Voodoo Chile'

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

New Orleans, and something is stirring in the back streets.

The Big Easy! The city where Voodoo drifts on the warm sticky night breeze and Jimi H, guitar cries for vengeance.

Voodoo Chile'

 

Desire, New Orleans

The Big Easy

 The only thing the inhabitants of this ghetto ever desire is to get their asses out of there in one piece. Young punks cruise the streets in the murk of the sepia-tinted night, with its flickering street lamps. Bandanas on heads and tattoos proudly displayed on iron-hard pumped up muscular arms. Sweat covers their brows and shadows cover their hearts, and nickel-plated guns tucked down the back of their pants, give them a sense of power and purpose in this unfair world they have been spit out, into.

The air is humid and sticky. Devilish neon signs blink on the Main Streets above the bars. Beckoning to the weak-minded, and offering comfort and succor to those with a thirst for liquor or something stronger. Vanishing up a five-dollar straw, with a quick sniff, causing pupils to dilate to the size of a silver Dollar.

Bluegrass invades the night air with its tinny sound of harshly plucked brass strings and bottleneck slides. And old, pain infused voices; sing about dead dogs and lost loves and working on the chain gangs of the so, called, nostalgic, good old days.

There is always something wicked going down in the back alleys of Desire. And this night is no different.

 

Jimi H hit the pavement hard, and it hit back, harder, cracking the back of his skull. Blood oozed from his split head, ruining his retro Afro look. Jimi was all about looking cool and stylish, his tie-dye caftan and flared tobacco corduroy slacks, and a red bandana around his head screamed 70s era. His guitar case fell from his hands and sprang open revealing a 1969 vintage, battered white, fender strat guitar; it was his pride and joy.

‘What the fuck, you do that for, man!’ Jimi crowed and wiped a smear of blood from his full brown lips.

The three street brothers gathered around him. Hellfire shone in their eyes and the devil walked in their footsteps. They were the Crimson Skulls street gang, a grinning red skull tattoo on the back of their left hand, was their brand.

‘What the fuck, you think we are-you-freak, a fuckin’ charity?’

Leroy, their leader, snarled. Jimi’s blood stained his curled fist. He looked like a biker who had just escaped from hell; he was bad to the bone and pissed. His square toe boot came down hard on Jimi’s guitar hand and ground on it as if he were stamping out a cigar butt.

‘Hey, man, that’s the money hand!’ Jimi screeched. ‘If I can’t play, then I can’t pay, man!’

Leroy lifted his boot and spat, ‘What the fuck! The back of Jimi’s hand was covered in a red rose tattoo. But if you looked hard enough, you could just make out the crimson skull hidden beneath it.

‘You think you can just wipe out the Brothers Bond, with new ink?’

‘Come on, Leroy, man, we were kids, street punks, I grew up, man!’

Leroy snarled between gritted teeth, ‘Street punks! FUCK!’ Leroy kicked Jimi, hard, in the ribs, just for the sake of nostalgia.

‘And where did you turn to get the ten Gs to buy your guitar and all of that stage equipment, Jimi, Where? Your Crimson brothers, Jimi, Me! And did I disrespect, you?’

Jimi held his bruised ribs and shook his head.

‘That’s right, Jimi, I handed it over, in good faith, well it’s time to pay back what you owe the Brothers, Jimi.’

Leroy nodded to one of his boys, who laughed and snatched the guitar up.

‘Come on. Man. Don’t take my guitar, man, I can’t gig without it. I need it to pay you back.’ Jimi pleaded.

Dwayne laughed and strummed the strings; its sound was flat in his tuneless hands.

Jimi picked himself up off the ground; his head was spinning from the cruel collision with the concrete ground and Leroy’s fist.

Dwayne was swinging the guitar around and aping about.

Jimi felt his temper rising, he watched as his precious guitar just missed the ground by a hairs’ breadth, several times.

Sweat broke out on his brow and then rage kicked in. He could not hold back any longer. Before he realized it, he was lunging at Dwayne, desperately trying to snatch his guitar back.

Jimi lunged forward, Dwayne stepped back and the guitar hit the ground. A huge chunk from the body broke off, strings snapped and the chrome, Floyd Rose floating Tremolo Bridge, came loose.

Jimi cried out and swung an angry fist at Dwayne, who hooted and pulled a switchblade out and swung it around in his hand like a street magician, the blade gleamed in the streetlight and poor Jimi walked straight into it.

Crimson sprayed across Dwayne’s knife hand and spattered over the white fender strat, and Jimi crumpled to the ground, his tie-dye caftan had a new red stain, bleeding into its psychedelic colors.

 

Les Funérailles

Jessie H sat on the folded out wooden chair, next to her mother in the deserted chapel.

Jimi’s voice rang out from the crackling speakers and his guitar soared like an eagle’s cry on the wind.

Old Maise, Jimi’s mother, sat looking around the empty chapel. Her dull eyes settled on the coffin in front of her. She wondered who it was for, she wondered why she was here, and she wondered who that pretty girl was, sitting next to her, weeping.

Maise was confused, she had been, for several years now, and her memory was slipping away from her fast, like a landslide in the rain, and turning to muddy waters at her feet.

Jessie heard the chapel doors swing open; she turned to see who had come to pay their respects to her hero brother. Her brown eyes narrowed, her pretty face turned into a thing of hate and loathing for the three figures that swaggered in.

She patted her mother lovingly on the hand and left her sitting in her chair, sucking on a toffee.

Jessie stopped in front of Leroy and his band of trash Brothers.

‘What, you want here, Leroy?’ Jessie’s tone was as cold as the grave. ‘You come to gloat at your handy work?’

Leroy just gave her a lopsided smile, ‘Why if it ain’t little, Jessie H!’ Leroy slapped his thigh, ‘Damn, girl, ain’t you all grown up and lookin’ mighty fine and sassy!’

Jessie H looked Leroy up and down like he was a steaming sack of shit, standing before her. She couldn’t believe she used to have a prepubescent crush on this low life. Now all she wanted to do was crush him under her foot, like the human cockroach he was.

‘We just come to pay our respects to a fallen Crimson Brother, Jessie Honey!’ Leroy tried to sound solemn, but came across as, fake as a three Dollar bill.

‘Jimi ain’t your brother, he never was, and I ain’t your honey, Bitch!

Dwayne and Franco whooped like excited chimps, at Jessie’s retort.

Leroy’s syrupy smile turned sour, ‘I was trying to keep this civil an’ all, but here’s how it is. Jimi owed us, his debt is now your debt, and you got seven days to pay up, Bitch!

And then Leroy looked Jessie up and down, and he liked what he saw, ‘If you want you can pay off ten percent tonight, with some of that sweet brown sugar of yours? You know where to find, me.’

Jessie felt physically sick at the thought of any of those low lives touching her. She just watched the jug-heads swagger out of the chapel, like three badly drawn, comic book caricatures.

Jessie H turned around and looked at her mother, who was staring back at her with a blank expression as if she was looking at a stranger.

A tear fell from Jessie’s big brown eyes and rolled down her cheek. She closed her eyes and scooped up her Danballa la Flambeau, silver, snake pendant, that hung around her neck, and held it tight in her fist, and listened to her brother’s sweet voice coming from the speakers.

‘Cause’ I’m a Voodoo Chile’

Lord knows I’m a Voodoo Chile’

 

Masque de Morte

It was a hot night, as sticky as molasses and as uncomfortable as snuggling up next to a corpse.

The Crimson skulls were lounging in their rundown cockroach-infested crib, on the outskirts of Desire. The building, which had once been a gas stop station, had been abandoned for as long as the boys could remember. It had been a hangout of theirs since they had formed the Brotherhood in their early teens.

It was out of sight and out of mind, of the local constabulary, and so the Skulls claimed it for their own turf.

An old CD player rattled and hummed, a voice full of angst and pain, echoed around the paint peeling, crumbling walls, repeating the same drawn-out word, over and, over again,

‘De-siiiiiiii-re!’

The only thing Leroy desired was another puff of the cool stuff from old Geronimo, his pet name for the pipe. Leroy took a swig of whiskey from the bottle, while he waited for Franco to pass Geronimo around.

There were no heirs and graces with these lump-heads; they were as crude and sorry, looking like a hooker on crack.

Dwayne staggered outside, he needed to piss. His head was spinning from the cocktail of smoke and whiskey. He was fumbling with his flies, desperately trying to pull the zipper down before he pissed himself when he heard a sound behind him.

He turned around holding his Johnson in his hand, his jaw fell open at the bizarre-looking figure standing next to the old gas pumps.

 She had on a black velvet top hat, decorated with a white chicken feather hatband. Her long, thick, black, curly hair was frizzed up around her white skull painted face, and the biggest hand-rolled reefer, Dwayne had ever seen, stuck, enviously, out between her full, painted, black and white lips.

Dwayne’s meth rotted brain was tripping, he laughed at this Slash caricature

Only she wasn’t a sweet chile, playing a fancy riff on a fancy guitar. She was a Voodoo Chile shaking her ascon, gourd rattle. The web bead covering, hissed, and the rattlesnake tails hanging from it, played their own venomous riff. 

She sucked hard on the reefer. The end glowed bright orange.

Dwayne wished she was sucking on something else! He looked down and packed his meat away and laughed, and then shouted for his Brothers.

Leroy and Franco came staggering out, into the light of the full moon. A spark of lightning flashed on the dark horizon, there was a storm brewing in the gulf, you could smell it in the hot, Creole air, like a gumbo bubbling in a black bottomed pot.

 Leroy just stared at Jessie H, in doped amusement.

She had on, a brightly colored silk, tie-dye caftan, and a short-cropped Burgundy, bellhop’s jacket, with a film of dust covering the shoulders, and tight, fitting black and white candy, striped leggings. A thick belt, woven from swamp grass, hung loosely from her shapely hips. A skirt of chicken bones dangled from it, clacking together, as she swayed her hips.

Jessie H stood before a cornmeal Veve summoning symbol. In its center was a small mirror with five black candles around it. The candle flames writhed like pole dancers, before Leroy’s heavy eyes. Three cloth dolls had been placed inside the candle circle and tightly wound in black thread, they were covered in pins.

‘What the fuck are you doing, Jessie?’ Leroy slurred and shook his head in comic disbelief.

Jessie H, stamped her bare feet into a pile of goofer dust she had spread around, kicking up a cloud of the stuff, and chanted.

 

‘Madichon sou ou

Eske nanm ou boule pou tout tan

E zo u yo  tournen pousye

Madichon sou ou!’

Leroy slow blinked and took a swig of whiskey. His brain was floating in a purple haze; reality was slipping through his fingers and melting at his feet.

Jessie’s skull painted face, looked up at him, she snarled beneath the greasepaint and then took a plastic bottle from her pocket and poured chicken blood over the dolls and continued to chant and shake her rattlesnake ascon,

‘Madichon sou ou

Eske nanm ou boule pou tout tan

E zo u yo  tournen pousye

Madichon sou ou!’

Leroy threw his arms wide and bellowed,

‘You think you can scare me with this voodoo Hoodoo, Bullshit?’

Jessie H ignored him, and continued chanting and gyrating, her hips and stamping her feet. She felt the power rising in her, blowing in from the east from the Dark Continent and her ancestors heeding her call, or was it just rage, or the weed? No matter, it was intoxicating, never the less.

Jessie took a deep swig of chicken blood and spat it into Leroy’s face, and screeched.

‘Leve lespri, leve kanpe, pran lanm ni!’

 

Whatever restraint Leroy had left in him, he lost it big time. He screamed like a mad man and drew a hand across his blood-spattered face and reached behind his back and pulled out a nickel-plated magnum revolver and squeezed the trigger.

The snub-nosed gun barrel exploded with sparks and smoke. The left side of Jessie’s head exploded in blood and bone fragments, as the bullet tore through her skull.

Jessie’s body did a pirouette, her arms rotor bladed around her body, and then she slumped to the ground in a bloody heap.

Dwayne and Franco looked on in shocked silence and then the adrenalin kicked in; they began jumping up and down and giggling, like a couple of tripping, crack heads.

Leroy held his smoking gun to his lips and kissed the tumbler and then he turned to Dwayne and Franco.  

‘OK! You two, assholes, I got a job for you. Take that, Bitch, and bury her- Bury that superstitious, Voodoo chile, deep, so her stench, don’t seep out of the ground.’

Dwayne stopped laughing, ‘Jeez’ Leroy! How come me and Franco, always get the bum jobs?’

‘Cos’ I got the gun,’ Leroy flashed a vicious grin and held up his nickel-plated argument buster, reinforcing his leader’s status to his rat brothers.

 

 Voodoo Chile

A black amorphous cloud rolled across the Big Easy, bringing with it a howling chill wind and a deep percussive rumble. Wooden shutters were secured over windows, and the streets were quickly deserted. The inhabitants of New Orleans were used to these sudden stormy outbreaks and were well-practiced in running for cover.

 

The rain fell on the primordial Bayou cane. Things moved beneath the surface of its muddy water, long and reptilian in nature, sinister creatures, with sinister grins.

An alligator had dragged itself up out of the water and made its way over to a twisted tree. Its keen sense of smell had drawn it to this place.

There was a canker oozing from the earth, it was easy food if the gator could dig it up.

The ground beneath the croc quivered as if something deep down had moved, or turned beneath the earth. The gator swished its huge tail and gnashed its vicious jaws and hissed.

The ground quivered again and with it, something punched its way out of the earth.

The alligator hissed and turned tail and fled back to the safety of the water, for what it had smelled clawing its way to the surface, had even frightened that fearless predator.

 

Nuit des mortes vivantes

Leroy was staring at Old Geronimo through meth glazed eyes. A stupid grin was plastered on his face. It was as if the pipe were whispering in his ear, sharing the secrets of the universe to him, he was so enthralled by the glass pipe and its wizened crystal, lump sitting in it. He just kept nodding and gasping in awe at the revelations Old Geronimo was revealing to him, with every new inhalation of its magic smoke.

Outside the rain was falling in heavy tapping droplets, like fingers drumming incessantly on a tabletop, and the wind was rattling anything that wasn’t nailed down.

Inside the rundown gas stop, a shrill scream pierced the air, ricocheting off the walls.

Leroy jumped with a start and dropped Old Geronimo. The wizened old pipe shattered on the concrete floor. Leroy shook his head and cursed at the demise of his dear old friend.

Franco, who was dozing, popped his head up like a meerkat, and looked around,

‘What the fuck was that?’ He could not conceal the dread that crept into his voice.

Leroy stood up and swayed, and suddenly felt a surge of vertigo hit him, he slumped back down into his chair,

‘Sounds like, Dwayne is having a bad trip, man!’ he sneered.

Another scream as shrill as screeching brakes ripped through the station, full of terror, and then was abruptly cut short.

Leroy felt his gut tighten, something was off. He pulled out his snub-nosed magnum and headed for the door on unsteady seafarers' legs.

Dwayne was lying spread-eagled on his back with a woman sitting astride him and leaning forward, kissing him.

Franco looked confused, but that was not a new expression for him to be wearing, it came with the territory for this, lump-head.

‘Hey, man! You keeping that fine piece of ass, from your brothers?’ he complained.

At the sound of the interruption, the fine piece of ass sat up and turned to face Leroy and Franco.

Franco’s look of confusion stayed with him but slipped down a notch.

Leroy’s eyes widened, his jaw went slack.

 

Jessie H let out a guttural growl from her broken jaw. Her once pretty face had become home to the bayous’ little critters that had burrowed deep into her rotting flesh. Making it twitch as they moved about inside of her skin.

A bloody lump of flesh, that only moments ago, had been Dwayne’s cheek, fell from Jessie’s mouth and plopped onto the ground.

Jessie stood up; she took a step toward Leroy and Franco and hissed like an angry viper.

Leroy’s eyes darted to Dwayne, his bro was dead, and his throat was glistening in red, ripped open, tatters.

‘This ain’t happening, man!’ Franco whined like a kicked dog and staggered backward. ‘They ain’t real, man, zombies, ain’t real!’

Leroy raised his magnum and shot Jessie.

The bullet thudded into her stomach, Jessie stopped, she looked down at the bullet hole in her dead flesh and then advanced toward them again, a shambling nightmare, a rotten bug-infested, stinking undead, thing.

Leroy pumped the trigger again and again until the hammer hit the empty chambers, the bullets slammed into Jessie’s body with wet plopping sounds, but she just kept coming at them.

‘Shoot her in the head man!’ Franco screamed in panic and looked around frantically for something to defend himself with, against this fetid horror that groaned as red drool cascaded from her cracked lips.

Franco, in his panic, tripped and fell over. He hit the floor hard and screamed as Jessie fell on top of him. The stench of her Bayou drenched corpse made him gag. He wriggled like a hooked catfish underneath her, trying desperately to escape her iron grasp, as she leered down at him dripping thick, stinking, black, drool over his face.

Franco managed to pull his knife from his pocket and screamed like a maniac and plunged the blade over and over again into her soft, swamp, bloated, belly, like a boxer jabbing at a punch-bag.

Jessie’s fragile flesh split open, like a damp overloaded grocery bag, spilling her blackened guts out all over Franco, her innards were alive with wriggling maggots and all manner of filthy, burrowing invertebrates.

Leroy’s hands were shaking uncontrollably he had already dropped three bullets as he tried to slot them into the magnum’s tumbler, finally, one bullet slid home.

Franco screamed as Jessie H leaned in close, her face touched his, and then her teeth sank into his neck.

Franco cried out, the pain was excruciating as his living flesh was torn from his neck by those vicious gnashing zombie jaws.

Leroy flicked his wrist, the tumbler clicked back into place. He bent forward and rested the snub-nosed barrel to the back of Jessie’s head and pulled the trigger.

The bullet ripped through, Jessie’s jellied brain and out through her skull and kept going straight into Franco’s forehead.

Jessie’s face broke apart, lumps of flesh and bone erupted, leaving only a bloody cracked shell of a skull sitting on her shoulders. And then she slumped to the ground in a heap.

Franco’s body twitched beneath her and he too fell silent and dead.

Leroy wanted to vomit so badly. His gun fell from his shaking hand. He swayed like a sapling in a storm and collapsed to his knees, and finally, his stomach emptied itself of his pizza, beer, and everything else he had consumed that day.

Leroy was on all fours gagging like a scruffy mutt, when a soft foot shuffling sound, brought his head up.

 

Leroy's eyes widened in terror, his brain couldn't take any more of the horror of the night, he whimpered like a frightened pup and then closed his eyes.

Jimi H stood towering over him. His face was drained of color, his sparkling brown eyes had turned into yellow pools of death. His mouth hung loose as if he was yawning, and a sliver of drool escaped his ruddy cracked lips.

Jimi H groaned, a pitiful sound to hear, and then he raised his white Fender Strat guitar above his head and brought it down onto Leroy's skull, over and over again, until there was nothing left of that drug-addled brainbox, but a stain of red mush.

 

Old Maise was sitting in her chair next to her neatly made bed in the care home.

An old radio from bygone days sat on the dresser next to her bed. A woman’s voice was reading a news report. Maise wasn’t really listening, it was a grim story, and perhaps her mind just didn’t want to hear such nasty details about a gang killing with occult implications.

No! Maise just gently held a small silver snake, pendant in her arthritic hands, and stroked it.

 A pretty young girl had given it to her last night, appearing in her room like smoke, she had a warm friendly smile and a tear in her eye. Maise thought she looked familiar, but couldn’t remember where she had seen her before.

 And then the girl just disappeared, in the blink of an eye.

Maise turned to the radio as the DJ played a record. The guitar playing sounded familiar to her, sailing out of the mist of her lost memory, and then the velvet voice brought a smile to old Maise; wrinkled face.

‘It’s my, Jimi H!’ she sighed, and then closed her eyes and let the music take her away on its funky, psychedelic, guitar playing.

‘Cos’ I’m a voodoo chile’

Yeah, I’m a voodoo chile’

 

 

 


Submitted: August 20, 2020

© Copyright 2021 Celtic-Scribe63. All rights reserved.

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Comments

AdamCarlton

Great atmospheric revenge tale. The very least you could do, CS63, to low-lifes who could even contemplate taking out Jimi. Man, that guy *metabolised* through his guitar...

Thu, August 20th, 2020 6:12pm

Author
Reply

ADAM! long time no see!

Great to hear from you! I hope you are well in this troubling time?

Yeah, Its a shame the youth of today probably have never heard of Jimi or his crazy guitar playing.

Funny enough, the reason I ended up writing this, was because I have been playing my guitar quite a bit lately, and was hammering away on Steppenwolf, 'Born to be wild' which has a chord in it, affectionately called, 'The Hendrix Chord.' It sound out of tune but at the same time, it smacks of Hendrix unique sound.
A round about way, I know, but that's where I got the idea to do this crazy story.

All the best
Stay Safe.
CS

Thu, August 20th, 2020 12:17pm

hullabaloo22

Thoroughly convincing, C-S!

Thu, August 20th, 2020 6:28pm

Author
Reply

Jimi H, Guitars, Zombies, what a perfect combination, LOL!

Thanks for the read,
Stay safe
CS

Thu, August 20th, 2020 12:19pm

Rob73

A well written horror story. Jimi H is a legend.

Thu, August 20th, 2020 11:46pm

Author
Reply

Thanks' so much for the kind words.
He truly is and always will be.
Kind Regards
CS

Fri, August 21st, 2020 2:17am

hullabaloo22

First off, you set the scene brilliantly. No one could be in any doubt about the dangers on those streets.
I guess Jimi Hendrix was a perfect fit for the scene. A brutal attack with quite a bit of description in it, and the dialogue was so convincing. Moving on to the church, you captured the solemn atmosphere, but what really impressed me was Maisie's confusion.
Jessie had real attitude, wasn't going to be silenced by Leroy's pontificating stance. Hell, no, she followed them, and what a character sketch you provided then, when she caught up with them, practiced her voodoo skills. I guess she had to be killed to become what she... became. The ending was fantastic, bringing a really satisfying end to the tale. And even Maisie had a little bit of happiness.
Excellent writing, C-S. One of your very best!

Sun, August 23rd, 2020 6:37pm

Author
Reply

Thanks' so much for stepping up to the challenge.

When reading such a fine review as this, It shines a light on aspect,s even I didn't notice I had achieved.
It makes you think more when writing and pushes you as a writer to improve and learn.

What started as a simple zombie goresfest, I think turned into something else. I even toned down the zombie scenes, as I thought they did not fit into the finished article.

Thanks' again for your thoughtful review.
Regards

Sun, August 23rd, 2020 12:49pm

Reaper

Story set up is brilliant, descriptions were outstanding. You did a great job painting a picture of your story, one that the reader could visualize mentally. Even though Jimi died of an overdose, taking a legendary icon such as him and making a revenge tale is truly masterful. I love Jimi Hendrix and this story spoke to me.

Again, it is truly a remarkable piece of a legendary and talented guitarist. The atmosphere and story itself sounds believable and if I never heard of him, I would have probably ended up believing the story. Luckily, I know who he is and love his outrageous guitar skills.

A true masterpiece.
-REAPER

Mon, August 24th, 2020 5:39am

Author
Reply

Thanks so much for your comments, Reaper. they are much appreciated.

I never actually said it was .The Jimi Hendrix!. LOL.

But everyone has taken it that it was. I can live with that. He was such an innovative guitarist and Lord only knows what he would have produced musically if he were still with us.

I am pleased you liked the revenge thing. I had lots of ideas on how to write this, started off as an atmospheric gumshoe piece and ended up something totally different.
As Jimi was originally going to be the Zombie in the story.
But I am happy with the end result.

Bravo for you lovely review.
Regards

Mon, August 24th, 2020 1:31am

Archia

What a terrifyingly peaceful story. There was just something so lovely about the end, and that was such a contrast to everything else, it was almost peaceful.
I loved the descriptions and the scene you set in your story. It was so vivid and really captured all the imagery and the atmosphere of what was going on. With all the different scenes changes you managed to move from one to the other to capture a totally different feeling really well.
All in all very nicely done.

Sun, August 30th, 2020 3:43am

Author
Reply

Thanks' so for much reading it, and I am so pleased it was an enjoyable read for you.
Sometimes the stars just seem to align and I connect better with what I am writing. I feel that this one was definitely a good one for me.

Regards

Sun, August 30th, 2020 12:12am

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