The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Edge of Oblivion

Chapter Two: Rendering the Pink Elephants Irrelevant

READ FIRST: (All adult warning from chapter one are still in effect and binding so if you haven’t read them do so before proceeding. Copyright W.A.C. © 2000 this work “Edge of Oblivion” and all it’s components and or related materials.)

I.

Michael Edge didn’t believe in himself. No, not that he lacked confidence, or failed to believe in his abilities, it was Michael Edge that Michael Edge failed to fully accept the reality of. There was just too much evidence to the contrary for him to ignore the possibility that his existence, existentially speaking, was a cosmic fallacy perpetuated and maintained by some obscene and unseen mysterious force for reasons he could not begin to fathom.

And his existence aside, there could be absolutely no room for doubt that Bourbon, his (for lack of a more precise term) cat, was undoubtedly the uneven byproduct of his warped imagination. If in fact, it is possible for one hallucination to have a delusion of its own then that is exactly what his beloved Bourbon had to for all practical purposes be considered. Cats couldn’t do the “things” Bourbon could, nothing alive could, and the fact that no one else could see Bourbon kinda put the crowning touches on his ultimate conclusion. Michael Edge was having, or had already had, a mental breakdown on a grand scale; and his pale watercolor perception of reality was running, blurring, like a watercolor painting in the rain. Bourbon was just one of those indistinguishable and amusing blurs. For all he knew, Bourbon was in fact an ordinary purple and orange striped tabbie house cat who was in all respects ordinary. Maybe the invisibility thing was the delusion part? Or other people COULD see him and were just fuckin with him?

Michael Edge was too tired to really care one way or the other. He poured himself another cat (uh drink) and downed it like a man with a mission. That mission was unconsciousness. Another way too weird day needed to disappear into the oblivion of stupor and the inky blackness and reprieve of blackout. He had trouble pouring himself another dose of stupor. Most of the near flammable liquid cascading unimpeded onto the table without the slightest resistance being offered by an almost empty shot glass that at best caught the back splash. It took a moment to find the glasses exact range and angle. He hit it with a flow of about a pint and finally it filled. Edge got a satisfactory look on his face and set the bottle down, pleased with his success. Determination and perseverance. Nothing could overcome determin....

“Hey, asshole!” Edge stopped reaching for the glass, stopped wiping the wet spot on his leg where the table had slanted toward him, didn’t even finish setting the bottle down. His eyes narrowed to angry bloodshot slits as he tried to focus his eyes and his anger on whoever had disrupted his self pitying self obliteration.

“Selfish bastard. Never think of anybody but yourself,” Edge’s hand tightened on the neck of the bottle threatening to apply enough force (were it a living thing) to strangle or break it.

Bourbon sat in the middle of the table next to the bottle. “So, are you going to pour me one nor not? God, you are so friggin selfish sometimes.” The cat immediately went to cleaning itself indifferently, having said what it meant to say. Edge’s mouth went all crooked on one side and half his face contorted in drunken consideration. Slowly he smiled as the absurdity of the whole thing sank through the deepening layers of stupor. His hand released the bottle, and he began to smile. Bourbon didn’t bother to notice, but went on cleaning. What the hell., he decided, after weighing the option of pouring a drink for a fictional character, and poured another 2 oz pint. Edge didn’t even stop for a seconds consideration to think it funny or just a little odd he had put out two glasses to drink alone. Edge had stopped paying attention to these “little” details long ago. He set the now almost empty bottle onto the table. It skidded sideways and hydroplaned away from him on the tacky yellow plaid restaurant tablecloth’s vinyl surface. The color practically made him sick. In bright light it hurt his eyes. The light in the room had a dim grungy quality like everything else which made that eventually not a problem. His last REAL girlfriend had given it to him. She had worked at a greasy spoon truck-stop and brought him the slightly worn tablecloth (less so than anything else in his dwelling) to cover what she called his “civil war” era table. It really did look like it had been through numerous violent conflicts. The grooves and scarring on its surface were so deep it would be impossible to get it sterile but extremely easy to catch something from it. Then again, She was probably right about a lot of things... It wasn’t safe to eat off anything in his rundown one room, but especially the table. So he had let her cover it, like a morgue corpse. Out of sight was out of mind. Maybe if he’d gone to a doctor like she had suggested, maybe she would still be in his life. Maybe all he needed to do was get rid of the table. Now he would never know for sure. Besides, all that was long past. And at times being delusion beat reality hands down. This wasn’t one of those.

The errant bottle spun onto the floor and rolled underneath the table as the back spin on it took over. He didn’t follow it. Out of sight was out of mind. She had been right about that. Except where she was concerned. She was very much out of sight but hardly ever out of mind. He gave it no more thought, concentrating instead on what was at hand. What was really important. His drink.

He was just going with the flow now, wherever it might lead. Bourbon, on the other hand; walked casually to the tables edge and peered over, and under. “Good news. It didn’t spill much. I’d guess there’s still a couple good doubles in it.” Edge just sighed and downed the disgusting tasting cheap liquor, not acknowledging the observation of his imaginary cat.

Bourbon, not being one to take being ignored or taken for granted lightly began to expound at great length on the virtues and advantages of buying alcohol that’s finest virtues wasn’t that it stripped paint and embalmed things left in it for extended periods. “I’ve licked laboratory specimens that were preserved in better...” Bourbon droned on. Edge rummaged around under the table for the errant bottle, unable to take the unasked for and unwanted and near endless lecture without another bracing shot.

“A little to the left,” Bourbon offered in assistance, before resuming the discourse, which by this time was a discussion on better distilling techniques. “Just shut up,” Edge offered weakly as he continued groping for the damned elusive bottle. “If I could afford better I would have bought better. But as things are...well, the way they are it was this bottle or toilet paper and a box of chocolate covered ding dongs. So it looks like we’re going to be using the bag the booze came in to wipe our asses come tomorrow. Edge found the bottle and unsteadily returned what was left to the table. It sat in a big puddle of greasy bourbon that had gone to the center of the table instead of flowing towards the edge. He stared at the cat and wondered for just a second what cat might taste like. Wasn’t it a delicacy somewhere in the damned world or other? Bourbon stared right back him and he swore the cat actually managed to smile at him. “Firstly,” Bourbon began, “you aint got the dexterity under the best of circumstances to catch me. And right now you’d only hurt yourself. Second, I’m the only friend you got. Third, our circumstances aren’t even vaguely my fault. If you had listened to me...” Edge mumbled something about fucking off and a smart ass know it all dickless bastard. “Shame. Such language.” Edge measure the distance between them mentally. Bourbon responded by strolling casually to the nearest edge of the table so as to look Edge square in his blurry bloodshot eyes. The eyes were so very tired. The eyes of a man who had seen and done terrible things and had been left alone with no one but his conscience for company. Was that what Bourbon really was?

“Look pal”, Bourbon broke into his thoughts, “next time, you listen to me and we’ll be eatin caviar and drinkin 30 year old scotch in the best bar in town. A girl on each arm or paw in my case. Getting properly drunk instead of embalmed. So much money that everybody calls you sir, whether you smell like you do now or not.” Edge just glared. “And cat? It isn’t a delicacy, its a staple in the diet of some poor asian countries. I’d be extremely tough and stringy and surely give you the worst indigestion you’ve ever had in your life. And besides that you;d be screwed without me pal.” The cat was right. About the dexterity anyway. Edge rested his head on one hand and drank straight from the bottle with the other. Bourbon turned to go. There was no talking to Edge in this condition. But before he left the room completely he stopped momentarily for one parting shot of his own. “And most importantly. I couldn’t give a shit less about toilet paper. That is a problem that is uniquely human. And as you have so often observed yourself, I am either an hallucination, a cat, or combination of the two so: I shall not be wiping myself raw with recycled shopping bag in the morning.” The bottle sailed high over Bourbons head and into the other room. There was no need to even duck. “That was a waste,” Bourbon observed without emotion, and he was gone. Edge just sat there wondering where his life had gone so totally wrong, and whether he was desperate enough to lick the dirty pool in the center of the table for another half shot.

II.

Marcus couldn’t even convince himself of the facts before him. The police report contained all the information they had but in no way joined any of the facts into anything coherent he could do anything with. In all his years investigating oddball cases he’d never seen anything that helped him now. How the hell was he supposed to solve these bizarre occurrences when the victims just didn’t care to help find the perpetrators,or were the intellectual equivalent of guacamole dip? Nobody hd ever run up against anything like this. And every day he seemed to know less as the facts accumulated. He involuntarily touched the bandage on his head, as he considered the events he was about to add to the folder. “On Nov. 22nd this detective was attacked while responding to a call... Model Claudia Hemsley... irrational... bookend... ambulance... unable to ascertain... unco-operative... some sort of hypnosis... a lot of crap. There was nothing new here. Her neighbors reported finding her... Called cops... responded... attempted to question... got clubbed when she went psycho. Nope. Absolutely nothing new at all.

Marcus made a mental note to check back with the hospital to see if the last victim, one Sharon Cline had come out of her catatonic state. She’d been that way for weeks but maybe something g had changed. The doctors weren’t hopeful. The longer she stayed a veggie the less likely it was she’d ever do anything but drool oatmeal and crap herself ever again.

The sudden shrill ringing of the phone jerked his wandering mind back to his desk. He almost went off his chair backwards. It rang twice more while he steadied himself physically and mentally.

Man this thing had him freaked. Ring!

It was creepy the way all the victims seemed like they’d had their personalities, emotions... Ring!

Erased? Drained? Was that the word? Ring!

Was it some sort of mind control hypnosis thing? No, that was absurd. Ring!

Marcus picked up the phone. A little voice told him it was more good news. The phone hung half way between the receiver and his ear in indecision. He really didn’t have a choice. “Yuhhu. Yup. Right. Got it.” Marcus sat there for a moment assimilating what he had been told, rejecting it, and then resigning himself to the fact that nothing was ever going to make sense ever again. Marcus flipped the phone back onto its cradle with a cavalier gesture and a sigh of disgust, leaning back again like the weight of the whole world had been laid in his lap. For a moment he seemed almost tranquil. Maybe it had. “Son of a fuckin bitch!” he exploded, sending coffee and papers everywhere. Another one...