BLUE ANGST

a tragedy

Across town there sat a small, dingy apartment building.

This apartment building was almost empty, with only a few people scattered throughout. In 2A lived a man called the Colonel, who used his closet door for knife-throwing practice and was rumored to have two false ears to replace the ones he lost in the war. An unemployed Shakespearean actor used to live in apartment 3E until he hanged himself with a rope made of stranded together licorice.

And in 2D lived Jip and Jorge Bland, two brothers who worked for a towing company.

On the third Tuesday of the month, Jip and Jorge found themselves sitting in their living room/kitchen/bedroom, staring vacantly at the intricate cracks in the plaster.

Jip asked "What do you want to do?"

Jorge looked at Jip.

Jip asked, "What do you want to do?"

Jorge sat there.

Jip looked at him. Then he had a thought, and asked, "What do you want to do today?"

"I don’t know," Jorge answered. "What do you want to do?"

"I don’t know," said Jip.

Jorge looked up, deep in thought. "We could..." Then he got lost in counting the cracks in the ceiling and fell silent.

"We could collect shards of glass from outside," Jip suggested. He waited approximately thirty-seven seconds for an answer, and then said, "We could collect shards of glass from outside."

After another pause, in which a small African country changed governments three times, Jip turned on the television. The Pembry Leftettler show was on, and self-proclaimed civil rights crusader Pembry could be seen standing next to an old woman in a coffin.

"Viewers, the treatment of the elderly in rest homes is intolerable," he solemnly intoned. "We watched Mrs. Peters here for three days with our hidden cameras and documented the problem."

With that, the picture switched to Mrs. Peters in her hospital room, struggling to reach the call button. Pembry spoke over the picture. "Many times during the night she awoke in pain and in need of pills. However, she could not reach the call button, which was placed too far away. Night after night we watched her suffer, trying to reach that button, but always failing. On the fourth night, she died. No one seems to care about this problem, but we will bring you the truth that no one else dares to show. We’ll be right back."

A commercial for Dandy’s Funtime Happy Chips came on, and then the telephone rang. Jip picked it up. "Hello?" He said into the phone, as Jorge looked on with pride. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes." There was a pause, and Jorge glanced at the tv. "Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Okay." Jip hung up the phone. "That was Pete from the office. He wants us to tow a Cadillac that’s been parked for five days in an alleyway."

Jorge pondered.

Jip pondered as well.

"Okay," said Jorge.

The two brothers drove their truck up to the green 1969 Cadillac. "Let’s look in the trunk," Jip suggested. "Pete likes it when we make an inventory."

They opened the trunk.

Inside sat a plain crate.

"What do you think that is?" asked Jorge."

"I don’t know. What do you think it is?" asked Jip.

"I don’t know."

Jip put his finger to his lip for a second or eight, then lowered it. "Want to check?"

"Okay."

Jorge pulled a crowbar out of his pocket and popped the top off of the crate. He and Jip looked inside, and saw that it was full of bottles. Jip picked one of the bottles up. It looked like soda, but it had a slightly bluish tint.

"It looks like soda," said Jorge.

"Want to try it?" Jip asked.

"No, it makes me sick," Jorge told him. "And I know it does you too."

"So now what?" wondered Jip aloud.

Jorge furrowed his brow for a bit, then had a thought and suggested, "Let’s keep it."

This statement was interesting to Jip, but he had a moral qualm, and he decided to speak it. "But that’s stealing," he protested.

"I know," said Jorge, but as long as we don’t tell anyone it’s okay."

That made perfect sense to Jip, who readily agreed, and so they hitched the car to their truck and towed it away, with their few good fortune safely placed on the seat between them. The two didn’t think twice about the oily rag that was sticking out of the gas tank. Nor did they notice the man lying dead under some trash at the other end of the alley. The man had been stabbed, and his wallet and watch were missing. He had been jumped by the Boss Dawgs, one of the local gangs. In the man’s hand was a lighter.

An hour later, the Bland brothers were walking home. Along the way, they ran into Vinny, their friend who owned "Vinny’s Bar" right down the street. Vinny saw them and grinned, and his five gold teeth sparkled like his hair.

"What’s up dudes?" Vinny asked as he scratched himself in two places at once. "Hey, check that out." The Blands followed Vinny’s finger as his hand moved away from his crotch and pointed to a woman walking by on the other side of the street. "That is one hot slut. I’d love to get just one hand on her, and I don’t care which hand."

Vinny glanced at the crate that the Blands were carrying. "What do you boys have?"

"A crate of soda," answered Jip as he watched the woman disappear around a corner. He decided that Vinny was right. She must be hot. She was wearing a heavy coat. "Would you like one?"

"Sure, I guess I could toss some whisky in there or something. Hook me up."

Jorge reached in the crate and handed Vinny one of the bottles. Vinny peered at the liquid through the clear glass. "It’s blue. What kinda soda’s blue?"

Jip thought for a moment, then had a creative breakthrough. "We call it Blue Angst."

"Yeah? Cool." Vinny took a swig, then coughed. It didn’t taste fizzy. "Damn, that packs a wallop. What kind of soda is this?"

"Do you like it?" Jorge asked.

Vinny shrugged. "I don’t know. S’Okay I guess. I mean, yeah, okay."

Jip looked at his watch. "Well, we have to be going. See you later Vinny."

"See ya."

The two brothers walked away, and Vinny walked back into his bar, which as usual was empty. He took another drink from the bottle and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Not bad, he thought. Not as good as getting three or four hookers in his bed at once, but since he’d never been able to afford that he was really only guessing.

Suddenly, Vinny found himself feeling a bit ill. His right hand felt like it was burning. He looked down and saw that he could see the bones in his hand. That’s odd, he thought. Then he realized that the flesh was falling off his hand in a blue slime.

Vinny opened his mouth to scream, but his mouth filled with the blue substance, and his eyes popped out, and then he promptly melted away.

Jip and Jorge sat in their apartment, staring at the bottles of blue liquid. "I wonder where it came from?" Jip asked, mainly to himself, but since he spoke aloud Jorge considered the answer.

"I don’t know. We should patent the formula and then we could be rich."

"Okay," said Jip. He liked ideas.

Pembry Leftettler stood in Vinny’s bar, looking down as the mass of blue sludge that covered Vinny’s skeleton. He knew he was looking at Vinny, because of the horrible grin on the skull. Five gold teeth shone at him.

Thoughts of his television show raced through Pembry’s head. This must be a good story. And to think, he just came into the bar to get his usual glass of beer and a baggie of speed. Speed was good when a daily show had to be made. Pembry wished he had some, but he didn’t, so he pushed the thought aside.

"This must be the work of pollution," he said aloud. He liked to say things aloud for his own private posterity. He glanced through the front window and looked at the giant smokestacks nearby. "Definitely pollution."

Pembry strode through the door and locked it on the way out. No need to get anyone involved, he thought. He would crack the story soon enough himself.

"Let’s play a guessing game," Jip suggested. "Guess what I’m thinking of."

"A mountain," said Jorge."

"No," Jip said.

"A hedgehog."

"No."

"The time Uncle Willie got drunk and set fire to his house, and got his face all burned and he couldn’t stay in the hospital because he didn’t have any insurance so we grafted the skin from his thighs with paint scrapers and sewed it to his face."

"No."

There was a knock at the door. Jip answered it, and there stood Mr. Spittledoe, the landlord. "Rent’s due," grunted Mr. Spittledoe.

"We’re a little short," said Jip.

"I ain’t takin’ no excuses," Mr. Spittledoe snarled. "Gimme my money or get out." He raised his shirt to reveal a revolver tucked into his waistband. The two brothers looked on, shocked. Mr. Spittledoe grabbed Jip’s wallet and looked inside. "This all you got?"

"Yes, I’m sorry," Jip said.

"Fine, then I’ll keep your wallet too. Idiot." With that, Mr. Spitledoe turned and saw the crate full of bottles. He grabbed one and stalked out.

"Well," said Jorge.

Mr. Spittledoe stalked down the street, angry. He couldn’t believe the nerve of those two freeloaders. He opened the bottle and drank half the contents. He sputtered and threw the bottle away, disgusted. He expected booze, but this tasted more like sludge. Now he was even angrier, and he started to walk faster.

As he took another step, he felt odd, like he was shorter. He stopped and looked behind him, and saw to his horror that his feet were sitting on the ground behind him, melting. They had fallen off as he walked.

Horrified, Mr. Spittledoe tried to run, but as he was unaccustomed to running without feet, he stumbled and fell on his face, which slid right off and went down a storm drain.

Jip sat and watched the crack above the door. He figured if he watched it long enough, maybe something interesting would happen. Jorge watched Jip as intently as Jip watched the crack, figuring if the crack did something interesting then Jip would too, and that would be interesting.

Pembry sat on a curb, cleaning his shoe. Just a few moments earlier he slipped in the remains of Mr. Spittledoe, and he found the experience disturbing. His shoes had cost several hundred dollars.

Finished with his cleaning, Pembry stood up and walked over to the mess, careful not to step in it again. He saw a wallet nearby, and picked it up. The name on the driver’s license was Jip Bland. Interesting, thought Pembry. The address was just a block away. He decided to check on the owner of the wallet, and walked down the street, not noticing the brown car that followed him.

Jip and Jorge were getting ready for bed. They had both brushed their teeth with exactly one hundred strokes. As they were telling each other goodnight, there was a knock at the door. Jorge answered it, and there stood the great Pembry Leftettler in all his triumphant glory.

"Mr. Leftettler?" asked Jorge, stunned by the appearance of this television star. He was glad that he decided to wear his tie to bed.

Jip stood up. "What are you doing here?"

"I don’t know," said Pembry. "I’m sure you won’t mind if I walk in, do you? After all, I am on TV"

Jip and Jorge took a step back, and Pembry swaggered in. His eyes darted everywhere, looking for a clue. "We love your show," Jip told him.

Pembry’s eyes glanced to the crate, and he opened it. "Aha!" he exclaimed, impressed with his detective abilities. He took out one of the bottles and examined it closely. It was the same color and consistency as the corpses he found. "What is this?" he demanded.

Jip shrugged. "We call it Blue Angst. It’s a drink."

"Have one," suggested Jorge.

"I don’t think so," Pembry sneered. "I believe this is causing people’s deaths."

"What?" asked Jip.

"What?" asked Jorge.

Jip thought for a second, and couldn’t remember if an important question had been asked, so he decided he’d better. "What?" he said.

"I have found several corpses of men who have melted away, and I think this is the cause," Pembry explained. "Why did you create this murderous drink?"

"We didn’t," Jip protested weakly.

"You did!" shouted Pembry with indignation. How dare they speak to a television star in a contrary way? Celebrities should be treated better than that. "Now you two are going to give me an exclusive interview before I turn you in! Why did you create such a vile substance?"

As Pembry asked Jip these bruising questions, Jorge got as close to scared as he could get. He thought. He had an idea. It wasn’t the best idea, but it was suitable.

So Jorge picked a knife from off the counter and plunged it into the top of Pembry’s head.

Pembry looked at Jorge, stunned. He had never been stabbed in the head before, and it really hurt. His life quickly left him and he pitched forward. Jip and Jorge walked over to him and looked at his prone body.

"You killed him," Jip said, in case Jorge did not know this.

"You’re right," agreed Jorge. The murder of Pembry came as a surprise to Jip. He knew that Jorge was nonviolent except when it came to gnats, flies, oysters, flowers that grow out of sidewalk cracks, or purple painted dogs. "What should we do?"

"We could..." said Jip. He then became lost in thought. He wondered what the cracks on the ceiling were up to.

Suddenly, the door was kicked open and a man in a green trenchcoat stormed in, a pistol in his hand. "Hello, I’m sorry to bother you, but I came for the blue liquid. Give it to me."

"Who are you?" Jorge asked. Jip was still thinking about the cracks.

"I am the man who created that liquid. And I want it back."

Jip realized that the cracks weren’t going to do anything in the next few minutes, so he decided to speak. "You created it?"

"Yes," said the man. "My partner and I made this liquid to destroy the scum that lives in this ghetto. We hadn’t perfected it yet. It acts too quickly, and it tastes weird. Not like liquor. But then he had an attack of his conscience, and stole it. Now I’ve found it, and I think I’ll kill you both and take it back if you don’t mind."

But Jip did mind. He rushed the man, who fired his pistol. Jip was hit in the chest, but his momentum kept him going and he crashed into the man, who stumbled backward out the window to the street below.

Jorge crawled over to his wounded brother. "You’re dying," he cried.

"I know. It sucks," Jip replied.

"I want to go with you," said Jorge. In his hand was one of the bottles of blue liquid. Jip nodded.

Jorge drank from the bottle, then held it to his brother’s lips. Jorge also drank. Then Jorge smashed the rest of the bottles and sat back down next to his brother.

They started to melt.

Slowly at first, then faster. Jip looked at Jorge, and Jorge looked at Jip, and then they were too weak to sit upright and they fell on each other. Their flesh ran together into a blue liquid mass, until there was nothing left.

But there was nothing of them to begin with.

Not really.

THE END

(c) Eric Thornett, 1994

This story was first published in Silhouette magazine.