MicroHorror

“It’s the goddamn truth, I tell ya,” Marty says through a mouthful of ribs. “The government is trying to brainwash every last one of us.”

“Marty, shut the hell up and pass them ribs.” Zeek says.

“Take for instance all those white streaks filling up the sky. You’re gonna try to tell me all that criss-crossin’ is from jet plane exhaust. I ain’t no fool. The United States Air Force is dumpin’ mind control chemicals on us from above.” Marty belches at the end for emphasis. Zeek roles his eyes in disgust and grabs two handfuls of juicy meat.

“Pretty soon we’ll all be zombie robots and then you’ll be takin’ me serious.”

“The only place I’ll be takin’ you is to the looney bin. Sometimes, Marty, you’re crazier than a rat in a tin shithouse. Now hand me some of that White Lightning.” Zeek takes a big slug off the rocket fuel and dives back into his plate.

“I’ve read it all on the Internet. Subliminal messages on the TV, in the movies and the radio. Even if you turned all that stuff off it don’t matter, ‘cause there’s a million billion microwaves slammin’ into your brain every second. That’s why I sleep with tinfoil around my head. If you’re not careful they’ll get you too.”

“That’s enough now, boy!” Zeek says and slams his fist down on wood. “Not another mention of any of your confound-it conspiracies!”

“Fine, big brother. If you’re worried about tin foil, I got extra.”

“Not another word or Heaven help you.”

“Alright, alright. Not another word… can I have a piece of the liver.”

Zeek yanks loose a cleaver that’s stuck in the table and cuts away at the fat holding the organ in place. The sawing motion makes the sprawled-out carcass jiggle violently. He tears the rest free, cuts the liver in half, and throws the best part to his younger brother.

“There ain’t much left on this one and she’s starting to stink,” Zeek says and wipes the cleaver off on the front of his apron. “Better start thinkin’ about rounding up another.”

Marty nods his head in agreement and uses his teeth to strip the meat off of a perfectly manicured finger.

Daddy, will the world ever end?
Will I think all the ash is just a winter’s snowfall?
Can I make angels in my neighbors’ remains?
When the sun winks out forever, what will you tell me then?
If I can’t see the heavens, can God see me?
Can I still play in the back yard?
Will there be a gaping hole all the way to the center of the Earth?
If I stand at the edge and look down, will I see them, smell them, burning alive?
Daddy, will you even be here?
Did you do enough? Did you make a difference?
Or are you the one to blame?

Sometimes a grown man just has to put his foot down. Enough already. No more celebrating that miserable holiday with his righteous/insidious/conniving/manipulative picture-frame family. For ten years Mark had driven home for Christmas. A seven-hour drive one way. For what, to have the entire family remind him how much of a failure he was? As if he didn’t already know.

Hey, Mom, thanks for pointing out the fact that I can’t hold down a job.

Oh, and you noticed I haven’t gotten laid by anything other than an inflatable mystery date in over a year. Wow! You’re so perceptive.

He’d moved seven hours away for a reason. Those people, his family, were evil. They’d pull your strings and force march a person right into suicide. That’s just what Mark did, or at least attempted to do. Take enough pills and Mamma’s nagging voice finally starts to drone out. Slash your wrists deep enough and the blood loss makes you numb to Daddy’s probing hands. Drink an insurmountable amount of booze and you can almost wash away the memories of your big brother and his friends playing hide the broomstick.

Just because he wasn’t going home for the holidays, didn’t mean he wouldn’t send a present.

The hardest part was staying conscious long enough to wrap it up. He’d braced his naked ass up against the bathroom sink and stood up on his tip-toes. He’d wrapped a guitar string around the base of his penis and held the string in both hands at shoulder height. His thing stared up at him.

“I should have done this a long time ago, troublemaker!” Mark said to his cock and yanked both his hands quickly to the side until the loop in the string undid itself.

His disembodied penis plopped down into a package about the size of a soccer ball between his feet. It was painstaking business picking out the right Christmas wrap for his families present, but finally Mark decided on a nice blue print with big fat snowmen. Mark plopped down shortly after; a constant stream of the red stuff sprayed from his voided crotch into the opened present. He was sure to be dead from blood loss shortly. Luckily, he’d thought ahead of time and ordered a package for pickup. With all the strength left in him, Mark managed to place the top on the box, tape a big red bow on right next to the label reading: To My Loving Family, and low crawl over to the apartment door. He opened the door and placed the package outside.

It was his own death rattle that closed the door tight.

Mark died with a smile on his face knowing that his family would really appreciate all the hard work that had gone into their present. For once, he had done something right.

“A curse of the hunger to any who trespass within these walls,” the tattooed native translated the ancient symbols above the tomb’s entrance, his teeth green from coca leaves.

“All who step through the sacred boundaries will eat the flesh of the ones they love… please, wiraqucha, do not make me go in there,” the indigenous man pleaded with the professor.

“Fine, Pachacutec, get out of my way, then. I’ve come too far to turn around now,” the professor said.

The doctor of anthropology pushed Pachacutec aside and stepped into the tomb. His eyes feasted upon the wonders that were lit up by the greased torch. Life size statues of the ancient emperor made of solid gold; a stone floor littered with diamonds, rubies, emeralds and jade; bound gold-leafed papers stacked to the ceiling. The professor picked up a polished serving plate next to his feet. He stared at his perfect reflection.

“Not only am I going to be filthy rich, but famous beyond all expectations,” he said, still staring at himself.

Fiddling with an out-of-place hair, he brought his other hand to an opened mouth. Excruciating pain jolted him from a glorious daydream. He ate his entire left hand before collapsing to the floor. Jagged bone tore at the back of his throat filling his mouth with blood; he swallowed in big gulps rabid with thirst. Before losing consciousness, he managed to eat his own lips and tongue.

The prestigious professor loved only himself.

She’s in his pocket, along with a wallet. He can’t let anyone know. At least while at work. Between appointments, when no one is around, he reaches in and fondles her. Sometimes he lingers too long and stiffens down there. He has to learn to be careful. This job is too perfect; so many beautiful women. What a shame if he were let go.

He couldn’t do it again. Not right away at least. There wasn’t any guilt, but he was a perfectionist. The planning and preparation. The execution. The cleanup. That’s why he kept something to tide him over–like an in-between meal. Not meant to satiate, but only appease.

She came to him in confidence. He was highly recommended by the A-list. Some of his best work was with her–the textbook kind. There was chemistry between them, or at least he thought so.

Unexpectedly, she ended their working relationship. She felt uncomfortable around him, but damn he was good at his job. He convinced her to commit to one more appointment.

Let me check my calendar. The only opening I have is after hours. Don’t worry, I have a key.

Streets outside were dark and empty. Artificial light threw a halo around her gorgeous hair. He trimmed with utmost attention to detail. As if her hair was precious and invaluable. With the last cut, he snipped a perfect lock from her crown and slipped it into his pocket. His scissors slashed a perfect U from lobe to lobe. Luckily, she wore an apron. Not much mess at all. Bleach water and a few passes of a mop took care of the mess. The blood was the same color as her highlights.

He dumped all of her in a lake. Except for a few strands.

A free moment before his next client, a hand slips into his pocket. She feels so good.

“Um, Raymond?”

“Yes,”

“My name’s Allison. I’m your 3:30.”

She has such perfect hair.

“Sure, just take a seat.”

“Raymond, I hear you do great work.”

“It’s gonna be easy with hair like that. It’s so beautiful, I wish I could cut it off and keep it in my pocket.”

You’re buried deep within spongy, cavernous marrow. Protected by a viscous barrier, you’re fragile but perfectly sterile. Symmetrical. Proof positive of how efficient the machinery really is.

Spider-web dendrites innervate the entire surface of your confines. They pulse and quiver in anticipation of a charge. Jagged lines of lightning from everywhere jolt you from incubation. Gap junctions erupt with a perpetuating flame, as bright as white phosphorous. You turn away, but the afterimage is already burned into your retina. The image feeds a mnemonic cocktail rushing through your fetal veins.

You remember and you began to evolve.

The lights are off. A stagnant cloud of booze and women and deliria follows him into bed. Where have you been? you whisper. He hits you with a closed fist. His knuckles shave your teeth to the gum line. You choke on a pool of blood and shattered enamel. He rams your face into the pillows and takes what isn’t his.

Not so sterile anymore. Metastasis growth from the inside out. Symmetry abolished by sloughs of blackened tissue. You gnaw at the umbilical cord with jagged sharp teeth. Threshold reached again, electric memory surges through you.

He’s had a bad day, drunken binge to wash away inadequacies. It doesn’t work; takes it out on your face. Cause and effect–inertia. You’re so fuckin’ timid and weak… no more.

Evolution. The fluid inside is poisoned, changes you into a monster with fangs and horns. Claws tear effortlessly through your fatty surroundings. The carcinogen spills out and dissociates, spreading malformation among the other perfect cells. Now they all remember. They’re all just like you.

You wait for him. He forces himself inside you with quintessential rage. Let him peak. At the right time, you skewer him with a kitchen knife. His eyes are already rolled back in his head from ecstasy. They stay that way. If only you could drive the knife all the way through, but it catches on bone and he slumps to the side. You breathe in the booze/women/deliria/semen/serum. Hold it in as long as you can, and then exhale slowly.