Inflictions Page 28

  “Oops,” Jake said sheepishly.

  He drove off, but a thought remained etched in his mind. With his money and today’s technology in medicines, like cosmetic and plastic surgery and liposuction, they could transform him into a virtual Adonis—a perfect man!

  Calling Jake smart would be like calling Bambi a man-eater, but he still knew the power of money. It was a case that held true throughout history, even in classic tales like “Beauty and the Beast.” Money gets the babes, and he had plenty of money. Surely he had enough to lure a suitable mate … or at least someone with less facial hair than himself. Jake chanced another glimpse in the rearview mirror and dropped the fantasy. Maybe his ugliness was too powerful to overlook regardless of money … unless he got a little medical assistance, maybe?

  With this thought in mind, Jake ripped open the fig bars, swallowed half a dozen, and then rushed home to make the necessary appointments.

  Dr. Scanlon paced the office, rubbing his hands together, and shaking his head at Jake’s dilemma.

  “What you ask is impossible,” he said. “Cosmetic surgery has come a long way, but there are limits. You are asking me to make a limo out of a jalopy.” The doctor spread his arms as if awaiting holy intervention, and let them drop in frustration. “Yet … even a jalopy has something to start with.”

  “But …” Jake attempted, twisting his fingers together nervously.

  “But nothing!” Doctor Scanlon interrupted. “Let’s face it, Mr. Forbes. I’m a plastic surgeon, not God.”

  Distressed, Jake rose to leave.

  “Mr. Forbes?”

  “Yes, doctor?”

  “Please don’t return,” he said. “It’s bad for my business.”

  Jake expected this type of refusal, just like as the other three surgeons. At least Scanlon was somewhat considerate. The previous surgeon had told Jake that he could make him a movie star … horror movies! Ba-ha-ha-ha!

  Jeesh!

  Jake left the medical center. Once outside, he headed for Price Hackers, where he wandered the aisles in an abandoned stupor, his depression leading him to the pastry aisle like a dog to a fart. He grabbed two boxes of Little Debbie Nutty Bars, a carton of Dove ice cream bars, and a gallon of milk to pad his wounded soul. Jake worked his way toward the checkout. Overhead, the store intercom shrieked to life.

  Welcome to Price Hackers, where the prices are slashed … and slashed … and slashed so much it’s almost insane!

  Jake reached the checkout line, where tiers of candy were strategically displayed to induce tantrums in children and feed the hungry hearts of adults. Across the lanes, racks of tabloids and current event magazines were available for parents to roll up and swat their children. Jake waited in a semi-conscious haze while old and balding men chased prices and gum-snapping adolescents scanned in grocery prices.

  Jake’s eyes wandered across the tabloids and one caught his attention. He snatched it from the display and reread the gaudy block-lettered headlines of The Blatant Bugle.

  SAUCY DAYTIME SOAP STAR IMA DUMMEÉ OF “DAZED ARE OUR WIVES”, SAYS: I WAS UGLIER THAN A TOAD; NEW ORLEANS VOODOO QUEEN SAVED ME.

  Below the caption were the customary before and after photos. Jake recognized the acclaimed, voluptuous goddess whose fiery eyes oozed false passion from the after photo, but it was the before photo that caught his eye.

  Damn, if she didn’t look just like a busty, red-headed E.T., thought Jake. If Voodoo turned that into a perfect woman, then there is a chance I can become a perfect man!

  Jake bought the paper.

  Half a gallon of milk and a box of Nutty Bars later, Jake had read the article, and couldn’t resist reading TALKING MALE DOBERMAN GIVES BIRTH TO TWIN ALIEN PORN STARS. He had seen a couple of their movies.

  Six Dove ice cream bars later, Jake was on the phone planning the first vacation of his life. He reserved a flight to New Orleans leaving the next morning. For Jake, vacations had been fantasies where sunshine, fun, and friends existed, but people like Jake did not. Anyway, he could be just as lonely at work and still make money.

  New Orleans was more inviting than Jake had figured, but the atmosphere was so different that he felt like a fish in a forest. Jake had seldom hoped for much, because it often opened enormous gates for disappointment. Then again, Jake found a certain sense of contentment in disappointment—they were old friends. Jake made sure he was disappointed by the unexpected good cheer of New Orleans, this way the disappointment made him happy.

  Jake felt like a weed in a rose bed as soon as he entered the lobby of the three-hundred-dollar-a-night hotel where he had rented a room. He was spellbound by the flair and exuberance, and after two hours of contemplation and self-debate, he decided the appropriate way to overcome the hotel’s intimidation, was to run across town and rent a dive with a contemporary ghetto motif. The cockroaches virtually stopped Jake at the door to search his luggage. He felt right at home.

  A quick search in the phone book for The Blatant Bugle’s noted priestess Mambo Jasil proved fruitless.

  Disappointment, a good sign!

  Jake left the Cockroach Hilton and continued his search on foot. The first hint of success came at 9:00 PM. Unfortunately, the only thing he was successful at was getting a case of indigestion that would shame The Great Chicago Fire. It brought back memories of his childhood, when he had mistakenly eaten a two-foot strip of fiberglass insulation he had thought was cotton candy.

  Confusing a nervous stomach for hunger, Jake stopped at a sidewalk eatery boasting New Orleans’s best shrimp creole. Jake had expected a simple seafood dish, but left with his mouth burning as if he had tried to light a cigarette with a TurboTorch. Not a good experience, although the week of blistered lips made kicking the habit much easier. He finished the complete plateful, not wanting to offend the eatery, and quickly set off in search of relief, preferably in the shape of a Budweiser can. The one he found was connected to five others, which pleased Jake. Upon emptying the sixth can, his spice-fried mouth had been numbed to a nasty sting and was tame enough to continue his venture. After hours of queries and misdirection—several to establishments of ill repute—Jake was finally pointed somewhat in the right direction.

  Jake stared through the little shop’s window, apprehensive and unsure whether to enter or run. A decorous sign above the window read Bon Dieu 2, specializing in the Haitian art of Voodoo. Jake, in a rare moment of courage, entered the store, opening the door to a medley of sights and smells. Most were pleasing, but not determinable.

  A small man with a glossy bald head and skin that shined like mahogany appeared from behind a curtain.

  “May I help you?” the man asked. His voice was Haitian and remarkably deep.

  Jake stumbled self-consciously, to the ware-laden counter, unsure of how to approach the man or the subject.

  “Voodoo?” Jake ventured.

  “Sometimes. How ’bout Voo?” replied the man, flashing a dazzling smile.

  Jake stared.

  “Sorry, old trade joke,” the man extended his hand. “My name is Guido Vermicelli.”

  “Guido?” asked Jake.

  “Boy-oh-boy you a dry one.” The man shook his head dubiously. “I am Mocco. What is it you search for?”

  Jake wiped at an itch just inside his nostril, and came away with a large, wet booger on the back of his hand.

  “I’m looking for a woman named Mambo Jasil,” Jake explained. “Can you tell me where to start?”

  Mocco’s eyes brightened as his smile spread across his face, exposing those remarkably white teeth.

  Jake’s heart leapt. He knows her, he thought.

  “Whooeee!” Mocco hooted.

  He threw his head back and barked a laugh. Jake took the opportunity to try to wipe the offending snot under the lip of the counter, but only managed to spread it like Fluff-a-nutter across the top his hand.

  “Another one who reads the tabloids, are you?” Mocco slapped the counter nearing hysterics. “You want to be the new soapy dope
y heartthrob? You want the Voodoo Guru to sprinkle a little deep-fried doo-doo here, a little there, and poof, shake-and-bake a fruit cake? Ha-ha-ha.”

  Jake’s heart sank like a lead Dodge Polara.

  “Hey, Mama. Come here and take a look at Fruity Valentino,” the storeowner yelled over his shoulder and wiped his eyes. “Lover boy here look for Mambo Jasil.”

  A heavy Haitian woman with an exquisite, radiant face emerged from the back room.

  “My, my, my, you sure got a full dosage of ugly,” said the woman, but there was no humor present on her face or in her voice.

  “Here,” Mama said, handing Jake a tissue and motioning to his hand.

  Jake’s face reddened, as he rubbed the substance from his skin. He nearly ran when he noticed that another customer, a short lady wearing a shawl and a kerchief, had come in unnoticed.

  Mama glared reproachfully at the grinning Mocco, whose face immediately became serious.

  “They play dirty tricks out there, son,” Mama sympathetically said to Jake. “We have a strong magic, child, but some things just ain’t s’possed to be.”

  She dismissed both men by wordlessly disappearing into the back room.

  “She scares the crap out of me when she’s like that,” Mocco said, pointing at the swaying curtain, “You know what I mean?”

  ”No,” said Jake.

  He turned and left the store amidst a kaleidoscope of emotions, silently cursing the money and the false hopes borne on its wings. He had walked nearly three blocks before he realized that someone was talking to him and was tugging on his jacket sleeve.

  “Stop, you freaking idiot!” she said.

  Jake felt his sleeve rip to the elbow. He looked down to see the lady who had been browsing the store. She was easily eighty-five years old if she was a day, and she made Jake think of a fat, shaved hamster. The word hag came to mind.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “I am who you seek,” she replied. “Mambo Jasil.”

  “Well, E.T. was seen somewhere near Saturn last time I checked,” he said crisply, and continued to walk away.

  “I can help you!” she repeated with a hiss.

  Something in her obstinate voice spoke of confidence and truth, causing Jake to stop, though her grabbing onto the waist of his pants and digging her heels into the ground also aided the effort.

  “You heard me in the store?” asked Jake.

  “Yes,” she confessed, her voice cracking like sandpaper on glass, “and I know what ails you, besides the fact you are as dumb as a graham cracker.” She pointed accusingly at Jake’s nose. “You have PMS—Perfect Male Syndrome. I have seen it many times before.”

  It dawned on Jake that this vigorous and ugly gnome of a woman reminded him of an ancient Doctor Ruth.

  “Desperate people take desperate measures,” he reasoned and reflectively added, “So, you think you can turn me into the perfect male?”

  “Yes,” she assured him with spittle-spraying conviction.

  Jake looked at her unsightly troll face. With her fissured complexion and livery lips, she was undoubtedly the homeliest human being he had ever seen.

  How could someone so ugly possibly help me and not herself? he wondered. She’s supposed to have special gifts, can she read minds?

  “You are thinking, how I can help you when I can’t even rectify the way I look, am I right?” she asked.

  Damn!

  “Well, yeah,” Jake admitted sheepishly.

  “I never claimed to have found the fountain of youth, but I do know the secrets of longevity and beauty,” explained the shrew. “The beauty you received would be in proportion to your age.”

  “God! How old are you?” Jake asked

  “Most beautiful one-hundred-and-forty-six-year-old woman you’ve ever seen, right?” She fluffed her haystack head.

  Jake stared, stunned and somewhat drawn to the large and befitting wart on her chin. He wasn’t sure which was more shocking, her age revelation, or that anything about this repulsive rockfish of a woman could be considered beautiful.

  “Well?” the hag persisted.

  “Uh, well, yeah,” Jake answered honestly, since he had never seen a one-hundred-year-old woman, never mind one pushing a buck and a half.

  “Well, there you go!”

  “If I believe you and meet your offer, what will it cost me?”

  “No payment is necessary,” she said with a wave of her knurled hand. “I sense your need. It would belittle my gift if I were to receive payment from someone with such a disadvantage.”

  “I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars if it works.”

  “That will be sufficient. Meet me in front of Bon Dieu 2, tomorrow at noon. I will bring you to my home. Tonight I must prepare.” She turned with a crackle of rebellious joints and uncontrolled flatulence, and walked quickly away.

  As they had planned, Jake waited in front of the decided shop. As promised, Mambo Jasil arrived promptly at noon driving a cherry-red Pinto. Jake looked into the car and then climbed in, feeling like a cockroach in a match box. The drive took them deep into the bayous of Golden Meadow. The little Ford screeched in protest, riveting down paths and trails that were all but visible save for the parallel hint of tire ruts.

  After an eternity of beaten tracks, and countless encounters between Jake’s head and the ceiling, the car pulled to a rattling stop in front of a small but well-built house.

  Mambo Jasil led Jake inside and motioned him to sit at the kitchen table. Her kitchen looked like a leftover Happy Days prop. The counters were green, marbleized Formica with chrome trim, and her table set matched it perfectly. In the corner of the room near a closed door, a round-cornered Kelvinator refrigerator hummed like an aggravated wasp. A large, gray tomcat leapt onto the table to assess Jake nose-to-nose.

  “That’s Wizard,” said the hag. “Don’t mind him; he’s just checking you out.”

  Wizard dutifully turned, lifted a leg, and pissed a quick stripe across Jake’s chest.

  “Oh, isn’t that sweet? He likes you!” cried the pleased Jasil.

  She walked to a cupboard and extracted a glass and a small vial containing a purple powder. From another cupboard she produced a jar with a cloudy liquid in it. In the cup, she combined the two ingredients and handed it to Jake.

  “Here, drink this up,” instructed the woman. “It is a primer for the ritual.”

  Jake kicked the liquid back without question. Within a minute his sight blurred and his head started spinning.

  “It tastes like grape.”

  “We’ve come a long way with our medicines. Nasty medicine went out with Mary Poppins.”

  “I like it! It has a little kic …” Jake flipped over backward and sprawled on the floor, unconscious.

  Jake woke to an incredible migraine but remembered where he had been before he slept. Anxiously, he looked down at his hands and the reclined form of his body. His shirt was soaked by more of Wizard’s approval, but that wasn’t what upset him. He was still fat and still had the same pasty skin!

  “Welcome back, glamour boy,” a voice rang from a corner of the room.

  Still hazy, Jake looked at the source of the voice.

  “Yoda?” he said before realizing that it was Jasil. “Nothing’s changed. I’m still me.”

  “Of course you’re still you, but I promise you, much has changed,” she said. She stood up and moved beside him.

  “You said you would make me the perfect male.”

  “And you are,” she assured him with a proud glow in her eyes … yellow, but proud. “You’re perfect for me.”

  Jake tried to sit up, but one of his legs was bound. He looked at his leg, shackled to an iron chain running to a ring anchored in the cement wall.

  “Why am I chained?” he asked, trying to yank the chain free.

  “Like you said yesterday,” Jasil explained, “desperate people take desperate measures.” She moved closer to him. “Look at me! It’s not easy getting a mate when
you look like this! You should know.”

  “You’re not Mambo Jasil!” yelled Jake.

  “Very good, Charlie Chan. I lied,” she admitted. “My name is Ivanna Pewque, and I lied about my age too. I’m forty-two. It’s been a hard life.” She smiled impishly, satisfied by her craftiness. “No Voodoo used either, just a cup of Kool-Aid with an industrial strength tranquilizer.”

  “But why? What do you want from me?” Jake asked.

  “Much the same thing you are looking for,” she said.

  She fluffed his pillow and pushed him back down on it. “Don’t worry, you’ll adapt in time. I bet I’ll even be able to remove the chains someday.”

  “Someday,” Jake mumbled, recognizing the hopelessness of this predicament.

  “Now eat the meal I cooked for you, you’ll need your strength for what I have planned.” She winked lasciviously at him and left the room, giggling like a schoolgirl.

  Jake grabbed a hamburger from the night stand and helped himself to a hearty bite. It was the best burger he’d had in a while. He was not at all disappointed with the burger, and this worried him. He was accustomed to disappointment.

  Jake leaned back with his hands behind his head.

  She did have a cute giggle.

  In Defense of …

  http://Lup-d-lup.blogspot.com/

  THE SUPUL ONE – A Night (H)Owl’s Blog

  Blog entry Wednesday, October 9, 2012

  Am I a Pariah?

  Wow! What a response! I’m stunned by the amount of hate email I’ve been receiving since I came out of the closet … in a manner of speaking.

  In retrospect, I guess it isn’t surprising that so many of you hate me and my kind. People fear what they don’t understand and are more naturally prone to lash out than lend a sympathetic ear. By the way, people! Have you ever heard of the benefit of the doubt?

  Yes. I know there are endless tales about us—some true … others not so true, but this is what it comes down to. Despite our long, long history and some seriously in-depth research and reflection by the likes of Sabine Baring-Gould and Montague Summers, very little is known about us. I know why this is so. The reason is simple … not at all life altering.