In The Mouth of Milwaukee

This next bit of Ned and Tery stemmed from a bit of a rivalry. I am -very- passionate about my home town. I have friends who are very passionate about theirs. Mistakenly so. Ron always promised a retaliation. I still look forward to it.



“One, two three four five six seven eight. Shlemeel! Schlemazel! Hasenfeffer Incorporated!

We’re gonna do it!”

Terry Lee tried to puzzle what he was seeing as he opened the door. Frogs and microwaves came to mind; with the microwave being a studio off of Bryn Mawr, and the frog being its occupant. The walls and ceiling were dripping with the crimson remnants of a human being. Covered in gore, the television continued to blare ‘Laverne and Shirley’ reruns. Tery wondered which was more horrific; the exploded remnants of a person, or Penny Marshall’s nasal whine.

“You’re sweating”, said Ned Grenier behind him his voice quavering with revulsion. Terry shook his head. Although Ned Grenier had a long and storied career within the Burnham Society for the Preservation of the Columbia Exposition, he could be surprisingly squeamish.

“It’s summer,” said Tery, clad from head to foot in university sweat clothes. “Besides, you said this would be messy.”

“I heard the explosion over the phone. It had a wet sound…”

“And you called me. Can’t sully your delicate hands with this…”

“Terry, be fair. Look at this place. There’s nowhere I can walk without getting my shoes messy. Even the ceiling’s coated.”

“Which is why you have a grunt.”

“Apprentice, Terry. One day you too will ascend the great heights of the society…”

“But first I have to plumb the depths. Right,” Terry took off his sweats and shoes, revealing a latex bodysuit that completely covered him from neck to feet. Ned lowered his shades curiously.

“What on earth…”

“Last I saw, the Society didn’t have a HAZMAT suit.”

“We don’t have the budget for that sort of thing. Which makes me wonder…”

Terry angrily raised a finger “Just tell me what I need to find, there’s a hose outside. It had better be ready.” His tone was unusually harsh, but Ned nodded, and offered the list.

Terry walked into the gore. There –had- to be a better way to earn health insurance.


An hour later, Terry and Ned were in the back garden of the apartment building, Ned hosing the gore off his employee’s body. In the distance police sirens were heard. Ned had sworn up and down he had the ability to cloud men’s minds, so Terry wasn’t as concerned at how the police would react to a fop dressed for a Raymond Chandler revival giving an impromptu shower to a latex-clad college student covered in liquefied human.

“So who was this?” asked Tery, turning to get as much water on him as possible.

“Professor Tom McNulty. Historian by trade.”

“Is he one of us?” Terry had become quickly used to the nature of his work with the Burnham Society. Ordinary people got shot, or had heart attacks. It was only the elite that ended up with sabers in the eyes or eaten by elder gods.

“Sort of. Tom did research on the magical histories of other cities. His work on the Gary Monstrosity was invaluable. I hadn’t heard from him in months. And then he just calls out of the blue. He didn’t sound like himself. He was really frightened.”

“Seems like he had good reason.” Terry looked up. The force of his explosion had blown out the windows of the good professor’s apartment.

“What did you find?”

“Your friend was a serious alcoholic. Aside from bones, meat and blood, there were a lot of beer cans everywhere. Hundreds. I’d have suspected kidney failure, but I found one of them intact in the kitchenette, and it looked fine. Really cheap beer, too.”

“How cheap?”

“Unemployed College Student. I also found DVD’s of every single episode of Happy Days, and half of Laverne and Shirley.”

Ned frowned even more. “Which half?”

“Pre-Burbank. Do you know something?”

Ned turned off the hose, staring at his employee. “I have to ask…”

“You really don’t, Ned. What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s just not in my experience that someone –has- an outfit…”

Terry snapped. “Do you recall where you left me last month? You had me Squiring for CRATE! I was up to my ass in paranormal filth! You know what –else- a phoenix does every thousand years? It’s just as explosive and ten times as rancid!”

“It still doesn’t explain…Who –has- this much rubber in their closet?”

“Do I ask what you do on Thursday nights?”

Ned paled, dropping the hose. “I’ll…drop the subject…”

“Thank you. Now…what aren’t you telling me?”

“What else did you find?”

“Old Bucks tickets, a ball cap, and some internet cards…”

“Internet cards?”

“Yeah…” He pulled them out of the pile. “See? There’s a number value, and a smiley. A colon and a parentheses.”

Ned shook his head. “That’s not what you think it is.”

“Oh?”

“They’re passes…To Summerfest.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Of course not. The Taste of Chicago was crafted solely to counter its malign influence. It’s a bacchanal of dark desperation and weak alcohol. I know what our professor was exploring, and we can’t be part of it. I’m certain now that the unholy combination of influences within that enclosed space forced poor Tom to eject himself from this world in the most violent way.”

“Ned. Laverne and Shirley never killed anyone…”

“Not exclusively my friend. But look at the symbols.” He pulled the tickets, arranging them on the ground. In the center, he’d placed the ball cap. Wiping the gore from the logo revealed what appeared to be a combination of letters and a catcher’s mitt. He placed the passes down, completing a strange tarot.

“This is the shadow. The nightmare.” Ned said ominously.

“Cheap beer, and bad sports teams?”

“Combined with a festival that showcases the depth of human suffering. Think, Terry. Do you believe people listen to Three Dog Night and Blondie willingly? No, this is the emptiness. I feared this time would come. That this would rear its ugly head.”

“I don’t understand.” Terry knelt, trying to puzzle the pattern, a sense of unease crawling in his stomach.

“There…is a shadow realm to our city. A pale imitation of our own. Its populace is a wasted ruin, fed watered alcohol to keep them docile. Unspeakable horrors grow and fester within, and our only mission is to keep its vile influence from our shores. We drink Old Style to keep its wretched name from our lips. My friend gazed into the abyss…and we lost him to its malevolence.”

“This…” The patterns of unholy mediocrity swam in Terry’s eyes, forcing him to look away. Ned forced his head back to face the pattern.

“Yes, Terry. Gaze into the mouth of Milwaukee. May God have mercy on our souls.”