textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0395.txt

 '##::::'##:::'#####:::'########: VIVA LA REVOLUCION! CERDO DEL CAPITALISTA!!
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  ##:::: ##:'##:::: ##: ##::::::: THE HELOTS OF ECSTASY PRESS RELEASE #395 !!
  #########: ##:::: ##: ######::: ZIEGO VUANTAR SHALL BE MUCH VICTORIOUS!  !!
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  ##:::: ##:. ##:: ##:: ##:::::::         "House of the Rising Sun:        !!
  ##:::: ##::. #####::: ########:              Innsmouth, USA"             !!
 ..:::::..::::.....::::........:: by -> Squinky                   12/28/98 !!
 !!========================================================================!!

	We heard about the Innsmouth Special from a trucker we met in the 
 Haven Brothers' Diner in Providence.  At least, he said he was a 
 trucker, but his huge hog outside forced me to suspect he was just 
 another doped out biker from Warwick or Smithfield.  But he described 
 the specialty it with such meticulous care that we knew that part of 
 his tale, at least, must be true.

        The tales of Innsmouth filtered in with urban myth.  We knew about 
 the grave of Mercy Brown and Nellie Vaughn, we knew of the Devil's Foot 
 rock in North Kingstown, we knew of the scared Narragansett Drum Rock,
 and we knew of the haunted tower in Warwick Neck.  Of Massachusetts we 
 knew very little, but we always heard of Innsmouth.

	But never of the Innsmouth specialty, which our interloper now 
 related to us, our ears peeled back with interest.  "Yuh wanna know 
 where the good action is?" 

	"Sure," I said. 

        "I'll tell yuh where the good action is.  Is alla in Innsmouth!"

        "Isn't that where those people live?" asked my brother.  My 
 brother actually had seen Innsmouth, once, from a distance.

	"Yeah, yeah, thass parta the special, man, thass parta the 
 special.  Yuh see, they got what yew call a Brothel there, a real 
 fuckin' brothel, inna middle uh town.  Yew go there, and yew get a real 
 specialty act, man, a real fuckin' specialty act.  I mean, yew think you 
 been inside it all?

        "You ain't been in shit till yew got the Innsmouth special, man.
 It's freakin' crazy."

        "What's so special about it?"

	"Man, they got this girl there, Eliza, Eliza Marsh, the things 
 she can do with her body make a man weep.  Damn.  Yew really need tuh 
 check it out."

        We talked with him a while longer, getting explicit directions to
 the Brothel, and the card, so they wouldn't hassle us at the door.  My
 brother hit him up for concise directions to this house of ill repute,
 for he longed desperately to experience something new and unique in
 this recycled world of Graeco-Roman antiquity.  All we needed now was
 transportation.

        So we headed back from the Downtown area to our Fox Point
 apartment on Williams Street, taking in all the benefits of a stroll
 through the old city, changed with modern intrusion, but still ancient
 and weird as ever.  My brother and I discussed the Brothel, and I
 expressed my apprehension, assuming it would only be yet another
 unsatisfactory sexual experience in a lifetime of unsatisfactory sexual
 experiences.

	"We've done it all, mon fr<66>re," said I, "all the specialty acts
 under the sun that I care to think of.  The trans, the bi, the gay, the
 black, the asian, the freaks, all of it.  And all of it left me feeling
 hollow and alone.  Am I a beast?  Is this why?  I am an adequate lover,
 no doubt, but, should I really keep doing this?  Why will this be any
 different?"

        "It may not be different," he said, "I won't lie to you.  But
 we've got to try, because somewhere, I know, somewhere out there,
 meaning waits to be discovered.  And this is the only possible avenue.
 Even if it doesn't succeed, at least we can release some of the awful 
 tension of being a man.

        "Plus, I want to see Innsmouth.  Don't you?"

	I had to admit that I did, having heard the legends of the
 degenerate town.  Incest and demon worship.  Who could say no?

	We went back to our apartment and found our roommate, Jeremy,
 asleep from a night of alcoholic splendor.  "Let's take his car," said
 my brother.  I nodded, agreeing.  We found a map of all Massachusetts,
 and managed to locate the town.  We planned the quickest possible route,
 and loaded up on caffeine pills and amphetamines, ensuring an optimal
 driving performance.  Speed.

        My brother drove the whole way, refusing to let me drive once he
 started, screaming out oaths and curses, damning me to Hell anytime I
 suggested taking over.  The stimulants kept him in good control of the
 wheel, and he averaged about ninety-five miles-per-hour.  We made
 Innsmouth in two hours, and parked our car just outside the city, near
 some woods, and walked the rest of the way like the biker in Haven
 Brothers' told us to.  Apparently, the citizens of the fair town of
 Innsmouth, in this year of our lord, don't drive much and tend to look
 down on those who possess the motorized abominations.  Innsmouth is so
 silent at night that any car echoes into every single quarter of town,
 waking and alerting those who might better remain dormant.

        We stalked cautiously through the town, seeing vague movements in
 the shadows, never directly encountering a resident of the town.
 Strange sounds came from boarded up buildings, dilapidated and on the
 verge of tumbling over, but we walked on.  The directions the biker gave
 us seemed to be accurate, and we soon found ourselves in the center of
 town, looking directly at something called The Order of Dagon Hall.

        "Ok, we're supposed to turn left here, and then head towards the
 East Side of town."

        "What's Dagon?" I asked my brother who shrugged his shoulders in
 response.  I peered into the Hall and saw a strange figure in the
 doorway float past.  It wore a crown on its head, and for a brief
 second, looked at me.  The smell coming from the Hall left a disquieting
 effect on the rest of our journey, because it seemed to follow us
 wherever we went.  I waited for it subside, to leave me be, but it
 followed no matter where we went.  I now wonder if it had been there
 before we reached the Hall, but remained noticed.  Was it the smell of
 Innsmouth?  Did it really originate in the Hall, or come from somewhere
 else?

        I could tell my brother laboured under the stench, because his
 face lost its calm amphetamine serenity and he began to breathe out of
 his mouth, avoiding usage of his nose as much as possible.  We walked
 fast, I suppose, and soon we found the southern waterfront section of
 town, and knew the Brothel couldn't be far away.

        My brother began to shake with anticipation.  I, on the other
 hand, shook with stimulants, not terribly concerned with the coming
 experience.  I knew it would be the same as all the others I'd gone on
 with him, profitless and degrading.

        Boarded up buildings, inhabitantless, greeted us on all sides,
 showing us the lonely and miserable desolation of the legendary town.
 Soon, though, we saw the building which had been described for us.  My
 brother shambled up to the door, and gently knocked three times (a sign
 we had been assured would gain us entry).  There was a pause, and the
 sound of some rumbling behind the door, and I was filled with the
 queerest notion that we were being observed by someone in the building,
 even though boards covered all the windows.  Someone slid a bolt behind
 the door, and it slowly opened.

        My brother pushed his way in, and I followed.  Before anything
 registered with my reeling brain, my brother handed the card to
 someone, and the tense air left the room, replaced by a breezy relaxed
 one.  In the light, I could only see the dimmest outlines of things, but
 the girl who took the card seemed to be suffering from a strange malady
 in its earliest stages.

        Quite frankly, she looked like a fish.  I've seen the look before,
 with underfed RISD students, but never so advanced.  Her coarse grey
 face and the bulbous eyes all disgusted me, and I hoped that I would
 avoid her at all costs.  I only wanted the specialty.  My brother, on the
 other hand, seemed to take a delight in the idea of bedding this
 wretched creature.  He grabbed her and kissed her, saying, "We want
 love."

        I said, "I've heard much of this Eliza Marsh." Then, hoping it
 wasn't true, I asked, "You aren't her, are you?"

        The girl replied in a slow, thick voice which reminded me of the
 sea, "No.  No.  Yew'll be looking after Eliza, then?"

        "If it can be arranged.  We've got the funds, if that's an issue."

        "I can tell yew gentl'men have funding.  I can spot `em, I can."

	"Well then, where is she?"

        She giggled a little as my brother fondled her, and started
 pulling her towards one of the empty rooms surrounding us on all sides.
 As he dragged her in, she said, "Yew'll want the last room on the
 right.  She's there, alone.  Waiting, fer yew.  Heh heh heh." My brother
 pulled her into the room and the door slammed.  I wondered how much this
 spectacle would cost us, but like any sex addict, dutifully went
 towards my prize, regardless of consequences.

        I walked past open and closed doors, catching glimpses of
 movement and strange moaning.  Since it was dark and poorly-lit, the
 movement didn't disturb me as much as the sounds.  The sounds coming
 from men seemed in concordance with the experiences they were
 (presumably) undergoing.  But the female noises, if I can call them
 that, were hideous groans.  They sounded like the low groans of the
 starving.

        I shook as I turned the doorknob to Eliza Marsh's room, fearing
 what I would find on the other side.  There were no lights on in the
 room, and I coughed a little, hoping that the sound would evoke a
 response from whomever was in the room.  I met with success, for the
 room filled with the sound of a strange voice, even thicker and
 bubblier than the voice of the "girl" my brother now made love to.  "Wut
 is yer name?"

        I stammered out my name, and she said, "That shore is a nice name
 yew got.  So do yew want to make love wif me?" I said that I did, and
 she said, "Come to the bathtub."

	"Bathtub?"

        "We make love in the watur."

        Sure, I thought, just part of the specialty act.  I moved blindly
 in the darkness to the bathtub, using the sound of her voice and the
 splashing water of the tub to guide me towards my erotic destination.
 When I got to the edge of the bathtub, the smell kicked me in the
 teeth, and I said, "What the hell is that damned odor?"

	"Oder?"

	"Yes, can't you smell that?"

        "Oh, that's the watur.  It's salt watur.  We make love in the
 salt watur."

        More specialty, I guess, so I started taking off my clothes.  When
 I was naked, I slid into the tub, and moved myself up towards Eliza.  I
 touched her face, and immediately recoiled.  Her skin felt rough like
 unfinished wood, and each pore seemed the size of a crater.  I couldn't
 even be sure of her hair, what it was like, but I thought of seaweed
 strangling me.  She giggled a thick gurgle, and I gasped.

        She moved over me, and even as I protested, even as I screamed,
 "No!", I felt myself growing aroused by the idea.  I knew with what I
 slept, and it appealed to me.  She descended.

        I met my brother in the lobby.  The girl he'd slept with giggled
 and played with his hair.  I noticed her hands were thick and webbed
 like Eliza's.  We paid the whore, and left the brothel as quickly as
 possible.  He seemed worn out and exhausted, speaking little until we
 well out of the slum.

        As we walked back to our car, he said, "Well, screw it.  I'm
 never doing this garbage again."

        "Me either."

        "What a rip-off.  What a damned rip-off.  She was the lousiest
 whore I ever slept with.  I think she thought I actually liked her.  You
 were right, you know.  These whores are worthless.  This isn't the way
 to find that meaning we're looking for.  This isn't anything but a good
 way to catch something fatal."

        I nodded my head and said nothing.  I wanted to scream at my
 brother, but I didn't.  I knew how fruitless it would be.  So I shut up
 and drove us home, wordlessly.  My brother went to his room and I went
 to my own.  I sat back on my bed and I recollected.

        What I had wanted to tell my brother was this: that I had finally
 achieved the meaning that he and I had long sought for all these years
 in our decadent whoremongering.  When that.  creature and I consummated
 our lust, I had finally seen a way out of the static of modern
 antiquity, that yesterday and today could be escaped and the future
 could really be embraced.

        Her gills moved with passion, breathing, and her eyes stared
 unblinkingly, and my mouth filled with nausea and my nose with stench,
 and she and I became as one, for a brief splitting moment, I knew who I
 really was in the grand chaos of the entire universe.  A glimpse into
 the universal.  Her webbed paws moved up and down my back, trailing
 slime, and her thick voice moaned out the sounds of battle.  She and I
 both saw the truth.

        And finally, when it was over, I left the bathtub and I put back
 on my clothes, which stuck to my wet body, and moved away without
 saying anything.  I walked to the edge of the room, to the very door,
 and turned on the light.  I looked back at what I had just discovered
 myself with and saw a creature more frog than human, grey and sick
 looking, rolling in the filthy waters of my lust with her nude, scaly
 flesh and webbed limbs.  She tried to smile at me, to express a similar
 discovery of her own meaning, but her facial muscles atrophied over
 time, and her fish face made a horrible grimace.

        I shut the door behind me.  My brother was right, he really was.
 We can never go back to whoring.  Never.

 !!========================================================================!!
 !! (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!    #395 - WRITTEN BY: SQUINKY - 12/28/98 !!