‘Harry Potter’ and the Blood-soaked Orgy of Teeth

 

The addicts have crashed their flying-magic cars through the crowded windows of Barnes & Noble, Royal Oak, Friday night, 12am and bodies litter the aisles. But everything’s alright, the carpets soak blood nicely and the smell of cracked skulls and broken backs (white spine juice) mean nothing to the throb-knuckled Harry Potter maniacs. I have been hiding in a far upstairs corner for forty-five minutes, praying (yes, but to what I don’t know), waiting to toss this large atlas into the first pack of wand wielding preteens that charges me.

Taped, plastic glasses and Z-shaped scars, some real, some painted…a common sight among this crowd of hysterical, dangerous fans. They can smell the non-committed. The meat-covered bones of an unfortunate channel five news team have been fastened into a giant phoenix in the downstairs lobby. They are now soaking the monument in gasoline. Paperbacks curl under the fumes. Babies pass out on their mother’s shoulders.

An announcement shatters the crowd’s vicious hum…hundreds of heads crane toward the checkout desk where steel crates of JK Rowling’s fifth outing at Hogwarts, The Order of the Phoenix, are being pried open by armed guards: “IT’S HARRY POTTER TIME!”

The stampede begins…mothers trample screaming children…blonde hair jerks under pounding boots…a solid guttural yelp whelming from the people…waited this long…waited years for…fathers sell their daughters for tickets…employees try desperately to herd lines…floored and torn apart like a zombie film…clothes and intestines thrown high in the air…raining down blood and teeth…sniper bullets smack through an upstairs window…an old man shakes and falls…blood sprays from his neck…the floor, the walls, even SHHREEEMP bouncing along the ceiling…forming a path of bodies…I see a young girl spitting orders into a walkie-talkie and moving toward the front…then the fire explodes and they’re bowing as the books are tossed freely into hungry, grabbing hands…finally.

They disperse as quietly as they came. I creep downstairs, after making sure they’re all outside – taking their fat books home to clean off the caked blood and read…almost 900 pages…and read again, then stop until the next installment comes (a victory earned and a battle well worth the wait) – fighting shock, into the shit-stench and cold. The fire has died to lines of pale smoke. More bodies, more leftover chaos. The night is punctuated by occasional giddy screaming.

I leave with Kathy Acker, speeding through the streets, anywhere…away from that…we stop at a diner. Quiet, the waitress, orange hair, is staring. I’ve been converted, my glasses broke and set with tape, the lightening bolt carved permanently on my skull. “But that’s okay, Harry,” she says, sitting on my lap in the booth, spilling some coffee as she plucks out my eyelashes and sets them in her white palm in tiny rows. It’s love…

Sean Kilpatrick has been previously published online at The Dream People (http://www.dreampeople.org/), The 2nd Hand (www.the2ndhand.com), Dark Fiction E-zine (http://www.darkfiction.org/index.html) House of Pain (http://www.house-of-pain.com/fiction/index.html, and Mused Magazine (http://www.musedmagazine.com/issue1.htm. He is also slated to be published in the upcoming issues of The Exquisite Corpse (http://www.corpse.org/index.html)and The Glut (http://www.theglut.com/). The foregoing "short absurdist-journalism piece" is Kilpatrick's first appearance on spread.
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