Blacktop Magic by Lothar Tuppan Part 1

Blacktop Magic

Chapter 1: School’s Out

by Lothar Tuppan

Full moon and headlights lit the white lines separating the two lanes of highway. Dry desert air blew through the open windows of the black 1974 Lincoln Continental Town Car. The occasional bug, launching itself towards the light, would find a windshield death as reward for its trouble. The two occupants nodded their heads in time with the baseline coming from the 8-track player.

“This goes down at midnight, right?” asked the passenger, running his hand through his blond, shoulder-length hair.

“That’s what the letter says.” The driver replied, his eyes flashing in the darkness. His dark, clean-shaven face broke into an indulgent smile, as he added, “Doesn’t it?”

“Yeah Boyd, it does,” the blond man said as he threw the letter in question on the dash. “I just want to make fucking sure, that’s all.”

He rubbed his eyes and face, stroking his moustache nervously. “Sorry man.”

“It’s cool.” Boyd’s smile remained intact. His thumb tapped the steering wheel in time with the rhythm of the music.

“I’m just worried. I don’t like this one.”

“It’ll be fine Len. She’s cool as ice. You know she is.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“At this rate, we’ll be ready and waiting by 11:15. No way we’re going to be late.”

“Groovy.” Len said as he pressed the stop button on the 8-track.

“What’s wrong?” Boyd said, alert for any possible danger.

“Nothing.” Len said, scanning loose papers in a manila folder.

“Man, you just turned off Dr. Funkenstein.”

Len shrugged, not looking up from the papers, “Parliament’s cool and all, I just, sometimes, get tired of the ‘Mothership’ bullshit.” Len sat up, tossed the folder on the dash with the letter and continued. “You know, if George Clinton ever really met a fucking UFO he’d be lucky to come out of it able to speak let alone sing songs about it.”

“Come off it man,” Boyd’s voice was rising. “You know that’s just a metaphor for looking straight at the alien shit they left behind in the fucked up species, we call Homo Sapiens, grabbing hold of it, and using it.”

“He thinks funk is the savior and that everyone will love one another if they come in on ‘the One’.” Boyd grimaced as Len reached into the back seat and pulled out a can of RC Cola.

“Ok. That much is bullshit. But you’ve got to admit the music is both Upper and Lower at the same damn time.”

“Bootsy kicks ass. I’ll give you that.” Len motioned with the soda. “You want one of these?”

“Nah, I’m good. Eddie Hazel too.”

Len nodded. “Yeah. Maggot Brain’s far out. I’d probably dig it all more if there was just one motherfuckin’ wgah-nagl fhtagn somewhere in there.”

Boyd, looking perturbed, pressed play and turned up the volume. “The whole damn P-Funk Mob is far out. We’ve got a ways to go, I’m driving, and I don’t care what you’re tired of. Why don’t you try to rest a little. You need to fucking relax.”

Len sighed, finished his soda in one long swallow, and sat back. “I’m not going to be able to sleep.” He said as he slid a pair of mirrored aviator style sunglasses over his eyes.

“Then just shut up and pretend motherfucker.”

A couple of minutes passed before a loud fake snore erupted from Len.

Boyd shook his head. “Shithead.”

Father Bradley Taylor looked at the empty junior high school classroom around him. The full moon and one candle the only illumination. His palms itched and sweat in nervous anticipation.

“You’re sure this is safe?” he asked. He was used to his “appointments” taking place in more secure locations. Even though the new agency promised him something special, something real and extreme, he was beginning to think he had made a mistake.

“Of course. Or at least as safe as you want it to be.” a long fingernail ran down his cheek. “You paid a lot of money for this. My employers guarantee discretion. No one will know that anyone was ever here.” Hot breath in his ear, “I promise.”

He backed away, nervous from her surety and the unknown of the situation. “Are you dressed appropriately? Let me see you.” This better be worth the money I paid. He thought.

Her knowing smile turned into a flirtatious pout as she stepped back, dropped her overcoat, and turned around for him to see. She was dressed in the white shirt and plaid skirt of a Catholic schoolgirl—only, the shirt was a size too small and it was tied in front to show her young belly, with just a hint of remaining baby fat. Her brown pigtails made her look younger than her 16 years.

What a dirty little slut.

He felt himself grow hard as she posed for him. She pouted and bit her thumb. Her red lips matching her fingernails. “Don’t you like me Father?” she said in a little girl voice.

“Oh, yes. Yes my dear. You are lovely.” Maybe this was a good idea after all. She actually looks young. And clean. And they said I could get a bit rough for the money I was paying.

“But I’ve been bad. Very bad. I need to confess my dirty sins.” She walked towards him with her head slightly down. She licked her lips as she walked.

“Confession cleanses the souls of even young girls.” His shaking hands went towards her head.

“Maybe I should kneel before you. Will you give me communion too?” She seemed to look past him, into the shadows.

“Yes. I’ll give you communion.” He guided her down as she knelt, trying to hold back from pushing too hard, from crushing her petite shoulders. She looked up at his flabby form with a convincing look of lust. Her palms slid up his thighs, slowly, and brushed the outline of his cock before reaching his zipper and pulling it down. She pulled his hard penis out.

“Confess to me girl.” Now we’ll see if this bitch is worth the cost. His eyes closed in anticipation but her eyes still stared at him, with a new look of contempt replacing her previous mask. Her left hand grasped his penis firmly.

“Well Father, I’ve been deceitful, I’ve worshipped pagan gods, and I’ve had murderous thoughts towards priests with a pedophile fetish.” Her tone was ice cold.

What the fuck. That wasn’t exactly what Father Taylor was expecting. “AACKK!”

The priest felt a thick rope pull tight around his throat, cutting off his breath. His hands flew to his neck just as the girl bent his still hard penis in half at a 90-degree angle.

“Oh. I’m sorry padre,” she spat. “Isn’t this the right way to stroke a sick fuck off?” She bent it hard the other way while crushing his balls with her other hand. “Maybe like this instead.” The priest shook in agony, weak gurgles coming from his throat.

“Or like this!” she leaped to her feet and kicked him hard in the crotch.

“Enough Jess.” A calm, sad voice said. She backed away in disgust as a cattle prod hit the priest in the side, causing him to collapse.

“He’s lucky I didn’t bite it off.” She spat and backed off.

“He’s down.” A man with a large afro said after checking on the priest.

“Good.” The blond man holding the cattle prod said.

“See Len,” the black man said. “I told you she was ice cold.” He smiled broadly at the girl. “Damn girl! I feel sorry for any boyfriend that pisses you off.”

“Thanks Boyd.” She said smiling. “What’s the matter Len? Didn’t think I could handle this fuckwad?”

Len smiled sheepishly, trying desperately to avoid looking at her suggestive clothing. “I just worry about you Jess. You’re like my sister.” Len and Boyd loosened the noose from Father Taylor’s neck and positioned him, spread-eagle, in the middle of the floor. “Your parents would kill me if anything happened to you.”

“You don’t pick on me enough to be my brother.” Jess laughed. “And anyway, my parents would have grounded me if I hadn’t agreed to this. They said it was time for me to go ‘into the field’.” She made little quote marks with her fingers. “But I’m definitely going to make sure they realize how disgusting this asshole was. I’ll be right back. I’m going to change out of this costume.” She paused and gave a pouty, little girl look at Len. “Unless you like me this way Lenny.”


“You’re so cute when you’re flustered.” She laughed as she left the room.

Boyd and Len moved all of the desks out of the center of the classroom before bringing in two long 4×4 pieces of wood stashed in the supply room.

“So the principal of this school is one of us huh?” said Boyd as he verified the priest’s continued unconsciousness.

“Yup.” Len replied, pulling out a hammer and extremely long nails, along with other strange paraphernalia, from one of two black duffel bags. “He’s pretty cool for a principal. He gave me a 1st printing School’s Out LP when we set this up.”

“Right on,” Boyd laughed. “Here, help me blaspheme against this fucker’s god.”

The two men took the 4x4s and turned them into a nine foot long cross, tying it with rope at the nexus. Len nailed them together while Boyd supported the pieces. The pattern he put the nails in made a strange design, like points in a connect-the-dots puzzle. Len then took a bottle containing a pungent yellow substance and traced the design using a carved wooden stick to apply the yellow unguent, muttering under his breath. When he was finished Jess had returned wearing jeans and a KISS t-shirt.

“You’ll probably need this won’t you?” She handed a small glass jar to Len. “It’s only a couple days old. I stopped bleeding yesterday.”

“Thanks Jess.” said Len looking a bit embarrassed. He opened the jar and painted another design over the yellow one.

“There. ‘The King in Yellow and the Queen in Red’.” He carefully cleaned up the containers and his tools and placed them back in the bag.

“Cool shirt by the way,” He said smiling. “Can you help me hold Padre Pedophile here while Boyd ties him to his favorite torture device?”

Jess and Len held Father Taylor’s limbs in place while Boyd secured them with thick rope. Taylor was starting to moan but wasn’t fully conscious. They tested the ropes to make sure they would hold.

“So, what’s next?” she asked.

“We wake this fuck up.” Boyd said.

“Should I get the smelling salts or should I piss on him?” Len said laughing.

“Don’t be so fucking crass man.” Boyd said. “There’s a lady present.”

Jess laughed.


“And as it says in the Book of Cain,” Father Taylor said, bringing his sermon to an end. “Give unto the little children all the love that you have to give. Do not hide thy love, but bear it proudly as if marked by God, and give it fiercely. Though I am not my brother’s keeper, I am the keeper of his children.”

Father Taylor looked up from his pulpit and looked at his congregation. The pews were filled with baby dolls all sitting neatly with Bibles open upon their laps.

“Brad.” A voice behind him said.

He turned around, his sister, nailed to the large crucifix that was just under the circular stained glass window, stared down at him.

“Are you pure yet Bradley?” Blood began to run down her face from the crown of thorns. “Have you been doing Christ’s good work?”


He spun around. One of the baby dolls held a ruler. Hitting the pew with it twice.


Another doll with another ruler.

CrackCrack. CrackCrack. CrackCrack.

Soon the entire congregation was doing it. His sister’s blood was running down the wall towards his feet. He closed his eyes and covered his ears. His neck hurt, his side hurt. He wanted it all to just go away.

“Bradley,” her voice clear in his head. “it’s time to wake up. Asshole.”

A hideous stench burned his nostrils. He was sure it was brimstone from Hell. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.

“Wake up asshole.” A blond man with a moustache and mirrored sunglasses said above him. He was waving something under Taylor’s nose, something that burned.

“He’s awake.” A large black man off to his left said. The man was holding a cattle prod.

“Wh-what’s going on?” Father Taylor tried to move his arms. The color drained from his face with the realization of his position—literally and figuratively. “I haven’t done anything. What do you want from me?”

The blond man kicked him hard in the ribs.

“Cool it Len.” The black man said. He wore tan slacks, a white dress shirt open at the collar and an expensive leather jacket. The one he called “Len,” who wore a t-shirt and jeans, moved away, cursing under his breath, only to be replaced by the black man.

“Good evening Bradley.” He said, taking his leather jacket off and folding it over a desk. “You don’t mind if I call you Bradley do you? I can’t see fit to call you ‘father’ because I’m not Catholic and, well, you’re a disgusting hypocrite who lies to your god and yourself.”

“Please,” Taylor cried. “I’ll do anything. Just let me go.” His ribs ached, his neck was raw, there was what felt like a burn on his side, and his entire crotch pulsed with intense, nauseating pain.

“I bet the mystery about this whole situation is pretty distressing to you, isn’t it Bradley.” The man, bringing a wooden school chair, moved next to Taylor and sat down, at just the right angle for Taylor to see him if he craned his head to the left. “Let me explain this situation to you so that you don’t have to feel confused and ignorant. My name is Boyd Castro and my friend here is Leonard Orne. The girl over there is Jessica Gilman.” He leaned towards Taylor. “You do remember Jess right?”

The girl came over and spat in his face before backing away. Boyd continued gesturing as he spoke. “You, me, Len, and Jess have some things to discuss and some business to conduct. Before I get into any more detail it is imperative that you understand that if you scream, call for help, or any of that shit, I’m going to hit you with this cattle prod—which you already experienced once tonight. If I have to do that, then, in addition to the cattle prod, I’m going to make sure that your evening here is even more unpleasant than it already needs to be. Do you understand this point?”

Taylor felt the burning pain in his side, closed his eyes, and nodded.

“Good. Because no one’s around to hear you anyway.” Boyd said. “Len, can you get me an RC, I’m getting thirsty here.”

Taylor heard a can opening.

“Thanks.” He drank at least half the can in three big gulps, put the can down next to his chair leg and wiped his mouth. “Now Bradley, we’ve got approximately three things to do here tonight. Before each one I’ll explain what we expect of you. None of this will be pleasant but it’s up to you as to how horrible it will end up being.”

Boyd looked at his watch. “It’s only a quarter to one. We’ve got plenty of time.” He leaned back in his chair. “Now the reason that my friend Len here is so upset is twofold. We all here hate religious hypocrites and liars, especially Christians, but on top of that, you were about to do some really nasty stuff to a good friend of his. Of course, since we set you up, that’s not a very good reason to get so upset. But the human race isn’t always rational is it Bradley?”

Taylor’s palms itched madly.

“Now, I can understand all the nasty ‘underage schoolgirl’ shit. I mean, we’ve all got our kinks right? I personally love it when a woman reads French poetry to me. But why become a priest and then do shit that you know is completely against the oaths you took? And, looking at the file we’ve compiled on you… well, shit, you are one fucked up, angry asshole. For someone who is supposed to show good Christian love, you sure do seem to hate women. I wonder who in your family fucked you up so bad. So how do you reconcile the hookers, the fetishes, the breaking of your vows of celibacy, and the misogyny, with all that happy-crappy Christian love shit?”

Bradley Taylor closed his eyes and turned his head away.

“You probably don’t even try. You sheep worshippers are so fucked up.” Boyd leaned closer to Taylor. “Come on Brad, look at me.”

Taylor sighed and looked at Boyd.

“Answer me this, honestly, and we’ll move on to the second of our three agenda items. You do consciously realize that you are sinning against the god you signed up with when you do this shit, right?”

Taylor nodded.

“And you still choose to do it anyway. Even though you are fully cognizant that it goes against your station as a Catholic priest?”

Another nod.

“Well, now that that’s settled.” Boyd got up and turned to Len. “I get to do the next part right?”

“Sure.” Len walked to where Taylor could see him as Boyd walked away. He was carrying a roll of duct tape. “I have plenty to do later on.”

He sat down on Father Taylor’s chest and taped his mouth shut.

“Good thinking.” Boyd said, coming back into view with a hammer and three very large nails. “I really don’t want to hear the fucker scream. It just gets annoying after awhile. Don’t worry Bradley, I’ll explain this second bit once we have you nailed down.”

Bradley Taylor, realizing what they planned, struggled futilely against his bonds. Why are they doing this? None of this felt real. Not until the first nail went through his palm.

“This is to prove that we aren’t fucking around Bradley.” Boyd said as he finished with the first hand. “In my experience, the second part goes smoother and faster when we’ve eliminated any delusions about your predicament. And in case you’re wondering, yes, we do know this isn’t how crucifixions were actually done.” Boyd smiled, “But it’s the symbolism that’s the important thing here.”

Taylor thought he was going to pass out as the second nail entered his other hand.

“In a few minutes Bradley, as soon as I’m done with the ‘handyman’ part of the festivities, my friend Len here is going to lead you through a little ritual. Your part in the ritual will be to repeat exactly what he says.”

Boyd stood up and stretched his back. Taylor’s hands were swollen, the pain was worse than anything he had ever felt.

“By now you’ve probably realized that you’re not going to make it to 1977 alive. But, what you probably don’t realize yet, is that if you fuck with us—if you don’t say exactly what Len wants you to say,” Boyd pointed at him with the hammer. “We will keep you alive until we’re no longer pissed about your lack of cooperation.”

Boyd got right into Taylor’s face, there was nothing resembling human mercy in his eyes. “We’ll torture your ass until you believe that you have died and gone to Hell. Your agony won’t end no matter how much you want it to. And when it’s all said and done, you won’t have avoided any suffering. Just the opposite.”

“But if you do what we want,” he stood up. “This’ll all be over in the next couple of hours.”

The third nail, the one through the feet, was the worst. He passed out for a few minutes after they finished the crucifixion. When he regained consciousness, courtesy of another capsule of smelling salts, he was upside down. His torturers had leaned the cross against a wall, inverted in a mockery of Christ’s sacrifice. They had removed the tape from his mouth.

“So Brad,” Len said looking down at Taylor’s face. The mirrored sunglasses were still on the man’s face. “When I cue you to repeat certain things, you are going to say them, without hesitation or improvisation. Do you understand?”

Taylor nodded.

“Say ‘Yes Len’ so that I know that you’re voice is strong enough for this.”

“Yes Len.” Taylor said, his voice cracking only a little.

“Good enough.” Len had a small jar with what appeared to be blood in it. He held it up to the sky. His body began to shake and his voice deepened. “Ia!  Ia!  Hastur!  Hastur ch’ayak ‘vulgtmm, vugtlagln, vulgtmm!  Ai!  Ai!  Hastur! The King in Yellow and the Queen in Red!”

He took his carved wooden stick and painted a circle around Taylor’s head on the floor. To this he added strange curved signs while muttering under his breath. When his task was completed, he carefully cleaned his tool, closed the jar, and put them back in his bag. He then stood in front of Father Taylor, raised his arms to the sky and said, “Ia! Ia!  Pn’naglui mglw-nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah-nagl fhtagn. Ia! Ia! Cthulhu fhtagn.” A breeze moved through the room and the temperature dropped more than a few degrees.

Len looked at Taylor and said “Repeat after me: I forsake the angels of ignorance.”

“I f-forsake the angels of ignorance.” Taylor’s feet began to spasm in pain.

And the services of the artificial god of fear and weakness.

“And the ser-services of the artificial g-god of fear and weakness.” Taylor’s lungs burnt.

Known as Ialdabaoth, Jehovah, Allah, Yahweh, and Iao.

“Known as—ah—Ialdabaoth, Jehovah, Allah, Yah-Yahweh, and Iao.” Taylor’s voice was shaking uncontrollably.

I forsake the services of the Sheep-Christ.

“I forsake the services of the Sh-sheep-Ch-Christ.” He began to sob.

“I forsake all the words and works of the so called Father, his Son, and their unholy spirit of Victimization.” Len’s body began to shake ecstatically.

“I forsake all—all the words and w-works of the so called Father, his S-son, and their unholy spirit of Vict-Victimization.” His vision blurred and he felt as if he was going to pass out.

Len dropped to his knees, lowered his hands and placed them on Taylor’s chest. “You are cleansed and will be blessed with the knowledge that all of your filth and cleanliness is not yours. You will know the shoggoths and learn of their foul ways. The fires you fear most will envelop you. You will lose your senses so that you will know them when they come. You will behold terrors and horrors and will know freedom. And you will know that what is not dead can eternal lie, and with strange æons even death can die.”

Len rose, reached out with his arms and, after a few moments, brought them close to his heart and stepped away from Taylor.

“He’s psychically purged his protective implants.” He said. “I’ll get ready for the next stage.”

Tape was back on Father Taylor’s mouth. His pain was excruciating. Len was going through his black bag, pulling out tools that looked a bit like surgical scalpels. Jess looked nervously at Len.

“This next part is going to be pretty grisly isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Len said looking at her. “It is.”

Len had finished getting his tools when Jess said, “Would… would you guys think I was chickenshit if I skipped out before you did it?”

“No.” Len said. “I was trying to figure out how to send you home without you getting pissed off at me.”

“Jessie,” Boyd said taking her hand in his. “You’ve done everybody proud tonight. What you did proves that you’ve got courage. Len’s right, you should scoot.”

Boyd opened another soda and said, “Go walk the lady to her car. Then let’s finish this so I can drink something stronger than fucking cola.”

Outside the school the autumn night was dry, hot, and still. The moon and stars shone down from a cloudless sky. In the staff parking lot were two cars.

“What’re you guys going to do with his car?” asked Jess.

“Drop it off at a chop-shop we know.” Len said. “The guy supposedly owes Boyd a favor.”

“Cool.” She unlocked the door to her Pontiac Le Mans, turned, and hugged Len. “Thanks for walking me to my car.”

“Jess,” he said, taking off his sunglasses. “I’m sorry if I seem overprotective. You kicked ass tonight. I’m proud of you.”

She smiled brightly. “Thanks Len. And don’t worry about it.” She hugged him tight and kissed his cheek. “The reason I was able to go through with this was because I knew you’d never let anything hurt me.” She started the engine and closed the door.

“By the way,” she said as she rolled down the window. “I’m glad I got to see you work. Dad’s always said you’re an artist with ritual. He’s right”

After she had turned out of sight, Len stood looking at the stars for a number of minutes. The stars are almost right, just got to remove the obstacles and turn the key, he thought. He took a deep breath, put his sunglasses back on, and went to finish his work.

“Now’s the time for the last of our agenda Items Bradley,” Boyd told him when Len came back into the room.

“Your entire being—your body, soul, and all the other shit that makes you ‘you’—is going to become the gateway for a trans-dimensional being.” Boyd held scissors in his right hand, snipping the air with them as he walked towards Taylor.

“Not only that,” he started slicing the clothing off of Father Taylor. “But you get to be the… help me out here Len.”

Len held a scalpel in his left hand. “He’s going to be the template and basic bio-mass for its existence here.”

“The boy’s got a way with words doesn’t he?” Boyd said, pulling the rest of Taylor’s clothes off and away from his body. “Sometimes I wonder which ones he’s made up though.” He turned and smiled at Len. “Tell Bradley here what they’re called.”

“My great-grandfather, who was the first person to document encountering them, called them the ‘Ytheath-Sylrg’.” Len smiled in spite of himself.

“See what I mean,” said Boyd. “What the hell kind of name is that?”

Boyd knelt down and whispered in Taylor’s ear. “Have you ever read the Necronomicon?

Taylor’s eyes widened and he tried desperately to scream and pull himself free of the nails.

“He’s finally figured it out Boyd.”

Taylor passed out immediately after Len started chanting and carving symbols into his flesh.

Boyd was stuffing Taylor’s clothes into a garbage bag while Len cleaned his scalpels. Taylor’s unconscious body was covered in carved ciphers and symbols. A small pool of blood surrounded his crucified form.

“How long until it comes through?” Boyd secured the bag.

“Not long. We’ve got time to clean up though.”

“These things are minions of ‘He Who Must Not Be Named’, right?”  Boyd looked over the room and straightened the last remaining desks. Everything was almost as they found it.

“Sort of. They’re minor emanations from the same hyper-atavism that he’s the embodiment of.” Len finished putting his tools back into his bag.

“Look’s like it’s here,” Boyd said.

Bradley Taylor whimpered and shook on the cross as something grew and moved underneath his flesh. Small finger like tendrils erupted out of his chest, writhing in the air. Soon his entire body hung limply on the cross in shredded tatters as the mass of pale grey tendrils landed on the floor with a wet thump.

The creature moved around the linoleum tiles like an obscene mop, absorbing all of the blood and flesh that it found. Its color was deepening, becoming slate grey and it moved faster as it climbed up the cross, devouring the remains of the priest and the blood that had soaked into the wood. When its meal was complete a golden tracing of symbols, identical to the ones carved onto Bradley Taylor’s flesh, appeared over the creature’s hide.

It twisted and turned into itself, a low moan emanating from it, and it began to bubble and melt into a large puddle. A few moments later a man-like form erupted from the mass of the puddle. It looked exactly like Father Taylor.

“You’re sure it’s bound?” Boyd asked.

Len slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave Boyd a withering look.

“I’m just asking.” Boyd pulled a large overcoat from one of the duffel bags.

“Yeah,” Len said. “He’s bound. Give him the coat and let’s get out of here.”

“We’re gonna make him carry the wood out of here aren’t we?” Boyd asked.

“Fuck yeah,” Len said. “It’s time he started pulling his weight after all we’ve done for him.”