MicroHorror

Toothpicks propped open Jackson’s eyes. Leather straps restrained his wrists and ankles. What remained of his decaying skin, fat and muscle tissue crawled with ticks.

The itch and burn were slowly driving Jackson insane–along with the painful certainty that the bones of his shattered legs were or would soon be raw, exposed. He couldn’t fathom more excruciating pain. The constant glare of the fluorescent lighting and the intermittent knock of the air conditioning unit he’d always been too cheap to repair were unnerving him, too.

He’d screamed himself mute. Now all he could do was try to keep pace with his mind as it raced toward madness.

Last week, this weirdo family had brought in a dog purportedly killed dead beneath their SUV. A terrible accident, they said. They’d actually cried. They’d paid him to taxidermy the beloved Fido into a statue they could prop up in their home’s foyer. As a tribute, they said. Weirdos, but whatever. Their money was as green as anybody’s, Jackson had told himself at the time.

Playing dead was the least of the sinister tricks beloved Fido had mastered.

The heavyset man up in the shade of the porch dabbed at his bald forehead and dripping face with a red bandanna already soaked through with his sweat.

“You boys be careful in that sun,” he wheezed. “One thing you want to kill each other, but nobody wins if a fighter keels over dead of heatstroke.”

In the parched dust patch of yard in front of the crumbling house, two sunburned teen boys staggered around throwing exhausted punches and kicks and spitting as if they were still serious contenders, though it was obvious neither cared if his opponent died.

Another dozen raucous teens sat on the ground in the circle that served as the “ring”–encouraging the fighters their bets were on and shouting how their own turns at each other wouldn’t be such sissified dance competitions. They joked about how many of them it would take to lift the heavyset man off his porch when the heat did the fat fuck in.

None of the teens noticed the armored delivery truck that turned off the main road and parked in the cracked rut of a driveway next to the house.

But the heavyset man noticed. He waved the truck’s female driver out and invited her to have a seat in the lawn chair unfolded beside his creaking porch swing.

“You’re early,” he told her.

“Looks to me like I’m right on time for those miserable wannabes.”

He nodded toward the plastic pitcher balanced on the railing. “Pour yourself a drink. Relax. You’ll get what you came for soon enough. Patience.”

She sipped from a dirty Styrofoam cup. “Remember when a martini was really a martini?”

“I do. I also remember when the fights were the fights. And beautiful women didn’t have to… never mind.”

She choked down another swallow. “A job’s a job.”

“To you, maybe! Ultimate fighting isn’t legitimate sport,” he said. “When I promoted boxing, I was king of this town.”

“You’re still a royal pain in the ass.”

“Coming from you, that’s a compliment. You lived in an abandoned desert bordello, you wouldn’t find it so funny.”

“It’s not like you’re the only person out here who had to make certain lifestyle adjustments. One day I was dancing in a glamorous show. The next day… well, the next day, there was no show. But you don’t hear me bellyaching about it.”

The small kid acting as referee and cash holder called the pitiful fight in the yard a draw, then checked his clipboard and announced the next match.

These two rough, muscular brutes were clearly setting out to destroy or be destroyed.

“This should be good,” the woman said.

“They’re just meat to you, aren’t they?” the heavyset man sighed. “That’s all you see now.”

“Like you see anything other than money! You only care who wins. I only care who loses. We need each other, fat man. You couldn’t survive a week on your winnings, and I wouldn’t have quality product for my customers. If they’re not intelligent enough to save themselves from us, they deserve whatever happens to them.”

The boys fighting now were at each other like savages, mouths and noses spraying blood.

The unruly crowd hushed as one caught the other in a sudden wrestling hold and twisted. The sound of multiple bones shattering–that hard, fast clicking like tumbled dominoes–was followed by silence, then the defeated boy’s tortured howl.

The spectators went insane.

The heavyset man squeezed the sweat from his drenched bandanna and wiped his face again. “Remember when Las Vegas–”

“Don’t even go there. This place was always tough on losers, and you know it. Most people never had a chance here. Especially locals.”

“But it wasn’t–”

“Cannibalism?” The woman poured herself another drink. “The way everything’s deteriorated since the fundies cut off our water and power and nuked our tourist attractions, we’re probably doing these young men a favor killing them off for food.”