Greg had made his way down the street in the heart of Helltown. The streets were dark with very few street lamps working properly. Most of the lights had blown out or shot out by some members of several gangs. The city just hadn’t bothered to change them or replace the blown our or shot out bulbs. Broken down cars and trucks littered the road, their windows shattered, tires missing, along with various other parts of several different vehicles. The buildings that lined the streets were old and dirty, several of the buildings, which still held businesses in them, had dim lights and untrustworthy looking people working in them. One restaurant that seemed to be open twenty-four hours a day held dead flies on the inside window seals. It advertised "fresh soul food." Greg turned up his nose at the thought of what he imagined was in the "fresh soul food."

   When Greg reached the door of the place he was looking for he stopped and looked around. Slowly, he pushed the door open, stepped inside and let it close behind him. He rubbed a hand through his greasy black hair and began to walk down the long hall, his brown eyes focused on a sliver of yellow light that peeked out from under a closed door. As he walked he stumbled once when his foot hit the hand of someone laying against the wall of the hall. Greg looked down at the person. Though it was dark Greg could see the person’s white skin and he felt–he was almost positive–this person was dead.

   "Hey, buddy, are you okay?" he asked as he nudged the arm with one sneaker covered foot. He waited a minute, waiting for a response. There was none. He nudged t arm again, this time a little harder> A grunt came from the person this time. Satisfied that the person was at least alive. Greg began bask down the hall. He looked back once at the person on the floor but continued to walk.

   Greg stopped at the door. The sliver of yellow light shone on the tips of his shoes. He knocked three time in rapid succession. He waited. Two knocks came back. Greg then knocked four times, paused and knocking two more times. He listened as a series of bolts slid, clicked and unlocked from their chambers.

   Slowly, the door opened. A head peeked out. It was a stoned looking blonde man who smelled strong of sweat and piss.

   "Come in, man," the blonde said. By the sound of his voice Greg knew he was really too stoned to know who he was letting into the rat hole of a bar his friend, Larry, had sent him to.

   Greg stepped in and watched as the blonde closed the door. As the door closed, Greg looked down the hall to where the person had been lying on the floor. His eyes grew wide as the light of the room fell on the person and then was gone behind him. The person looked like he was missing his body from the waist down. He shook his head atthis, knowing he must have been seeing things.

   Greg turned in time to see the blonde stoner disappear down a black hallway that was off the room where Greg was now standing in. Greg looked up at the bright yellow light that dangle from the ceiling on a light chord. He shielded his eyes with one hand and then looked in he direction the stoned blonde had went. The light shone partially down the hall. Beyond the little bit of light down the hall, though, it was black.

   Greg walked into the hall and out of the light. Down the dark hall he went until he ran into a wall. He moved his hands along until he found which direction the hall went then he went to his right, following the hall. He slowed for a moment, straining his ears to listen for the nosie he was hearing. He smiled as he heard the distinctive sound of an alternative rock band. He let out a soft laugh as he realized the band was covering a Willie Nelson song.

   Greg followed the music as it grew louder and louder with each step. Finally, Greg came to a dimly lit room that opened from the mouth of the door less hall. He entered the rom with it’s flourescent lighting and dirty floor. Most of the patrons inside dancing and banging their heads looked to own very similar wardrobes, lacking in both variety and taste. Most of the clothes were bland in color and baggy in size. Tattoos littered their bodies along with many piercings in many different places. Most of the people in the large room paid Greg no attention. Those who did notice him just gave him a disinterested glance and went back to their drinks or dancing or fondling of others or themselves. Some of them, Greg could see, were in the process of shooting up or smoking some sort of wacky weed or some other drug of preference.

   Pushing his way through the crowd he tried to make his way to the area that looked lie it could be a bar. One time Greg stopped, spun around as if to hit someone, but then couldn’t tell who he needed to hit. Someone had grabbed his crotch and Greg was pretty sure it wasn’t a woman who did it. As he looked at all the people dancing and talking around him–none of which were paying any attention o him–he knew that someone had just gotten a cheap thrill and Greg wasn’t going to be able to figure out who had done it.

   Damn pervert! Greg thought as he turned back toward the bar. Standing n his way was a chest. Greg looked up to eh face of the man the chest belonged to. The guy was looking down at him. He was bald, clean shaven, with a thick nose that Greg thought had been broken at least twice in his recent lifetime. His face was rounded somewhat and held thin lips and small green eyes. There were no eyebrows to be seen. Greg glanced down passed the man’s tight gray t-shirt. He wore black cargo pants and black army boots that were laced all the way up with the ant legs tucked into them. A tattoo ran up his left arm starting at his wrist and disappearing into the sleeve of his shirt.

   "What’s that?" Greg asked aloud, not realizing he had done so. When the man responded it startled Greg.

   "It’s a shit ghost," Baldy said in a voice that didn’t seem to match his body. It was deep, yes, but very child-like, as if baldy were going through the stage in puberty where his voice was changing from a kid’s to a man’s.

   "A shit ghost?" Greg asked absently.

   The tattoo was black, mostly. It was long and seemed to wrap itself around Baldy’s arm like a coil. There was really no body to it, just a tangle of briar-like tentacles that intertwined each other like braids. What looked like gray steam came off of the shit ghost’s body. Mingled in with the gray steam were what Greg thought were flies buzzing all around the beast. Two beady red eyes peered out from what was surely the creature’s face. Greg saw no mouth or nose or any other facial features; there were only the crimson eyes–and they were looking right at him.

   "Yeah," Baldy responded. "That’s what it’s called: s shit ghost."

   Greg nodded. "Interesting."

   "So, who are you looking for?" Baldy asked.

   Greg looked up into Baldy’s small green eyes (a welcome relief from the sight of the shit ghost’s beady red ones0.

   "Actually, no one," he said. "My friend, Larry, sent me here. He said I would like the joint. So, all I’m doing is looking for the bar."

   Baldy nodded and smiled a toothy smile. He turned, grabbing Greg’s wrist as he did so. He made his way through the crowd as people parted for him, letting him through without so much as a sideways glance of protest. The river of people collapsed back together, closing the gap where Greg watched in amazement as the people flowed ack together like water.

   When Baldy stopped it was abrupt and Greg wasn’t expecting it. He ran into the back of his guide and muttered a quick apology. For a moment and for reasons he was unsure of Greg felt embarrassed for running into the big lug that held his wrist tight. Maybe it was a fear of angering the jolly bald giant. Quickly the feeling faded as balded pushed him to a stool by the bar. Greg sat, clumsily, almost missing the seat altogether but catching himself before he toppled to the floor.

   "Hey, Rip," Baldy said, his voice much deeper than before, "Fellah here wants a drink."

   Greg turned toward the bar–a long, black formica topped wooden structure with black formica two by fours as legs every six or so feet. There was no paneling or formica covering form floor to bar top that hid the legs of those bartending from those drinking. You could see right up under the bar and if someone were feeling especially froggy they could crawl up under the bar to the other side and snag himself a beer when the tender wasn’t paying attention.

   When Greg got a good look at the bartender he doubted anyone would be dumb enough or thirsty enough to want to crawl under this guys’ bar and swipe a drink from him–especially without paying for it. He was big. Very big. Bigger than Baldy, easily a head taller. He had long white hair and a beard that was just as long and just as white. Gray eyes peered from behind a pair of black plastic framed glasses He was also round in the belly and moved slowly. In his thick hand she held two bottles of beer with a name Greg couldn’t read. On his forearm and running into his dirty white t-shirt was the same tattoo Baldy had on his arms: a shit ghost.

   Rip walked over to where Greg and Baldy were sitting. Someone called out to him as he passed them, wanting another beer. Rip pu ta meaty hand out, palm up, as if to say "hold on a sec," and kept walking.

   "Come on, Rip," the man yelled impatiently.

   Without looking back at the man Rip extended his middle finger high into the air. The finger held on it, from fingertip to third knuckle, another shit ghost. The tattoo seemed to move, it’s head moving on Rip’s fingertip. Greg thought he heard a hiss come from the tattoo. The man got quiet, moving from the bar quickly. The blood had drained from his face.

   "What can I do for you?" Rip asked in a tone that was almost grand fatherly. It was a voice that could put most anybody at ease. It certainly put Greg at ease.

   Greg opened his mouth to say something, most likely his beer of choice. Before he could get it out baldy put a big hand on his arm and ordered form him.

   "Get him a beer shitter," he said and then let go of Greg’s arm. "Compliments of Mr. Larry."

   Rip nodded and smiled. "Some B.S. it is then," he said and turned away.

   "You’ll like this," Baldy said. He smiled a wide tooth-filled smile.

   "Yeah, I’m sure," Greg said. He was a touch irritated by Baldy’s ordering the drink fro him, but he wasn’t about to say anything to him about it.

   As Greg waited for his drink he looked along the bar There were actually a few attractive girls lining the bar. There was a blonde in particular that caught his eye. She had big blue eyes and even bigger breasts that could almost be seen through her ultra thin slut shirt she was wearing. He thought about introducing himself then thought better of it when another woman, who was not near as attractive as the blond, came up to her. She gave her a long, tongue-filled kiss as she slid a hand under her shirt. When they were done kissing the second girl moved her hand and walked away. Greg could see the blonde’s nipple was erect under her shirt.

   Trying to keep form getting turned on Greg looked away from the blonde and toward a corner of the bar. In the corner he saw a weasel looking man. He was giggling like a hyena, exposing his rotted out teeth. His brown hair was brittle looking and his clothes were much like most of the people there–bland and baggy. The weasel’s face looked like wax and his eyes held a wide, perverted look in them. A trickle of saliva ran from one corner of his mouth. His eyes were fixed on the blonde’s erect nipple. Greg saw his arm was under the top of the bar, and worse yet, he could see the weasel’s hand was rubbing his crotch through his baggy pants.

   "Fucking pervert," Greg mumbles to himself and turns his head back to Baldy. He was going to ask Badly what his name was; try to get a conversation going, but when he turned back to him, Baldy was gone. He turns on the stool and looks into the crowd. Baldy is nowhere to be seen.

   "Here you go," Rip said.

   Greg turned back to the bar in time to see Rip setting a tall beer mug on the bar top. There was a thick rust colored fluid inside the mug with a frothy dark brown head on it that spilled over the sides.

   "What is that?" Greg asked. There was a frown on his face and it was obvious to anyone paying attention that he wasn’t so sure he wanted to drink the contents of the mug.

   "It’s a beer shitter," Rip says matter-of-factly.

   Greg looked at it, lowering his eyes to the mug so he can see the rust colored liquid. He didn’t see anything floating in it. That was a good sign. He raised his nose to the lip of the mug and took a quick whiff.

   "Holy-hell," he said in a high pitched voice. "What’s in that?"

   "Don’t you worry none about that," Rip said. "Just drink it up, it’ll make you man if you weren’t already."

   "Yeah, but this smell like. . ." Greg began to protest.

   "Shit," Rip interrupted, finishing Greg’s statement. "I know it does. That’s why it’s called a Beer Shitter. Now pinch your nose and tip it up."

   Greg wasn’t too sure about it, but as he looked around he could see almost everyone at the bar was looking at him. The weasel in the corner of the bar was giggling almost hysterically. Rip was eyeing him hard. More importantly the blonde with the big tits was watching with her big breasts stretching the constraints of her shirt. He took a deep breath and lifted the mug.

   "Down the hatch," he said as he pinched his nose with one hand and tipped the mug to his mouth with the other one. Even with his nose pinched he could taste the rotten liquid. He imagined it was what prune juice, castor oil and bile probably tasted like. He almost gagged but steeled himself against it. When he finished the drink he set the mug on the bar top and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his gray shirt.

   For a moment Greg’s eyes were clinched shut. His mouth was forced into a pucker from the bitter taste in his mouth.

   "Well?" Rip asked.

   "What was in that thing?" Greg asked with a strained voice.

   "Don’t worry none about that," Rip said.

   Greg opened his eyes slowly. The entire room seemed to spin. He put both of his hands, which were shaking badly, on the counter top. His finger tips rapped uncontrollably on the bar’s black linoleum. He felt his stomach flip then flop.

   "Bathroom," Greg managed. "Where’s your bathroom?"

   Rip smiled. He was expecting this reaction. Very few people can hold down the beer shitter. He points to a door off the side of the bar.

   "Go through there and follow the hall."

   Before Rip finishes telling him where the bathroom is Greg is up and headed for the door. Vaguely he hears Rip say something about offering a sacrifice to the porcelain gods. He bolts through the door and into another black hallway. He glimpsed to his right just as the door was closing. He was appalled to see the weasel still laughing, this time much harder than before.

   I’m gonna knock that laugh right out of his mouth. Greg thought as he ran blindly down the hall. He bumped and banged into the walls on either side of him as he went until he came to another one of the hazardous bends. He smacked hard into it and felt something give in his nose with a loud crack. Crumpling to the floor he grabbed his nose. Greg could feel it swelling in his hands and the pain was intense enough to send bright white dots into his vision. He got to his hands and knees and off of his side. His head was hanging low as he tried to hold still and waited for the pain to subside. Greg knew this wouldn’t happen.

   Greg tried to stand. He placed a hand on the dirty wall, to steady himself. His stomach rolled over once, twice, then let go. He was back down on his hands and knees as he began vomiting up the beer shitter. His stomach knotted momentarily and then let go again. When he was done Greg put one hand to his forehead. He felt the sweat pouring off his brow and out of his hair. His nose throbbed from the break in it. Greg tried to breathe through it and moaned loudly as the pain throbbed worse. He carefully wiped his nose with the sleeve of his shirt. Some of the warm, sticky mixture of blood and snot went onto his hand and he wiped it on his pants.

   Placing a hand on the wall again Greg tried to stand. His ribs and stomach hurt from his violent welching and his legs felt like rubber underneath him. For a moment he thought they were going to give out on im before he got upright.

   When he finally managed tp get all the way standing he looked down the hall. There he saw a door standing ajar, a white lite pouring out of it. Cautiously he started for the door. One of his feet stepped into the center of the vomit of beer shitter and slid a little. Greg paid no attention to it and continued to move closer to the door, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. There was an instant where he thought his bowels would release and he began hurrying along the hall.

   Greg pushed the door to the bathroom open, letting the bright light escape fully out into the hall. He squinted as the light seared his eyes for a couple of seconds. Blinking madly he waited for his eyes to adjust to what seemed like the brightest light he had ever seen in his life. After his eyes had adjusted he took in the full view of the bathroom. There was a white basin sink that sat on the wall to his left. The steel water pipes could be seen running from the bottom of the sink and into the wall. A rectangular mirror hung on the wall above the sink, it’s gold plated frame glistening in the light of the bathroom. There was no urinal to be seen, just the white toilet sitting on the right hand side of the room.

   For a moment Greg couldn’t figure out why the white of the sink and toilet and the light were so bright. Then it came to him. The walls, ceiling and floor of the bathroom were a shiny black tile. The white in the room stood out greatly, as strong contrast o the black of the room. Not just that, though. The black tile held red dots in them; perfect red dots, circular in shape and in rows that lined up perfectly from floor to wall to ceiling.

   There was one more think. Unlike the rest of the building or ever the rest of the small neighborhood known as Helltown, the bathroom was clean. He was beside himself at how amazingly clean the room was–there wasn’t ever a dribble of piss on the floor from a wayward, inaccurate pecker. There was a small steel trash can close to the sink with no trash in ti; no tissue dangling out of it. The room was an ideal bathroom for anyone going inside of it to use it. To Greg it was too clean.

   He didn’t have time to reflect on the neatness of the john; he had to get his pants down and his ass on the toilet before he dropped a load in his underwear. Greg fumbled with the button of his pants until it finally came loose. Down went the zipper as he turned, slamming the door fo the bathroom. Down went his pants and underwear in one quick pull. Down went his ass onto the toilet’s seat.

   Greg felt the toilet rock a little as he sat and released all that was in him at almost the same instant.

   "Oh, shit," he said through gasp of air.

   Greg held his stomach as it knotted, gurgled loudly and released. Sweat was pouring off of his now pale face. There were a few seconds where he felt as if he were going to throw up again. He didn’t. He just sat, his arms wrapped around his stomach, his face hot, sweaty and pasty feeling, his eyes clinched shut.

   As the pain in his stomach started to fade he felt something crawl ver his foot that made his eyes snap open. Looking down he saw his right foot was covered in a black liquid.

   "What the. . . ?" he started. He cut his sentence off as he saw the liquid running into his pants and his pant leg began to swell. Another stream of black liquid came out of the black tile floor and ran over Greg’s other foot. The thought of the liquid rolling over his foot didn’t register to his brain as the shock of it coming from the floor tried to work it’s way into realization. He watched, thinking he was hallucinating at first, as the black liquid slowly rose up from his shoes like a cobra rising up before striking it’s pray. Two beady red eyes formed in the liquid and then a thin line of a mouth stretched across it just below the eyes.

   Greg sees a gray mist-like smoke begin to rise from the skin of the black creature. The smoke filled the room with a stench that was like rotten eggs and dead fish but only worse. Much worse. As if on cue the pores of the creature began to open up and out came the flies, buzzing and zipping about, their winds humming loudly in the small enclosure.

   Trying to stand Greg placed both hands on the toilet sat and pushed up. It was no good as the black liquid, which Greg now recognizes as the tattoos on Baldy’s and Rip’s arms, races up the base of the toilet and attaches itself to his hands. He starts whining as he sees the shit ghost come out from inside of his pulled down pants and run up over his knee.

   Greg began to look all around him at the walls and ceiling and floor. Little shit ghosts are jutting and peeking out all over the room. Their liquid bodies moved in impossible ways, gyrating and floating and standing and hanging all over the room; all around Greg.

   Panic sets in and is heading quickly to hysteria as Greg lets out a loud scream. From behind him one of the shit ghosts makes like a whip and rapped it’s liquid body around Greg’s nose and mouth. As Greg’s oxygen is cut off he starts taking in the foul liquid through his nose and mouth. His eyes grow wide as the stench grows worse and the flies begin to multiply rapidly. The two shit ghosts that were running up his legs are now at his thighs and their beady red eyes were staring up at him.

   Greg fights, no matter how futile it is, to get away. He continues to swallow down the black liquid of the shit ghost that has him around the face. His face grows purple and the skin of his arms and thighs beg to pinken. His eyes become wider still as h sees the razor sharp teeth in the mouths of several of the shit ghosts. They launch heir heads forward, sinking their white teeth into his flesh. Blood runs and sprays from Greg’s body and his eyes bursts as he let’s out a muffled final scream before his body goes limp and he is covered in the black liquid of the shit ghosts.

   The phone rang behind the bar. It rang several times before Rip finally picked up the receiver and answered it.

   "Rip speaking," he said not even bothering to identify the name of the bar.

   On the other end of the line a familiar voice is asking about a friend of his. Has he been there, yet? He wants to know.

   "Kind of a ruddy looking guy?" Rip asks. "Dark, greasy hair? Brown eyes?"

   The voice responds with a positive reply.

   "Yeah, he’s been here," Rip says. "He left a while ago, though. He said he had to go shit. Ain’t seen him since."

   The voice asks about a beer shitter.

   "Yeah, I gave him one," Rip says. "He couldn’t handle it."

   Again the voice remarks.

   "I know. I know. But, isn’t that what you wanted, Larry? Didn’t you want him to be a shit ghost?"

   Larry, the voice on the other end, responds with a simple yes and then adds a "good job" to it.

   "Yeah, yeah. Whatever," Rip says. "Don’t worry about him anymore. Or your debt. The porcelain gods are happy with your sacrifice.. You did good this time."

   There is silence for a long moment and then Larry says good bye abruptly.

   "Yeah," Rip says. "Good bye. Hey, teak care of that tattoo this time. You know how they get when they get mad."

   There is no response just an open line from the other end. Rip hangs up and turns to the bar.

   "Hey, Rip," Baldy calls from across the bar. "Can I get a beer shitter over here?"

   Rip looks and sees Baldy looking at him and pointing to a ratty looking guy on the stool next to him. He smiles as the tattoo on his finger twitches slightly, it’s beady red eyes gleaming.

   In the corner the weasel is laughing uncontrollably again.

©2003 Jeff Brown