THE INCUBUS OF IRVING ST.

Tina was pulling grocery bags from her trunk when she spotted Bono walking across the street. That’s right, U2’s very own Bono looking like he had just stepped out of the ZooTV tour with the shiny black suit, chest-open shirt and fly sunglasses. There was no mistaking it because nobody else looked like him. Tina immediately dropped what she was doing and began to follow the singer with complete abandon.

Ireland was a long ways; what was he doing here? Who cared? She wanted to ravage that rock god sex beast right there on the curb. Tina may have been pushing fifty but she still hit the treadmill and had some bang to her buck –never mind the late afternoon Chianti’s.

Tina kept calling his name but other than slightly turning her way and showcasing a broad, cocksure smile Bono kept on walking like he owned the planet. Fucking tease. Tina became distracted in watching that hot ass rattle and hum down the sidewalk that she must not have been paying attention to anything else as it seemed so sudden that they were all the way down Irving Street to where it met the railway beside the overpass.

Tina never ventured into this area as she had always thought it to be a haven for vicious hobos and violent meth addicts but now there was no one in sight. At the dead end right before the sidewalk ended into a wall heavily laden with graffiti, Bono finally turned around. Tina only then noticed that there was something different about Bono’s face.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.
 
 
Beth was in the process of unlocking her niece’s front door when she heard a knocking sound on the trunk of her car. She turned to see Jim Morrison smiling as he patted the taillight and wink as he walked away. There was no mistaking it. No way that wasn’t Jim Morrison. He didn’t look like anybody else.

Wait, wasn’t he supposed to be long dead? He was so hot. Who cared? Beth was freshly divorced from asshole after twenty-seven long-suffering years of dull and dry nothing, had only a stuffed bank account to show for it and was dying for something that didn’t sag all the way down. She dropped everything that she was doing and began to follow him.

The Lizard King strut down the sidewalk without a care in the world. Beth could tell by the fit of his tight leather pants that it wasn’t just his face that looked like it was sculpted by Michelangelo. Where was this iconic piece of deliciousness taking her? What was he going to do to her when they got there? She shivered thinking about the possibilities. Beth must have been thinking about them so hard that they had walked all the way down to the end of Irving Street and she didn’t even notice.

As they came to the abrupt end of the walkway, Beth stopped and realized that she had never been this close to the bridge before, mostly because it was an isolated area that she didn’t consider safe, even when walking Poochie.

There she found a huge wall covered with painted eyes of all different colours and sizes staring down at her with strange words streaking across them that looked far from English. It all seemed so…far East, Hindu maybe.

Something shiny on the ground caught Beth’s eye. She leaned down to inspect what was the silver buckle on a black purse. She looked around and quickly discovered that there were other purses of all colours and styles – some modern but mostly outdated– scattered haphazardly across the area.

And shoes too, some new but others looked old, very old, as in falling apart and completely colourless old. Noticing how strange these items were, Beth leaned in closer to examine the pebbles that crunched under her feet and to her growing horror realized that those weren’t pebbles but teeth piled all over each other along with piles of skirt, fabric, clumps of hair and other things that her mind almost would not accept…almost. The whole area was covered with this people residue in every direction.

Beth looked up with a sinking heart, arms and legs frozen in fear, as the singer turned around.
 
 
Jim wasn’t smiling anymore.

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