MicroHorror

Robert’s first impulse was to shoot Esmeralda. He watched her fat rear end jiggle and bounce as she worked out her insatiable hunger on the stranger. Retracing the guy’s footsteps in his mind, Robert remembered the abandoned car he’d passed a quarter mile back on his way home from town. Maybe the stranger had simply had car trouble and was just looking for a phone. Maybe his destination hadn’t been Robert’s rundown farm. Maybe he wasn’t looking into the unsolved prostitute disappearances. “Yeah, and maybe pigs can fly.”

He’d killed his first prostitute three years earlier. He hated prostitutes almost as much as he hated hogs, but he’d realized long ago that both served a purpose. He’d dragged the body out behind the barn and was about to dump it into a makeshift grave, when Esmeralda appeared and began devouring the girl’s body. The pig was due for slaughter the following week, but her lusty appetite for human flesh made her more valuable than the few dollars her meat would net him. Since then, Robert had murdered over a dozen prostitutes and fed them to Esmeralda, then shredded their bones in the chipper and spread them over the property.

Lately the pig had begun breaking out of her pen. Robert had reinforced her enclosure several times, but Esmeralda seemed to grow more cunning with age. This was the second time he’d come home and discovered her devouring a body. He got lucky with the first one. The cops assumed the married woman who’d gone out jogging had actually run off with another man to escape her abusive husband. But the families of the missing prostitutes were beginning to attract attention, and now the word in town was that some of them had hired a private detective.

“You’re gonna have to go, Esmeralda. I can’t take any more chances. I’ll shoot you and get another pig to take your place.” The sow turned to face him, her snout and chest covered with blood and gore. The mean look in her piggy eyes chilled Robert. It’s like she understood every word I just said, but that’s impossible. I don’t care how smart she is, she’s just a dumb animal. No damn pig is gonna intimidate me; I’ll get my gun and kill the bitch right now!

Robert knew he’d made a fatal mistake when he turned his back on Esmeralda.

The baby was grinning at him. Finally.

Garth had been waiting for it for seven weeks. Through sleepless nights that had him gripping the bottle like a dagger when his wife’s tits were tapped, through the shrieking and the blubbering, and through the shit that exploded from his kid’s ass like a spray of wet buckshot–finally, a smile. It didn’t make everything worth it, but at least a smile was something. “Hey, June!” he called out. “June, check this out!”

Jasper’s grin widened, pink lips parting above the crease on his chin. Garth felt the warm flesh of the baby’s cheek through the rough grain of calluses riveted to his fingers. As his thumb tracked down the baby’s face, it left a soupy smear of grease, dirt and dung. Sure, his wife wouldn’t like it, but tough shit. He didn’t exactly like shoveling down overcooked macaroni after roasting in the chicken barn for twelve hours. Yep, and even though the pasta was as soggy-soft as his wife’s post-pregnant ass, she still set his place with a steak knife. A steak knife. Un-fucking-believable.

He leaned into the crib and cooed, tracking filth over the baby’s perfect sphere of a head. With the only light seeping into the baby’s room from the hallway, the grime almost looked like hair. The dimples in Jasper’s chubby cheeks deepened with an even bigger smile, and his blue eyes gleamed. Incredible.

“Oh, you like your new lid?” said Garth, painting the rest of Jasper’s scalp with muck. “You like the toupee Daddy gotcha?”

He knew this couldn’t keep going. The kid was a bawler, and it was amazing he’d lasted five minutes without crying out. Still, while he was quiet, why not have some fun? Besides, when Jasper went into brat mode, his wife would be there to put out the fire. June was a crappy cook, but–no matter how tired she got–she still knew what was good for her. A year back he’d had to yell for her twice, and had quickly made it clear twice was unacceptable. Crystal clear.

He hadn’t had to yell out a second time since.

Garth’s fingers stroked Jasper’s other cheek. Wiped almost clean, they now left only faint traces of oily brown. I guess you only get half a beard, he thought. “Quit while we’re ahead, right, ya little monster?” Garth said, and kicked one leg of the crib, making it shake.

The baby’s grin broadened into something so huge Garth burst out laughing, and Jasper laughed right along with him. Oh my god, he loves it, thought Garth. He loves his new look, and he loves his daddy. “All right then,” he said. “You ask for more, you got it.”

More was the stuff he squeezed from under his fingernails–greasy, grimy chunks of black crud that smelled like fresh turds dunked in gasoline. He figured some of it had been there a couple days, but it mashed up nicely between his fingers, and left a streak along Jasper’s supple cheek like fresh tarmac choked with pebble. “Now we’re done,” Garth murmured. “Now we’re finished.”

But Jasper’s head rolled to one side, and his soft doll’s fingers clamped onto his father’s thumb with an insistent, needy strength. He’s really holding on, thought Garth. For the first time, really holding on. “We’re not done?” Garth asked, delighted. “You’re really not do–”

Garth recognized the blade an instant before it stabbed through his neck, cutting off his words as neatly as it hacked through his windpipe. When his wife twisted the handle, blood like black ink drenched the tiny fist that hung on tight.

A steak knife, thought Garth. Un-fucking-believable.

Kannan took a deep breath and tried once more. This time he succeeded in zipping up his trousers. He inhaled cautiously, and sighed with relief when nothing split or tore. Damn! He was putting on weight like nobody’s business. His landlady was to blame, no doubt. Mrs. Annapoorna loved to cook up a veritable feast every day.

He glanced at the clock. Time for breakfast. He wondered what she had made today.

“Come on, have some more.” Mrs. Annapoorna bustled around him, spooning some prawn curry over his idlis. The fluffy white cakes were soft and melted in his mouth. A generous dollop of butter only enhanced their taste.

“No, no, Aunty. I really cannot have any more,” Kannan protested weakly.

“At least have some of this kesari bath. I’ve made it with pure ghee.”

The sweet dish drew Kannan like a moth to a flame. It glistened with temptation, studded with cashews and raisins, and he succumbed. Poor old lady, he thought, as he savored each spoonful. He was so lucky that he had found such good paying guest accommodation at a mere pittance. In a city like Bangalore, this was pure gold. The only thing Mrs. Annapoorna had asked was whether he had family, or if he was going to get married soon. She had said she could not take the disturbance, annoyance, and tension that unexpected visitors created. It was a good thing that Kannan was alone. The love and affection she had lavished on him surprised him at first, but then old age did such things to people. Loneliness in a big city could rot the very soul.

“That’s all you’ve eaten? A growing boy like you needs to eat better,” Mrs. Annapoorna admonished him, but Kannan felt he would burst if he had a morsel more.

“I’m stuffed, Aunty. I don’t think I can even move out of this chair! I shall have to call my office and tell them that I’m sick.”

“Go on, go on, don’t exaggerate.” She laughed.

Mrs. Annapoorna gazed at him fondly as he left the room. He looked pleasingly plump, a welcome change from the scrawny lad who had showed up four months ago at her gate. Just one more month, she told herself. Then he would be ripe for harvesting. His heart would make such a delicious casserole, and his cheeks, the perfect curry.

I’m really going to do it this time. I’m breaking the habit. I’m resisting the temptation. I’m through.

Please, look at me. You now I can’t handle it when you don’t look at me.

I’m sorry. And I know you’ve heard it all before. I know last time I said it was the last time and then I did it again. But you have to understand how hard it is to quit. It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. I tell myself to resist the urge, and I fight. I really fight, with all I have. But the more I fight, the more I want it. I did what you said. I just tried not to think about it. But the more I tried not to think about it, the more it haunted me, until I found myself doing it again.

I’ve even tried to take up other interests to get my mind off of it. I play chess online, and I’m pretty good. I work crosswords and I’m not bad at that either. But then it invades my mind, and I can’t concentrate on those things. There’s only one thing I can do.

But I’m telling you, this time, it’s going to be different. Please, look at me. I don’t want you to hate me. I know because of what I’ve done, we can never be together again. I can accept that. But I can’t handle the thought of you hating me. Do you want to see me cry? Do you want to see me beg? Do you want to see me kill myself?

Ahh. There it is. There’s my girl. Come here.

You feel so good. And you look good too. You deserve the best, and that’s what you should get. I’m going to do whatever it takes to quit this time. This time, I won’t track you down and kill whatever man you’ve run away with. Now let’s go hide just one more body, and I promise this will be the last one.

Have you ever seen what pure Sodium can do? It’s fun, isn’t it? The teensiest little scrap will react so quickly when dropped into water, it’ll actually burst into flames. It’s so volatile that you can only buy it immersed in mineral oil. I heard that one time, a particularly precocious student was so impressed with the effect, that they stole the sample they’d been given, and put it in their pocket for mischief later. Once the oil was absorbed by their jeans, the Sodium started reacting in the air, burning a hole in the material, and when it got hold of the moisture in the flesh, it was astonishingly quick. The poor kid had to have a massive chunk of his hip excised, once they put him out, that is.

It goes without saying that, were someone to put it in their mouth, and swallow, or be forced to swallow, the results would be calamitous. In fact, it would probably ruin that someone for any other experiments, unless of course we just used this pinch-sized piece right here. Open wide. I said, “Open wide.”

Sort of brings new meaning to the term “palate cleanser,” hmm?

This, right here, is a ribbon of pure Magnesium. It’s pretty, isn’t it? If you expose this to flame, it flares up and burns extremely fast. Were this to be, say, wrapped around the arm of an investment banker and lit, it would leave a nasty third-degree burn in its wake.

We’d then have to do something about that, which would bring us to this charming little orange bottle of Iodine. This sample is homemade. It’s much stronger than what you get at the pharmacy. It stings a little, but there’s nothing like it for treating a chemical burn.

Silly me, we’re forgetting all about the gases. This one is also homemade, but the recipe goes back almost a hundred years now, World War One, I believe. They called it “Mustard Gas” back then, due to the yellow color. If someone were to open the valve on a glass case that was the current residence of, say, the same investment banker that took his client’s life savings and left town, well then, I’d say he’d get a little itchy under the collar for a while as water blisters started to form all over his flesh. Any “idiotic, pathetic, science teachers” would have to ensure they stepped outside, and made the chamber air-tight first.

Now, if that same investment banker we were talking about, who left town with his client’s money, also left town with his client’s wife? Well, then, we’d also have to talk about this canister over here. I love how simple the markings are on this one, “H.” This valve would flood the glass chamber. It’s great stuff. It does the same thing to your voice as Helium, did you know that? There’s just one slight difference, one that you might be aware of.

If a certain “weak, sorry, excuse for a husband” were to be careless with his cigarette after that, we might not have to worry about this mechanism here, that is based on simple physics. The trigger activates the hammer, which strikes the cordite primer, which launches a small amount of “Plumbum” from this part right here.

You see? So many of my students go away from high school, worrying that nothing they’ve learned will ever apply in the real world. I pity them. If they ever manage to capture the bastards responsible for ruining their lives, the results would be positively mundane.

I’m sorry, I can’t understand you, is there something wrong with your mouth? Ah–I see. You’re sorry. Well, that’s very nice of you. I appreciate the sentiment, but then I did swear revenge, and my word is as good as Gold.

You can tell a lot about a person from the way they take their tea.

My father is a clumsy man and refuses to dunk his biscuits, in case he should make a mess. My mother holds her cup in one hand, her pinky finger extended, to appear delicate and refined when, in truth, she is neither.

As for me, I always take my tea with my family. They haven’t moved for nearly three months and the smell is getting rather bad, but I still make them a fresh brew every morning.

I’m not sure what that says about me.

Coffin for sale. One previous owner.

It was the best of times.

No more war.

No more poverty.

No more famine, now that the dust clouds had dispersed.

A fat bluebottle, buzzing through the still air, landed clumsily on a scorched human cheek.

It was the best of times.

Jack opened his eyes.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out, only that his headache threatened to tear his skull apart. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away, and watched phantom lights dance against his eyelids. He remembered running–no, fleeing– from something huge, fast and hairy; he remembered tripping on something in the dark and then… nothing.

He reached out with one hand, feeling fresh soil and tree roots–some sort of natural depression in the forest floor. His blind fingers touched upon something else, something large and warm, with thick, coarse hairs.

In the darkness, something growled.

The Kingdom came into being in an instant. From oblivion one moment, the entire society sprung up and started about its business, everyone instinctively knowing their place. It was the resumption of a grand drama.

In the market, Seamus Muldoon had secreted a good sized codfish under his long coat, and was working his way through the crowd. It was the perfect crime, for as close to the ocean as they were, everyone smelled a little of fish.

In the unused western wing of the keep, Sister Marguerite was breaking her vows of chastity with Ronald, the strapping, if a little doltish, baker’s assistant.

Monaghan, the kingdom’s head builder, was reveling in his wealth. He had crews of men all around the kingdom’s walls, which seemed to have always needed more and more shoring up. The salt air was forever (at least that’s what it seemed like) tearing away at the stonework that kept them all secure.

There were a thousand stories, and a thousand lives, all running in harmony when Armageddon began. The sky came crashing down about them. Stinging rain tore through the air, ripping apart buildings, killing passers-by where they stood.

Seamus was just arriving back at his modest hovel with his prize, when the entire building disintegrated before his eyes. As he opened his mouth to protest, the street heaved up in a wave of crushed stone and smothered him instantly.

Marguerite was finally aware that in the last few brief, sweaty moments of life, she had truly seen the meaning of life. She was basking in the glow of her newfound revelations when the tower exploded into a million microscopic atoms.

Monaghan met his end in the most fitting way possible, as his walls, that seemed made to devil him, finally succumbed in their battle with entropy and came down in tumbling waves. Their failure meant the end for anyone that was still living.

Colin, the rakish streetcorner philosopher, gadabout, and sometime minstrel had one last instant before the crush reached him, to think “this will all be back again, and so will we.” And then he was gone.

Miles and miles above the carnage and destruction, the toddler shrieked again with delight, dancing one last time on the sandcastle before running to play with Mommy in the waves.