Best Little Witch-House in Arkham. Mark McLaughlin

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СКАЧАТЬ Haven’t you figured anything out?” Kiwi laughed. “Dear Mrs. Hamogeorgakis should have gone to the sea many centuries ago. But she is in no hurry to do so. So the women of my family have always helped to replace her skin when the scales start to emerge. She heals with amazing speed—she is a living miracle. But the skins become a part of her, so in time, the scales return. The old skins live on after they are replaced, for they have become undying, like her. We put things in their pool for them to…absorb.” Kiwi cocked her head to one side and gazed at Kyle. “Her new look is quite fanciful, yes? Pretty in a different sort of way.”

      “Such a lovely boy,” Kyle said in a thick, rumbling, yet distinctly feminine voice. His lips parted in a smile, revealing needle-thin yellow teeth. He turned and walked down the hall.

      Melina could see the thick stitches in the back of his neck.

      “We wanted to use you,” Kiwi said, “but it’s just as well we didn’t. The scales would have emerged far too soon. Just look what her bite—such a tiny amount of venom!—did to you.”

      Gently, she raised the girl’s arm and pulled back the sleeve of the dressing gown.

      Fine scales glistened on her forearm, with a slight touch of rainbow iridescence.

      “Do not worry. You will make many new friends,” Kiwi said. “In the caves.”

      When We Was Flab

      Four astounding musicians. Over the years, they have been called Geniuses. Snake-Oil Salesmen. Superstars. Lard-Buckets. Cutie-Pies. Cannibals. Messiahs. Human Devils. No other musical group in the history of rock and roll has ever inspired more commentary or controversy. Personally—until very recently—I have always called them my friends.

      They are…The Vittles.

      Here are some basic facts about the band, for those of you who have been living in caves or on distant mountain-tops for the past few decades. According to early press releases, they started out as a fresh-faced bunch of kids with guitars, rehearsing in garages and barns in a small rural town in the Midwest. No written records exist concerning their births, grades in school, or any other elements of their early years. That is because after the boys became billionaires, they bought their tiny hometown of Liverpond, Iowa. They paid its citizens to change their names and relocate, and then tore down the buildings and paved over the ruins. Basically, they turned the town into an empty parking lot out in the middle of the cornfields.

      A real Nowheres-ville.

      None of the boys have ever gone by their real names, whatever those were. Those facts went down with the town of Liverpond. The leader of the group is Popo, the cheery, playful one, he of the bee-stung lips and big puppy-dog eyes. He came up with the tunes, and was usually the lead singer.

      Then there’s Jones—the sensitive, poetic one, with his little round glasses and serious demeanor. He wrote most of the lyrics, and even penned a few books of short stories and poetry on the side. Those who have read his work soon come to realize that Jones, like so many poets, has his dark side.

      Mongo the drummer is…well, he’s the ugly one, and the first to admit it. His face is mostly nose, and he has enormous eyebrows—and yet, the girls adored him way-back-when, in the same way a child might cherish a scrawny puppy or a kitten with a missing eye.

      Gregor was the intellectual mystic. He was intrigued by esoteric philosophies and religions. Girls called him the smart one, and many fell in love with his brooding good looks.

      The boys were always a little chunky, and as the years passed, they gained more and more weight—good living does that to people. Along the way, media wags dubbed them…the Flab Four.

      They made a few movies along the way, but eventually stopped. The boys only looked even bigger up on the big screen. When their last movie came out—one with several love scenes—an especially sharp-tongued critic commented, “Who wants to watch a documentary on the mating habits of whales?”

      The boys did try to lose weight by various means—in fact, that’s how I met them. Years ago, when I was young and needed the money, I worked at a celebrity spa that offered vitamin-enriched colonic irrigations. The Vittles were regular customers, and I learned about the boys inside and out. Later I went into journalism—a line of work not too different from my days at the spa. The boys kept in touch, and even invited me to some of their legendary Hollywood parties.

      Along the way, a mysterious woman from a faraway land entered the lives of the Flab Four. Some say she was the one who encouraged them to study the occult. Certainly their music—and careers—took a turn down a darkened corridor after meeting her.

      At one point, an assassin shot at Jones as he was leaving a television studio, and since nobody saw him for some time after that, rumors circulated that he had died. In truth, he had gone into seclusion after the ordeal because he’d required extensive plastic surgery to repair damages to his face. After the surgery, he always wore dark glasses during public appearances.

      Then came that fateful concert at Monroe Hexagonal Stadium—a night the world will never forget. Fans were shocked by what transpired at that concert, and afterward, bodyguards quickly spirited The Vittles off-stage. The boys quickly left America for a self-imposed exile upon the Pacific island of Pokaluhu, where I recently visited them at their request. It was to be their first interview in ten years. I was not allowed to bring any cameras or video equipment—only a tape recorder.

      It would be the understatement of the millennium to say that things did not go as I had expected.

      The following is a transcript of the taped interview.

      * * * *

      MM: Pokaluhu is a beautiful resort island—a paradise of palm trees and exotic flowers. I spent last night and this morning in a wonderful hotel on the other side of the island. A driver brought me to the mansion of The Vittles this afternoon. An elderly blind woman answered the door—she said she was one of the cooks. She was very friendly and cheerful, and we had a nice chat. I asked her if it was difficult being a blind cook, and she just laughed and said, “Blind people have to cook for themselves. Why would it be any harder to cook for others?” Good point!

      I am now seated at a little white table in an enormous garden, with fragrant orchids and blossoming vines in every direction. I am in the shade of a huge, flowering tree, dotted with purple and golden butterflies. In front of me is a white gazebo, surrounded by screens of white fabric.

      The Vittles are within that gazebo, having their dinner. I can see only their silhouettes. Fortunately there are some torches behind them, so their shadows on the screen before me are pretty sharp. I can even make out the jutting curve of Mongo’s aquiline nose. It would appear they have four women at their table as well, and there’s a servant standing off to one side. I think there are some big dogs huddled under the table. Or perhaps that’s a trunk? The shape kind of reminds me of a treasure chest.

      Boys, why are you hiding behind those screens? I can see your shadows from here—you’ve lost weight. Good for you!

      Popo: Yes, we’ve slimmed down. We’ve been fighting the flab for years, and it’s finally gone. Thanks for noticing.

      MM: I believe there are some women in there with you. Are they your wives? Girlfriends?

      Popo: To my right is my wife, Laura. She’s not having any of the roast this evening.

      Laura: I should say not. I keep saying meat is bad for them, СКАЧАТЬ