Jimbo didn’t mind the rain. It was constant in Rumeo, anchoring like a ship over the city at all times of day. Some people he talked to at the various brothels, bars, and nightclubs he visited hated it. They felt stalked by it. The gloomy weather was like that one guest who ignored all social cues and refused to go home when the party was over.
That was what Rumeo was to Jimbo. Just one large celebration that never ended. His life back in the states was dull and dried up like old, unbaked clay. He was divorced. His kids couldn’t stand him. He worked for a networking company reselling internet equipment. He was tall, white, balding, with thick, black-rimmed glasses that always seemed to be covered with a lick of grease. In fact, he was grateful for the pattern of raindrops on their lens from the always murky Rumeo sky. He was dressed in a maroon polo tucked into a pair of jeans with a shiny sport coat of silver that reflected light like a skin of aluminum. It was the only ostentatious piece of clothing he had, and he only wore it because it prevented a variety of bodily fluids from sticking to him in the dens of debauchery he escaped to every weekend.
Jimbo needed to take a piss. There were no public restrooms in the whole of Rumeo. Alleys, streets, roads, hallways, stairs, gutters, trains, and buses served as temporary receptacles for this need. He found a shadow-heavy alleyway just behind his favorite brothel The Smiling Kitten. It was Sunday night. He needed to hop the train and take it back to Argentina, where he would fly back to Minnesota. He didn’t have time or the extra money to pay to get into another establishment.
The streak of black pavement nestled behind the building was wet with rain and dyed ruby by the glow of various signs and illustrations etched in electricity along the rooftops. There were bits of newspaper and trash soaked into blobs of gluey pulp along the cracks in the ground. Jimbo got to the middle of the alley and stopped. He was far enough away from anyone and he couldn’t see any cameras mounted above him. He was about to unzip his pants when a strange object dropped down directly in front of him. The shape was large, as tall as Jimbo, and wide. It was round like a tube, only it had rows of ridges to it, like a sleeping bag that was partially unrolled. The night hid most of the other details, except for what looked like a string attached to one end of it. Jimbo could see some of the streetlights glittering off it like silk. The form hung vertically and was completely still.
“Um, hello? Can I help you?” Jimbo said, surprised by his own voice. He was still half-drunk from Gin and Tonics, and his breath smelled like hand sanitizer. The object suddenly shot upwards silently, mixing into the steel twilight above Jimbo’s head. He opened his mouth and staggered in a shoddy circle trying to follow it. He lost it in the industrial tapestry of rooftops, skyscrapers, and various roadways. Rumeo was a city built upon the city. You couldn’t just look up at the sky and expect to see clouds. The metropolis was like an unchecked metallic mushroom constantly expanding in all directions.
Jimbo waited for the stranger to return, but nothing seemed to move around him besides a few errant puddles tickled by rain. The air stunk of sewage and smoke. Some cars honked at each other, and the thumping base of a nightclub thundered mindlessly down the block.
“Well, whatever,” Jimbo said, resuming his attempt to relieve himself.
Then he felt the air around him change. A whoosh of wind thrust down on him like an invisible weight. Water and grime shot away from him as the pressure changed. Before he could move something latched to his head. There was a piercing crush around his skull just above his eyes. Slime dribbled down his face. Some fell onto his lips. It tasted like nothing, but had a sour stench to it. There was a tightening of something over his scalp. It was soggy, fleshy, and warm. There was a pull next. It lifted him off the ground. His legs flailed like a puppet. He could feel it squeezing through his hair, some sort of sinewy vacuum wrenching his flesh. The top of his head felt crushed, so violently that it didn’t hurt, but simply that his skull was absent, like his body was not completely whole and it knew it. There was a puckering sound, it reminded him of one of his kids enjoying a lollipop when they were small. Then something snapped at the base of his neck. His vision was gone. So was his hearing. The only thing he sensed before the blackness took him away was the smell of wet stone beneath his bloody face.
Alright, well that was part four of Genesis Adust. Wow. This is going quick. If you need the other parts, well here go: Part One. Part Two. Part Three. Thank you for reading. I hope you’re liking it. We’ll see you next week.