NEVER AND NOWHERE:

A Collection of Stories Pertaining to the Otherworld,

Mainly Concerning the Persons Binx Bones and Jazz ‘Big Bad’ Wolfgang

I

'This is Spook Country,

Our country,

Our kingdom by the sea.

That makes Bloody Bones,

Coveting in drains,

Come up to visit you and me.'

.xXx.

'An opium moon had rolled in. The twenty-four hour night of Samhain had begun, bringing with it the decay of the Otherworld.

A dark rotted caricature of daytime New Borough it flickered alongside reality by light and slowly crawled in at night. When the dark set in the Otherworld took over, warping the streets while the day folk remained unaware. Alone in their beds, in their rooms, in their houses and apartments, ignorant to monsters that slithered out of hiding, some from under their own covers. In the nightmare world they towered or crouched over them with glittering teeth, wide-grin jaws, and, occasionally, neon bloodstains against pitch black. This was an Alice in Wonderland hellhole with teeth and claws and bite. Where unsuspecting victims lay like lambs before the slaughter. Invisible to prying eyes - but not, unfortunately, not straying - and susceptible to hysteria, the monsters slip unheeded through the streets. Against a fearless stranger they have no power, tall or minute forms and shapes in Halloween costumes. Some pass uncaring by, no ill will to either or. Others gnaw on bones and slurp on blood and follow the scent of expected trauma to the latest victims. Terror is their sport, their gift, and Samhain is their Christmas. ('Fright to the world - Lady Death has come!') They skewer molten streets and line smoky alleyways, lurking in the peppered graveyards and homes. And chaos erupts for a free for all in the light of that blue crescent moon.

For all its atrocity it lacks disease but that only goes to show duality. For every unfortunate Wanderer who stumbles over from the daylight there are a dozen monsters ready to meet their expectations. Yet following the Outcasts like eager puppies are just as many more, licking at the heels of those who cross over regularly. Every night they let the Otherworld overtake them and slip deeper into the rot. They belong to no world and every place, scary good Samaritans on the street. The Otherworld taints their skin and leaves ever-lasting tattoos on their psyches. They are the street vendors, the buskers, the fortunetellers and vagabonds. By day their lives are their own - they may go completely unnoticed by the day folk. At night they watch the streets, wary, mingling in the crossover, choosing their side; mainly they are neutral.

The bloody would be bloodier if it weren't for them.'

.xXx.

'We are the living

We are the d e a d -

We do hold tight

And we do contend.

We come from above

We come from below;

We thrive in places

Angels fear to go.'

.xXx.

'In the blackness of night the concrete jungle that withers with pollution from the Otherworld of New Borough rises like the large husks of ancient dead trees. They stretch their limbs up to the heavens, skyscraper tops merging with the dark above them so as not to distinguish where it begins or ends. Their top lights small and winking like clusters of stars, clear enough to make out the blue-white constellations in their helter skelter mass. They are another habitat all their own, far away from the dank rotted madness of the city streets. Like metal guards they cast shadows above and below; a firefly ridden river, a pretty flowered bank, whose depths hide sharp-toothed creatures with glowing eyes and bait. Flamboyant piranha with mouths full of razor wire, rows upon rows to smile and endear with. Raking claws to hook and pull into the always greedy undertow.

From below the lights from above are dull with smog. A permanent grey creates a screen between the streets and the tower tops, creeping like pulsating fungus as the Otherworld grasps at any doorway it can. The colors flatten while reality flickers out of view. Even the light of streetlamps is muted, faraway ground in dangerous murky waters. Bronx apartments leak a steady stream of degradation from between their bricks. The air is rank, almost intolerable with the smell of their strain. Rain comes sparingly in a last ditch effort to clear away all the accumulated garbage, but it is acidic. It adds to the baggage it intends to take back - and ends up doing everything but. Monsters would not have it any other way. They rejoice in crushing bones, hearts, and flesh. They shiver in their bloodlust - or simple lust - writhing in their absolute content, digging through their filth. And oh, they can do so much more than shiver.'

.xXx.

You realized you were screwed when the monsters knew your name.

Every person you pass an astute spectator, every wandering gaze a searing look. Your name sent their tongues wagging, harsh shouts and sounds that pierce the stubborn night. They blow to smithereens the tranquil denial that you covet so horrendously, their vicious faces coming in and out of view. You walked through this hellhole, this Otherworld so simply, like everyday life, like nothing is different. Watching the surrounding creatures pass you by, their appearance no longer any shock, their presence no longer a threat. And slowly, gradually, you come to understand your place in these streets you walk night after night. Suddenly you're an inhabitant - a fixture. The regulars know your name. The street corners are familiar. You've dug yourself into this grave and only now, six feet in, do your notice how far you've gone. You stop digging only to watch time continue with you wandering through the terrible movie set, shocked and alone. The monsters know you, they know your name. And you understand just how far you've gone.

That was Binx Bones' opinion anyway. On the subject of this strange world that she walked through nightly, a basket over one arm and her bones clinking in a velvet sack, the girl had no loss of opinion for a mute. However much you fought it you became a part of the nightmare, another actor in its tragic play. As she strode down the road, passing streetlamp after streetlamp in the light of a new Samhain, she listened to the calls of the creatures that slithered out of sight around her; called salutations, recognized her face. She was a part of the Otherworld's culture now - she'd fully comprehended this for the first time when she noticed that she had territories. There were certain parts of town that were quite simply hers and the permanent residents knew this before she did. Their subtle respect and adherence confused her until she understood the boundaries she'd unconsciously set.

Why they chose to heed her was beyond the dreadlocked woman but she was content nonetheless. This was home after all, for better or more worse. While she picked one of her favorite stoops Binx took a moment to regard the silent street. Not a thing moved. Sounds made their way to her ears from nearby, the ruckus racket of supernatural creatures celebrating their daylong freedom, but otherwise this place remained dead. Looking up at the windows of the apartment building whose steps she took over nightly, their bricks weathered and old, she wondered just what resided in that home and why it was so quite. Was there a couple? Was there a family? Were little children asleep in their beds, so gentle and open to terrors that crowded around them? Were there any monsters in there? Was it Bloody Bones, the goblin who hide under sinks with the drainpipes waiting for the time to strike at naughty children the first moment the parents were completely unaware? Or was a boogeyman skulking in shadowy corners and in closets with flashing teeth and wide grins? Some other creature who leaned over their bed, smelling tender flesh and breakable bones-

Binx flinched. Not of her own accord of course. But she couldn't help it. Thinking like that always made her stomach churn, pushing the bile toward her throat. Goosebumps arose upon her arm, her limbs cold and shaky with the woman's discomfort. The wind picked up suddenly and rippled through her thin clothing. It was making her shudders increase even more. Feet bare, clad only in a long skirt and halter stop, all black, a shawl around her waist with the silver moon and stars adorning them, she made an odd picture staring up at a window in the pale light. Her black makeup, heavy-lidded eyes and their bags, her multi-colored dreadlocks and pale complexion made her an oddity among the day folk. Another outcast of society forced to prowl the streets instead of having a nice, normal living. But in the Otherworld she fit right in.

That was somehow much more disconcerting.

.xXx.

From across the road, in an alleyway through which one could easily locate the latest Spook Country free for all with strobe lights and music, 'Big Bad' Jazz watched the mute fortuneteller. The glowing embers at the end of his cigarette lit up his features in an almost demonic way, the only small light at his end of the black alley. One hand stuck in his pocket, the other up holding his cigarette between two fingers, the man leant his shoulder casually against the cold stone wall and regarded this strange woman setting up shop. The proceedings were nearly routine; Jazz would bet his business that he could accurately take a guess at everything she did. Binx was predictable.

The girl spent a few moments more staring up into the heavens, clearly lost in thought before coming back down to Earth. She shook herself awake, slim pink and black and blonde dreads tossed raggle-taggle about her face, their frayed, rubber band bound ends splitting. Then Binx turned, her basket still hooked over one arm, stepping onto the stone steps as if testing the depths of water. She had long legs; Jazz could tell easily enough when the slit in her skirt parted. Not that he really noticed. She slid down with an odd grace, stretching her feet over to the second step before her. Perched on the edge she laid her basket and sack down next to her, always careful. Placing the basket off to the side she methodically undid the small velvet sack, laying it open corner by corner to reveal the grand assortment of bones in their fancy little carrier. They came in all shapes and sizes, all kinds and forms. Some looked like mice heads - others were as big as a man's upper leg. No one ever asked where they came from and it was probably best they didn't.

From the basket came muffled movement from beneath the cloth placed over it. Something seemed to stand within the wicker container, something with horns that held the cloth aloft on spiky ends. A tiny nose twitched under the blanket, accompanied by long whiskers. The head tossed, confused and stricken. Binx, with a look on her face that was both affectionate and amused, reached over from her bent position inspecting her precious bones. The cloth was lifted from Jack's head and the jackalope appeared to visibly sigh with relief. He sunk into the basket bottom like a deflated marshmallow. Big Bad snorted from his standing point. Smoke blew out his nose but he barely registered it.

A creature with jangling limbs was appearing now. It hopped up onto the stoop rail, revealing itself to be the connected bones of a cat, an animated skeleton. It turned its sightless eyes at the sound of things it couldn't hear. It arched in obvious pleasure as its master stretched idly to scratch its bony back before curling up on the stone. Bag o' Bones remained silent as his owner while she tidied up, whipping away dirt with a swipe of her hand and righting her skirt. Then she posed, waiting for potential clients. Samhain - the night with the weakest barrier between reality and fantasy - was her busiest night of the year.

Big Bad flicked his cigarette away with a twist of his fingers. He watched the still hot embers take out a small patch of dry grass before stomping on it with his boot, effectively killing any chance the tiny seedlings had of making something of themselves. They weren't all that healthy looking any in his opinion. All grey and cracking, pathetic little things really. Should have known better than to have tried growing here - everything natural knew better when it came to the Otherworld. For good measure he twisted his heel a little farther into the dirt. Just so much as needed to keep the grass from growing back. Let it never be said the man was heartless. He wouldn't bear seeing life try tragically to come up where is shouldn't.

Across from him Binx had taken out her cards and was shuffling them with a kind of vague disinterest, as if touching the things was simply enough for her to see the future, eyes glazed. Jazz stared at her while he covered the spot between his lips with a toothpick (mint flavored) then stuffed his other hand in his pocket. He pushed himself off the wall, bracing himself as he stepped out of the alley. The bitter, sour smell of tobacco still coated him and the man was keenly aware of it when he strode across the vacant street. Crossing in the relatively clean air made it all the more obvious. The thug didn't know why it clung to him like that; he didn't smoke often no matter how many packs of cigarettes he kept. But whenever he did it was guaranteed a week before the smell would go away. The toothpick was an attempt at banishing the taste of tobacco from his mouth. The bitterness without the light pressure always made him want to retch.

Binx could smell it. Her face contorted, breaths shallow and small as she looked down at her cards. The girl hated tobacco smoke with a passion. She could catch a whiff of it from a mile away by his assumption.

Not that it had ever deterred him any.

"Binxy," the street over looker said in lieu of a greeting. The nickname was something he'd half tauntingly dubbed her with, nothing worth real affection. His boots hit the pavement and he stopped long enough to get comfortable standing at the bottom of the steps. Binx lifted her head to smile, a small flicker of a flame she kept cupped in the metaphorical palm (if you will). Her bleary eyed look momentarily cleared with the snap of a finger, lids heavy from lack of sleep full of clarity for the briefest of seconds when her whole body seemed to raise in spirits. The fortuneteller's expressions were always open and rather large in range, her whole face morphing to compensate for her lack of speech. She was like an actress in that sense, pulling the expression you'd expect to go with the words. But she never spoke. Only reached out with thin arms to trace words into the skin of his own. Hello Jazz.

Her back was straight, he noted with some pride. Her mood more upbeat than it had been minutes ago. Big Bad kept that in mind as he ascended the steps, trotting right past the girl to stand by her side; a sort of giant sized watchdog. Binx for her part moved aside as he came, glancing up with quite familiarity. In his presence her posture became more relaxed, sort of child like. He wasn't sure when they'd become so comfortable with this set up. Him arriving every night and standing watch with her while she worked, only occasionally running off to do errands, sometimes Binx trailing behind because she wanted a change of scenery. It had started absentmindedly enough the first few times he did it until the gesture turned into a full blown habit. Even the animals seemed used to his presence. Bag o' Bones rubbed against his hand but Jazz didn't dare even twitch. He knew better than to touch the skeleton cat. He wasn't that stupid. Bag might have liked luring people into a false sense of security by acting like any other affectionate feline but actually touching the cat from hell? Not bloody likely. But would he screech with eerie clarity if the man didn't show up on time? You bet your ass.

Jazz snorted at that. That cat was devious as all were. Lord knew they shouldn't have gotten along. He didn't even really like the critter, and he would bet his strangely long life that the pretty little kitty was hoping he'd get a free attack out of it one of these days when Jazz was too preoccupied to care. But for now, long as Mommy Binx was happy that pile of strung together bones would put up with him, however begrudgingly.

Pausing a moment to blow some of the left over smoke out of his lungs, Jazz measured Binx up out of the corner of his eye. The girl was almost as powerful as he was. If there was a rival to Big Bad's own status as the networking lord of the street (or, as the case may be, a head cop) then it was the fortuneteller with the voodoo smile. It was true - though Binx would protest otherwise quite passionately for someone who couldn't speak it. Which was bollocks as far as he was concerned. Everyone knew Binx. If not by a level of acquaintance than name at the very least. The young woman was infamous among the Otherworlders. For what Big Bad wouldn't wager a guess. He was smart enough to know a good gamble from a bad - had based a good bit of his career on it - and knew this was not one he was likely to win. There was just no clues, no cheats, no easy answers. From looking at her you wouldn't get anything. Mainly because there wasn't much to see. Her dark appearance was nothing special, her pets no great significance. Every fortuneteller used tarot cards. The only thing even vaguely reminiscent of a clue were those bones of hers and Jazz was not stupid enough to go sniffing around that pixie snap.

Sitting daintily on the stoop with her knees together, back straight, and hands in her lap, she looked more the court lady than street over looker. The first time he'd seen her after searching her out Big Bad had almost convinced himself that he'd had the wrong person. He wouldn't have given her another thought or established the relationship they had, passed her over at first sight, if he hadn't witnessed her reputation first hand. And boy did she live up to it. So well in fact that it had made his ears perk up with excitement. This, he decided, after seeing the little display with his own eyes, determined her part to play (however unwillingly). This was the kind of girl he could work with. He did too, relatively well. They didn't so much have a "friendship" as an "understanding" but at least it was something. They worked together, watched each other's backs on important things. Had a sort of unspoken sync with each other - but it wasn't close. It was more a partnership. That's how Big Bad looked to keep it; at a distance. He refused to see it any other way.

Their understanding delved a lot deeper than he was willing to admit.