The Eighth Plague: A Narrative of Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll

Chapter 1: Back here again, eh?

Spade Newhouse lived in an apartment in the lower east side of Manhattan. It wasn't a nasty apartment, with rats in the walls and hobos in the lobby, like one typically imagines. It was a hip pad. All the walls, furnishings, and decorations were of minimalist white-plastic, and the bookshelves were full of great works (Finnegan's Wake, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, The No Cussing Club, etc.) Despite this, Spade Newhouse rarely spent any time in it, as his days were spent clubbing (as in hitting seals with blunt instruments), and his nights were spent clubbing (as in going to clubs.)

However, today saw Spade stay inside, to reacquaint himself with all his books and furniture. After all, there was a pandemic on, and this time around he didn't have the secret cure. As far as he knew, nobody did. That was a grim thought. Even the leaders of the world, both public and secret, were in danger. Spade couldn't remember the last time this had happened. After all, he'd been conceived right around after the bubonic plague, and after that one they'd all been engineered by the Conspiracy, of which he became mascot when he was twelve.

Spade was wearing sneakers, various ammo belts, and a mink bathrobe over a black-and-pink Punchinello costume. He was ready for anything, by gum. As he splayed out comfortably in his armchair, Spade wondered how his old friend 'Magic,' the athlete, was holding up under the circumstances.

Spade knew that 'Magic' was almost certainly dead. This made him sad. 'Magic' was one of the few old friends of Spade's that he would have liked to see again, and that was saying something because Spade hated his old friends.

He could hear rioting in the streets. Biker gangs and Pentagon/Vatican Gestapo duked it out in the streets, neither side displaying any kind of desire for victory or even to continue living. Various filthy, flagellating processions were all converging on the area, joining hands and whips singing "Lacrimosa."

Surgeon General Jerry Valdemar's voice was being trumpeted by every loudspeaker and viewscreen on the block:

"Listen, we're doing what we can, but in the meantime don't bother with any of this staying-indoors nonsense. The world's pretty much over. I wasn't meant to tell you that, but there it is. Get out there while you still can! Love, live, smell the roses!"

Spade wasn't having any of that. In all likelihood, they just wanted to thin out the population by encouraging them to "live a little." Spade had yet to rule out the possibility that this virus wasn't a Conspiratorial invention. They could have just forgotten to send him the memo.

Suddenly, a knock came at his door, followed by a voice.

"Excuse me? My friend is bleeding out in the street! Some teddy-boys shanked him something fierce in the stomach! I must use your telephone!"

Spade grumbled. Ah, the discreet charms of the hoi-polloi. He was beginning to remember why he had avoided this apartment for the past several decades.

Silently, he picked up a sawn-off ivory shotgun from the ottoman at his feet. There was a very interesting story behind the ottoman. After an adventure in Istanbul quelling an uprising, he'd had the blighter killed, stuffed and turned into a foot-rest. Well, maybe not such an interesting story.

Spade walked to his front door, threw it wide, and fired the shotgun.

When the smoke cleared, he could see that there was a now bloody and largely headless carcass in coffee-stained military fatigues standing in the hallway outside his door. It was safe to say that, whoever this might have been, and whatever threat he may have (but likely didn't) pose had been neutralized.

Suddenly, it began to occur that, gradually, the pieces of brain and skull flew backwards from their scattered places about the hallway to reform the head of the man Spade had just murdered.