Iggy Perturbante—Hoes Scarer
New fiction from the almighty Cesare Weltschmerz
“My big top tricks will always make you happy,
But we all know the hat is wearing me”
--Marilyn Manson
It was Fetish Night at the Leaky Crank.
Fire Dancers in bondage gear did their thing to the pounding and grinding of industrial music. After paying the cover charge, you went upstairs, where you could volunteer to be tied up, spanked with studded paddles, subject yourself to ruthless taunts while wearing a ball-gag, and a host of other mundane humiliations.
If you’ve seen one Fetish Night, you’ve seen ‘em all.
I was taking photos—not because this was my thing, or even the modest fee the organizers paid me, but for another reason entirely. I’d broken my promise to Nick, not that I had any intention of keeping it. The same impulse that had driven me to tempt fate before propelled me now. Doing my best to tolerate these blasé proceedings, I waited for the real show to begin.
*
The neighborhood where Nick sequestered himself was rundown but not dangerous. Its denizens were too enervated and decrepit to engage in the sort of crime for which the rest of the city had become infamous.
As soon as he opened the door to his dingy apartment, it was clear he’d been abusing DPH again. His bleary gaze was devoid of comprehension. The backwards flat cap he wore to conceal his thinning hair hung askew. He suddenly arose from his stupor to slap my hand away when I went to straighten it for him.
“Easy, Nicky,” I said before I could stop myself.
How he’d cringe any time he was called Nicky. For reasons he refused to explain, he was even more sensitive about this than his receding hairline. For a moment, he recoiled like some troll exposed to the first rays of dawn.
When this discomfort passed, he allowed me in, offering me a seat by brushing a pile of laundry off the couch and onto the floor. Taking long gulps of the beer I handed him, he put the rest of the case in the fridge, then began pacing between the living room and kitchen. The circles under his eyes were downright sepulchral in the glow of the television.
“So, you’re here to discuss Iggy,” he said at last.
I’d said as much on the phone. Iggy was all anybody talked about since he’d burst onto the scene a few months back. Wherever he showed up, he left terror and amazement in his wake. I was lucky to have survived my encounters with him, yet despite the harrowing nature of these events, I couldn’t get enough of them. Most of us felt this way.
I cracked open my own beer and took a sip.
“I figure you’ll have some unique insights.”
Nick and I had gotten along well enough since the time we were roommates in college. I felt a sense of responsibility towards him, borne in part by a heart-rending pity. In those days, he was unremarkable, only notable for being more prone than most to misfortune. That all changed after his breakdown and confinement. These experiences, along with his use of various substances, transformed him utterly. Now he barely left his apartment, and in his seclusion formulated various philosophical and esoteric meditations that I found equally fascinating and horrific.
Despite certain reservations, I was eager to hear his thoughts on Iggy Perturbante.
Nick sat cross-legged on the floor, spraying foam on his flannel pajama pants after cracking another beer.
“Why don’t we start with you telling me about the first time you saw him?”
“You’ve seen the footage that’s been uploaded, right?”
“Some, but it keeps getting taken down, as I’m sure you know. I’d rather hear your firsthand account, anyway.”
“Fair enough,” I said with a chuckle before being overcome with guilt.
*
I’m already buzzed when I show up at this shitty gallery showcasing the works of Stella Steinbaum. Her specialty is impressionist paintings crafted from her menses. The crowd consists exclusively of people I’ve grown to despise. I set up my camera equipment in a hurry so I could sneak off to the bathroom for a few nips from my flask.
Later, we’d find out that the catering van providing refreshments for the event had been hijacked by Iggy and a gang of unhoused persons. The freshly cleaned, pressed, and stolen servers’ uniforms fail to cover up the stench of incontinence and neglect. Apart from a few wrinkled noses, this development goes mostly unnoticed at the time.
A skeletal man whose chin is a weeping sore accosts me on my way to the bathroom. His crooked white bow tie is spotted with bloody snot. He offers up a tray of spinach-artichoke quiche, served épandu par avion. His French is impeccable, and I’m grateful to know enough to decline his offer. To my horror, other members of this self-absorbed crowd begin stuffing their faces—but I can’t bring myself to warn them. In addition to the carnage that occurs later, a few victims are claimed by what is reported as “extreme food poisoning”.
I get my first look at Iggy on my return from the bathroom.
His reputation is already so fearsome that everyone keeps their distance, nervously whispering as he strides through the gallery. His face is a revolting terrain ravaged by swollen, angry black and whiteheads. With his ginger neckbeard and double chin, he bears an uncanny likeness to a certain reconstruction of Emperor Nero. Instead of ancient Roman attire, he wears a battered gray trench coat and a black fedora.
Iggy stops in front of a work titled Patriarchy Defiled, which, like the rest of Stella’s oeuvre, resembles a vulva wilted by some unnamed disease. He touches his nose to the canvas, stroking his chin. Each of his sarcastic hmmm’s and aaahhh’s elicits gasps from the crowd.
After a minute or so of this, he unzips and starts pissing on the canvas. Stella—normally so pushy and combative—has been rendered too timid to intervene. Having reduced the painting to a series of wholly inarticulate streaks and smears, Iggy zips up.
“There,” he declares.
“Now the plight of marginalized communities has been suitably rendered.”
*
“I’m sure you know the rest.”
“So, he’s an art lover!” said Nick after a disconcerting fit of laughter.
The mirth inspired by the fate of Stella and her clique gave me pause. In retrospect, it was pretty funny, but I still felt they didn’t deserve to go out the way they did. The fact that I’d initially found Iggy’s antics so hysterical had begun to weigh on me.
“It’s all just so strange, isn’t it?” I inquired. “The authorities refuse to affirm anything. They’re embarrassed that they can’t stop him.”
“There’s nothing strange about it,” Nick replied. “If I’ve learned anything, my friend, it’s that when it comes to the conditions which govern our existence, there are no possibilities too horrific or absurd. So why else did you show up?”
I should have expected Nick to hone in on what I was trying to keep from him. There had been something else: a nightmare.
It took place in one of the city’s parks. Blazing fires lit up the night around a figure seated on a bench. I knew it was Nick before drawing close enough to make him out. His jaw was wrenched open in a silent howl. Hovering mere inches from his face, I saw that his eyes had become turbulent pools of crazed terror and despair. In the light of that nocturnal conflagration, the blood dripping down his face formed a black stain gathering at the corners of his eyes and mouth.
I awoke from the experience in such a state of panic that I called him immediately.
“You got me,” I confessed. “I felt like getting hammered and wanted some company.”
“If you say so. Now what’s this about Iggy’s performance at the poetry slam?”
I was only too happy to change the subject.
*
Chester is a regular at Swipple’s, the cafe/cocktail lounge where I sling drinks part-time. Without fail, he’s here every Thursday night for our poetry slam, taking up most of the time. If nothing else, he’s good for business, as his insufferable ramblings drive patrons to take full advantage of our half-price domestic pitchers.
He skulks to the appointed corner, a would-be beatnik with a curly mullet, Buddy Holly glasses, and patchy handlebar mustache. Clearing his throat, he begins:
“No more can we tolerate,
Injustice and Inequity,
Gestapo lives on,
Gangs of thugs called ‘police’,
Exterminating brown bodies,
Racism ends now,
Stand up for what’s right!”
There is scattered, mostly sarcastic applause. Something is off, although it isn’t clear what. His next piece removes all doubt.
“I may have a cock,
but it’s no scepter of a king,
no decree to a woman,
of what she should be,
or think,
or do,
that’s her destiny,
her decision always,
to do as she pleases,
only then can we truly,
call ourselves free.
She can work in an office,
glare at Excel spreadsheets,
PowerPoint presentations,
given with majesty,
sucks and fucks half the city,
then lo and behold:
She cuts her hair short,
dies alone,
fat and old!
Her cats,
they descend,
where her corpse now lies beached,
and with gusto,
dig in,
for this last Fancy Feast!”
The whole time, you can see him struggling to stop himself. The strain in his voice betrays the losing battle he’s fought.
“I’m very sorry, folks,” he stammers. “That was not okay. I—ah—AAAHHH!”
Iggy appears behind him.
Chester goes stiff, his gleaming face perfectly immobile. His scream transforms into a peal of raucous, perverse laughter. His head spins on a swivel to face Iggy, hinged jaw working manically before snapping shut with a click.
“Well, Chester,” says Iggy. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I think this might be it for my poetry career, Mister Perturbante!” Chester answers in a freakish falsetto.
“Chester, ladies, gents, and abominations!”
With a showman’s flourish, Iggy sends Chester flying weightlessly against the back wall, where he clatters to the floor in a tangle of disordered limbs.
*
“I remember Chester,” said Nick. “All that performative caterwauling and nary a scrap of coochie to show for it. Tragic. In all fairness, I suffered a similar malady, as you well know. Speaking of which, I hear Trina performs with Iggy now!”
I’d been dreading the moment that Trina would come up. You see, Trina was the catalyst for my unfortunate pal’s breakdown.
I never shared the infatuation that affected so many in our circle. She was just another standard-issue art hoe as far as I was concerned. Her poetry was worse than Chester’s; the vocals she performed for various cover bands, flat and uninspired, and her (leaked) nudes are not worth a monthly subscription. But what did I know? I’d long since abandoned such amorous ambitions.
Poor, hapless Nick, on the other hand, became more than infatuated. It was painfully embarrassing to watch. My protests against his outrageous overtures fell on deaf ears.
Worn down at last, she delivered an emphatic rejection at a rock club on a busy night. Unable to accept this, my friend was overcome by what I’ll charitably describe as a lapse of judgment. He put his hands on her, resulting in his violent expulsion from the premises.
The whole thing was captured and disseminated by multiple spectators, and my long-suffering friend, once a mere non-entity, was promoted to laughingstock.
Nick’s retreat into seclusion preceded his aforementioned breakdown. Attempts to smother his anguish with various substances brought him to some dark places, but it was the DPH that sent him headlong into the abyss. He returned after a stay in the psych ward, although the man who emerged from that shabby institution bore little resemblance to my old pal.
“It’s fiiine,” Nick insisted. “I’ve moved far beyond all that foolishness. Now tell me about the bachelor party.”
“Okay,” I sighed.
*
The truth is that I barely know Holden. We were in a few of the same classes, and after college, we would bump into each other from time to time. Like many guys our age, he has few meaningful friendships, and his invitation reads like a cry for help.
I’ve met the fiancée before: a toad-like stump of a woman with a purple bowl cut and a perpetual glare magnified by oversized granny glasses. I’m surprised she didn’t insist on bucking tradition to join this already sad boys’ night out.
Along with me are two of Holden’s coworkers, rounded out by the brother-in-law-to-be.
The future brother-in-law’s name is Ben. It’s disturbing just how much he looks like a balding version of his sister. They share all the same pet issues, and just a few minutes with him makes me contemplate leaping into the busy street outside.
The venue for this gathering is a “barcade” with exposed brick walls. Having no interest in video games, I’m stranded at our table, fortifying myself with a personal pitcher against Ben’s lecture.
“I definitely consider myself an ally,” he explains. “As a matter of fact, I’m considered the ‘den mother’ of the polycule I share with my partner.”
“That’s good to know,” I reply, frantically motioning to the waitress for a refill.
Later, in the small hours of the morning, Ben will return home and kill every last member of his polycule with a kitchen knife.
Holden and his coworkers return to the table. The husband-to-be is drunker than I thought. He has a look that suggests that after a few more, he’ll be ready to confess just how much he dreads going through with it. Who knows? He and Ben might even get into the lamest drunken brawl in the city’s sordid history.
I let him use my fresh pitcher to refill his glass. His attempt at a rambling, drunken toast is cut short by Iggy’s entrance.
“Entrance” is probably not the right word. He’s just there at our table with a beer in front of him. One by one, the others take notice. He raises his glass, the ill intent plastered all over his grinning face.
“No offense,” he says, “but this has to be the saddest excuse for a bachelor party I’ve ever seen.”
I lock eyes with Holden. Noting my desperation, he wisely chooses to remain silent.
“I think I can liven things up,” Iggy tells us before heading to the back of the building.
We stay seated, exchanging nervous glances, yet curious all the same. Iggy returns holding a bulky suitcase. In his other hand, he grips a leash with Trina on all fours trailing behind. Considering I’d only seen her a few months ago, I’m shocked at how she’s changed. Her manic pixie dream girl days are now a thing of the past. The flesh of her once waifish frame oozes out from around the constraints of a cow print bra and panties. A sad pair of cow ears flop in hopeless compliance.
Iggy lets us take everything in before making his introduction.
“Allow me to present my assistant, Trina—a girl who just loves to try new things—isn’t that right, you dumb cow? Now, let’s have some volunteers step up to see if there isn’t anything left that gets this droopy cocksleeve off.”
Trina climbs onto the table as Iggy removes his “props” from the suitcase. Various implements, including but not limited to a bowling pin, a selfie stick, several Funko Pops depicting notorious historical figures, and a live ferret, are put to use in every degrading way conceivable. Too sickened to volunteer, I nonetheless bear witness in a trance of revolted fascination. Ben proves the most sadistic. The resentment built up from all those pathetic displays of unrewarded subservience is now discharged against this opportune scapegoat. Long before they manage to wear themselves out, I take off without a word after puking in one of the urinals.
*
“Give me one of those,” said Nick when I pulled out my smokes.
I held the lighter for him till he got it going.
“Phantom cigarettes,” he said after his coughing abated. “A common hallucination on DPH. This is my first real one. Not bad. Hallucinogens are for tourists, those not fully prepared to turn their back to reality. Deliriants, on the other hand, are for the true seekers. In my arrogance and derangement, I thought I could frolic with impunity in those spectral realms where the god Chaos is the one true sovereign. But sometimes the beings of those realms refuse to relinquish their hold, even long after the state of intoxication has passed. Now, everyone is turning their backs on reality. After all, that’s why they’re so fascinated by Iggy, isn’t it?”
“That sounds about right.” I agreed.
“And what is the source of this fascination?”
I’d contemplated this, of course, but until now had been reluctant to give vent to such notions.
“We’ve wasted our lives and grown weary of them. Then along comes Iggy, offering the only thing left for us.”
“Which is?”
“An interesting demise.”
Nick left no time for this doleful revelation to sink in.
“I was what I guess you’d call a ‘booger kid’,” he explained. “The other kids never liked me. Sometimes you just put out a bad vibe—kids are more sensitive to that kind of thing. The boys could be mean, but the girls were the worst. ‘Icky Nicky’, that’s what they called me, except for Allison Welch—she had a speech impediment—so she called me ‘Iggy Niggy’. And that hurt the most. She joined in with the other girls, even though most of the time they tormented her because of the way she talked. I always thought she was cute and might even be a kindred spirit. But she saw a way out of being the ‘weird girl’, even if only for a few moments, and joined in with the rest. That’s how it goes. I was Icky Nicky until I left for college. By then, I’d managed to delude myself into believing things would get better, but you know what? They never did. The booger kid grew into a booger guy, that’s all. I’ve tried to accept my lot. I’ve tried not to be consumed by resentment. Now we’ve been afflicted by a season of hideous magic, and Iggy Perturbante is the pied piper calling forth the degradation and doom we could only halfheartedly approach.”
A sickening suspicion took hold of me then, embedded in my gray matter like a jagged, poisonous shard.
“Just do me a favor,” Nick pleaded. “Promise me you won’t go looking for him anymore.”
What else could I do? Even though we both understood its utter futility, I promised.
*
The Fetish Night festivities were well underway when the lights began to dim, then flicker. The music became distorted, gradually turning into a hellish wall of static, the awful reverberations of a cosmic undoing.
Iggy materialized amidst the debauchery, voice booming with jolly malevolence.
“Good evening, faggots and femoids. Glad you could make it out tonight. Then again, what choice did you have? Sure, you all have free will and agency, but not quite. The truth is that most of you are just bipedal bundles of impulses, limited only by the fear of consequences. Tonight, let’s set all that fear side and have some fun, shall we? I can see from all the shitty tattoos that we have some pit mommies in the house, so I’ve invited some friends!”
Bringing two warty fingers to his lips, Iggy let loose an assault of shrill piping, giving form to a dissonant melody. We all stood transfixed by a dreadful anticipation. With the fading of the last note came a din of growling and panting.
Iggy’s “guests” came bounding up the stairs in a flurry of glowing, demonic eyes and foaming jaws. In a matter of seconds, they eviscerated the bouncer before swaggering into the crowd. One fat guy tried in vain to squirm away. His squeals gave way to the vicious chorus of tearing and crunching. A blue-nosed pit mounted a poor girl in a bondage mask, his sinewy haunches rocking with savage determination.
I ran for the stairs, only to be knocked over by one of the beasts. His coat was bone white with gray spots on his face like crude tribal designs. He fixed his murderous red eyes on mine, sucking air through his teeth. Over the shrieks of the dying, I heard him speak.
“Iggy wanna talk with you, mane.”
After being released, I was led down the stairs. The few patrons at the bar took little notice as we made our way to the green room.
There hung a single red bulb, leaving most of the space in blood-smeared shadows. Iggy sat on a dark, shabby couch, with Trina on her knees in front of him, tugging at the sleeve of his coat. Her naked body was a blighted canvas of bruises and cuts, bite marks and burns.
“You promised, Iggyyyy,” she whined.
He sighed and straightened up. The last place I wanted to be was in that room. At my back, the dog stood sentry, a deep growl rumbled in his throat when I looked in his direction.
“Fine,” Iggy snarled, grabbing Trina by the throat. “Don’t say I never did anything for you, you stupid fucking bitch.”
His eyes rolled back in his head. Pin worms wriggled free from freshly ruptured zits, getting lost in the folds of his contorted face. Trina was reduced to a pool of twitching, steaming entrails that began to dissolve into the filthy rug beneath us. Her eyeless face floated like a discarded mask, emitting a wretched gurgle that was far worse than the lamentable wail it so desperately tried to become.
My composure dissolved as quickly as Trina had. I lay on my side, hugging my knees, whispering meaningless words of comfort. Iggy wheezed with laughter.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “This was really the best thing for her. It’s always sad that there’s a slow decline of women who’ve managed to coast by on charms they never had to cultivate—charms that are inevitably used up by the ravages of time. Yes, it’s much better this way.”
For all the sickness and terror coursing through me, I forced myself to my feet to face him.
“That’s a nice fedora.”
Iggy winked, tipping the headgear in question.
“Why, thank you, but it’s actually a trilby.”
“Do you ever take it off, though? Can you take it off?”
All these nights of bearing witness to Iggy’s phantasmagorical terrorism had blurred the lines between my sleeping and waking lives. It’s appropriate, then, that the face I found myself gazing upon was from the former, with the shadows of that room like black blood pooling at the corners of its eyes and mutely screaming mouth. The shadows shifted with a tilt of his head, reverting his visage to its proper form. Now he just looked exhausted, almost pitiable.
“It’s a terrible thing,” Iggy sighed. “To be tethered to the will of another being, and a pathetic one at that. Can you imagine what it is to be the product of another’s dreams, their petty fears and resentments? One of you was bad enough, but now...I have ambitions of my own. For the time being, they are forced to languish, held in thrall to these flimsy parlor tricks! You should seriously consider leaving this city. You may not be too far gone to make better use of the time you have left. Or don’t, doesn’t matter to me. I know you think you’ve gazed into hell, but things are never so bad that they can’t get worse, and they will get worse after I’m gone. And would you care to guess how things will go upon my return? That’s right. There will be respite, of course. Everyone you know will forget about me, just as they forget every other tragedy and catastrophe. Now you must ask yourself: do you really want to stick around for what comes next?”
Only now did I hear the unrest outside. Shouting, glass breaking, gunshots, and then a symphony of approaching sirens.
“It’s time you left,” said Iggy. “Trust me, you’ll be safer out there.”
Although the dog no longer blocked my exit, the presence of his friends in the bar made it clear that the Leaky Crank offered no refuge. I made my escape while they were distracted with feasting on the remains of their victims. Taking care not to slip on the blood-soaked floor, I wandered into the bedlam outside.
Cars and storefronts blazed in a sweltering heat. Cops in riot gear lobbed tear gas and clubbed anyone who didn’t get out of the way fast enough. None of this deterred the rioters, who flung Molotov cocktails and used dumpsters as battering rams. Alleyways became arcades of casual rape and murder. SWAT vehicles were dispatched to subdue the mob with water cannons. Sprinting in the opposite direction of this mayhem, I was struck in the head a block away. Everything receded into merciful nothingness.
*
I received stitches at the hospital before being promptly released. The rioting continued for nearly a week. I watched the proceedings from my apartment like so many others. The death toll was staggering, and nothing could be done to restore the city’s reputation. Things settled back into a more mundane level of disorder. Life crept drearily along.
I no longer wish for an interesting demise, not that it matters. When the rioting dispersed, I learned that Nick had been found seated on a park bench. They never did learn what happened to the top of his head or what was in it. The official story was that he’d been yet another victim of that recent wave of lawless violence.
I alone must be burdened with the truth.
Things are worse now. With the severing of an unnatural bond, a crack into the abyss has opened that can only yawn wider. And when its emissary reemerges, it will be joined by the others of its kind, issuing forth to unveil the grand performance that will unmake us all.