandered into a Sam Raimi film?
One page sticks out to me the words seem so inviting and the accompanying picture is less……blasphemously horrid. And for some reason gentle circus music is now playing in my mind. I feel a small smile begin to form on my face, as if memories of a time before the knowledge of Gacy and what elephant shit smells like had tainted my view of the circus. My lips start mouthing the words silently, as if my lungs won’t allow me to add breath and make them real.
Reality comes back with a quick snap and I close the book and put it back on its shelf.
Thumb my phones flashlight off and take a seat on the sofa with a huff.
Asking aloud “so how goods’ the stuff you brought?”

“Yeah…….About that” Jack replies.