MicroHorror

I’ve come to know every crack in the cement of the cell wall that I’ve stared at for months since being found guilty for the murder of myself.

They’ll never release me and I can only blame my own remarkable intellect for my miserable fate. It was my mind that created the device which broke through the dimensional membrane that separates parallel realities. I was the first man to pass through the barrier and find a world similar but not exact to my own. And there I found my greatest horror: myself. But it was not truly me, not a man of genius whose actions were praised and admired. I was a waste, a fast-talking car salesman drowning in debt and addictions. I should never have sought myself out there. But once I did and had looked into the abyss of my pathetic double’s empty eyes, I felt myself unable to control the angry disdain rising in my soul for him. My fingers entwined his dirty neck and squeezed. Air wheezed from his throat as he gasped until his empty eyes closed and he fell lifeless to the floor. As I looked down at my dead self, I wondered how many other humiliating lives I was living and set out to play judge for my many selves.

My hands were stained from the blood of ten of me before the agents of the government who had funded my work finally caught up to me. The trial was a private sham and I was put away to hide their embarrassment. Laws have been enacted to prohibit any exploration between realities and my device has been dismantled.

So now I sit and wait. I hope I won’t have to wait long.

I hear the door open behind me and approaching footsteps… familiar footsteps.

“About time,” I whisper.

“Sorry it took so long, but this place is very well guarded. It took a while to crack the system, even for a genius.”

“Yes, I am a genius.”

“But a genius doesn’t allow himself to be held for ridicule in a prison with the rest of society’s vermin.”

“Quite right,” I sigh as I feel a cord looped about my neck. As it tightens and the world goes dark about me, I smile, knowing that I’m quite an effective killer.

Fucking pervert. Look at him, sitting there again. Staring out the window. Watching the kiddies.

Every morning, same time, same goddamn seat. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I got on before him and sat in his precious spot. Actually, I wonder a lot worse than that but it would be a start, right?

I bet his crusty old bottom lip would quiver and he’d stutter like a retard. “P-p-please… that’s my seat.”

Just thinking about it makes me want to smack him upside, put my fist through his nasty-ass face.

Christ. I can barely look at him, but if I don’t, whose gonna keep watch, huh?

Damn… St Mary’s. Never changes. Little girls chasing each other, oblivious, stupid parents leaving their kids at the gate in the care of what, a fat slug trying to pass for a lollypop lady? I dunno why they gotta put a train station right out front of a primary school. Just asking for trouble.

This is his favorite part. So good it makes him cry. But not good enough I suppose ’cause all he can do is watch, and if I know anything at all, I know that watching ain’t enough for these pricks. Sooner or later…

Aaawww shit. Look at him. Nose up against the glass like a kid in a candy store. Man, I give myself the chills thinking that way. Bile in my throat.

This ain’t right; somebody oughta take out the trash.

Empty seat today. Ain’t no one wanna touch it. Someone’s gotta be a man. It’d be like an exorcism.

“Demon be gone!” I smile inwardly. He’s gone, all right. I made damn sure of that.

“Get your ass out of that seat.”

I look up. “What the–”

“I said get up!” The man clenches my shirt in a massive fist and pulls me forward, tears of anger welling in his eyes. Another man puts an arm on his and he releases the grip, finally letting his arm drop to his side. I edge out of the seat confused.

“It’s all right, love, you weren’t to know.” The old woman pulls me closer. “That’s Randall’s seat.” My skin prickles and I feel the beginnings of a sweat under my collar.

“Saddest thing, beaten to death last night, right after the evening train. God knows who’d do such a thing after what he’s been through.”

“Been through…”

“Lost his little girl, abducted, right off the street and in front of her own school, too”.

“St Mary’s,” I whisper.

“That’s right, never gave up hope though, always sat in that there seat, searching all those wee faces. Such a tragedy.” She shakes her head softly.

“I hope they catch that bastard soon, if you’ll pardon my language. Can’t have trash like that on the street when there’s kiddies around.”

“I got fifty bucks on the one with the twitchy eye,” the new guard says confidently.

The old guard shakes his head.

“You need to be more specific. They both got twitchy eyes.”

“Okay. The one that shoved a rusted yard implement up his mother’s ass.”

“Just say Patient #446, would ya?”

“I’m no good with numbers,” the new guard shrugs.

“Okay, then. I got fifty on the quiet one.”

“Don’t you mean Patient #227?”

“I thought you weren’t good with numbers.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get it on!”

The two guards lean in, ear to ear, peering through the food slot to Patient #446’s padded cell. They just threw Patient #227 in there a minute ago.

“They’re not doing anything,” the new guard complains.

“Give ‘em time,” the old guard soothes.

446 thinks that 227 is his dead mother, bloody ass and all, coming back for revenge.

227 thinks 446 is everybody else.

They circle one another, clenching dirty teeth, struggling to get free from their respective straitjackets.

“Oooh,” the new guard moans. “This is gonna be good.”

446 emits a sustained, high pitched whine. He screams “Mommy!” and charges.

227 slightly crouches, cocking his head to the side, his mouth wide open. 446 falls right into the trap.

It’s a dry, hollow snap, followed by a wet gurgle.

446 falls backwards, slamming into the padded wall. He slowly slides to his ass, his open throat painting his straitjacket crimson red.

The old guard smiles, holding out his hand.

“Never bet on a momma’s boy.”

The new guard shakes his head, laying down a fifty-dollar bill.

“How’d ya know?” he asks.

“Well, kid, when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you learn that old saying is true.”

“What old saying?”

“You gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”

Brandy was not a fine girl like they said. She had desires, burning and unholy. She spent many nights listening to their tales of the sea swooning for the one. Yes, he brought her gifts and spoke honestly. Her green eyes gleaming with jealousy as he spoke of his true love. How could she compete?

She fingered the locket dangling between her breasts as she served them whiskey and wine and listened to their stories. She refused to hide like the others did when their ships were spotted on the horizon rolling in with a mass of fog. The townspeople called her a fool. They were right. They called her other things too. She didn’t care. She couldn’t stay away from him. They didn’t understand. There was something about him as she gazed into his one good eye and longed to feel his one massive hand on her body. The stories lured her in even more. Heathens of the sea they were, wicked and lovely.

Sometimes they didn’t come for months and Brandy would walk the lonely streets of her town dreaming of what it would be like. It was easy for her to ignore the port master’s head on a stake at the landing and it was easy to ignore the parson nailed to the cross at the harbor. The seagulls made a sumptuous meal of the men, marksmen in their own right swooping in to pluck an eyeball and tear flesh.

Brandy stared into the open ocean watching the waves rise and fall. She inhaled deeply. Oh, how she did love the salted, fishy air. She loved the sea as much as they did and longed to be with them, with him. But she was a woman, bad luck, and they were from a different time. She recited the tales they told over and over in her mind and smiled when the idea struck her. She would prove her worthiness once and for all. The big, hairy man would be impressed. She was certain of it.

She watched and waited and as the man on the stake and the man on the cross were nothing but bones they came. This time she hurried to the docks instead of opening the tavern. With a machete in one hand she was poised to show them just what she was made of.

The ship rolled in with a shroud of fog, the moonlit, ratty sails blowing in the cool wind. The breeze carried their haunting seamen songs to shore. A throbbing in her loins erased any fear of pain. She caught sight of the ship one last time, sized up the distance and with one fell swoop of the machete chopped off her left hand. Picking up her hand she heaved it the best she could. It landed on the deck of the ship with a wet thunk. She rushed back to the bar and bandaged her bloody stump. They would have to take her now. She had won the game they spoke of so often.

She cried when he thanked her for the bloody gift that now hung around his neck and told her what a fine girl she was but after all, his life, his love, his lady was the sea.

Women Seeking Men

NEW in TOWN
Back-to-earth party girl just “staggered” into town last week, and is
looking for a guy who knows his way around. Show me farmhouses, shopping
mall, bomb shelters etc. I want to be “where the action is!” If this sounds
like you, respond to millingabout@loveaintdead.com.

Hey big boy.
Petite blonde looking for my Teddy Bear! I love a man with lots of meat on
his bones! Facts up front - missing one arm, (my ex kept it!!) But you’ll
never notice once we meet! Respond to hungrymama@loveaintdead.com.

Nothing gonna stop me now!
Except a giant case of the “lonelies!” Are you my soul mate? Looking for
love that, like me, can outlast gunfire, stabbing, drowning and being set on
fire. Must love cats. Respond to tuffgirl38@loveaintdead.com.

Men Seeking Women

Are you “The Smart Girl”????????????
Then I want to talk to you! Looking for a girl with a BIG BRAIN for walks
on the beach, long talks and maybe more. Short hair a plus. Respond to
yumcranium@loveaintdead.com.

My heart is yours.
Literally. Willing to send it ahead of our first date. It’s actually falling out a bit
already. Looks not important. Respond to gapingchestwound@loveaintdead.com.

WANT BRAINS
BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS.
BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS. BRAINS.
BRAINS. BRAINS. No smokers. Respond to brainguy@loveaintdead.com.

Missed Connections

LAST TUESDAY on the SUBWAY
You - a pretty redhead, early 30’s, wearing a green striped blouse and
carrying a burgundy handbag.
Me - ate your spleen and your right hand. Please contact me when you’re up
and around. I think we could have some fun. Respond to laststop@loveaintdead.com.

Chokes landed on his ass and honked his horn towards the stands. He didn’t manage so much as a titter from the cheap seats.

He couldn’t be bothered getting up from the sawdust. He rummaged in an oversized pocket and pulled out his smokes.

He sat and chugged, pausing only to scratch at the scabs that itched, burned and bled beneath the tri-colored wig.

He was done with the cigarette. He flicked it at Sammy the dead seal and clambered to his elongated feet. He tooted the horn absently and goose-stepped his way towards the concession stand.

Some flies did a quick taxi on the runway that was Bulk the elephant’s corpse and took off as Chokes lumbered by with his bleeding nose. Bits of him bled on and off and had done since a week last Monday. Chokes wiped at his nose. He didn’t mind it when his nose or his ears bled. It was when his eyes and anus wept crimson that he became unsettled.

He stuck to candy-floss. He wanted to save his three remaining teeth for his final meal. He wanted to make that one count. Chokes looked at all the corpses. Clowns, clowns everywhere but not a drop of laughter to be heard.

The ringmaster was a fornicating whoreson in life. In death he was just well dressed.

Chokes had raised the revolver during a rehearsal just after the incident. “Ooh, a little-widdle bomb, the one we’ve all been expecting does a kazzplat and the show stops? Fuck- no, not on my watch. Show Chokes how yer do the SmileyWooWoo!” Lead poisoning killed the ringmaster before the radiation did.

Chokes had offered an ultimatum. Perform or piss off. “What the world needs right now is entertainment.” He paused to spit out the blood that had run from his gums. “And what better entertainment is there than the Greatest Show on Earth!” Chokes did his best to rally the troupes but people were getting sick. He watched them leave. They were like dying rats, going to find a crawlspace to die in and stink it up.

The other clowns, though, when they moved to walk out, well, that just did it for Chokes. They were a brotherhood, his kin in laughter. He couldn’t just let them go. They were traitors to the pratfall. Chokes didn’t bother to line them up before he shot them too.

Now he was nearly alone, Gabriel had trumpeted his trumpet and the world had gone to shit. Alas, the need to perform was like a crack addiction in his veins. The Big Top his Broadway, the cheap seats his theater boxes.

All Chokes wanted to do was perform, to entertain, to be seen. He tried not to think of he Waybeck Theatre back in ‘98 when the production was cancelled before first night. He still felt a little bad about burning the place to the ground with everyone still inside. That was like shooting the dog for having fleas.

Chokes turned to the front row.

“Gonna do my act again. This time I want to hear some fuckin’ chortles. Are we on the same pageroo?” He looked at the Mummy, shivering with fright, the Daddy who was looking for a way to free his family and at the kids, those precious little poppets whose cheeks were red with tears. Chokes figured they really should try and grab all the fun they could before their kidneys dissolved completely and died.

Chokes started his act with a honk and decided to Hell with ‘em if they didn’t laugh, he had three good teeth left and the Mummy looked edible as long as he stayed north of the spleen.

My Dearest Diary:
This has been my 5th divorce so the problem must lie within me. But I am
thrilled that I have recognized this and I am looking forward to my 1st session with a therapist.
Love always.

Dear Diary:
My therapist suffers from elephantiasis. It gives him a unique character which I find to utterly fascinating. I find his personal commitment to me and the handling of his disease to be inspirational.
I am overjoyed to be working with him. Will write to you soon.
Love always.

Dear Diary:
After several sessions we realized that I am repressing all my negative feelings. He said that it is not at all healthy and that we will work to correct it immediately. What a joy to know the root of one’s problems.
I left his office full of optimism and renewed vigor.
Your eternal friend.

Dear Diary:
Despite identifying and treating the problem my therapist feels that I have not made much progress. I am not despondent for I heartily enjoy a challenge and meet each hill with a smile. Just the same he believes I will benefit from a medicinal regiment. He says that it will curb my exuberance and allow me to express my baser emotions. This, the Doctor believes, will bring the much needed balance to my life.
What a joy it is to share this with you!

Dear D:
After several days the medication seems to be working. Writing these asinine memoirs is a chore I never realized.
Talk to you later, don’t wait up.

Diary:
How are you today? Really? I don’t give a #@*+

DD:
I am pissed at myself for being so happy before. Now I know why people hate me. Why couldn’t I have been you instead? It must be nice to be made out of paper and have a pen piss on you every day.
Ps, Nice wrinkles jerk.

D:
The diseased head that has been treating me resembles nothing more than the stupid inkblots he forces me to study. The vague plains of his face congress into only the most vial of images now. God how I hate him. Doesn’t he know he looks like some sick Macys day nightmare?
Sleep well Diary.
Ps, I bet you would burn nicely. Like I said, sleep well.

-
I realize now that this talking balloon animal is the catalyst for all that is wrong in my life. Today I shall pop that grotesque pustule he calls a face. If I’m lucky I’ll get the death penalty. If you’re lucky I’ll get the death penalty.

D:
I did it and I’m glad I did it. If I ever see another face that looks like a “Jenga” game I’ll do it again. The miscreants locked me in a padded cell. No one checks in on me except to give me food. Who’s going to give me my damn pills? It’s been two days already!
Ps, If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the bathroom. On second thought stay with me while I sit and think. I might need you.

DD:
I’m sorry about last week. I know I had toilet paper, it was inexcusable. I’m really feeling bad about the poor Doctor too. I don’t why I did what I did. Sure he was sanctimonious and annoying but so is the rest of the world. Maybe he’s in a better place. I don’t think I am though. They moved me into a new cell and my new roomy is giving me funny looks.

Dear Diary:
It’s been weeks since I’ve written but my room mate has been kept me quite busy. The room is small but that just makes it cozy and the bars make me feel so safe! On the plus side my room mate is very affectionate and while we don’t always get along I know he could never run out on me.
Hahaha Life is wonderful!
I love you old friend, let us never part.

They’re upset at me because I ate that girl.

I’m sorry for doing it, so sorry, and I want to tell them that, but they won’t give me the chance. When I got up I was so hungry and confused and I couldn’t control myself. She was the closest person and she smelled so good, felt so warm, and as I peeled her open she ran down my throat and filled my whole body with the warmth and I was full like I’d never been before. Then my head started to clear and the hunger subsided and I saw what I’d done. And I wasn’t the only one who’d seen it. Everyone started screaming and pointing at me, running away.

Why are they acting like this? I want to tell them I’m sorry. I want to tell everyone that I wasn’t myself, that I’m better now and that I won’t do it again. I just need some kind of help but any time I get close to anyone they just start screaming at me.

Now I’m surrounded by screaming people, waving guns and flashing lights in my eyes and God the lights are so bright, it feels like they’re burning a hole in my head. I try to talk to them, try to yell at them to stop and give me a chance to explain but something’s wrong with my throat and the only thing that comes out is a kind of sickly wet rattle. They hear it and they scream at me even more. A girl even faints when I try to talk again.

Maybe I could write it down. Maybe one of them has a pen and paper and I could just write a few words to tell them that I’m okay, that I won’t hurt them and that they don’t need to scream anymore. I try to walk over to the closest person, but he yells something and points his gun at me. Put that down, I try to say, just let me explain, but he pulls the trigger and the bullet hits me in the stomach and I hit the ground. It doesn’t hurt, just makes me sad and makes my stomach cold. It takes a while to get back on my feet, and when I do the man throws the gun at me and runs. I turn around and everybody’s just staring at me like I’m a monster and I’m starting to get angry. I haven’t done anything to them, anything at all, except for what I did to that girl, but I’m sorry! I’m sorry for what I did to her, don’t they see that? But they just keep screaming.

Another gunshot, and the bullet hits my arm and I spin and topple over backward. It doesn’t hurt but I try to scream anyway, to shout at them to make them stop, but the same wet rattle is all that comes out, louder now.

I hear another rattle and look back and the girl from before is standing up. She looks confused and scared like I was just a minute ago, and everyone starts screaming more and turning to look at her. My anger boils over. They’re going to hurt her because of what I did to her, they’re not going to listen when she asks for help.

I stagger up and the anger burns my eyes and pushes me forward. They’re treating us like monsters for things that aren’t our fault. Fine. They’re not going to listen so I’ll show them what a monster I can be. They won’t stop screaming so I’ll give them something to scream about.

I was starting to get hungry again anyway.

The body arrived bloody and torn badly, like a large animal had bitten into the chest cavity. Although it didn’t bother me, I watched my assistant vomit in the back sink. When he recovered, we took off the shoes and jeans. I unbuttoned the shirt, where the injuries increased in severity; I thought my assistant shouldn’t yet. With very little emotion, I looked at the boy, and quietly told my assistant how I believed he had come into the morgue. Leonard inquired about the children; five others had been wheeled into the morgue already. We looked like schoolteachers for a class of corpses.

I said, “Wolf pups live with Missy Park; somehow, they surround the deaths of these boys like flies do around thick manure. Nobody loves those puppies like Missy. Actually, the people in her neighborhood have reported fences broken, lawns ripped, and bark bitten off their trees, caused by the wolves. I wanted to blame raccoons, but with Missy Park, I agreed with the townsfolk. A lot of the boys in town, feeling aggressive and immature, kill the puppies quickly; somehow, others appear as quickly.”

I said in particular, “Once, a frisky pup found the basement of a house located just three blocks from where Missy lives. It clawed the couches, jumped onto the tabletops, and urinated in the kitchen. When the family found it, the animal just jumped and wagged its tail happily.” I said, “The father of the household told Missy to keep those wolves locked in her basement. ‘They don’t belong in the city,’ he said; the city officials agreed.”

I added, “Missy regards her neighbors in the same manner that florists do around bumblebees. She respects their privacy and wants the same treatment. Actually, the animal pound wouldn’t take the wolves.” With a headshake, I said, “If this city would just take those animals from Missy, we would find less boys in the morgue. We would bury fewer adults, too. Nobody in the hospital would look as bloody.”

While Leonard sat quietly, I continued, “After the puppy broke into that house, the boy who lived there found the pup filling its mouth with trash. Slowly, he jumped onto the small wolf, and tied thick twine around it. With its small size, it couldn’t pull itself free. And unfortunately, the boy didn’t just torture it.” I said, “Shortly, Missy looked for her puppy. While she talked on the phone, she spotted a package on her stoop. She found the wolf in the box, limp and bloody, and with bones broke.” I said, “Children behave cruelly. I wonder if those baby animals justified the actions of Missy Park.”

I said, “Naturally, the wolf didn’t suffer alone. Someone found the boy, and put him in the morgue. When I undressed him, he looked like a wild animal had mauled him. I questioned that a human murdered the boy.” I explained, “When the moon fills, animals howl in the hills. Would an adult wolf be allowed to live in the city? Why wouldn’t the police officials kill it properly?” I said, “Why can’t the police find the wolves who howl below the moon?”

Leonard held his mouth in a sickly manner. I said to answer my question, “In the tests that Missy took, the laboratory found weird blood cells in her body.” I said in theory, “Like everyone, I know Missy loves those puppies unconditionally. She always keeps wolves around her house.” I said finally, “I believe they belong to Missy Park naturally.”

Leonard stood shakily and held a knife. Looking at him, I said, “We should perform the autopsy. We have very little time.” I said, “Another boy may arrive shortly, lashed by a wolf like this one.” Opening my scissors, I exhaled and said, “You wouldn’t catch me killing the children of a werewolf.”

The old man grinned as he saw Rustin rambling toward his shack, shovel in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

“Been expecting you,” Dalliard chuckled as he threw wide the dilapidated door and grasped the bottle. “Didn’t think you’d let Toper rest long.”

“Well, he won’t be grieved. He lived his last years as a hermit, never seen venturing from his house. The maid just happened upon his cold body during her last visit.”

Rustin watched as Dalliard took a gulp of whiskey, allowing a thin stream of the precious liquid to drip down his grey beard.

“To your liking, then?” Rustin inquired.

Dalliard nodded. “Care to join me?”

“Must be about me work. Considering that wicked wind and the clouds, there must be a storm tonight.”

“And I suppose the doctor doesn’t like the bodies wet when delivered. How much will you be getting for Toper?”

“His due worth,” Rustin replied as he held out his hand. Dalliard offered a key, which Rustin took in exchange for two silver coins.

“Don’t forget to lock the gate and bring back the key.”

“I always do,” Rustin grumbled.

Dalliard watched Rustin walk toward the cemetery. He tightened his shabby collar to ward off the wind’s chill, but a mouthful of whiskey proved more effective. The rusted gate creaked shrilly as if sounding an alarm at the intruder’s entrance, but Dalliard only chuckled. Since becoming the cemetery’s keeper his greatest profit had been earned from his dealings with Rustin the resurrectionist.

The thunder had begun before Dalliard finished the whiskey. As rain tapped against the roof, Dalliard went to the window and saw Rustin walking empty-handed from the cemetery to the dirt road that twisted toward town. Dalliard rushed out, buttoning his coat. “What about returning my key, you clod?”

Rustin gave no reply.

“What about the body?” Dalliard questioned as his pace quickened to gain on his rascal of a comrade.

Rustin walked on silently.

“Talk to me,” Dalliard muttered as he grabbed Rustin’s shoulder and spun him around. Rustin’s face was deathly pale and blood flowed from a gaping wound on his neck. As Dalliard stepped back, Rustin’s mouth opened with a loud hiss to reveal glistening yellow fangs. Dalliard let out a gasp as he stumbled backward with trembling legs, his old boots churning mud before turning to see another figure approaching through the rain.

“Lord in heaven!” Dalliard spat out at the sight of Toper, whose bloated face was covered with grime from his burial and Rustin’s blood from feasting. Rapidly Toper pounced upon Dalliard, whose scream was drowned out by a thunderclap. Toper’s long, claw-like fingers tore at Dalliard’s warm flesh and worn clothes. Dalliard’s body thrashed about in the mud as fangs ripped into his neck.

Only once the body had grown still and Toper had drunk his fill did Rustin approach his wicked business partner. Kneeling, Rustin deeply inhaled the scent of blood before tasting it for himself. As the scarlet liquid filled his mouth and rushed down his throat, Rustin wondered what a fine doctor’s blood would taste like. Soon he would know.