MicroHorror

“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.”

• Copyright: © 2009 Brett Matthew Graham