The Sick Stuff by Ronald Kelly

of
neighbors and the hungry noses of stray dogs.
    As Nelson Trulane turned away and hobbled
painfully back to the house, the ugly wound of his groin -- the
irreversible product of Tanya's vengeful fury -- screamed in
mournful agony. And, within the concealment of blood-soaked gauze,
wept crimson tears for the loss of Buddy.
     

MOJO MAMA
     
    Quite abruptly and without warning, a searing
pain blossomed in the hollow of his throat, just above the junction
of his collarbones.
    Quentin Deveroux reined his horse to a halt
and coughed violently. He choked on the obstruction, feeling it
move -- of its own accord -- up the narrow tube of his esophagus and
into the chamber of his mouth. He sensed the motion of flailing
legs and the tip of a stinger raking across the soft flesh of his
palate. Then he spat, releasing the awful creature from its
imprisonment. A small yellow-brown scorpion landed in the dust,
then scampered off the pathway into the tall weeds.
    The taste of blood and poison filled the
young gentleman's mouth and he cursed. "Damn that black bitch!" he
rasped. "Damn that Mojo Mama!"
    Quentin sat in the saddle for a moment,
regaining his composure and allowing the agony to fade from his
throat. A few seconds later, the discomfort had subsided. But it
would return. He knew that, deep down
    inside him, the potential for pain was
endless.
    The first time Quentin realized that the
house of Deveroux was cursed, was during the battle of Gettysburg.
He had been leading his calvary division in a charge against the
Northern forces, when a horrendous pain had engulfed his stomach.
At first he thought he had been gutshot by a Union bullet or
skewered by the sword of a passing calvaryman. But when he examined
himself, he found no evidence of a wound... no blood at all.
    The pain, however, had increased tenfold. It
grew so intense that he doubled over and fell from his saddle.
While chaos surged around him, he was on his knees, cramping and
gasping as the agony in his belly traveled up through the narrow
channel of his throat. He opened his mouth to scream and watched,
mortified, as a swarm of red wasps fluttered past his lips and took
flight into the bullet-ridden air. He had wheezed for a long
moment, his throat and mouth swollen from their attack, stingers
spearing his inner flesh in a dozen or so places. Quentin was
certain that he would suffocate, when the inflammation suddenly
receded and, within moments, he was back to normal again.
    He had suffered numerous attacks after
that...from all manner of creatures and from the confines of his own
traitorous body. It wasn't until the end of the War, just before
the Confederate surrender at Appomattox, that Quentin had received
a letter from his older brother, Trevor, informing him of the
horrible curse that had been cast upon those unfortunate enough to
share the Deveroux family name.
    Quentin urged his steed forward, past the
deserted slave cabins, to the rundown stable. An old Negro
gentleman named Percy took the reigns as he dismounted. Percy had
been the last one to remain at the Deveroux sugar plantation. He
was a free man but chose to stay out of convenience and a loyalty
that the others had not felt toward their former masters. He eyed
young Quentin curiously before leading the horse to its stall.
"You've gots blood..." he said, pointing to the corner of his mouth.
"Here."
    Irritated, Quentin raised the back of his
hand and wiped the trickle of blood away. "Never you mind."
    As he started toward the stable door, Quentin
felt Percy's eyes upon him. He could imagine the man smiling behind
his back, perhaps in secret approval of the misery he and his
siblings were enduring. But when he turned to confront the old
uncle's glee, he found that he was already out of view, unsaddling
the gelding and grooming its chestnut brown coat.
    Quentin took a cobbled walkway through the
garden, toward the two-story manor. The once brilliant and
well-kempt jardin des plantes -- as their Cajun-born