Cannibal Corpse, M/C

Slaughter reached out to take it from him, but Feathers pulled it away, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think you should touch it, son. I think it carries a black juju of sorts on it.”

“A curse?”

Feathers shrugged. “Something like that. Something intended for me and only for me. I don’t think you need any of this bad rubbing off on you. Maybe there’s no power in this thing but I believe that there is. It’s from the Skeleton Man’s pack and when he comes to collect it, he’ll collect me, too.”

A fetish object. Slaughter had heard of such things. A juju could be both good luck or bad luck, and in this case it was definitely the latter. Like some kind of engraved invitation that would carry Feathers through the gates of Hell.

“But you still haven’t told me how you knew those things,” Slaughter said. “How you knew his name was Chaney or what happened in that house. How did you know those things?”

“I told you I knew ‘em same way you’ll know ‘em.”

“And how’s that?”

“By going on a vision quest.”

Slaughter just looked at him. The story Feathers had just told was weird, gruesome, and more than a little unnerving, but he wasn’t sure if he believed it or not. Feathers seemed to be honest and his words had a ring of truth to them…but a vision quest? That was mysticism and Slaughter had very little patience with things mystical and unseen, things divinatory and spiritual. He was by nature an existential kind of guy that believed in what he could see and touch and know to be true through his five senses. Other than that…he was skeptical. Yet, Black Hat had showed himself in that video at the compound and he had crept into Slaughter’s dreams. Maybe that didn’t mean much, maybe there was nothing truly flesh-and-blood about any of that, but Slaughter had a nasty feeling about it all.

“And how do I go on a vision quest?”

Feathers smiled. He put the tarot card back in his pocket. From the other pocket he took out a little packet of tinfoil and unwrapped it. Inside, there were three little dried slices of cactus about the size of coins. Peyote buttons. Slaughter had seen them before. He had tripped his brains out on the stuff once and was discovered naked in a field the next day.

“Buttons? The bad seed?”

“Sure, it’s the only way.”

“Go on a trip?”

“See your destiny.”

Slaughter smiled, thinking about it. Black Hat aside, he was out here to get that bio out of the fortress and maybe kick some Cannibal Corpse ass in the process. This was business. He was on a mission and he needed to hook back up with the Disciples. Did he really want to go scrambling his brains at this point? The answer to that was no, obviously, but as he looked into Frank Feathers’ eyes he saw something in them—an integrity, a complete honesty, a certainty that was nearly mystical in and of itself. Slaughter could plainly see that the man wasn’t playing with him. He really believed a trip on the button express could unlock secrets and unveil mysteries, open doors of perception long closed and provide an acuity, a bird’s eye view of things, that would be forever denied him unless he let the peyote wake up his sleeping brain and notch his mind up to complete consciousness.

Look at him, man. He’s got his finger on the pulse of something bigger than the both of you. Maybe it’s because he’s an Indian but more likely because he’s had commerce and interaction with old Black Hat and maybe some of that supernatural mojo rubbed off on him like gold dust.

Slaughter took the button and chewed it up, filling his mouth with cool spring water from the mug Feathers gave him. The button tasted like shit like they always tasted like shit. He worked it into a mush in his mouth, swallowing the sacred juice in droplets.

“You’re on your way, friend,” Feathers said, patting his arm. “Wish I could go with you. Wish we could travel together. I think we’d do well together, you and I. But it’s not to be. Tonight, tomorrow night, I’m going to have a visitor and he’s going to want the card I hold in my pocket.”

“Sure.”

“You’d best be on your way.”

Slaughter understood. Where he was going now was not for the old man to follow. His trail was his own and the lights he saw and the shadows that moved there were of an intimate variety. Frank Feathers had his own upcoming trip to contend with and he needed time alone to come to grips with his god (or the lack of one).