Aaaiiieee!

Psychometric Idol

It wasn’t until a plastic replica was cast, perfect right down to the clasped plate in the ponderous skull—and a computer-generated imaging system that would reconstruct his flesh from every angle was installed—that the Museum of the London Hospital Medical College surrendered and sold the skeletal remains of John Merrick to the pop star Ricky Concertina.

Ricky was photographed at the opening of the new displays he had funded at the museum—was shown studying Merrick’s meticulous replica of St. Philip’s Church with an expression of reverence. But he was also photographed later with the gnarled, listing skeleton he had purchased, his arm slung around those jagged shoulders and a grin glittering from below his immense dark glasses.

Ricky’s museum, to which the skeleton was to be consigned, was not open to the public.

* * *

Jimmy Tassone hated high-top sneakers, but not only were they the brand Ricky sponsored and always wore, they didn’t scuff or scratch the marble floors of Ricky’s house or the heavy glass sheets of the conference room floor. Jimmy glanced down at the lions, black leopards and white tigers in their respective pens under the three glass floor sections as he squeaked across them on his way to the table. A leopard lifted its glossy night-black face to him and snarled silently. Jimmy expected one of these glass sections to slide back one day when he was summoned, and he wouldn’t realize it until he had tumbled in.

Ricky was not alone. Ricky was never alone. To his right at the head of the table stood the towering, inscrutable Strappado. To his left: the short, overweight, affable—and more frightening to those who knew him—Bastinado. At one side of the long gothic table, seated on a high-backed bench, was the psychometrist, Kolosimo.

“Well?” breathed Ricky, before Jimmy had even reached the table. Ricky seldom spoke above this airy whisper, but Jimmy had learned well to listen sharply for it. Ricky didn’t like to talk; liked even less to repeat.

“I have it,” Jimmy announced. He halted at the far end of the table until Ricky raised his arm languidly, inviting him to approach.

To give Jimmy room, Strappado took a few steps back. Leaning over Ricky’s shoulder, Jimmy spread the cloth he’d kept folded in his pocket. He had removed it slowly from his pocket, so as not to alarm the looming Strappado.

In the center of the cloth, a human eye gazed up at Ricky with a glassy expression. It was the newest acquisition: the last prosthetic eye used by the popular entertainer Sammy Davis, Jr.

A tight smile formed on Ricky’s face. It was tight due to the extensive plastic surgery Ricky had employed over the years to further sculpt his ethnic Italian features into a delicate and glamorous amalgamation. To Jimmy’s thinking, in his attempt to incorporate all the characteristics deemed desirable by the public, Ricky had transformed his countenance into something utterly alien. The Roman busts in Ricky’s halls were lifelike by comparison.

“It’s beautiful,” Ricky whispered, his voice breaking with emotion. “Hello, Sammy.” He lifted his strained grin to the heavyset man with disheveled gray hair who called himself Kolosimo. “Kol,” Ricky prompted.

The older man reached out, plucked the eye into his fist, drew back his arm to clench the fist against his forehead. “Ohhh…” muttered Kolosimo, eyes scrunched tightly shut.

“Is he there?”

“Oh…oh yes, Ricky. Oh yes. Sammy saw so much. I can see Sinatra…”

“Peter Lawford?”

“No…no. He died before this eye. But he saw so much. Yes…Sammy is here. He is very much soaked in.”

“You did well,” Ricky said, turning his grin up to Jimmy. He offered his slim waxen hand, the ultimate signal of praise, and Jimmy held it lightly before Ricky slid it out of his fingers, Ricky’s gem-encrusted rings scraping against his hand.

“If I might ask, Rick,” Jimmy ventured, not having dared until he was praised, “how do you plan on taking this in? Not swallowing it whole…”

A slight frown crept onto the contrived features. “You know better than that, Jim. It has to be melded with the other ingredients. It will be ground into a powder and mixed in the blender.”

“Of course. Just please be sure to have it ground very fine, is all.”

His shrewd show of concern worked on Ricky, restoring him to his good spirits. “Jim, see to it that the replica gets made by Friday, okay?”

“See to it, huh?” Jimmy chuckled lightly. Ricky realized his own pun and giggled. Bastinado and Kolosimo laughed heartily. Maybe Strappado’s scowl shifted a few microbes.

The glass eye would be duplicated and the duplicate displayed in the museum alongside the duplication of the Elephant Man’s skeleton—a replica surpassing even that which Ricky had presented to the London Hospital Medical College Museum. The actual skeleton had been ground to a fine powder—limb by limb, portion by portion—and ingested completely.

Jimmy had arranged that purchase as well, though it had been Kolosimo who had acquired the very first one…one that hadn’t been publicized in the tabloids. That had been the severed portion of Vincent Van Gogh’s right ear, acquired from a Japanese collector who had come into possession of the piece through very mysterious sources. Jimmy hadn’t believed the ear to be authentic, despite Kolosimo’s rhapsodizing over it. But after the ear was ground and mixed in the blender with the rest of Kolosimo’s recipe, and Ricky had ingested the resultant chocolate-flavored shake, the pop idol was so overwhelmed by flaming colors and swirling vortexes of energy that he was inspired to create his best selling album to that date. He told Jimmy he had been seeing brighter shades of color and the seething energy of all things ever since.

Between Jimmy, Kolosimo, and others, Ricky Concertina had ingested and absorbed the power locked in handwriting samples (usually from Christmas cards) of such figures as David Bowie and Ringo Starr, locks of hair from John Lennon and Brooke Shields, and a finger stolen from Jimi Hendrix. Subsequently, Ricky Concertina was the most popular and powerful celebrity in the world.

But, of course, that was something which, once obtained, had to be carefully maintained.

“Springsteen’s new album is due to hit the stores next month, Jimmy. I’d really like you to acquire that new item very soon.”

“I will, Ricky. I’ve got my boys probing.”

“You probe, Jim…now that you’ve finished collecting this wonderful piece.”

“I will, Rick.”

“The Boss is our biggest threat, Ricky,” Bastinado chimed in. “Maybe we should have ourselves a little plane wreck.”

Ricky whipped around in his chair, twisting his mouth into a grimace that must have required great exertion. “You stupid shit,” he hissed. “Don’t you ever think? If Bruce got killed he’d be the biggest thing since Elvis! I’d rather pay to have him brought back from the dead than to kill him, you moron!”

Bastinado had gone white, and lowered his sheepish gaze. “Sorry, Ricky…I wasn’t thinkin’.”

“So what else is new?” Ricky waved impatiently at Jimmy to dismiss him. “Okay, Jimmy…go. Take the rest of the day off. But tomorrow, go look for that piece. Understand? That’s my biggest weapon against Springsteen this year.”

“Yes, Ricky.” Jimmy turned and walked over the heads of the pacing giant cats again on his way out.

* * *

During the next few weeks, Ricky Concertina went back into the studio to continue work on his latest album, to be boldly titled Psychometrix. The public was aware Ricky was into esoteric subject matter, but he knew they’d never suspect the truth to his success.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Tassone was having success in getting close to the object Ricky currently coveted. Jimmy had also begun organizing an effort to acquire the object Ricky desired above all others: some fibers from the Shroud of Turin that had been removed for carbon dating, if any had survived those tests. But Ricky wasn’t pressuring for this right now…he knew he couldn’t have everything immediately. Save that for the next album. Right now he was obsessed with the idea of acquiring a strange idol Kolosimo’s sources told him a cult had been worshiping somewhere right here in Southern California.

Jimmy spoke with his inside man, Joey Cacciola, on the phone. Joey had infiltrated the cult—People of the Hand—and had to speak in a low voice. “They’re both pretty wacked, huh?” Joey said of their boss and his “spiritual mentor”, Kolosimo.

“Ricky’s wacked. Kolosimo is brilliant. You think he believes any of this voodoo crap? Psychometrics? Psychosomatics is more like it. These drinks don’t give Ricky power, they only inspire him ‘cause he thinks they’re giving him power.”

“I dunno, man. I seen a thing on Kolosimo in a book Ricky has. The police used him once to find a sex murderer. He held this dead chick’s panties and he could tell the cops where she was killed, where they could find the body and what the killer looked like, y’know?”

“Stage magic,” Jimmy muttered, but he dropped the topic of doubt after that. They returned to the subject at hand.

The object of the group’s worship was supposedly the mummified hand of a UFO alien, its craft having come down and exploded in a field in Mexico. The hand was recovered from the site by a farmer, but the story had it that the rest of the blackened rubble was simply carted away by him and dumped. Soon after, the old farmer died, presumably of radiation poisoning, but not before the leader of this cult found out about the hand and came to the farmer to purchase it.

And then, somehow, Kolosimo had learned of the hand, and it wasn’t long before Ricky had become fixated on it.

Well, tonight Jimmy was sure he’d be driving back to the house with good news and a present. Maybe this would save Springsteen from some misfortune, after all. God knew that Jimmy Tassone preferred the Boss’s music over the music of his own boss any day.

* * *

The others were sleeping in the house; the adjacent garage had been made into a temple, locked and very difficult to break into from outside. But Joey had a key, and he let Jimmy into the house to creep into the garage-shrine also.

The walls had been painted black, and odd geometric patterns had been painted across the surfaces. Ricky would be drawn to these people, Jimmy thought.

Joey called his attention to a table in the center of the room. A black cloth covered the table, and a smaller cloth shrouded the object atop it.

“Here it is,” whispered Joey, drawing away the veil.

Unconsciously, Jimmy kept several paces distant, as if what he expected to see in the big jar was one of those hand-like crab creatures from Aliens, which would fling itself out to seize his face.

Well, it was a hand, but not very lethal-looking. It lay on its stump at the bottom of a jar filled with formaldehyde, despite the fact that the thing was clearly mummified. Its bones were delicate and small; it might have been the hand of a child. The fingers were rather elongated, but maybe just because the flesh had withered. And that black glistening color could be paint or even a natural occurrence. All in all, Jimmy was less than awed by the idol.

“They pass it around and let the spirit of the owner communicate to them through it…send them prophecies,” Joey explained.

“You?”

“Not fully initiated yet. I’m still being prepared.”

Jimmy drew close to the container. “Well, if Ricky wants to puree this thing and make it into a chocolate and formaldehyde milkshake, that’s his problem, right, Joe? But what say we take their god and go get us a real drink somewhere, huh?”

Joey nodded vigorously, glad his mission was over.

“What is going on out here, Joe—hey!”

Joey whipped around with a gasp. In the doorway leading into the house stood Warren, the leader of the People, wearing rumpled pajamas and a rumpled expression of confusion.

“Oh, ah, Warren, this is my friend…”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, lifting the silenced Beretta from under his coat and pointing it. Poof…poof!

“Christ, man!” Joey hissed. “Christ!”

Warren grunted at the impacts and slumped in the threshold. Jimmy went to him, took him by the arm and helped him half up, dragged him into the temple and closed the door into the house. Then he let go of Warren’s arm and shot him once more in the back of the skull.

Jimmy turned to Joey. “Can’t let little Ricky down, Joe. C’mon, we’re outta here.”

* * *

“You did well, boys…I’m so proud of you.” Ricky hugged Jimmy, then Joey, who was swaying. Ricky smelled Joey’s breath and held him away by the arms. Joey didn’t look well.

“It was a tough mission for Joe.” Jimmy spoke up quickly in his defense.

“Of course it was.” Ricky patted Joey’s arms. “Go get some sleep in the green guest room, Joe.”

“Thanks, Ricky…thanks.” Joey staggered off.

“Well…here’s someone else who’s imbibed a bit too heavily tonight, though I told him not to.” Ricky moved further down the conference table to where Kolosimo was slumped, more disheveled than ever. Abruptly, Ricky snatched hold of Kolosimo’s hair and yanked him half out of his seat. Through gritted teeth, the satin-robed diminutive star hissed, “Look, you sorry son of a bitch, I want you to make this shake tonight and I want you to do it right! You understand me, you puke?” With his high-pitched voice, Ricky sounded like an infuriated Mickey Mouse.

“Yes…yes,” the old man groaned. Ricky let him go, dragged the heavy jar across the table toward him, unscrewed the lid. Jimmy smelled the released stink. Rolling back his sleeve, Ricky glanced up into Jimmy’s eyes, then plunged his own delicate hand into the fluid.

The gnarled black hand dripped. Ricky pushed it into the fleshy hands of Kolosimo. “What do you feel, Kol?” he demanded.

The psychometrist held the dripping hand against his forehead. The other two stood over him staring.

“Oh…uhhh,” mumbled Kolosimo. Then: “Uhhhh…” He let the hand drop to the table and his heavy paws trembled as they smoothed back his hair, smearing it with formaldehyde.

This seemed to please Ricky, however. He nodded for Strappado and Bastinado to emerge from the shadows. They lifted Kolosimo under the arms, took him and the hand away.

Ricky invited Jimmy to join him for a midnight snack while they waited. They had hamburgers and fries brought to them right there at the gothic conference table. Jimmy didn’t like being alone with Ricky, but they mostly ate in silence. Just as they were finishing, the handsome and mime-silent teen age boy who had served them their meal reentered with two metal tumblers on a tray. They were frappes, and one was set down in front of Jimmy. His stomach churned.

Ricky saw Jimmy’s barely checked revulsion and giggled. “Don’t worry, Jimbo, yours is vanilla. I get the chocolate.” And with that, Ricky Concertina lifted the tumbler to his lips and began swallowing the thick chocolate-flavored concoction. Jimmy couldn’t help but openly stare.

“Ahh,” breathed Ricky, setting the cup down and smiling at Jimmy. He popped a few fries in his mouth before he polished off the rest of his drink.

Vanilla or not, Jimmy barely tasted his shake.

* * *

The next several months abounded with activity as a heavily inspired Ricky Concertina not only finished up his album, but rushed it into its advertisement, promotion and sales strategies, consulted with his makeup and wardrobe people to establish an updated look, shot videos, and even mapped out his initial tour agenda. Those unable to keep up with the hectic pace were unceremoniously axed.

To achieve greater inspiration, Ricky kept handing lists over to Jimmy—shopping lists from hell. Ricky wanted something from Elvis. Not too surprising—Jimmy had been expecting that one. But requesting items from Jim Jones, Charles Manson and Grigori Rasputin? “For their mesmeric powers,” Ricky had explained. And what of the objects belonging to Al Capone, Joseph Stalin and Adolph Hitler? Jimmy had a lot of trouble with these last two, but thank God he acquired a signature of Hitler’s. Ricky was satisfied enough to drop Stalin. Ricky explained, “They’ll give me unflinching power to forge ahead with my vision unhampered by any.” Four people were axed the day after the Hitler shake.

Kolosimo had vanished shortly after the night Jimmy delivered the mummified hand. He never asked Ricky about it, but he did notice that Ricky now made his own milk shakes. And whenever Jimmy brought him a new acquisition, Ricky would hold it to his own forehead to test its powers first, as if he had stolen this ability from his former mentor.

* * *

The opening night of the concert tour was a zoo. Utter, unheard of madness. A phenomenon. The press was so abundant that a lesser artist would have exalted at their number of bodies alone. For all his efforts, Jimmy was invited to be amongst those backstage, though his talents were not required tonight.

Ricky’s eyes were so bright and yet so glazed, Jimmy might have thought he was on drugs if he didn’t know how much Ricky abhorred drugs. They didn’t talk; Ricky kept himself sequestered for the most part. Jimmy wasn’t sure what form the mummified hand’s inspiration had taken exactly, but Ricky had been keeping to himself like never before. Jimmy no longer dared to mock or doubt Ricky behind his back for fear of it reaching his pierced ears. Only the money kept Jimmy on this ship.

Rick-ee…Rick-ee…the crowd was out there chanting. Stomping. As chilling a sight as a storm-churned ocean. Jimmy felt that if Ricky were to announce that he wasn’t performing tonight, they would surge forward in a tidal wave and tear the whole town down around them. Was it true after all? Kolosimo’s talk of the power in objects…his ability to harness the energy of others? How else could one frail scarecrow of a man hold so many people so utterly in his thrall?

Nah, Jimmy thought, peeking out at them. Just sheep. A shepherd doesn’t have to be muscular. And I’m one of his sheep dogs.

The roars…the screams…the cheers as Ricky Concertina appeared amidst clouds of dry ice and lightning-flash strobes…like some newborn god. Why shouldn’t they be mesmerized? wondered Jimmy as he watched. He was mesmerized himself.

The music pounded into life—crashing, thumping synthesized drum beats—like a great factory firing up its machines. And almost instantly, as if he’d timed it perfectly—and perhaps he had—Ricky Concertina transformed before his audience…

It was horrible, and it was the hideousness of it that mesmerized Jimmy now. Ricky went into spasms that at first he thought were a frenzied dance. But then the frail little man pitched forward onto hands and knees. Jimmy almost started out onto the stage to help him, but froze as black suds spewed from Ricky’s mouth, bubbling up from his back through his splitting glittery jacket. Soon Ricky was a mass of iridescent black foam.

The audience was shrieking, crying out to the star.

A tormented shape forced itself up to its feet, the suds clinging thickly to it. It was a bent, twisted figure, gnarled and misshapen, the head an immense loaf, globs of cauliflower-like flesh protruding from the naked body. The creature wailed as it was sucked back down into the foam.

“We have to help him!” Strappado the inscrutable cried.

Rick-ee…Rick-ee…

“Good God,” breathed Jimmy as the suds melted away abruptly. Left in their place was a black, glistening heap of ooze…smooth and amorphous. Little forks of greenish electricity branched out of it like serpent tongues. Center stage, musicians bolted. A female dancer ran too close…

“No!” cried Jimmy as the blob lashed out, caught her ankle, drew her toward it.

A maw opened, lined with dozens of flicking green electric tongues. The woman was swallowed; her shape bucked and thrashed inside the ooze as if under a blanket.

Jimmy reached inside his coat for his Beretta, but Strappado shoved him aside, charged out onto the stage.

“Ricky! Ricky!” he yelled.

A pseudopod formed instantly, back-handed the big man, the blow casting him out several rows into the audience. They roared.

“Help me, damn it!” Jimmy yelled across the stage to Bastinado. “Help me!” And with that, Jimmy stepped out into the multi-colored lights and fluttering strobes.

A moment later, Bastinado followed suit, drawing his own automatic. Jimmy fired into the semi-fluid mass first, then they were both firing continuously as they approached the horror from either side. The bullets lodged in the thing, not passing through or ricocheting off the floor. They seemed to be hurting the creature. The maw opened wide in an ungodly, otherworldly high-pitched wail. The tongues of lightning sought to reach out at first one man, then the other. Jimmy and Bastinado wisely stayed clear and kept firing from a safe distance. The music still boomed mindlessly from computerized equipment, and the vast hall thundered with the rhythm of the audience stamping their feet in unison.

Jimmy had emptied his Beretta but Bastinado kept blasting. The ooze reared up suddenly to a height of a dozen feet. At the top of this pillar of slime was the wailing mouth. Jimmy wanted to flee, but gaped at the towering nightmare, transfixed.

It fell. It fell toward him. A falling tree. A tidal wave. Space itself hurtling down at him. He screamed. The creature turned to foam, and the foam turned to mist, just as it was upon him. The fine wet mist breezed gently across his face, and yet Jimmy still crumpled to his knees and dropped his forehead to the stage. He hadn’t fainted entirely, however. He could still feel the vibration of the auditorium through his forehead as the thousands stomped their feet, though his hearing had abruptly shut off.

The doctors would tell him the damage had come from the high-pitched cries of the monster, but Jimmy would always wonder if it hadn’t been the rapturous chanting of the audience as well.

Rick-ee…Rick-ee…they screamed.

It was the best concert they had ever seen.