Arbogast's The Goth Boi Beach Imperialism Manifesto

Check out this selection from the author of "The Living Hypnotic Death"

Bizarchives veteran Arbogast has a new collection out entitled The Living Hypnotic Death (available for purchase here). This collection features eleven short stories and nine essays. The Living Hypnotic Death epitomizes Arbogast’s versatility and deft hand when comes to crafting weird pulp fiction, as well as sci-fi, noir, horror, and action-adventure. His latest book is a must-buy for all fans of the Bizarchives and pulp fiction generally. Also, the book’s inclusion of several academic and personal essays offers a new view of the neo-pulp specialist.

Here, in “The Goth Boi Beach Imperialism Manifesto,” Arbogast provides a rare glimpse at what it’s like to live like him during the sunshine months of summer.

Enjoy!

***

Another summer. Another dirty, black summer for our handsome protagonist.  

            He wakes up a little before noon. He performs his daily stretches—first his shoulders, then his wrists, ankles, and knees. Some of his joints crack from years of overexertion, but he never considers slowing down. Instead, he increases the frequency of his stretches.  

            After leaving his bed, our handsome protagonist lies prone on his carpeted floor. He begins a round of neck bridges. He stops when he reaches one hundred. Next, he begins to squat. One hundred. Two hundred. Three hundred. He ends the exercise at three hundred thirty. Three three three. A trinity. He knows the significance of numbers. Everything he does is significant, as everything he does is based on hidden wisdom.

            He passes the shrine on his way to the bathroom. In the centerpiece, which is kept stable thanks to two black candles and a pair of lacquered wooden notches, is a personalized Tarot card. The card bears the image of the Egyptian deity Heka, the god of magic and rituals. Above Heka’s bronzed shoulders and curly blue hair is the protagonist’s sigil—an intricate series of filigreed lines and circles surrounding the word “destiny” written in Sumerian cuneiform. The three volumes stacked vertically underneath the Tarot card include the Holy Bible, Plotinus’s Enneads, and King James’s Daemonologie. These are far from the only books in the apartment. Indeed, parallel to the bathroom is the handsome protagonist’s library, which runs floor-to-ceiling. Another small library lies next to his bed. A book by Thomas Ligotti is at the top of the largest pile. A bookmark rests neatly between “Masquerade of a Dead Sword” and “Dr. Voke and Mr. Veech.”

            His shower, which is a cold one, lasts ten minutes. It is his first shower of the day. Two more will follow. After a small breakfast of an apple, coffee, and toast, our handsome protagonist leaves to complete his first mission of the day. This mission takes him away from his beloved coastline and into the proletarian district of the town. There, tucked below a former bicycle factory retrofitted to include several artisanal shops, is the gym. He descends the small set of concrete steps. On each side is graffiti, including strange and unusual verses about a place called Uironda intermixed with crude drawings of sanguine clowns and nude women with detached heads. On the other side of the metal door, which is protected at all times by a semi-blind octogenarian named Ratcliffe, a sea of blue wrestling mats greets our handsome protagonist. For the next hour and a half, his body will get to know these mats well, as he drills a series of arm and wristlocks under the tutelage of a hirsute and caprine instructor named Christopoulos. The blue mats take on a riverine quality when the rolls begin. Our handsome protagonist completes six rounds (another important number!), two of which are against Christopoulos. Winning and losing intermingle, but that is not the point. The point, as our handsome protagonist knows, is to get comfortable with being uncomfortable. The point is to get stronger and more dangerous when most men retreat into childlike weakness.

            At two p.m., our handsome protagonist takes his second shower of the day. This time he washes himself with a special soap designed to prevent fungal infections. Normally, our handsome protagonist delights in the collection and cultivation of scars. His body is indeed a roadmap of pain—cuts, bruises, and the ghosts of previous infections decorated his sun-kissed hide. He loves these blemishes. However, given that it is summer, which is his holy season and the season of the flesh, he makes sure to keep himself as clean as possible.

            With the second shower complete, our handsome protagonist begins the most important mission of the day. Attired in black swimming trunks, black sandals, black sunglasses, and a black tank-top featuring the face of Conrad Veidt as the somnambulist Cesare, our handsome protagonist makes his way to the beach. He selects a portion of the town’s public beach that is usually empty owing to an old rumor about a higher-than-normal frequency of shark sightings. He places his black towel on the hot, white sand. He removes his shirt and sandals and begins the slow process of worshipping the sun. Sometimes he naps, while other times he buries himself in a book. After completing the Ligotti collection, he reads about a hundred or so pages of a biography of Glenn Danzig. Once that is completed, he walks towards the water and dives in. Here he will swim for hours. He has no objective—no discernible starting or ending point. The goal is to swim for as long as he can, for as much as he venerates the sun, he also venerates the sea. He lets his mind wonder while the salt water baptizes him once again. He dreams of sailing aboard a trireme as it rounds the Pillars of Hercules. He visualizes himself in Venetian denim off the coast of Constantinople, as an orgy of flames lick every crevice of the ancient metropolis. He closes his eyes and gets so lost that he can practically smell the spices of India as he leaves behind the steam ship Bussorah. He only exits the water when the sun goes from yellow to burnt orange. The night closes in around him.  

Courtesy of zakkrhoads

            He leaves the water and returns to his post in the sand. He awaits the coming darkness with an elevated heartrate. He knows what comes next, and the anticipation excites him. At 9:30 sharp—sharp like fangs, sharp like claws—he sees her. She is his opposite in every way. She is fair and robbed in sheer white garments. She is tall and lithe whereas he is short and muscular. Yet, as opposite as they are, they share something deep. They share the same fate and ritual—a ritual that they complete naked out in the sea.