Oh Witch, Oh Demon

Dat Witch, Dat Demon

by Franchot Lewis (c)Copyright 1996

USA, South

1924

Young Mr. Flowers sat on the back porch in his favorite wicker chair, feeling as low as one of Big Daddy' s old hound dogs. He tried to strum out a pleasant tune on his banjo, but he couldn't. His finger just wouldn't. His man, Sam, the colored man who worked for him, good, faithful, Sam, opened the screen door and asked, "Mister Reginald, are you going to stay out here all night, boss?"

Young Mr. Flowers wasn't up to talking to anyone, not even to Sam. His father, who nearly everybody called "Big Daddy," and the rest called "Boss Flowers," had ordered him to marry, to "produce fruit!"

"Boy, you have diddled long enough! I want my name to carry-on. You understand, boy!" -- thus spoke Big Daddy Flowers to his son.

Young Mr. Flowers was Big Daddy's only son. And as young Mr. Flowers put it on plenty of nights, over a bottle of gin, it wasn't his fault that his daddy had three daughters and only one son. "The old booger nose should have had other sons, if he was so insistent that his name be continued!"

Young Mr. Flowers did not cherish his bachelorhood above all else. He would have hasten to sacrifice it, gladly, to please Big Daddy, and to receive the bonds and property, which the old man promised to shower upon him, on that day when he took a wife and produced a male child.

Big Daddy promised, "Boy, you'll get a hundred thousand acres of prime land, when you make me the proud grand daddy of a healthy white grandson. "

There were plenty of lovely ladies from good families whom would have loved to wed young Mr. Flowers. He had his choice of delicate roses. But, there was one problem.

"Boss?" Sam said. "The mosquitoes are biting tonight. Boss, if you stay sitting there, they will bite you to death. Boss?"

"Let them," said young Mr. Flowers.

"Yes, young boss."

"Sam," young Mr. Flowers asked, "How long have you worked for my family?"

"Since we were children, boss."

"I can talk to you, can't I, Sam? I can tell you ..." young Mr. Flowers stopped, looked away from Sam.

"Shall I get out a bottle of gin, boss?"

"Yes, two glasses."

Young Mr. Flowers got up, followed Sam inside, where he could discuss his troubles without the risk of being overheard. They went on to the sitting room, where Sam served the gin and tonic.

Once Sam was seated, young Mr. Flowers continued, "I've heard stories that there are herbs and ointments, that can help a man grow bigger, where a man needs to be bigger, for the ladies. Have you heard anything about this?"

"I've heard something, boss."

"Sure you have, you're colored; but I suppose you don't --"

"Miss Tilly," Sam said. "She has helped a number of young white gentlemen."

"Sam, you butlers don't trade stories about your employers!"

"I am afraid some do, boss."

"You don't discuss me with --"

"Never, boss! Never!"

II.

Sam entered the woman's shack first. Young Mr. Flowers was ushered in after money changed hands. As young Flowers entered, Sam buzzed him. Sam's voice sounded almost like a flying beetle was whispering in the young boss' ear. Sam whispered, "Remember, boss, this is her place." -- like young Flowers could forget that!

The hovel, that some have loosely said constituted a "shack," tortured young Mr. Flowers' sense of sight, and his sense of smell, offended the esthetic taste, which he believed any normal person had. The place was dismal. It smelled so bad of sulfur. Most of his entire time there, young Flowers held his breath and kept his nostrils closed tight, to keep from holding his hands over his nose and from making a rapid retreat. And the place was as dark as a coal cellar. Young Mr. Flowers couldn't see Sam. If Sam hadn't made a wide grin, and the whites of Sam's eyes hadn't lit up, he would have tripped into him. Young Mr. Flowers was so relieved to be able to see his man servant. He dreaded the thought of clumsily, bumping into anyone.

"Samuel!" the woman spoke. Her voice was deep, resembled a man's. "What have you brought me?"

"Young Mister Flowers," Sam replied.

"Let me see him. Light!"

A kerosene lamp came on. For the first time in his life, young Mr. Flowers was in the presence of a real witch. Her hair was white, uncombed, stringy. Her face was wrinkled like a moldy crone. She was stout, loud, and young Mr. Flowers thought her to be very common.

"Bring him closer to the light!"

Sam nudged his young employer across a dirty floor that probably was last mopped, or even swept, when the witch was young. He pushed young Mr. Flowers to a table in need of being cleaned of dust, and to the dim light that took away only a little of the hovel's darkness.

Soon, young Mr. Flowers was close-up, face-to-face, with the witch. She glared at him and her hackles rose up: "He's Boss Flowers' kin!"

"No fault of his, ma'am," Sam said.

"You know I don't like Boss Flowers!"

"Neither does young Mister Flowers, ma'am."

"What does he want? Ha! I know: Every rooster wants one, a big pecker!"

Sam smiled, "Yes, ma'am."

The witch grinned at young Mr. Flowers, like she enjoyed making him uncomfortable. "You are about average size for a white boy," she said.

"No!" said young Mr. Flowers.

She laughed. "You surprise me, you speak. Most boys, white or colored, come creeping to me tongue-tied. I must do say, I get a considerable buzz from your squirming, but your sassing is cuter."

Sam said, "Ma'am, Young Mister Flowers deserves what ever help you may give him."

"Yes," she laughed, cackling. "Because you like him, I shall treat you both to a jug of my shine."

Young Mr. Flowers attempted to decline the moonshine. He was there for a herbal ointment for his condition, and was eager to acquire it and make his acquaintance with the witch a distant memory. Sam coughed, gave young Mr. Flowers a nudged, and replied to the witch, "Thank you, ma'am, a jug a piece will do us just fine."

"I do not want a drink," young Mr. Flowers said.

"Because, ooh, let me guess . . . because I am very old and very ugly?" the witch asked, with another irritating laugh.

"No," young Flowers shook his head.

"Because I don't serve my shine in a proper glass to such a fine young gentleman?"

Sam replied, "Straight from the jug as is the custom will be just fine, ma'am."

The witch ignored Sam and said to young Flowers, "Because . . . aha! Got it! Because you are a little piece of shit!"

Young Mr. Flowers needed the ointment, the medicine, that he knew this witch could provide. His father had ordered him to get married and make a son, or else. He faced dis-own-ment and \ or dishonor. His equipment needed improvement. The equipment of the men in his family and of the men in the families of the old planter class had been down-sizing every generation since the South lost the War Between the States. Young Flowers' equipment was down-sized to such a degree that it looked down when it was up. He was thirty years old. He had spent most of his youth keeping his trousers on, and in fear of having his little thing seen and talked about. He never allowed himself to get too close to any lady. Fortunately, he was able to take trips to Memphis and to the cat-houses of that city, where for five dollars a visit, he found a few moments when his equipment was no impediment.

"You are a delightful little shit, now sit down," the witch said. She growled at young Flowers from the other side of the table.

"Sam!" young Flowers gasped, as Sam began to sit in a filthy chair, filthy with grime and dirt.

Young Mr. Flowers knew the chair would stain, would soil Sam's trousers. "Sam!" young Flowers cringed as he breathed in a strong whiff of the terrible air, that stirred, and almost choked young Flowers. Young Mr. Flowers looked most disturbed as Sam sat.

The witch glared at young Flowers, and made another growl, then said to him, "You have a drouth of warmth and your sense seem to get scarcer by the minute."

"Sam, we are leaving," young Mr. Flowers announced.

Sam remained seated and silent.

The witch sneered. "Old Tilly has had a tough time this year, rather her pockets have. She is forced to sell herbs to keep from starving. Many hundreds of customers can testify to that -"

"Sam!" young Flowers ordered.

Sam eyes glared at his young boss, lecturing the young man, silently, on the proper etiquette that a careful and cautious, and smart person observes in the presence of a powerful witch. The eyes also said: 'Once more, let me repeat -- You need a wife. To get a wife you need this old smelly witch' s help. You shouldn't need a witch' s help. A wife is supposed to be a wife, a woman who loves you, her husband, and who bears him, you, without complaints. But what's supposed to be isn't and what is, is. You need her help.'

Well, I am not sure that Sam's eyes said all that, that way, that was young Mr. Flowers' later interpretation of his butler's glare. In thirty years of life, it was clear to young Flowers, that Sam was right when he forever reminded his young boss, that what was supposed to be was not always what was. Dare, he thought it and told himself, while he stood in Miss Tilly's place, dared he did not try to keep it from his thoughts, that to him, he was having a horrible night. As he stood in that witch's hovel, and as she growled at him, he thought he was in a white man's hell. To his disbelief, he continued to take her insults, snide remarks, and growls without uttering a single word her way, because he remembered what happened to his Cousin Neddy.

Dare, he thought, should he continue and recall it? Neddy married Felicia Spencer, a daughter of the old planter class, a Southern belle, and barely in her twenties, like Neddy. They were a perfect couple in every category, and they were in love --indeed they were in love. But, Neddy' s equipment had been down-sized too, and on their wedding night, when he did the proper Christian, marital love act to Felicia, neither felt it, so he did the heathen rear entry act for feeling.

"Oh, my god! This is unnatural!" A panicked, horrified Felicia screamed. Provoking the name of the Blessed Mother of Heaven, she complained, "Virgin Mary stop him!"

Neddy wasn't listening to her. He probably wouldn't have listened to the Virgin Mary either, if she'd shown up, Neddy wasn't going to stop. Nothing could stop him, not Felicia's tears, not her little fists. He turned her, so that her lady-like blows could only beat the bed, and the pillow muffled her screams of horror and shame.

After Neddy had done the dirt-deed, he rolled off Felicia and fell into a heavy sleep. It was a Heaven sent sleep brought in answer to Felicia's tearful, pleading prayers.

Felicia got out of bed, went to Neddy' s car, got his shot gun from the car's floor, and emptied both barrels into his head.

Everybody talked about this. A scandalous song was written called, "The Ballard of How Felicia Shot Neddy Dead, While He Slept On Their Honeymoon Bed."

Felicia sent for the local sheriff. Battling back a complete breakdown, Felicia' s pretty eyes poured out tears like a summer soaking rain, as she explained how Neddy used her like she was a prostitute, abused her, violated her like she was a dog. When she finished telling it, there was silence. Then the sheriff said, "Damnit!"

Felicia was not arrested. In fact, Neddy' s parents paid her a lot of money not to discuss what Neddy did. They were so ashamed of him that they had him buried in a pauper's grave, with no headstone. Felicia' s marriage to Neddy was annulled.

While the witch growled again, young Mr. Flowers closed his eyes and mumbled, reciting, with a tremor in his voice, what his father told him after informing him of Neddy' s demise. "Southern women are ladies. They are the mothers of our children, our wives. They are sweet lilies. They are not whores. They endure us for the sake of posterity. We must behave. We get in and out. We don't make a pest or a beast of ourselves. We don't panic them or shame them. There are rules."

"Boss," Sam interrupted young Flowers' thought. "Take a seat and be comfortable."

Young Mr. Flowers looked at Sam as if he thought Sam was crazy, and Sam answered with a look that said, 'Boss, we're in a lady's home. Be hospitable.'

"Sam! Impossible! My god! My mother would have a heart attack, if I sat in that chair! If she saw me in this shack! Impossible!" young Mr. Flowers exclaimed, very loudly.

Sam had to get up from his chair to calm young Mr. Flowers. It was a while before Sam's young boss calmed down. Sam held him, until he stopped screaming. Young Mr. Flowers told Sam that he wanted to leave.

"Are you sure, young man?" the witch asked, at last her voice sounded more like a woman's than a man's. "Frankly, we all know how un-fun life can be, when nature plays one of her many devilish tricks on us. Are you sure you don't want something like what a horse has?"

Young Mr. Flowers shouted, "Stay away from me!"

She shouted back: "Your manners are disgraceful, but because, Sam likes working for you, I won't concentrate too hard now on remembering them!"

Young Mr. Flowers told Sam again that he wanted to leave.

Sam replied, " Boss, if you think that is for the best."

The witch cackled, "Sammy dearest, must I give him what he wants to have?"

Young Mr. Flowers had enough. He shouted at Sam and the witch, "I'm out of here!"

III.

Sam lingered in the witch' s hovel. Young Mr. Flowers left him. Young Mr. Flowers trekked the mile through the weeds that surrounded the witch' s hovel to the road. He drove himself home.

Young Mr. Flowers returned home to his house to spend the rest of the evening, quietly, with a couple of bottles of gin. In those days, one's own house and a bottle or two of good quality gin provided a haven in a world gone crazy, where a vulgar witch felt free to growl at the scion of a family of quality.

Two hours after young Flowers served himself the first bottle of gin, Sam returned to the house. Young Flowers' temper was much worsened. He spoke sharply. He might have purposely, also spoken harshly to Sam, and said some things, which he knew he would have to regret later, if Sam had not come in with his tutting foolishness, chastising young Flowers in a semi-servile tone for various things, such as, for not removing his shoes, and for not putting on his soft evening slippers, for reclining on the couch in a position that would ruin one's good posture, and for drinking the gin without the tonic.

"Traitor!" young Flowers shouted, but not as angrily as he had planned and rehearsed. "Did I ask you to take me to that particular witch? You should have checked to see that she cleaned her house first."

"Forgive me, boss. The fault is mine," Sam said.

"Damn right!" young Flowers said. And he harped on the what he claimed was the false fact -- or the assertion -- that he was in need of the services of a witch. He shouted that he didn't. "You've come with me to Memphis, do any of the ladies there complain?!"

Sam drove the car on the Memphis trips, the trips for the young boss to visit the gentlemen' s houses. Sam had a gal in Memphis, young Flowers knew. Sam dropped the young boss at one of the houses, where the young man spent the night, and Sam returned in the morning to drive his young boss home.

"Well, do the Memphis girls complain!" young Flowers asked.

"I would be surprised if they did, boss."

"I wasn't expecting that answer. See who it is, who is speaking to you, Sam."

"You are speaking to me, young boss."

"Damn right, I am."

Sam glanced at his watch. "Shouldn't we be retiring for the night, boss?"

"No."

"Well, boss, it is getting late."

"Late for you. I think you get my drift, eh? "

"Well, boss, if I may be frank, it is time for bed."

"Oh, my word! If you want to go to bed, go, but don't bug me!"

"Might I inquire boss, how long might it be before you turn in for the night? Might it be another hour?"

"No. Not another hour, in fact I will stay up the whole night."

"Well boss, might I suggest a light supper? Whenever I've found myself in a mood for a good bout of drinking, I've found that a little food is helpful to keep the mind and the body whole."

"You have, Sam?" young Flowers was quite annoyed. "Damnit, what has come over you? Bossy, all of a sudden, are we?"

"Not at all, boss."

"You think you can tell me what to do? I am not your charge, nor am I a fool, because I let you lead me to that witch, ugh! I am not an uneducated idiot. Sam, I spent a full semester down at Oxford, at Ole Miss., don't you forget it."

"I haven't, boss."

"You graduated from that colored college?"

"Yes, boss. Howard."

"You spent all that money and four years for what?"

"It was a little more than four years, boss."

"Impractical!"

"Yes, boss."

"You went all the way to Washington, came back when you found that no one would hire you."

"Yes, boss."

"The town doesn't need any more colored teachers. The school board has enough colored teachers. There is the factory and the mill. The mill and factory bosses don't like you, so you started back working for me, like you've worked for my family. What college was that, that you went to?"

"Howard."

"What a waste!"

Sam stared intently, his head rightly stiff, made a rather cool statement, "Boss, I shall take my leave now."

"What?" young Flowers asked, rather puzzled.

Sam paused before answering. "I see I should leave you with the gin, boss?"

Young Mr. Flowers had more to say, but he kept his voice quiet, even when he replied. "Do you ever really listen to what I say, Sam?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Sam . . . leave me!"

After a brief involuntary look of regret, young Mr.Flowers dropped his eyes and pretended great interest in stirring his glass of gin with his finger.

"Good night, boss."

"Sam, you are making me miserable."

"Sir, I do not wish for you to be miserable."

"You will go back to the witch and plead with her for me, please. Show me some common kindness?"

"If you wish, boss?"

"Heavens, I wish!"

IV.

The next morning, young Flowers got up from bed, undressed to bathe, bathed, and as he was drying off, he received a shock. A change had come over his equipment. He could only stare bug-eyed at what then seemed to be a huge banana from the fruit basket of Heaven's table. He gasped: "My lord! My word! Hallelujah!" Then he began to yell.

Sam, hearing the noise, surmised that the young boss had been surprised a gang of burglars and was being attacked, and was in fear for his life. Sam rushed upstairs from the kitchen, carrying a very long butcher knife.

The young boss, screaming his head off, met Sam in the hall. The young boss was still naked. Sam found him giddy, grinning like the kid who woke up on Christmas and found under the tree, the toy that he had always most wanted, had dreamed to have. For a moment Sam was tongue-tied. He must have thought the young boss was under the influence of gin, and was being chased by silly gin-demons. The young boss shouted at him, "Sam, say something! Say something! Sam!"

Sam shook back his shoulders to shake off the twine from his tongue and he said, quietly, "Boss, I am brewing a pot of much-needed coffee."

"Sam, are you blind? Don't you see it!"

Sam went downstairs. The young boss followed, not bothering to dress. Clad in his birthday suit, he slid down the bannister. The bright sunshine in the kitchen and the smells, coffee, bacon frying, and eggs, reminded him that this was a wonderful world.

Sam did not approve of the young boss lack of attire. "Mister Reginald, I laid out your clothes, where I always lay them out," he said rather stiffly.

"Sam, haven't you noticed the difference?"

"That you've come to breakfast birthday naked, boss?" Sam asked with a groan.

"You are the one who took me to the witch! My new improved equipment!" The young boss shouted.

"Boss, " Sam mumbled like he couldn't say another word.

The young boss danced around the kitchen. Proudly, he displayed his new improved equipment, and laughed almost as loud as he could, as he considered which of the county's blushing belles he should make his bride.

Sam's dour face and rebuke interrupted the young Mr. Flowers' pleasant thoughts. The young boss' brash nudity disturbed Sam. "Boss, don't you think you should put on some clothing before your new friend catches cold?"

"Sam, are you looking at me as if I am demented?"

"No! Never, boss. Never!"

"I was not prepared for this gift," young Flowers said. "I shall calm and dress now. Sam, you have not previously seen me in the all-together. Since I've reached adulthood, few have. I can't fault you for not noticing the improvement, or knowing that it is an improvement. "

Sam sighed, lifted his head, "Yes, boss."

Young Mr. Flowers went upstairs to dress. He couldn't take his mind or his eyes off the marvelous change. He kept checking on it. His new equipment wasn't the fearsome tool of Sam's race, but a well-proportioned appendage, three times larger at rest than his old equipment was when erect.

V.

One evening two weeks later, in deepest confidence, the young Mr. Flowers confessed to Sam of the terrors that the new equipment had thrust upon him. Two weeks in possession of the new equipment left young Flowers chastened and rather sore in several ways. After each evening out, he found himself limping home, with barely enough strength to slide out of the car seat. Sam gasped aloud as he opened the door to let his young boss enter the house. Each evening he asked, "Serious date, boss?"

Each evening young Flowers nodded, "Good Lord, yes," and he leaned on Sam's arm as the butler helped him upstairs to bed. Each of those evenings Sam patiently explained some feature of the virtue of moderation, which as he spoke sounded as though he was reciting an article from THE SATURDAY EVENING POST, so the young boss heard nothing of what Sam said, but mumbling. His attention span was vanishing anyway. It was a trick to stay on his feet, and he had no interest in listening to Sam demonstrate his butlerish regards for his poor, tired employer by the usual way of lecturing.

After the first week of this, Sam suggested that young Flowers should take a rest and spend several evenings home.

"Sam, you can't be serious!"

"Very serious, boss. You are over-exerting yourself, I fear."

"Nonsense!"

"Boss, may I --"

"No, you may not. I am on a mission," young Flowers said.

Finally, exhausted, after two weeks, young Flowers stayed home and he confessed.

"I've disgraced myself, Sam. Damn it!"

"Shall I get the gin, boss?"

"Women are so damn unreasonable, Sam. I don't understand them. They are totally demanding."

Sam said, "Boss, I shall bring two bottles."

It took Sam only a few minutes to return with the gin and to take a seat. He sat back and waited for the young boss to begin. young Mr. Flowers detected a trace of patronizing, not to say outright condescension in Sam's attitude, but he was churning up too much inside from the need to talk to someone to take offense. He rambled for half a hour in the general direction of where he wanted to get to before he blurted out: "We are talking about an uncontrollable wild thing!"

The young boss drank a second glass of gin, while Sam was still sipping from his first. It normally took a pint of gin to get young Flowers tongue loosened enough to discuss with Sam the details of his relations with the fairer sex. Over the years, young Flowers had discussed many things with Sam. He was more than a mere butler, often young Flowers thought of Sam as his closest confidant. Well, his only confidant.

"I have always harbored optimistic thoughts of Judith Jackson Lee and myself, and have forever welcomed her sweet glances, " young Flowers said to Sam. "Last week, I was left in her presence unchaperoned."

"The young lady is nineteen, boss."

"Yes, and mature enough to be her older sister's older sister."

"Miss Alice who for seven years has been Mrs. Palmer-Davis?"

"Yes, Alice' s glances were tender too, before Palmer-Davis got her. But then, Sam, I didn't have my new equipment."

"I see, boss."

"Young Judith took it all as an adventure. We slipped away and I escorted her about town and to a roadhouse."

"Boss!"

"Yes, Sam, but the young lady expressed no shock at being taken to a roadhouse, nor did she protests the activities going on there, but enticed me to participate in them."

"Boss, roadhouses are no places to escort young ladies. Men take flapper girls, girls who bob their hair, girls who go out in public in inappropriate attire, and when they dance, they show their underwear."

"Yes."

"Mister Reginald, you do not mean to say that you took a young girl dancing at a roadhouse?"

"Yes, and we did the uninhibited dances."

"The Charleston, boss?"

"One of them."

"And, boss?"

"She was not discrete. She told her sister, and her mother and her father."

"Should we pack for Memphis, boss?"

"Memphis? I don't need to go to Memphis!"

"Shouldn't we take our leave of town until things cool down with Miss Judith' s family?"

"Her family is planning to announce the marriage."

"Well, you do have to get married, boss."

"I can't!"

"I don't understand, boss."

"My new equipment is obsessed with young women whom smile tenderly in my direction. It has a mind of its own, possesses me frightfully, is guilty of unconventional behavior. It is like a bird dog, always at the hunt, always sniffing out the prey. I can't avoid pursuing the ladies, and they can not seem to avoid carousing, being scandalous with me. In fact: I, who thought I was doing the hunting, was their hunted partridge. Miss Melanie Ashley Leigh, Miss Alicia Wilkes, Miss Trudy Calvert, all expect me to marry them."

"Boss, your new equipment may be for a gentleman who is not a gentleman."

Young Mr. Flowers sighed, "I know!"

Sam looked at his watch. "I hope it isn't too late to call on Miss Tilly."

"The witch?" young Mr. Flowers felt a chill and twitched at the mention of her name. He had an abiding dread of that dirty old woman.

"We can ask her to improve on the improvement, with something that will show rather more restraint," Sam said, and he started to babble to justify his suggestion that young Flowers and him return to the foul crone' s hovel. Worse of all his explanation was making sense to young Flowers. The witch and only the witch seemed capable of remedying the young boss' malady.

"Remember our manners, boss. She is sensitive," Sam said.

This young Flowers did not believe. He thought that the old hag wasn't sensitive to anything, except, perhaps soap and water.

"I know my manners, " young Flowers said. "Didn't I tell you to tell her thanks, and you did give her the hundred dollars I gave you to give to her?"

"Yes, boss."

"So I don't see anything that can't be handled, now that I know what to expect."

"Very well, boss. May I remind you, that though Miss Tilly is difficult to get along with, because she speaks her mind, she is a kind lady."

"Lady, Sam? In what way is she a lady?"

"Boss, that sort of attitude won't help us."

"Right you are, Sam."

VI.

The witch locked her eyes on young Flowers. "What now does the rooster want? I know? A willing hen."

"No, ma'am, I have three willing hens too many," young Flowers replied. He was trying to be a perfect suppliant. Three hours after he decided to return to the witch' s hovel, he appeared in her shack, seated at her table, drinking from a jug of moonshine. Before he left his house, he drank a half pint of gin, and now his words were slurring. Sam muttered a few words that sounded like a prayer. He had been muttering prayers since he left the house and drove them as far as they could get to the woman's place by car. They arrived on foot the rest of the way.

"Three hens too many? Such a wealth of fortune, you have, " the witch said.

"You mean, misfortune," young Flowers belched.

The witch' s eyes were still locked on him. He heard Sam muttering an apology for his manners. The witch chuckled, "You aren't as big an oaf as you seem, nor as drunk," the witch said to young Flowers.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Yes, ma'am? Ha!" she cackled.

"I need one wife, not four, " he said.

"Tell them!" the witch exploded. "What do you want from me?"

"I want to avoid scandal," he said.

"A potion to give you courage, morals and a sense of decency?" Abruptly, she stood and began to rant: "Get your trashy tail out of my home, you . . ."

Young Mr. Flowers did not move. He could not afford to leave without the potion to make three of the belles not love him any more. Sam stood and touched the witch' s arm, lightly. She stopped ranting, calmed and sat down.

She collected her thoughts. Then she stared at young Flowers and spoke calmly. "Four heifers are yoking on your string at one time. Such a thing kills all the young bull-calves. If the heifers' daddies all knew what you've done, they would kill and skin you, then sell your hide, so you've come to poor Tilly, hoping she has forgotten your old stuff, hoping to get a herb, which will save your butt. It is going to cost you a lot."

"Anything," young Flowers said.

"I'll give it, if you are worthy."

Young Mr. Flowers promised to be worthy.

VII.

A month later, young Mister Flower sat in a hotel suite. A loaded gun and a bottle of gin sat on the table. He looked as if he had seen Hell, had seen the devil, had been the devil. His face reflected the darkness, had no light, as if he had known only the horrors of the world, and none of its joys, none of its pleasures. He looked as if his thoughts had left the world, and as if soon he was going to follow them. No, he wasn't drunk, the bottle was unopened.

The door to the suite opened and Sam entered. Sam walked to the table, carrying a shot gun. From the look on his face, one could tell that he shared young Flowers horror and guilt.

"What did the witch say?" young Flowers asked.

"She won't help," Sam replied. "I'm as guilty as you." Sam looked at the unopened bottle of gin and at the single glass on the table. He got up, went to the suite's kitchenette, and from the cupboard took a second glass, a twin to the first. As he sat, he said, "Two glasses, two guns, one bottle of gin."

"No, this is not for you, " young Flowers said. "This is my doing."

Sam shook his head, "I took you to her. You weren't prepared for her. I did it for the commission. The guilt is mine too."

The morning, a month before this, young Flowers woke in his own bedroom and found that his equipment was the size it had been before. He felt cheated. He was angry. He was outraged. Without telling Sam, where he was going, young Mr. Flowers rushed to the witch's hovel. He drove himself as far as a car could pass through the tall weeds, then he marched like a lion to the witch's hut, banged on her door, and when she didn't answer, forced it open. He founded her sitting, waiting. He roared like a tiger. He cursed, threatened, demanded that she return his equipment to its enhanced size and sell him a potion that would serve his need.

"I want something that will make the best of them love me, and the rest of those belles can go to hell!"

"What do you mean they can go to hell? Get sick and die?"

"No!" young Flower shouted. "Not that!"

The witch laughed. "Good, because. I can not do wicked things to innocent people."

"I'm am innocent! This is not my fault!"

"Nothing is."

"Make them forget me, except one."

"Young Mister Flowers, get your sorry ass out of here. What ever happens, happens. I'm done with you. I will sell you nothing more."

"Do you know who my daddy is?"

"I know who your rotten pappy is."

"So I see it now? You tricked me to get back at him?"

"I can do nothing wicked to innocent people."

"You gave me equipment that wrong me and shamed me. Now fix it. Or my daddy will destroy you, rip you apart, tear you into little pieces. You will curse the day you were born."

"I can do nothing to innocent people. You will leave, or your anger and your hate will throw yourself out."

"So you won't help me?" He screamed, "I am going to make you help me!"

The young man took a step forward to lurch at the witch, and he lost control of his arms and his legs. His arms grabbed him and his feet moved him away. He became frightened, so much so that his eyes teared. The door to the hut opened by itself, and to his horror, his legs, on their own walked him out. Once outside, a strong wind grabbed him, took him off the ground, and carried him through the weed swamp. He screamed to high Heaven, until the wind dropped him in the clearing, a few feet from his car, leaving him with only a few bruises on his body, and with a shit stain on the back of his drawers.

He lay on the ground, gasping for breath, for nearly a quarter of a hour, before he could manage to stumble into his car, and to drive from the witch's property, and he did, as fast as he could. He did not tell Sam of his visit. He didn't want to risk having Sam yell at him, and maybe even leave his employment. He was embarrassed by what he'd tried to do, and was frightened by what had happened to him.

Days passed, and the young Mr. Flowers was relieved that Sam seemed unaware of what had happened at the witch's hovel. He decided to leave town, but not to escape to Memphis, but to hide out in New Orleans. He asked Sam for his opinion of this decision. Sam agreed with it, said, "No one will look for you in New Orleans."

"For us, Sam. You are coming? You can't expect me to go to New Orleans by myself? What would I do there without you? Who would help me dress myself? I couldn't leave you here to face those ladies daddies. I wouldn't put that on you. And as for my father? Damn, you don't want him grilling you about where I've gone?"

And so Sam drove the young Mister Flowers to New Orleans and they took rooms in a hotel that offered quarters to gentlemen with servants. Young Mr. Flowers paid for lodgings three months in advance.

One evening, young Flowers was walking through the French Quarters, when he noticed this attractive young woman. She had the scent of jasmine in the spring time. Her face was as pretty as Heaven has blessed a woman with looks. He became aroused. And he said loud enough for the woman to overhear. "I would give myself, my heart, my money, my property, my inheritance , my soul for her."

The woman smiled his way and he felt his equipment stir, then grow and grow.

"Good Heavens!" he almost gasped aloud. "Make it so."

The woman caught the excitement of his joy, and she gave him a big smile.

Young Mr. Flowers growing equipment wasn't showing. He thanked Heaven for good trousers, and for the tailors, who made the long coat that he wore. The woman kept smiling and he smiled back and soon there was a conversation.

"This lady is coming on to me, " he thought. "Damn!"

Soon they were in her room, and they were in bed, and she was admiring his equipment. Soon they were having sex, and as their pleasure progressed, his equipment grew, and grew and grew. It grew to a foot length, then to a foot and a half, and then it began to widen from an inch to a quarter of a foot, and it wouldn't stop growing, and they couldn't stop sexing. His equipment grew to a foot wide and still he couldn't pull away. Not her screams, or his, her horror or his, could disjoin them, or stop his equipment from growing and growing It was a foot and a half wide -- and she had cried all of her tears, and screamed, until she passed out. There was banging at the door.

Voices calling to her to --"Open the door!"

Young Mr. Flowers couldn't stop. His equipment? A thing with a brain of its own wouldn't stop, kept getting wider and wider, kept ramming itself into the woman's body, kept pulling him, forcing him, to slam against her, as it kept ramming into her, and kept getting wider, until the woman's body became a corpse, and that thing attached to his crotch was ten feet wide, and had burst the woman's body into pieces. A mob was at the door. Maybe in the mob were policemen? To young Flowers horror, the door appeared to be ready to break open. Its wood made cracking sounds, as if it was ready to give away. Young Mr. Flowers feared that the mob outside would come bursting through, to grab him, and to treat him as if he was a monster.

"This isn't my fault!" he sobbed. "That monster isn't me. "

He wailed that the monster was his cursed equipment. He wept to Heaven to save him. A wind, as strong as a summer's squall, appeared from nowhere and sucked him into a whirlwind, and took him away.

Seconds later he was back in the hotel, dressed, and with no sign that he had been an active participant in a murder scene, except for the fact that he was shaking and his face was ash white. It took several minutes before he could sit still. Then he tried to tell himself that what had happened hadn't happened, but he couldn't finish the thought.

He grabbed a knife from the kitchenette, and opened his pants. His equipment looked normal, small and innocent, like a child's. But he knew it was a monster, playing possum, pretending to be sleeping. Maybe he thought that he could cut off his equipment and live. But! His hand shook. He dropped the knife. But he was filled with rage. He smacked his equipment, yanked at it, cursed it, threatened it with an operation.

"I will go to Europe and have you removed! " he sobbed.

And the equipment began to grow and to grow, and to grow, until it was ten feet long, and too heavy a weight for young Mr. Flowers to bear, standing. The young man fell on his butt, as the thing rose up like a snake, ten feet long, a solid foot around, with a wicked looking head, and with a mouth that spoke with the voice from Hell.

"Piss off, pansy boy. I am the master here."

Young Mr. Flowers screamed and Sam came running from the servant's room. When he saw the snake like thing, Sam's face turned ashen, as if he was looking at the damned devil himself. The thing turned around and its blind eye, which also was its mouth, faced Sam.

"Yeah, nigger, you need to know too, " the thing said.

"What in the hell are you?" Sam shouted at the thing.

Suddenly, Sam became paralyzed, as if caught in a snake's stare The thing extended itself, and like a serpent, wrapped itself around Sam's neck, and tightened its grip, and began to shut off Sam's breath

"I am," the thing said, as it choked Sam. "And you are not."

"Please!" young Mr. Flowers begged. "You can't! I need him, please!"

The thing released its grip and unwrapped itself from around Sam's throat. Sam fell to the floor. The thing pulled away from Sam.

Young Mr. Flowers sobbed, "What have I done? What have I become?"

The thing answered, "A fucker. It gives you strength and power. Just feed me a cunt once a month, and I shall give you the world. And the thing said, "I shall hibernate now." It turned to Sam and then back to young Flowers, and said, "You may talk among yourselves. You may talk about me. But know this, you can't do a damn thing about me."

The thing got smaller and smaller, until it had returned to the normal side of young Flowers' equipment.

"What is that?" Sam asked.

Young Mr. Flowers told Sam of all that he knew, off all he'd done, and of everything that had happened, and he sobbed, "The witch, you have to go see her! You must beg her!."

And now -- Sam opened the bottle of gin and filled the two glasses. Sam lifted his glass. young Mr. Flowers did not lift his.

"I don't want to be drunk."

Sam put his glass down, said, "It's time."

He put the shot gun under his neck. young Mr. Flowers picked up the revolver from the table, said "Me first. If you go first, I may not have the courage to follow."

"Okay, I'll wait, until after you've gone," said Sam.

"No!" young Flowers shouted, as he felt the thing growing in his pants. He shouted to Sam, "Shoot me before it's too late!"

Sam aimed the shot gun at young Flowers, and suddenly, Sam was knocked from his chair by a sudden gush of wind. Young Mr. Flowers tried to shoot himself in the head, when the thing burst through his pants and latched on to young Flowers' gun arm, and twisted itself around the arm and squeezed, until young Flowers dropped the gun.

The young Flowers sobbed, "What kind of demon are you?"

The thing answered, "I'm the fucking devil."

Recovering from being thrown to the floor, Sam fired the shot gun. It was a perfect aim, a perfect shot, except, the bullet bounced off of young Flowers' head.

A strong unseen force grabbed Sam and pinned him up against the ceiling. The thing said to Sam, "I never let harm befall a body that I possess. Do you wish to serve me?"

Sam screamed at the thing. "Go to hell!"

The thing replied, "I would tell you to go to hell too, but I don't make those choices. All I say to you, is to leave this life, now."

A rush of wind encircled Sam and he began to scream --scream silently. And he continued to scream, until unseen forces ripped into his body and tore him apart.

And young Flowers sobbed.

(end)
(c)Copyright 1996 by Franchot Lewis