The air was different. Only because Horse was in the room. He realized it too. Some people had that kind of power. Maybe they could even change things; but only if they really wanted to.

It didn’t matter that much to Horse what he changed; he only liked to see the changes taking place. Once the metamorphosis was complete it was pretty much pointless. He was an artist in that sense, and like most artists, at least the good ones, Horse was only interested in the moment: Instances of violence.

"Pete?"

Horse sat at the edge of my bed with a joint smoldering in his fingers.

I’d known him since junior high. We were both in our early twenties.

"Yeah, man."

"I was thinking of taking off, you know . . . man, I’m fucking sick of this town."

"Where?"

"I don’t know . . . San Francisco. L.A."

I remembered him bringing this up to me before, but only in an imagined memory; the first of a string of incidents that would keep me struggling along beside him. It was like déjà vu, or some shit like that.

"I got a hold of some acid," he said. "We can drop out at the beach. I want to leave tomorrow."

"How?"

"I’ve saved up a few hundred . . . I also have some acid left. We can sell it."

"Who says I’m going with you?"

"You’re the only one with a car. What the fuck else are you going to do?"

"What about my job?"

"You’re a fucking delivery driver for Domino’s."

At times I had trouble breathing, but it only got worse with Horse in the room.

He handed the joint to me.

"You running from something?" I asked. "That I don’t know about."

"Like what?"

"Fuck, I don’t know . . . you’ve done some pretty stupid shit."

"We . . ."

"I have to be at work in less than an hour," I said.

"What the fuck else are you going to do?" He reminded me.

- - - - - - -

I came from the city and everything was too small. We had only passed through towns like this on our way to more important places. For one thing it was too damn quiet and the people always seemed to stare.

I had trouble making friends at first, but then there was Horse. I was thirteen; exactly a year and two months younger than Horse. He’d been held back in the third grade which put us in the same place.

The first time I met him he was scrawling something demonic on the inside cover of a science textbook. He was hunched on a bench in front of the school, sharp shoulders poking through the thin, faded fabric of a gray tee. "Cool," I said.

"What do you know about Hell?" He wanted to know.

The question seemed presumptuous at first.

He peered up at me through black, watery eyes.

"Ummm . . ."

"My name’s Horse," he said.

"What?"

"Jesus, man . . . Where are you from?"

"Portland . . . Horse?"

"What’s wrong with that?"

"I’ve never met anyone . . ."

"What, because my name’s not Bob? Or Eric? Or Pete?"

I started laughing, which startled him. "What’s so fucking hilarious?"

"That’s my name."

"What?"

"Pete."

That week Horse took me to his house. We rode the bus together. He lived in the country, but close to town. It was a lopsided house with a couple boarded up windows. He told me later that he had shot the windows out with his pellet gun.

Horse lived alone with his dad, Sam.

I would also find out that Horse’s mom, Sylvia, died shortly after he was born.

The architecture on the inside seemed a collection of contradictions. I can’t explain it. We sat in the oddly arranged living room and watched some Mtv.

"How do you afford cable?"

"Dad’s a logger," he explained.

"So."

"So he knows how to climb telephone poles real good."

"Funny."

"Look."

Horse confidently flipped through the channels. The movie channels. Everything. And back around to Mtv. Some game show where all the female contestants had perfect breasts.

Our cocks hardened in the quietude of sharing a guilty, unspoken, moment. Horse had had enough and turned it off.

"You want to see some cool shit?" He asked.

"I don’t care."

He led me through the weird little labyrinth house toward the back yard.

The back door creaked open.

- - - - - - -

Either the wind was cold, or I was. I huddled into myself while watching the sun float lazily toward the horizon. For the moment I forgot that the world was, indeed, flat; but, more importantly, I didn’t care. The acid worked it’s way through my spine and brain, making me hot/cold; forcing connections to re-configure themselves.

For now, going insane was the most agreeable thing I could think of. I didn’t matter if I ever left; I was gone. Horse too. Wading in the water to his pale, thin ankles. The sun burning rapturously behind, and against him.

Something was wrong. A great stillness ebbing away, leaving nothing but a void of fucked up, chaotic, white noise. It was inside, too, and I didn’t know if there was a way to avoid it. My stomach was ice and for the moment it meant everything; everything tethered to it in endless, twisted strands of human thought, fear, passion.

The fire burned around Him and He was the Devil.

But only for a moment.

Everything becoming so twisted that it was constantly becoming something else.

"Jesus fuck . . ." Horse’s silhouette was flailing in the surf. Behind him, the sky appeared bludgeoned

Horse’s body hummed with electricity. "They should just bomb it all!" His voice crashed down from the sky.

It was getting dark. It was getting black.

"Come on dude," I said. "Jesus, your fucking frying."

High, giddy laughter. "Yeah, Pete, yeah."

I went for a walk. When I came back Horse was rolled up in the sand. He was naked and his limp, sandy cock was in his hand. "I need to get the fuck out of here, Pete!"

"What do you mean?"

"Too much bad shit, here, man."

"Your frying."

"I know." Horse was crying. I started crying too. The drug was drawing us back together.

I put my arm around him and thought about a couple people in Seattle we might be able to visit.

- - - - - - -

"My real name’s Justin," he said.

The bones were ocher and cracked in many places. It looked like he’d taken plaster and gone over some of the cracks, but, eventually, they prevailed; winding up and through the pale cast in tight jagged lines. Much of it was buried in the mud, yet everything looked as if it was where it should have been . . . in life.

It was a large animal, taking up the greater portion of a corner of the yard.

An apple tree hovered above. Also, the sky was gray. Horse, or Justin, or whatever he was called, stood beside me. His arms were crossed in front of his sunken chest.

It was the first time I noticed the freckles there.

"You’re the first person I’ve shown this to . . . other than dad. I don’t know how long it’s been there."

"Before the house," I suggested. "Maybe Indians."

"Yeah."

I bent down and touched it’s skull; ran a finger up the nose and toward an eye socket. I swirled my finger along the sockets perimeter, stirring the darkness within.

"Careful," he said protectively. "It’s delicate."

"Looks like something out of a museum."

"There’s a dog, too," he said. Pointing to the opposite corner of the yard: "Over there."

I walked over, through unkempt tangles of grass, wood, glass.

The dog was arranged with less care. All I could think was that Horse had discovered them at around the same time.

"The horse seems so big next to the dog," I said.

"Yeah," he said, looking proud, like a curator in his own ersatz museum.

"What are you going to do with them?"

Horse shrugged, his shoulders sagging a little.

- - - - - - -

Horse and I drank coffee and ate French fries at Little Richard’s, one of the only twenty-four hour joints in town.

The sun was coming up and the place was nearly empty. A girl with trembling knees chain smoked and read a ratty copy of Suskind’s Perfume. There were two guys near the door. They each had a large pack beside them; passing through, like nearly everyone.

I told Horse about the people in Seattle. "Do you remember Tom Densmore?"

"Didn’t he have a band or some shit like that?"

"Yeah, but they moved to Seattle."

"The whole band?"

"Yeah, but they broke up . . . about six months after getting there."

"Some whore?"

"I don’t know. Anyway. Tom came back. But Joe still lives there."

"Joe?"

"They’re drummer."

"Your friends with the drummer?"

"Not exactly . . . but I know his girlfriend, Tanya."

"You fuck her?"

"Nah."

"Then what the fuck?"

"She’s cool," I said.

"And we can crash there?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"I’m pretty sure . . . if it’s only for a while. We’ll need to find jobs. You won’t be living with your dad anymore."

"I need to get the fuck out of here," Horse reminded me. Lowering his voice: "I’m starting to see shit around here."

"What kind of shit?"

The l.s.d. continued to work it’s way through our system, peppering our conversation with delicate revelations.

"Ghosts every-fucking-where," he said. "Shadow people. The whole fucking town."

"It’s too many drugs," I whispered. "You ever consider leaving your dad’s house first. Seeing what it’s like out of there."

"I’ve lived in Coos Bay my whole life," he said. "I need the fuck out."

My stomach had not relaxed since the beach. I polished off the third cup of shitty diner coffee; dosed with heavy cream, of course. I felt wired; caged. The fear that crept through me was a kind of excitement, like I was busting out. Maybe it’s what Horse meant by ‘I need the fuck out.’

I remember sitting here with him, talking it out; making plans. I remember the girl, reading Suskind. The backpackers. What I don’t remember was what was supposed to come next, if anything.

It wasn’t enough to deter me, though. Somehow, Horse convinced me that I wanted to leave as badly as he.

I made the call to work from a pay phone.

"Will you be back?" Lesh, the manager of Domino’s, asked.

"I don’t know."

"What about tonight?"

"I’m sorry."

"It’s Saturday."

"Call Dave."

"Dave specifically asked for Saturdays off . . . he has a family."

I hung up. We paid for the food and coffee.

"What’d they say?" Horse asked outside.

"They weren’t happy, but fuck ‘em. Mom’ll get my last check. I’ll call her with the address when we get there."

"Cool."

- - - - - - -

On the way over to Horse’s we hit a cat.

"It thought it could get away," he said.

"I didn’t see it." I thought of all the small, stray animals I had put to death, Horse cheering me on like some kind of shit-twisted cheerleader from hell.

Horse got out of the car and walked over. He picked the cat up by the tail and flung it at the windshield. It thudded against the glass and rolled onto the hood.

Half it’s head was caved in.

"I think it’s still alive."

Leakage coming from the cat’s eyes co-mingled with the steady rhythm of opened veins. Blood pumped out the crack in it’s skull. It reminded me of the time Horse put a cat’s head in a vise; turning the handle slow, until the brains oozed out like hamburger.

"Get him the fuck off the hood!"

"You can be such a whiny puss," he said.

"I just cleaned it."

"It’s gonna get dirty anyway."

"I don’t want blood on my car," I explained.

The cat twitched pathetically, his right eye rolling back in it’s head. Horse dragged it off the hood, onto the pavement below, leaving an arching smear of fluid; blood, shit, piss, whatever.

Horse stepped on the cat’s head. "A sacrifice." The crunch sound of collapsing bone. He smiled at me through unruly tangles of dirty blonde hair.

A history of sacrifices.

- - - - - - -

Horse loaded a tattered duffel with his things; mostly drugs, books . . . a sketchpad, which was filled with the gory details of Horse’s mind.

"Some acid?"

There were several sheets, each sheet gaining up toward a potential of three, four hundred bucks. "I got a good deal."

Horse went out back. I stood in the kitchen, watching him out the window. He always looked small out there, kneeling in the dirt where he’d created an alter out of animal bones. He might have been praying, but I didn’t think so.

Alone, my rationale consumed me. I just quit my fucking job. How uncertain was that?

Horse looked scrawny when his eyes weren’t on me . . . scrawny and insane; standing in front of a pile of horse bones, shivering in the cold.

I imagined he was begging the oracle to break the chain, freeing him into the night.

"You sure you want to do this?"

"What are you talking about?"

I swallowed into the pit of my stomach. "Are you sure you want to leave?"

Horse brushed past me and into the living room where his duffel bag waited by the door. "Is your mom home?" He asked.

"She’s at work."

We went to my place and then headed over to Rich’s. Rich had gone to school with us. Now he had a wife and two kids. That and a substantial crank habit. It was a good town for that; people snapping, beating their wives and children. Now and then a body would show up in the bay or down in the mill yards.

Horse sat on the passenger’s side nipping off a bottle of Jack he’d taken from mom’s stash. I left her a note telling her not to worry about anything.

"Why’s your mom such a lush?" Horse screwed the cap back on bottle and set it on the floor.

I thought about all the drugs in Horse’s bag. Besides the acid, there were two ounces of pot. A baggy or two of shrooms. Shit that could melt your brain a thousand times; if such a thing were possible.

"I don’t know," I said.

Tommy lived in Empire, a fringe town consisting of mostly tweakers, crack whores and welfare mom’s.

He sat outside, a ciggy smoldering in his fingers. His shirt was off. I could see his hard, cold nipples through a bleary window from the driveway. His house lay behind him like rubble. It made Horse’s look like an estate.

"Crazy motherfucker," said Horse.

"Stupid’s more like it."

Horse and I got stoned with Rich. We told him our plan. My stomach relaxed. Suddenly, I was happy to be stoned and going to Seattle with Horse.

"When are you leaving?"

A little girl lied on the dirty carpet watching Power Puff Girls and eating Fruit Loops dry out of the box. A blue-green cloud of pot smoke churned above her. Rich handed me the bong he’d contributed to the effort.

"This instant," said Horse. "There isn’t another one."

"What’s that supposed to mean?" Asked Rich.

I handed the bong to Horse.

And around.

There was screaming somewhere in the back. Rich’s wife.

"Would you keep it the fuck down?!" He looked at Horse. "What are you peddling?"

"Sheets."

"Nah . . . I haven’t tripped in a year."

"I could sell you one for two . . . you could get four a hit. Town’s gonna be dry soon. You could probably even get more. Triple your money."

"Dad?" A voice from the haze on the opposite side of the room.

"Not now!"

I could tell, by the look in his eyes, that he didn’t know how to love his children, but what the fuck did I know. Maybe some day he would snap and kill them, after which he would kill himself.

The pot was turning on me. "Can we go?"

Horse showed Rich the sheets: "You sure?"

The little girl went outside.

Cool breeze fell on all our faces and was gone.

"One-fifty."

"Come on, Rich."

Rich’s wife, Sarah, came into the room. She was dressed in a tight fitting McDonald’s uniform. "You think I can have a hit before I go to work?"

Jamming the bong into the center of her worn face.

Rich claimed that Sarah had been a cheerleader in high school, but I couldn’t remember her.

"What’s going on?" She wanted to know.

"It’s none of your business, Sarah!"

"Fuck you, Richard . . . it’s my money, too."

"It’s acid . . . just a sheet. We can triple our money."

Sarah looked over at Horse who had the sheets in his hand. "It’s megalithic," he explained. "It’ll fry your brain straight to God’s."

"Uhhhh," said Rich, who couldn’t appreciate anything wrapped in metaphor.

"The acid’s not for your anyway . . . Right? Just pass the word along."

"One seventy-five."

"It’s two hundred."

The little girl came back inside, slamming the door behind her.

"Go back and shut that door properly young lady!" I could see the skull behind Sarah’s face; the dark rings around her eyes denoting the cavernous outlay of the sockets underneath.

Closing the door once more, the girl curled back in front of the television.

Rich handed Horse two crisp hundreds and we were out of there.

I drove stoned, which didn’t bother me.

I put on Nirvana’s Bleach, hammering out the drum beats on the steering wheel.

Through North Bend and toward the bridge.

"Fuckin’-A," said Horse, taking another swig of Jack.

"Better fucking save me some."

It was starting to rain.

I turned on the wipers.

Horse pulled out two more bottles.

In the background, Kurt Cobain belted out the lyrics to Negative Creep.

Horse sang along.

All I could do was keep driving.

C. C. Parker resides in Seattle with his wife and daughter. His work has appeared in Dark Muse, Fuzzclog and Flesh and Blood.