'Tis The Season

So it's been a while kids, but I put together a little Christmas story just for the holiday season. A few people had asked if it was possible for me to just right a story--one that's not fucked up or kind of demented. So I guess the answer is no. I mean I tried with this one, I really did. But it's tough for me to go against my natural inclinations as a writer. So I guess it's kind of an atypical holiday story, but hey, if you don't like it, you can go swallow some mistletoe. 

Just kidding. Looooooove you.

Anyway, it's something short of a Christmas miracle, but it'll do.

Santa leaned back in his favorite chair, inhaled a substantial hit from his favorite bong, held the smoke in his lungs for a moment and finally exhaled, watching as the thick cloud floated towards the glittering lights that decorated his mantle. 

Damn, those elves had done a hell of a job on this batch! Who says you can’t grow killer weed in the North Pole? Santa would be more than willing to put this herb up against anything from British Columbia, Amsterdam or California. As creepy as those little elves could be (and yes, after many, many years of interaction, Santa still found them creepy), their prowess for all things technical and scientific—including hydroponic horticulture—was nothing short of remarkable. 

Santa took another healthy bong hit then returned the two-foot glass pipe to its place on the coffee table. It was incredible how Christmas seemed to come quicker and quicker every year. There didn’t even seem to be an off-season anymore. Once the gifts are delivered. it’s already time to start monitoring the lists, which were mostly bullshit anyway. The threat of coal was an intimidation tactic that didn’t hold a lot of water anymore. 

But Santa’s criteria for naughty and nice had also undergone some serious changes in the past few decades. These days it took some serious shit to get on the naughty list. Now it seemed like shooting up a school or killing your parents were the only things that warranted a stocking full of coal. But things change. For better or worse, they change. 

He could feel himself getting older too. That’s right, Santa can feel his age like any other man. And he is old. Very old. He’s also grossly overweight. I mean let’s face it, Santa has been exceptionally fat for quite some time now. He’ll tell you it’s glandular, but a lot of fat people will say the same thing. A lot of them are full of shit. After years of being known as a jolly, rotund individual, he’ll tell you he doesn’t want to shatter any archetypes or ruin any traditional images. It just wouldn’t be right. If kids expect a cheerful fat-ass in a red suit, that’s what they’ll get. However, in reality, it’s more about complacency and laziness than maintaining tradition. 

But Santa hasn’t even been feeling all that jolly lately—just worn down and old. And things weren’t all candy canes and jingle bells with Mrs. Claus either. She hadn’t seemed as interested in him as of late. Certainly not as doting and supportive. For quite some time it seemed like his inability to conceive a child wasn’t a problem for her. He had expected it to be, but it wasn’t. He had even offered to look for a sperm donor, but she said it wouldn’t be right. If it wasn’t his, she didn’t want it. This made him feel reassured and confident. But lately, his insecurity regarding this issue was reemerging and he felt that Mrs. Claus’s nurturing and maternal ways were going to waste. And he was worried that she also felt this way. 

Not that the blanks he shot had diminished her affinity for riding that big sleigh of his. No sir. At least not at first. She had always been very amorous and extremely willing to please. During the month of December, if Mrs. Claus were to run into Mr. Claus beneath the mistletoe dispersed throughout the house, she would blow him right then and there—no questions asked, just good old tradition. Needless to say, Santa’s house and workshop had liberal amounts of mistletoe hanging here and there. He even kept some in the desk drawer in his office at the back of the workshop. He so enjoyed those mid-day visits when Mrs. Claus would enter his office with purpose in her eyes, closing the door behind her and locking it to ensure the elves wouldn’t disturb them.

During the month of December, Santa would average three blowjobs over the course of any given day (and you wondered why he was so jolly). But that tradition had fizzled out over the past few years. Santa couldn’t even remember the last time his knob had been slobbed by his favorite lady in red. And lately the sex in general hadn’t been anything to write home about. It had become mechanical and unenthusiastic—sex for the sake of sex. 

Decembers seemed to come with less enthusiasm every year. And Mrs. Claus didn’t seem to have the same appetites for him that she once had. They spoke less frequently and spent more time alone. Even their conversations—once deep, honest and beautiful—were growing more and more superficial. It seemed as though she was simply losing interest in Father Christmas.

And she wasn’t the only one. 

The age at which kids stopped believing in Santa was steadily dropping as well. And the ones that did believe had much higher expectations. They weren’t just looking for wooden trains and aluminum fire trucks anymore. They were looking for Playstation 3s and iPhones and laptops and HD TVs and Blu-Ray players. The elves were exhausted and frustrated from trying to keep up with the technology. 

And Santa had issues in the past with disgruntled elves in the workshop. During the whole Nintendo Wii debacle just a few years ago (a period of gift-giving turmoil even more desperate than Furbee or Tickle Me Elmo), the elves had been under intense pressure to meet the needs of many children hoping to find a new gaming system under their tree that year. And elves, much like any other overworked individual during the holiday season, can only withstand so much stress. Some elves just don’t have the mental resiliency to be workshop elves. Jerry was one of those. 

Santa had been in his office at the back of the workshop (making his lists and checking them twice) when he heard the first blast. Upon opening his office door, Santa had expected to find a malfunctioning machine, but instead saw Jerry with a rifle in hand, firing indiscriminately at his elf brethren. Larry was the first to go, his little elfin head—containing more blood and brains than anyone could have imagined—splattered all over the Christmas tree that decorated one corner of the workshop. The next shot caught Toby in the back, spraying a dark crimson burst on a row of half-assembled toys. The fury in Jerry’s eyes was unwavering and Santa held his breath as the rifle was aimed at his chest. The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. The shot rung out and at the last moment, Santa closed his eyes only to open them and find Gary at his boots. Nobel little Gary had thrown himself in front of the bullet intended for Santa. His blood stained Santa’s beard and face. 

A few other brave elves jumped on Jerry to stop him, but not before he managed to put the shotgun beneath his chin and decorate the ceiling with his brain matter. Never before had such a deplorably tragic event tainted the holiday. Sure, the elves had their drama—who’s sleeping with who, how much meth is being produced behind Santa’s back (sometimes they need a little help to get through the long nights), maybe even a fist fight here or there—but the stressful times leading up to Christmas were usually treated with pot, Xanax, sex or booze. An elf snapping so severely had never even been considered before that point. 

Of course this is an incident that could not be forgotten, even after time, and it lent itself to Santa’s increasingly solemn nature. The idea that elves—a race generally more diligent, jovial and caring—were susceptible to the exceptional pressures of the holiday season was very disconcerting. If elves could snap under the stress, what did that say about people? No wonder suicide rates always jumped during the holiday season. 

And of course, a lot of people just didn’t care anymore, unless they were stretching out open hands for the gifts they thought they deserved. They had no respect or concern for the amount of effort that went into the whole Christmas production. They just assumed the magic took care of the legwork. Abra-fucking-cadabra—here’s your Xbox! Really, it’s no trouble at all. 

Ha! Ingrates! 

Sure, the magic helped. None of this could be accomplished without it. Hell, most reindeer aren’t born to fly. The world’s presents would never fit into one bag (no matter how big). And with Santa’s impressive circumference, he wouldn’t be able to fit down too many chimneys. So the magic was a big part of it. But it still took a lot of late nights, a lot of deadlines and a lot of stress. 

And it used to all be worth it. He used to think he had the greatest job in the world—wouldn’t trade it for anything. He used to be able to feel the love and affection that went out to him. It was truly awe-inspiring. 

But now he was beginning to feel unappreciated and taken for granted. 

It wasn’t even just about him. Believe me, Santa is not that egotistical or self-pitying. It was also about Christmas in general. And I’m not talking about a lack of interest in the religious aspects (let’s face it, Santa himself is pretty secular… he’s never even been to church), but all the warmth and sentiment associated with Christmas was evaporating from the world like a day-old rain puddle. Joy? Compassion? Love? Not so much. Santa had even watched a story on satellite TV about a store employee that was trampled to death on Black Friday by a herd of aggressive, thoughtless shoppers. Just watching the news report had made him nauseous. 

Santa reached for the table and picked up the bong again. He took a hit and put it down on the floor next to his armchair. He then picked up a candy cane out of the small dish on the coffee table. Good old-fashioned peppermint. He had had a brief love affair with the fruit-flavored ones—they were new and different for a time—but in the end he always came back to peppermint. 

With only a few days before Christmas, he knew the elves would still be at work in the shop. It seemed like a good idea to head back and check on them. They always responded well to a motivational speech from the big guy. After all, he was a rather impressive orator. Candy cane in mouth, Santa rose from his chair, but had forgotten the bong was by his feet. In one awkward motion, Santa kicked over the bong and fell to the floor with the candy cane lodging itself in his throat. 

He tried to call for help, but the candy blocked his airway. In an act of desperation, he kicked over the nearby coffee table, hoping Mrs. Claus was close enough to hear it. Six or seven years ago she would have almost certainly been in that room with him, but with their increasing distance, he imagined she was on the other side of the house. 

As the room grew darker around him, he felt a surprising sense of relaxation—freedom, if you will. He was almost grateful to be relieved of his esteemed position while Christmas had some lingering sense of warmth still associated with it. Did this remaining bit of goodness die with him? What kind of work did his successor have in front of him? He imagined all these questions would be answered eventually, but he was content to know that he had his memories of the good times.   

In his last struggling breath, he pictured Mrs. Claus entering his workshop office, face aglow with everything he used to love about Christmas. She closes the door and advances on him, leaning down and offering him a loving kiss. As their lips separate, she mouths the words that mean the world to him. She runs her soft hands through his hair and he holds onto this sensation as he loses consciousness completely.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

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The Bell Tower Blues

So there are actually two versions of this story. Well, more like one and a half. Anyway this is the grosser, more depressing version. It's pretty bleak and violent and cynical. And yes, I understand that most people would not react like this in the face of such adversity. But you have to figure that at least one unstable individual (and possibly more) in this crazy world of ours, when presented with such an ugly and seemingly hopeless situation, would react similar to the character in this story.

People are assholes. Did anyone miss that memo?

So check this one out. Hope you enjoy it!

The Bell Tower Blues  

Desperation and the compulsion to survive can make a man do unpleasant things. It almost seems ironic how our subconscious drive to endure can actually push us to make drastic, spur-of-the-moment decisions that inevitably lead to our collapse. 

And God only knows how brutal that collapse can be. 

Well… maybe God has nothing to do with it. In fact, when you’ve seen what I’ve seen in the past twenty-four hours, it kind of leads a guy to believe that God is either on vacation or just offering a big ‘fuck you’ to all his unruly, disobedient children. It’s punishment time from Big Papa and he’s really taking us over his knee. 

Or maybe the more logical conclusion is that there is no God. No devil either. Just a big fucked up scenario we got here in front of us. Yup… ten pounds of fucked up in a five pound bag; a veritable surplus of awful. That’s how I’m starting to see it anyway. 

I guess the promise of isolation is kind of what drew me up here to begin with. But now I just feel like Noah without his animals. I’m definitely on high ground, but I’m floating on a flood of misery and gore. There are bodies down there, hollowed out like aspiring canoes; innards on the outside, puddles of blood producing dark stains on the pavement beneath them. These are the ones that are too decimated to come back. Every now and then a desperate Wanderer will come by and start chewing on the remnants of another’s kill. He or she will pick up the entrails and gnaw on them until they feel they’ve exhausted their resource. Some even pop out the eyes to assuage their hunger. From the scope on my rifle, I can see the gooey, pussy insides burst through their discolored teeth and lips. At first I considered taking these bastards out. But frankly, preserving the dead is none of my concern as of now. 

I know if I off a few of those motherfuckers, the shots will just lead the rest of them up here, and I can’t have that. 

I know I can’t stay up in this tower forever. My food and water are going to run out sooner rather than later, unless I climb down and manage to find sustenance in close proximity. 

Okay, maybe Noah is a poor comparison. How bout Anne Frank in her attic, but without her family to keep her company. If I call too much attention to myself, I’m sure they’ll find their way up here in no time. 

And then I’m dinner. 

Or breakfast. 

Or lunch. 

I guess it all depends on the time of day. 

When I first came up here, one of my initial thoughts was to find a way to destroy the stairs that ascend to this little perch. Of course that leaves me in a bit of a pickle: with no way to get down, once my food and water runs out, I’m a goner. So I left the stairs as they were and just found some old furniture to barricade the door. I don’t know if it will stand up to a swarm of them, but it’ll provide a little resistance (or at least a deterrent) to any of those ravenous fucks that want to get up here. 

And I do have a great view of the chaos from my perch. Although it has settled down quite a bit by now. The streets are relatively quiet, with just a few of the Wanderers stumbling around, undoubtedly searching for their next meal. 

I can even see my old Chevy on the far end of the shopping center parking lot, probably about 300 yards from the front door of this old church. The front end of the pick-up truck is smashed-in something ugly. I could probably get it running again, but not without taking some time to tweak a few things under the hood. And without knowing exactly what’s fucked in there, well that means it would take way too much time. I’d have teeth chewing on my flesh before I could even assess the damage. And I’ve got the firepower to fend em off for a bit, but if they swarm, I’m fucked. 

So for now it’s just me, my thoughts and the scenery, just trying to stay alive until the Calvary comes in. Hell, this is why we pay taxes. This is why we have a government and a military. This is why we keep em around, right? To protect us from all enemies, foreign and domestic. 

Or undead as the case may be. 

I pick a granola bar out of the box and start to unwrap it. Hunger has been forcing itself on me for the last hour or so, but I need to become accustomed to rationing. Who knows how long I’ll be up here. I chew the granola slowly, making some effort to savor the nourishment. I wash it down with a sip of bottled water. After finishing the bar, I lean my back up against the aging wooden wall of the bell tower and close my eyes. Rifle in hand, I put my chin into my chest and fall asleep quickly.

 

 

It’s the screams that wake me. I haven’t heard any signs of human life in hours, besides my own thoughts and breathing of course. And these aren’t just screams of someone in the process of being torn apart (those I've gotten pretty used to). These are screams for help. They’re lively and surprisingly hopeful, like this person hasn’t been a witness to what’s really going on. 

“Please! Someone… anyone… HELP MEEEEE!” 

I move to the edge of the tower and look through the opening. It’s completely dark outside now. The power’s been out for at least twelve hours, so the only illumination comes from the moon—which struggles mightily against wavering clouds—and a few fires that have popped up here and there as a result of small explosions. But even in the poor light, I can see the girl stumbling through the parking lot across the street. 

I put the rifle to my shoulder and peer through the sight like it’s a telescope. The girl is young—probably shy of twenty—and she looks unharmed. Her clothes appear surprisingly neat, as if her evening has been without incident thus far. Nonetheless, I can see the fear and urgency on her face. She walks carefully through the parking lot, swinging her head somewhat wildly and calling for assistance. 

“Please help me! Dear God, someone PLEEAAASSE! I’m all alone! Someone please… FUCKING HELP ME!”

Silence replies. In fact, she’s lucky that’s the only thing that replies. If she keeps making a scene like this, those things will come like hungry children to a dinner bell. 

“Christ, is anyone still alive?” she calls. I can hear the hope dwindle in her voice with every attempt. “Is everybody fucking dead? Tell me there’s someone out there!” 

She’s looking at the cars in the parking lot now, checking in through the windows to see if anyone has left their keys. This is an act of pure desperation. Even if by some chance someone has left their keys, where could she go? Who’s to say this shit isn’t happening everywhere? Best to just find a place to hold up and wait for the heroes to stroll in with tanks and helicopters and whatever else. 

Suddenly there’s another sound. I can hear it from the department store, not 100 feet from where the girl stands. She hears it too and freezes. It’s the sound of glass shattering. Then there’s a scream, but this one isn’t human. It’s horrid and piercing and guttural, and even those who haven’t heard it before can probably guess that it belongs to a creature you don’t want to interact with. 

The girl backs slowly away from the department store, but she keeps her eyes on the source of the scream. I set my sight on the front of the store and only have to wait a few seconds before I can see the silhouette of something that would appear to be human. Of course to the naïve eye, the silhouette of any Wanderer would appear human, but if you look closer you can see the hunched form, the hanging arms, the apparent lack of competent motor skills. And although the young lady in peril seemed slightly ignorant to her situation at first, it appears as though she’s reading between the lines now. 

Her gradual distancing from the department store ceases. She stops, turns towards the church and sprints. The thing in the department store dashes after her, letting out another violently guttural screech as it takes off. And those things are not as slow as their stumbling appearance may lead you to believe. Once they sense a meal, it seems as though their once-human instincts take over and their speed is comparable to that of any living person. 

I watch as the girl gets to the end of the parking lot. To her right, another figure emerges from the darkness, this one running too.  She’s got two on her trail now and I’m sure there are others not far behind. 

The girl darts into the street. She avoids running into a car that sits idle in the middle of the road—another motorist who thought they could escape, but was clearly proven wrong. As she hops over the curb that leads to the lawn in front of the church, her foot catches the lip of the grass and she goes down… hard. Her left arm gets caught awkwardly beneath her falling body and her head smashes against the edge of the concrete path that cuts through the church’s front yard. She’s on the ground and not moving. Her two antagonists are closing in on her, maybe only 50 feet away from her limp body. 

If I don’t do something, that girl is as good as dead. I steady my rifle and set my sights on the closest Wanderer. I put my finger on the trigger. Not a lot of time now—he’s practically on top of her. All I have to do is pull the trigger and that fucker’s pale, ugly head will explode like a ball of wet confetti. 

I take a deep breath and relax my finger. The first wanderer jumps on her like a rabid animal. His teeth go straight for her neck. He’s ripping into her flesh and geysers of blood are shooting up from her jugular. The second creature is there only moments after. He goes to work on her midsection, using impressive strength to force his hands into the skin of her abdomen and bring handfuls of dripping meat to his mouth. He buries his face into the pile of flesh and devours it sloppily. 

Of course any hope of the girl remaining unconscious through this attack is abolished within just a few moments. As those teeth rip into her neck, she wakes with a start and screams with such pain and anguish, it’s all I can do to keep the rifle at my side. I consider putting a bullet in her head, just to end her misery, but I know I can’t afford bringing any attention to my hiding spot. A few gunshots coupled with a few dead wanderers would bring an army of those goddam things right to the door of this church, and I can’t have that. 

The sounds of this grotesque feast may be even worse than the sight of it. Even from the tower—easily 60 or 70 feet above the scene below—the sounds of tearing flesh and ravenous chewing are all-too audible. I close my eyes and move away from the edge of the tower. But even on the inside of my lids, I can see the pained expression of that girl being torn apart. And I can still hear the screams, which grow weaker and weaker. The shrieks eventually fade to feeble, gurgling moans and then there’s just the sound of frail flesh being torn by strong teeth, along with an occasional animalistic growl. 

Suddenly my stomach turns and I retch. I spew the minimal amount of food I’ve eaten all over the wooden platform of the bell tower. And once all the food’s gone, I dry heave for another minute or so. I can feel a few of the capillaries in my face burst. Tears stream from my eyes and I fall to the floor, collapsing in a pile of my own vomit. 

I’ve seen death. I’ve stared it in the face and held its hand. But watching someone get ravaged by those things is a whole different story. 

Fuck. 

I manage to crawl away from the food I’ve expelled and force myself into a sitting position with my back resting against the old boards of the tower. I look at the tarnished bell hanging above. It’s old and rusted, but not without its shimmering portions. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in one of the shining patches. Is it possible to age twenty years in the course of twelve hours? I don’t think I ever pictured myself looking so old and haggard, even in the late stages of my life. 

The world can wear you down. You’re only as old as it wants you to be. 

The world and civilization are collapsing around us. It’s incredible how fast things can come apart. After millions of years of development and evolution, it only takes a few days for everything to come crashing down, for people to revert into the harshest forms of themselves. 

I watched a girl die from my perch in the sky. I could have stopped it. I could have saved her life. But I decided to sit here, aloof and self-preserving. 

Maybe this is how God feels… if he even exists I mean. 

And yes, I’ve done some pretty terrible things since the shit hit the fan. But if we’re reverting, I’m not going to be the one left behind, confined by compassion and morality. It’s about survival of the fittest now, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose my life defending some little girl who’s stupid enough to go running around a parking lot screaming at the top of her lungs. 

She’s not made for the new world. She wouldn’t survive. Best to just thin out the herd now. I’m sure provisions are going to be limited and the weak will never take priority. If that girl didn’t have enough common sense to lock herself in a safe spot and wait for help to come, then she doesn’t deserve to survive. It may sound cruel, but these are the cards the world has dealt us and we don’t have much choice but to abide. 

I grab a bottle of water from my small stash and rinse my mouth out, attempting, without much success, to get the taste of puke and bile out. I look at my unimpressive collection of provisions. If I hadn’t been forced to dash from my crashed car, I could have taken more than the few items I had in the pick-up’s cab. I know what I have here won’t last me very long, but it will get me through a few days. 

If those greedy bastards I used to call neighbors had been more generous, I’d probably be in better shape up here. Fucking assholes—if they had just given me the goddam flashlight and the radio I would have been on my way. But no, Daddy had to get all tough and righteous in front of his wife and kids; had to prove to them what a big man he is. Telling me to go fuck myself, telling me his family is more important than I am, telling me I need to get the fuck out of his house. 

He couldn’t see how useful a person like me can be in a situation like the one we’re facing. He wanted to be a hero in front of his family. He wanted to throw me out. 

Sure his family started squealing when I drove the butt of my rifle into his face. Sure his wife started yelling at me when the blood gushed from his shattered nose. Sure his kids started crying as he refused to stay on the floor and came at me with a kitchen knife. 

What can I say? Survival instinct took over. He came at me with murder in his eyes so I shot him in the neck. I let him bleed out on the floor in front of his shrieking family. And they just wouldn’t shut the fuck up. I shouted at them. I warned them. I told them if they didn’t shut up I was going to lose it. And guess what? They kept screaming. 

A family of disobedience. 

A family that would never survive in the new world. 

In truth, I like to think I did them a favor. Better to be gunned down quickly and in your own home than eaten alive somewhere on the streets by those fucking things. Families should stick together. 

And they’re together. 

Maybe I snapped. I know what I did would never be accepted in the civilized world we used to live in. But we’re in a world of animals now. It’s all chaos and it’s all violence and I will do whatever I have to do to survive. I’m a fighter—always have been, always will be. 

Nightmares have never killed me before and they won’t kill me now. Besides, I’ve got some medicine to help me through the ugly memories. 

I reach into my little survival bag and pull out the bottle of Jack Daniels I managed to grab from my house before paying my (former) neighbors a visit. I take a healthy swig. The strong flavor removes the taste of vomit from my mouth—more effective than mouthwash. 

I settle back against the wall, as far away from my own puke and the edge of the tower as I can get. I take another sip of Jack and try to picture the rest of the world: a flaming disaster of hostility and bloodshed; a mishmash of bedlam slowly sinking into some ancient primordial soup. It’s almost beautiful in it’s own…

 

CRASH!

 

I hear the cacophonous reverberation of sound as it echoes through the whole bell tower. One more time and I’m on my feet, rifle in hand. From the top of the tower I can see the door at the bottom of the tall spiral staircase as it’s forced into the barricade of old furniture I placed in front of it. 

Fuck. They’re trying to get in here. They’re in the fucking church and trying to get into the tower. Shit… they must be able to smell me. 

I knew I should have found a way to destroy the goddam staircase! 

I reach into my survival bag and pull out the rest of my bullets. If there aren’t too many of them, I might be able to pick em off as they come through the door. One by one, I’ll splatter their fucking brains all over the bottom of this tower until I run out of bullets, making sure I save one for myself. If I’m out of options I’ll blow my own head off. I’m not going to end up like them and I’m not going to be food for these fucking things. 

The door hits the furniture hard again. Each time the door is able to open a little more. Just a few more tries and they’ll be able to squeeze through. I set my sight on the slowly expanding bit of open space. I see a body try to wiggle its way through, but it doesn’t have enough room. It’s stuck—the proverbial sitting duck. Kiss your ass goodbye motherfucker.

I fire off a round but miss the thing’s head. Instead I hit it on the back of the shoulder. The thing lets out a pained yelp that sounds surprisingly human and falls to the ground, still stuck between the door and the door jam. I aim at its head and catch a glimpse of its face in my scope. I watch the lips move as it murmurs, “stop.” 

Then I hear it: a weak voice trying to yell. 

Fuck, this guy is still alive. 

“Please help,” he’s more audible this time. “They broke into the rectory. You have to help me.” 

That’s when I see the spot of white around the guy’s neck. Fuck me… I just shot a fucking priest. Not some undead wandering priest either, but a real man of God that has yet to succumb to the hell outside. 

I freeze, unsure of what to do. 

“Please,” he repeats. He manages to wiggle his way to the inside of the tower door. He closes it behind him and leans his back against it. 

“You’re gonna lead them in here.” That’s the only thing I can manage to say. “You’re gonna lead them right to me.” 

“No,” he replies weakly. “They were in the rectory. They didn’t see me come in here. I don’t even think they’re in the church yet. If you can please just help me barricade the door.” 

He looks young for a priest. I can see as his bright blue eyes look from me to the barrel of my rifle. He presses his right hand over the wound on his shoulder and screams in pain. 

“You have to shut the fuck up,” I yell down at him. “Just shut up or they’ll hear you.” 

“Please,” he says. “You can help me. The wound isn’t that bad. You just winged me.” 

I remain at my perch at the top of the tower, gun trained on the injured priest. I know he’s full of shit. He’s hurt bad and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. If I bring him up here, he’s just going to need medical attention. And once he’s up here I can’t let him leave. I don’t even have enough food to keep us both alive for any significant amount of time. 

I know he’s a man of the cloth, but that means he doesn’t deserve to suffer. He deserves a dignified death; not one from fever or infection or consumption. He deserves better than that. 

Besides, God has no place in the new world. 

I squeeze the trigger and splatter his brains on the door to the tower. I can actually see as one of his teeth exits the top of his head and becomes lodged in the old wood of the door. There isn’t even time for a look of shock on his face, not that there’s much of a face left to speak of. 

I move quickly to the bottom of the tower stairs and pull the priest’s body away from the door. I put the old furniture back in its barricading position. 

I’m really not a monster, but times like these a man needs to look out for himself. If that were me caught in the door, I’d understand anyone else’s decision to take me out. Sure, I’d be pissed about it—probably furious really—but I’d understand the compulsion to survive, the natural instinct to prioritize your own existence over that of anybody else. 

We’ve thrived as selfish creatures. No reason to abandon that now. 

There’s a crash from the other side of the tower door. I push my ear against the splintering wood, careful to avoid the father’s blood spatters and brain fragments. I can hear them in the church. It’s impossible to tell just how many are in there, but I can hear their dragging footsteps and their low moans. I would guess at least four or five, with more probably on the way. 

I knew that fucking priest would lead them here. I knew they would follow him. Christ, those things know there’s food in here and they’re just going to set up shop right outside this door. It’s not like they have anything better to do. They’re not going to go looking for a meal somewhere else when they know there’s one in here. And once they realize they can’t get through the door, they’re just going to wait and wait and wait until I’m out of food and out of options. 

They’ve got all the time in the world.  

So who starves to death quicker? A human or one of them? 

I can already feel my stomach growling. Those granola bars and canned beans aren’t going to last me very long. And who knows what the government and the military are doing. It could be weeks before the bureaucrats get their heads out of their asses. I’m going to need some real protein to keep my strength up—make sure I’m not totally weak if they manage to bust in here. If I could find some meat—even just a little to keep me on my game for a day or two—I’d be in much better shape for the coming days. 

But any kind of meat is going to be real tough to come by at this point. I can’t just cut up a flank steak or a chicken breast. There sure as hell isn’t any meat in this fucking tower. 

Unless… 

I look down at the dead priest. Do you really need to cook flesh before you eat it? That soccer team stayed alive eating their dead. So did the Donner party. Desperate times call for desperate measures. The world is moving on and only those willing to do what others won’t will survive. 

And I’ll do what I have to. Cause I’m a fighter—always have been, always will be.

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com  

Chicks Dig Me For My Brain

Yes, this little dialogue was actually inspired by a real conversation. What can I say? I'm a little warped... and so are some of the people I associate with.

Enjoy!

"Sometimes I think I’m destined to be alone." 

"You’re such a drama queen." 

"I’m serious. I mean c’mon… can’t you see it? Me in twenty years: sitting in my study, grizzled by years of solitude, alone and drunk, wallowing in self-pity. I take out a shotgun—one that I bought to impress friends and feel like a big man—and splatter my brains all over the wall. Like Hunter S. Thompson, but less cool and less accomplished. Tell me that doesn’t sound plausible." 

"I hate it when you say shit like that." 

"Would you clean up my brain fragments? True love would be cleaning up my brain fragments." 

"I would be cursing you the whole time I was cleaning them." 

"I don’t think you have the stomach to clean up my brain fragments." 

"Are you kidding me? I totally do." 

"What if I said you had to clean them up with your tongue?" 

"Mmmmm… I know what a creative guy you are. I was always a little jealous of your ideas and creativity. Maybe eating your brains would give me that power. Ya know... like on Heroes." 

"Oh get the fuck out of here! There’s no way you’d be able to eat my brains!" 

"That’s your problem: you never have any faith in me… and my ability to eat your brains." 

"Oh those bloody, slimy little morsels would touch your lips and you’d start gagging and probably throw up all over the place." 

"No way!" 

"Then you just have my brains marinating in your puke. Combine that with all the blood and that’s one hell of a mess. The cops would love to know where the puke came from. What are you gonna tell ‘em? Huh?" 

"There wouldn’t be any puke. I could totally handle eating your brains." 

"I mean maybe if you cooked them—threw ‘em in a frying pan with some seasoning or something. But no way you’re eating them raw." 

"Well I think they’d hafta be raw to really get any kind of nutrients or power from them. Plus they would probably get rubbery if they’ve been sitting too long. I would just tell myself I was eating calamari. That was always a popular appetizer for us." 

"I think you’re science is totally flawed. The only thing you’d get from eating my brains would be a stomachache… or maybe sepsis." 

"I wouldn’t get sick if they were still fresh." 

"Well I don’t know how fresh they’d be by the time you actually heard I blew my brains out. Who knows… some other exes might beat you to the punch. Maybe all the organs worth eating are devoured by the time you get there." 

"I don’t think your other exes would have the stomach… or the desire." 

"I don’t know. I could see Kelly going to town on my heart. There’s a certain poetic justice to it." 

"Are you serious? She would just dab a little blood on her lips to make it look like she did then go around bragging to people that she ate the shit out of it. She couldn’t actually go through with it. I’m really your only option." 

"You’re probably right." 

"You know I am."

 

 

Musik Musik Musik!

What's up party people?

eartoear has been putting together some pretty solid jams as of late, so I figured I'd share this one with the masses. It starts off pretty chill (smoke em if you got em), but it crescendos nicely.

So click on the "Musik" title above to hear some tuuuuuuuunes.

Enjoy!

A Happy Birthday (Part 3)

Well, here you are: the final installment of "A Happy Birthday." And just in time for Halloween! I'd like to thank everyone that kept coming back to check on the fate of our fiery little protagonist. Some of you may be a little shocked at some of the events in this part, maybe even a little appalled, but I really enjoyed writing this story (maybe cause I'm a little fucked in the head), so I hope it entertains at least a few of you. And if you haven't read Part 1 or Part 2, PLEASE READ THOSE PARTS FIRST. This is the climax, so check out the earlier postings before reading this one. 

Enjoy!

...Fuck this creep. If he wants to have his way with me, he's not going to get it without a fight.

I reach across the table and pick up one of the candles in its glass cup as quickly as my drugged body will allow. He doesn’t even seem to notice it’s in my hand. He sits down across from me as I lean forward and smash the glass-encased candle into the side of his big head. Apparently I managed a fair amount of strength because the glass shatters into tiny pieces. Some shards explode to the side of him and some become lodged in the flesh on the side of his face. The now-exposed candle flies into his hair, which ignites incredibly quickly thanks to his apparent affinity for hairspray. Stunned, it seems to take him a moment to realize his hair is on fire. 

Finally he howls in pain and surprise. He stands up from the table with such force that it goes crashing to the floor. He runs over to the filthy, old sink and turns on the faucet. I see my opportunity and I begin bashing the arm of the chair with my free hand as hard as I can. The wood begins to splinter. Small shards of wood enter my flesh but I continue, blood dripping down my right hand. Eric’s still hunched over the sink, trying to find a way to push his big head under the apparently weak stream of water. I continue to bash my right hand against the chair’s arm. Even in my drugged state I can feel the pain begin to shoot up my hand. Blood splatters against my face every time I bring my hand back for a little momentum. I’m screaming now, but it’s more primal than fearful. Every time my hand smashes into the chair’s arm I scream a little louder. 

Finally it shatters. Pieces of wood splinter into all different directions, with a few more finding a home under my skin. I try to stand—the handcuffs still dangling from my left wrist—and fall right to the dirty linoleum, my ridiculous party hat tumbling from my head. Fuck! C’mon legs! Get it together. We need to get the fuck out of here! 

I look over to the sink. Eric’s screaming now, throwing threats at me. I’ve awakened the businessman. “YOU FUCKING BITCH! OHHH YOU FUCKING BITCH! I’M GOING TO FUCKING CUT YOU OPEN! YOU RUINED MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY AND I’M GOING TO MAKE YOU BLEED! I’M GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU SEE YOUR FUCKING ORGANS BEFORE YOU STOP BREATHING!” He continues to shout, but I can still see flames and smoke coming off his head. I have a little time. If I can get myself together I can get to that knife. 

I start to hit my legs. I can feel the pins and needles, but my own strikes feel dull and non-influential. “Come on!” I’m yelling at my legs now. “Come on!” 

Shit, the flames are getting smaller. I’m running out of time. I begin to drag myself across the linoleum, dust and grime clinging to my arms and clothes. I’m sweating profusely and my arm is now covered in blood. Small pieces of filth are adhering to the sticky appendage as I continue to drag myself. Only a few more feet now. I’m almost to the counter. 

He’s still shouting and the room is filled with a surprising amount of smoke. I realize the remaining candle that had still been on the table when he knocked it to the ground had found its way to one of the paper plates. The plate is burning in the middle of the room, emitting a fairly thick cloud of smoke. 

I’ve reached the base of the counter, but the top is a few feet above me. I reach my arm up blindly, hoping to have my hand settle on the knife, but from my position on the floor I can only reach the edge of the counter. I need to pull myself up. The shooting pain in my right arm has become extremely affecting. I’m so weak, but I’m so close. And I watch as Eric extinguishes the remaining bit of fire in his hair. He pulls his head out from under the faucet. Only a few more seconds now. Okay... let’s do this. LET’S FUCKING DO THIS! 

With whatever strength remains in me, I pull my body up and manage to stretch my arm across the counter. Falling quickly back to the floor, I manage to get my hand on the knife, but I can’t grasp it. Instead, in my falling motion, I manage to sweep it to the floor. The knife clatters next to me and I pick it up. He’s coming towards me now, practically on top of me, murder in his pained eyes. I reach up with the knife in a weak stabbing motion and watch as it digs into his exposed arm. He howls, but with most of my strength gone, the blade doesn’t go very deep. He swings his arm and I lose my grip on the knife. It goes flying across the room, landing somewhere near the sink. 

He kicks me with incredible force, right in the chest. There goes another rib. He then walks calmly over to the burning plate and steps on it until the fire is out. The room is full of smoke and I’m nothing more than a heap against the base of the counter. He walks back over to me and kicks me again… and again… and again. 

“You stupid bitch!” He berates me every time he lands a kick. “You fucking whore! You ruined my fucking birthday!” He’s still all businessman. Somehow I don’t think I’ll be seeing the retard for the remainder of the evening. 

He’s less precise with his kicks now and a few catch my face. I’m bleeding from my mouth and nose now too. I’m just a sweaty, bloody mess. I want to tell him to stop, but I know it won’t do any good. And maybe in his rage he’ll just beat me to death. At least that way I don’t have to deal with Little Eric poking its way around inside me. Take out all your anger big guy! Finish me off! I’m done with this. 

But he stops. “No,” he says kind of quietly. “NOOOO!” He screams it the next time. “I won’t let you ruin my birthday! I won’t let you! This is gonna be a happy b-b-birthday!” 

Well at least part of the big dumb animal is still in there. But it seems like even he’s pretty pissed off. I guess he has a right to be. Businessman or retard, it’s the same hair still smoking. It’s the same face with little shards of glass under the skin. I’ve enraged him and no girlish charm, no attempts at manipulation are going to stop him now. We’re past mind games at this point. He’s gonna lay me out on his mattress and rape me. He’s gonna rape me until I beg for death and then he probably still won’t even kill me. He’ll throw me back into that fucking basement and keep me alive on water and Powerbars just so he can fuck me and fuck me and fuck me until I die from malnutrition or find a way to kill myself. 

Welcome to hell. 

He leans down and scoops me up again. I’m in too much pain and too exhausted to offer any kind of resistance. He carries me through a door at the side of the kitchen and down some long, unlit hallway. He stops in front of another threshold then enters quickly. The room is dark, but it seems like Eric knows exactly where he’s going. He drops me on a mattress and wanders over to the doorway. He turns on the light and I can see his face is bleeding and his hair is missing in patches. Some hair has managed to melt to his skull. His surgical mask has fallen off, leaving his mouth exposed. Remnants of dinner cling to his lips as blood leaks down to join them. Before he looked like a psychopath; now he just looks like a monster. 

“Please,” I manage to stammer through a mouth of spit and blood. “Please just kill me. I can’t do this anymore. Please, please just kill me.” 

The monster shakes his head emphatically. “No, no, NO, NO! You’re gonna g-give me my b-b-birthday present.” Businessman and retard have melded into one horrifying, inarticulate killer. “I’m gonna g-get a b-b-birthday present if I have to take it from you… FUCKING BITCH!” 

He advances, moving towards me with intense determination. I shift slightly on the mattress in a desperate attempt to keep as far away from him as possible. I feel the cold steel of the handcuff press against my left wrist. The dangling circle of metal that was cuffed around the chair’s arm cannot be opened without the key, but it can still be tightened by simply pressing the steel loops together. Eric had fastened the cuff loosely around the chair’s arm, so there is a lot of room to tighten. A crazy idea begins to form in my nearly delirious brain. I may still have a chance… at the very least a chance to do some damage to Eric before he ruins my life any further. 

He’s standing over the mattress now, just an arm’s length away. He reaches down for my legs and begins to pull my pants off with savage strength. I offer little resistance, waiting for my opportunity to unleash the Hail Mary play in the back of my head. Eric is grunting like an animal now. He throws my jeans to floor and goes to work on my panties. Excited—and maybe a little frustrated—Eric simply rips the thin fabric of my underwear and yanks it away from my sweaty skin. 

The fucker is salivating now. That’s right you piece of shit. Drop those drawers. Let’s see that awful little pecker of yours. 

He removes the jumpsuit and exposes himself. His dick’s already hard and surprisingly large. With such a timid and idiotic demeanor I expected some puny little cock… possibly even deformed. But Eric’s packing down there, which actually makes my plan a little easier. 

“This is gonna be the best b-b-birthday ever,” he says as drool falls from his mouth. He moves to the mattress, but before he can properly mount me I grab his dick in my bloody right hand. I yank my cuffed left hand up and before he knows it, his cock is locked in the dangling cuff. I squeeze the shackle as tight as they’ll go and he screams a piercing high-pitch scream, the likes of which I’ve never heard from a man. His monster face—formally confident, enthusiastic and unwavering—contorts to that of a young boy whose puppy has just been run over right in front of him.  

I roll off the mattress and pull my left hand as hard as I can. Eric screams that same stringent yelp and falls face first on the mattress. I can hear him sobbing now. I yank my left hand again and again. He screams. One more time and I hear a sickening tearing sound—not as extreme as Velcro, but enough to give the impression that I had done my job. 

I pull away and lean my back against the wall. A pool of blood is collecting beneath Eric on the bed and he’s sobbing like a little girl. Clenched in the steadfast grip of the dangling cuff is his dick, blood pouring lazily from its severed base. I can hear muffled, teary insults emanating from Eric’s mouth. He’s sobbing and rolling around on the mattress, his hands buried beneath him, holding the area where his cock used to be. I use this time to regain some composure. I start smacking my legs again. The pins and needles have grown more intense. That’s probably a good thing. And as much as I’m enjoying watching that piece of shit writhing in pain, floundering around in his own dick-blood, I figure it might be best to remove myself from the room. 

I crawl out into the dark hallway, my naked lower body sliding over the disgusting floor. I can still hear Eric screaming behind me. I pull myself down the hallway, Eric’s cuffed pecker dragging by my side. The strength that had left me earlier has returned. Something about ripping off a psycho’s dick is strangely empowering. 

I’m back in the smoky kitchen. I can see the knife on the floor in front of the sink. I crawl over and grab it, propping myself up against the base of the counter. The screams from the bedroom have dissipated, but they haven’t ceased entirely. They’ve turned into weak moans. 

Knife in hand, I continue to try and move my legs. They’re responding a little more now. I reach up to the countertop and hoist myself to my feet. To my surprise I manage to keep myself up using the counter for support. I’m feeling pretty confident now, despite my total lack of pants or underwear. 

“How’s it hanging in there asshole?” I call to the bedroom. “Oh wait… I’m sorry… it’s actually hanging out here… from my fucking hand!” 

Silence from the bedroom. Not even a moan now. I peer down the hallway towards the room. The light’s still on, but I don’t hear a sound. Maybe he’s passed out. Maybe he’s gone into shock. If I thought my legs were competent enough I’d hobble down there and finish the job, but I’m worried I’ll only make it a few steps before they give out. Better to stay here for a few more minutes and wait for my legs to get used to standing again. I’ve got the advantage now. 

Whether it’s the adrenaline or just the amount of time that has elapsed, I feel the drugs much less now. I begin to look around the room for a phone. I’m not especially surprised when I don’t see one. Something tells me Eric doesn’t have a lot of people to reach out and touch. 

Suddenly I hear a rustling from down the hall. Un-fucking-believable! Eric’s standing in the doorway to the bedroom, hunched over, jumpsuit bunched around his ankles, blood spurting from his nether regions. The look on his face is murderous but weak. Alright big guy, if you want to do this, let’s fucking do this. 

I shoot him a condescending look then hold up the piece of him I’ve taken. “Looking for something?” 

He lets out a battle cry and starts running down the hallway towards me. He’s limping, but moving faster than I would expect, especially considering the jumpsuit around his ankles. I grasp the knife tightly behind my back and wait. I’m afraid to shy away from the counter. The last thing I need is to lose my footing and end up back on the floor. 

He’s bearing down, unaware that I have a weapon. He’s within reach and I stick out the knife. It plunges into his midsection, only a few inches above his other wound. The knife catches him off guard and he leans forward, inadvertently burying the knife deeper as he falls into me. Amazingly he manages enough strength to throw me in the direction of the open cellar door. My legs still unsteady, I have to catch myself before tumbling headfirst down the basement stairs. 

Eric turns, the knife still in his belly. He removes it with gut-wrenching speed, sending a quick fountain of gore splashing across the room. He somehow steadies himself and begins to lumber towards me. I freeze, unwilling to retreat to the basement, knowing that he could simply close the door and lock me down there, placing me back at square one. I do my best to sidestep his attack. He misses me with the blade but manages to tackle me onto the rickety basement stairs. And that does it for them. With no real warning, the stairs give out completely, splitting in the middle and dropping us both ten feet to the cement floor below. 

I land hard. Fortunately he lands to the side of me and not on top. I’m stunned, but not hurt as bad as I could be. I search for the knife, hoping it has fallen from his hand. But there it is, clenched tight in the monster’s claws. He looks like he may be unconscious. The blood from his two wounds is already pooling beneath him. Without hesitation I reach over and pull the knife from his hand. He mutters something incomprehensible, but it’s too late. I’m already plunging the knife into his back. He’s face first on the concrete and I mount him, his huge body between my legs as I dig the knife in... remove... and repeat. The blood splatters all over me, cascading my face, shirt, arms, pussy… everything. He’s gurgling but not screaming. 

“FUCK YOU!” I scream every time I bury the knife into his flesh. “FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!” 

I bury the knife again and again—one for each missed birthday. He wouldn’t tell me his age, so I estimate. I figure he must be at least thirty-five… maybe thirty-six… maybe thirty-seven. I suppose we might as well make it an even forty. 

I dismount, my bare ass smacking against the cold cement floor, my body covered in Eric’s blood. His back is nothing more than than a collection of bloody gopher holes; a dripping pile of soon-to-be-rotting hamburger meat. 

I don't think I've ever been more satisfied with myself. 

I look up at the broken stairs and wonder if I’ll be able to reach high enough to get the fuck out of here. Not a chance. I look throughout the dim basement. The blood has splattered the single light bulb, casting a crimson hue across the entire cellar. I see a nightstand in one of the corners and—deciding that my legs are about as good as they’re going to get for the time being—I limp over, grab the nightstand and drag it back to the stairs. 

I climb laboriously on top of the nightstand and reach up to the broken top of the stairs, Eric’s severed dick still cuffed to my left hand. With home on my mind, I concentrate all my strength and pull myself up. Back in the kitchen I look down into the dreary basement at the pile of raked flesh. I spit down on him. 

I move down the hall to the bedroom and pick up my jeans off the floor. Not ideal apparel by any stretch of the imagination, but it beats the other option. 

Shuffling back to the kitchen, I catch a glimpse of what remains of Eric’s birthday cake. I walk over to the counter and pick it up then move towards the basement door and throw it down on top of the monster’s lifeless body. Then I pull his cock from the dangling handcuff and toss it down next to the cake. 

“Happy fucking birthday,” I say as I hobble towards the door, desperately hoping that a compassionate stranger is not too far away.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY!

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com

A Happy Birthday (Part 2)

So here it is: Part 2 of "A Happy Birthday." If you haven't checked out Part 1 yet (posted below this one), please do so before you dive into this one, otherwise you might feel a little lost. I hope you enjoy it. And make sure to check back in a week for the conclusion.

The stars sprinkle the black canvas of night like luminescent sugar crystals dusting the dark rim of some tropical drink. It’s cool out—the first legitimate autumn night of the season. It feels great. Jake, Alley and Chris are all gone, but I like to have this time to myself, just to lay out on the sand with a joint and ease my mind. Another week or so and I won’t have this time to myself. Jake and I will be fucking on a regular basis—maybe even in a legit relationship—and conventions (along with Alley and Chris) will have us hanging out constantly. Alley just can’t understand how I enjoy my alone time. It seems like a lot of girls can’t. Alley’s been on my ass to fuck Jake and have a normal relationship, and I guess that’s where we’re heading, but for the time being I’m going to enjoy this beautiful night. I’m going to milk this nice buzz, smoke this joint and let myself drift through the sky. It’ll give me a little time to exorcise the alcohol before the drive home anyway—a drive that will take about four minutes—which was my excuse for sticking around when everyone decided to call it a night 

Jake’s a nice guy, so of course he offered to drive me home. But never underestimate the power of a girl during the courting process. He wants me. It’s fucking obvious. And yes, I want him too, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look over-anxious. And I know he feels the same way. So, when I told him I’d be fine and gave him a sweet little peck on the cheek, he departed with Chris and Alley. Alley gave me that ‘what the fuck are you doing’ look, but I’m not feeling the company tonight. I’ve got plenty of time to develop something with Jake, so tonight is all about me and the stars. 

And wow, those stars are stupendous! I exhale a cloud of smoke that floats across my field of vision, giving the stars a slightly dulled appearance. This is one of the few advantages of the Long Island suburbs on the North Shore: private beaches. During high school and upon returning from college, the beaches are clutch for some low-key partying. Going to bars for every social gathering becomes expensive and boring. And we’re just too far east to head into the city every weekend. So a little fresh air and gorgeous scenery can be a nice change of pace now and then. 

There’s crackling behind me. Are you serious? Tell me these fucking kids did not come back to check on me. I’m really not in the mood. I’m too stoned to play with Jake and I really don’t want a scolding from Alley for not going home with him. Seriously, why can’t people just let me do what I want to do? I’m twenty-two years old. I shouldn’t feel this sort of pressure from my friends. 

There’s definitely someone there. It could just be some kids from the neighborhood looking to blaze one or drink a few beers. Ugh… they’re all so much younger than me. I have zero desire to deal with that right now. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to tell all they’re friends how they smoked a joint with some hot 22-year-old, but interacting with high schoolers is really not high on my list of priorities for the evening. 

Silence now. No more leaves crackling. No footsteps on the sand. Maybe it was a raccoon or a cat or something. I’m probably just paranoid from the weed. 

Wait… seriously, I really think there’s someone there. Probably the high school kids. Maybe they’ll see someone down here and just move along. Sorry, no room at the inn kids, find a different spot. 

The path down to the beach is long and dark. I can hear movement, but no voices and it’s not lit well enough to see. To be safe, I extinguish the joint on the bottom of my sneaker and put the roach in my pocket. 

You know what, fuck this. Whoever it is has already ruined the atmosphere so I might as well get going. I start heading for the path. 

“The beach is all yours,” I call out surprisingly amicably. “No worries, I’m getting out of here.” 

No response. 

Well, whatever. I begin to head up the path. It seems darker than when we came down here, so I take out my cell phone and open it to provide a little illumination. The path looks like a long, dark serpent, the fauna slithering on all sides of me thanks to the cool autumn breeze. Wait… is that someone at the head of the path? Maybe I’m just stoned. It looks too big to be a person. Definitely too big to be some high school kid. Maybe I’m bugging, but that really looks like a person. 

“Hello?” I call out. No response. 

Shit… okay this is kind of creepy. What the fuck do I do? Head back down to the beach and swim for it? Fuck that. I’m being ridiculous. Hey paranoia, take a fucking chill pill. If that’s some dude, he’s probably heading down here to do the same thing I was just doing. Hell, maybe he’s even cute. 

Well I’m sure I look pretty ridiculous just standing here. Let’s work up the courage and get out of here. C’mon babe, time to move. 

I continue to walk and it only takes about another five steps to realize that is definitely one big dude standing at the top of the path. Shit, that guy is huge. What the fuck is he doing here? 

“Um… hey,” I offer timidly. “What’s up? I was just on my way out so if you were looking for some alone time down here… well… it’s all yours.” 

He’s just standing there. He’s not saying a word. Fuck me, this is getting weird. I stop walking. Shit, he’s moving towards me, and pretty quickly too. Fuck, he’s really moving. 

“Hey man, I’m not trying to get in anyone’s way or anything. I’m leaving…” 

Oh shit, he’s almost running now. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. What the fuck do I do? I can’t make it past him, no chance in hell. I turn around and run back towards the beach. I’m sure the water is pretty fucking cold by now, but I’ll be damned if I’m ending up as a head on some psycho’s wall. 

I’m back on the sand now, sprinting for the water. Shit, he really is chasing me. Oh God, please don’t let this guy catch me. Please don’t let this guy catch me. 

I hit the cold water and lurch forward, ready to swim. That’s when I feel his big hand on my shoulder. Christ, it feels like a fucking Christmas ham. He’s got a tight grip on my shoulder, but the water makes me slippery and I manage to squirm loose. I’m trying to swim now, but he grabs my shirt. I turn around and kick him in the balls… hard. He doubles over with a short caveman-like grunt. I manage to get loose again, but he regains his composure unbelievably quickly and swings something at me. 

He misses and I see the sharp edge glisten in the moonlight. It’s too small to be knife. Oh my God, it’s a fucking needle. This guy’s got a fucking needle! 

I’m peddling backwards at this point, but my leg catches on a rock and I fall back right as he takes another swing with the needle. It catches a clump of skin on the top of my shoulder, cuts through the flesh and then plunges into my neck. It’s still stuck in there as I continue to swim away, but I become exhausted almost immediately. I start to sink… 

sink… 

sink…

sink…

 

 

I wake up. Shit, how long was I out for? Did he drug the Powerbar? 

Oh that dream… THAT FUCKING DREAM! Every time I fall asleep or he drugs me I have that same fucking dream. Every time I make the same fucking decision: to stay on the beach and hang out by myself. By the sixth or seventh time you’d think I’d wise up. 

As if it’s not bad enough being locked in this freak’s basement, I have to be haunted by my own bad decisions every time I lose consciousness. There’s no peace. Awake or asleep, I’m miserable. 

I barely have time to shake the dream from my mind before I hear his heavy steps heading for the basement door again. Great. Just what I’ve been waiting for: quality time with Freakshow. 

The door opens and he’s on the stairs, but I don’t hear him close the door behind him. Is psycho getting sloppy? Shit, no… I totally forgot. It’s birthday dinner date night. Fuck, I need to get it together. If I’m ever going to have any kind of opening to make a run for it, this will undoubtedly be the night. I can’t be too anxious—Lord knows the last thing I want is Big Birthday Boy skull-fucking my lifeless body—but I need to stay alert. I need to keep my eyes open for some chance to escape. 

He’s already down the stairs and making his way over to me. Ohhh, he’s excited tonight. I can see it in his movements. Wait… are you fucking kidding me? He doesn’t really have one of those pointy party hats in his hand, does he? Is he really going to make me wear that thing? 

“Happy b-b-b-birthday to me.” He’s fucking singing to himself. This big fucking retard is actually singing to himself. Unreal. “C-C’mon now. You have to s-ssssing for me.” 

He’s already standing over me, looking down with child-like anticipation in his eyes. What can I do? If I want any chance of getting out of here I need to keep him appeased. “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear… I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.” 

His smile is practically ear-to-ear. I can see the corner of his lips peaking out behind the surgical mask. “Eric,” he says with all the shy yet jovial reservation of a 5-year-old. “My name is Eric.” 

I continue, sounding sweet, almost flirtatious. “Happy birthday dear Eric. Happy birthday to you.” 

He lets out this gleeful little screech, then laughs and shuffles. “See, we’re gonna have so much f-f-fun tonight!” 

He leans down and puts the ridiculous little hat on my head, making sure the elastic is secured below my chin. The smell of his hairspray is almost suffocating. Yeah, the moron obviously went the extra mile to look good on his birthday. He leans over and looks me in the eyes, but the businessman is not here right now. It’s all jubilant man-boy, making no attempt to conceal his excitement. “N-Now just you remember: You need to b-behave. I d-d-don’t want to hurt you.” 

I smile as sweetly as I can. “I’ll behave,” I tell him. “I promise.” 

He nods. Then in one amazingly smooth movement he reaches into the pocket of his jumpsuit, pulls out a needle and sticks it in my neck.

“What the fuck?” I snarl, any trace of sweetness gone from my voice. “What are you doing? I thought you trusted me.” 

“D-Don’t worry,” he’s still grinning that terrible grin. “It won’t m-make you sleep. It’ll just make you a little more c-c-calm.” 

Well he’s right about that. I can feel it almost immediately. I feel relaxed—good even—but this is going to make me slow. I won’t be alert. This fuck isn’t as dumb as I thought. It’s going to take a huge break for me to forge any kind of escape attempt. I don’t even know if I can run. 

I can feel him behind me. He’s unlocking the chains. He puts his big arms under mine and yanks me up to my feet. 

I haven’t stood up in God knows how long. My legs are atrophied. Combined with whatever drug he’s given me I almost fall right over onto my face, but he supports me. Then, all of a sudden I’m in his arms. He scoops me up, undoubtedly aware of my inability to carry my own weight. We’re heading for the basement stairs, and for a fleeting moment I become worried that the stairs will be unable to support us. But this anxiety falls from my body. Who cares? It just doesn’t matter. 

Before I know it we’re at the top of the stairs, emerging into what appears to be a very old and poorly kept kitchen. The room is dim and there are candles everywhere. Even in the muted light I can see the filth plastered to the old white linoleum floor. The countertops are stained with mildew and grime. The sink looks as though it hasn’t been used in years. The room smells of rot and decay. The smell is so strong it actually makes it a little tough to breathe. It smells worse than the basement. 

In the center of the kitchen is a small wooden table with settings for two. There are two small candles in the middle of the table burning laboriously. He carries me over and places me delicately in one of the chairs. He takes a set of handcuffs from the counter and places one cuff on my wrist and the other around the wooden arm of the old chair. None of this bodes well for any kind of escape attempt. I have to give the psycho some credit, he sure is careful. 

Eric sits down across from me. “Most of my b-b-birthdays aren’t very nice,” he says. “I d-don’t have a lot of luck with that. But this one is gonna be p-perfect. You know I was watching you for m-m-months before I took you. You always looked so p-p-pretty.” He eyes me with adoration. It’s almost tough to remember the killer businessman I met yesterday. This Eric seems crazy, but not murderous. 

He stands up suddenly. “Let me get dinner.” 

He moves over to the counter. I use this time to scan the room for a weapon. The utensils he’s provided on the table are plastic… no luck there. I try to look at the filthy countertop, but my eyes are having a tough time focusing. There appear to be piles, but I can’t make out any single object. Fuck. Even the dinner plates are paper—no way to knock him out with one of those. 

He returns with two steaming microwave dinners. He places one on the paper plate in front of me. “And I’ve got cake for d-d-dessert.” 

He returns to his seat across from me and digs right into his steaming pile of microwave dinner. Amazingly he keeps the surgical mask on. He manages to stuff the forkfuls under the bottom of it. Of course much of the food finds itself stuck to the mask, but he seems undeterred. He looks up from food and stares at me. “You sh-sh-should really eat something. You’ll n-need your energy for later.” 

For later? Oh dear God, he is going to fuck me. Eric is looking for a little b-b-birthday loving and there’s nothing I can do to stop him. Christ, he’s almost finished with his dinner! I need to slow things down here. C’mon, focus. Take control. This retard is wrapped around your finger and he doesn’t even know it. Use that. 

I pick up the plastic fork and start to dig into the pile of food in front of me. I shovel some in my mouth. I can’t even tell what I’m eating. My hunger isn’t nearly as pervasive as it has been; probably dulled by whatever drug he pumped into my neck. Despite my slow movements, my mind is racing frantically, trying to find a foothold on something to stall him with. I need to get him talking. I need to control the pace here. 

“So Eric,” my voice comes out distant and tenuous. “Why haven’t you had many good birthdays?” 

He stops chewing. A clump of food actually falls from beneath the surgical mask back onto the plate. He stares down, refusing to meet my gaze. Shit. This has slowed him down, but I may have hit a nerve with this one. Stupid! So fucking stupid! 

He seems to regain himself though. He looks up but doesn’t look me in the eyes. “B-B-Birthdays have been bad for me.” 

I want him to elaborate, just to control the pace, but I don’t want to push him. This may have been the wrong move. Fuck! Of all the bullshit background questions I could have asked, this is what I come up with. These fucking drugs! I can’t even think straight. 

To my surprise, he continues. “When I was young, my m-m-mommy was mean to me. Sh-she never remembered my b-b-birthday. One time she tried to hit me on my b-b-birthday, but I made her stop.” His voice drops after a brief pause. The businessman returns with that same disturbing confidence. “I made mommy sing me happy birthday over and over and over again for all the years she missed. I had to make sure she’d never forget again. Every time she sung it she got a candle in her mouth. A candle for every year she missed. But she missed a lot of years. After a while mommy couldn’t’ sing anymore. After a while mommy couldn’t breathe anymore.” He looked back down at his food and put another forkful in his mouth beneath the mask. The timid idiot returned with hope in his voice. “But you won’t forget my b-b-birthday, right? You’ll always remember my b-b-birthday won’t you?” 

I’m trying not to look overly disturbed. I’m trying to look calm despite the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. “Yes Eric,” I say shakily. “Yes, I’ll always remember your birthday.” 

The fat slob smiles and goes back to his dinner. That was a little too close. I want to keep that businessman buried. But I still need to slow him down. I need to think. Shit, he’s already done with his dinner. Next comes cake, then comes the real dessert. I’m running out of time. 

He stands up with his plate and brings it over to the counter. I start to think frantically. The chair is old and weak. If I can catch this guy off guard, if I can knock him out with something, I could probably break the arm of the chair. But my legs are fucked. I have no idea if they’ll even be able to carry me. I also don’t have a lot of time and I may never get another chance upstairs, away from the thick chains and locked door. I need to think fast or Eric’s going to have me laid out on his filthy mattress in no time. 

He’s still hovering over the counter. What’s he doing? Holy shit, he’s cutting the cake. He’s cutting the cake with a big fucking butcher’s knife. If I can catch him by surprise and get that knife, I’ll jam it right in his fucking throat; right in the same place he’s stuck me with that goddam needle so many times. But I need something to hit him with. 

I look at the table in front of me. The candles are held in little glass cups and they look like they could be reasonably heavy. If I can smash this over his head maybe it will stun him enough for me to grab the knife. Oh please God, let this work. But I need him to put the knife down first. I can’t attack him while he’s still got it in his hands. 

I look over. My vision is still fuzzy but he’s turning towards me with a plate in each hand. He’s heading back over to me. Well… I suppose it’s now or never. Fuck this creep. If he wants to have his way with me, he’s not going to get it without a fight. 

*Check back for the conclusion to be posted 10/28.

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com

A Happy Birthday

So here's the first part of "A Happy Birthday"... for all my fellow Halloween lovers, gore-hounds, and generally unstable individuals. Parts 2 and 3 will be posted on subsequent Tuesdays (Part 2 on 10/21 and Part 3 on 10/28). The first part is actually pretty mild. I think in the creative writing biz it's called 'set up.' I really had a good time writing this whole piece though. It was a blast experimenting with horror conventions and even cliches. It was even kind of cathartic to write such a bloody, violent finale (yeah... you'll see when it's posted). Mwahahahaha! Anyway, I hope this helps to get everyone in the Halloween spirit.  Enjoy!

That’s it. He’s going to rape me. 

I just know he’s going to fucking rape me. Why else would I be here?

I can hear him shuffling around in the room above, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor. Every time that fat psycho takes a step I can watch the dust particles float down like tiny, filthy snowflakes. Every now and then the particles fall into my hair… not that I can lift my hands enough to brush away their grimy, wood-like traces. 

I think this cut on my shoulder is getting infected. I don’t even know how long I’ve been down here. At first when he came down with that fucking syringe I used to fight. I was generally a good little abductee until he took out the needle. Then I’d squirm and spit and bite and do everything in my bounded power to avoid being stuck with it. It’s not like it even hurt terribly—believe me, after being attacked, beaten and locked in some disgusting cellar, a little pin prick isn’t so intimidating—but losing track of time sucks. As soon as that needle enters my arm or neck, it takes less than a minute for me to blackout. It’s not like there are windows down here. It’s fucking subterranean. It could be three in the afternoon on my third day as a captive, or six in the morning on my fourth week. I have no idea. 

Recently though, I’ve just been letting him stick me. I’m tired, hungry, thirsty and I just don’t have the energy to resist. Especially since it never seems to do any good. Sometimes he’ll just kick me in the stomach until I stop giving him trouble. He’ll never hit me in the face—I shudder to think as to why—but he’s landed some swift kicks to my midsection without hesitation. 

I think he drugs me before he goes out, just to make sure I don’t get any bright escape ideas. Any time I’m awake I can hear him upstairs. For all I know he’s already fucked me, shamelessly pumped his puny dick into my unconscious body. Jesus Chris… what if I’m fucking pregnant? Somehow I doubt this piece of shit is big on condoms. The Antichrist could be materializing in my womb as we speak. Just great. 

At least this time he left the light on for me, although sometimes I think I’d rather sit here in the dark, oblivious to just how grotesque this place is, ignorant to the bugs and vermin scuttling around in the darkened corners. There’s just one light. It flickers, hanging from the ceiling by a thin chord. It looks like the bulb’s on its last leg. It’s probably only got another few hours in it before it dies, passing away into the peaceful great beyond of non-luminescence. I should be so fucking lucky. 

Oh shit… he’s coming! Fuck. I can hear him unlocking the door at the top of those wooden steps, the steps that look like they could give out at any minute. It’s amazing they can support his weight. 

I squirm, hoping that during the course of my unconsciousness the chains scraping my wrists raw had miraculously loosened. Of course they’re still as tight and heavy as they have been. I can feel the patches of scaly rust digging into my skin. When did I get my last Tetanus shot? Fuck, like that even matters. This guy’s gonna come down here and stick his awful little dick inside me and I’m worried about Tetanus. I must be losing it. 

The door’s opening. I can hear its old hinges creaking in the most torturously slow and deliberate manner. He’s on the stairs now. I can hear them shifting beneath his weight. His enormous figure enters into the flickering light slowly. He wears the same thing every time he comes down here: an old, off-white jumpsuit (that may or may not have been pure white when purchased) and a blue surgical mask over his face. He must be at least 6-foot-five. Maybe 250 pounds. He navigates the stairs carefully, undoubtedly aware of their apparent potential to buckle and collapse at any point. I pray for them to collapse every time; pray for him to fall face first to the cold cement floor; pray for the blood to leak from his nose and mouth through that fucking surgical mask. 

But then what? Then I’m stuck down here hoping some compassionate individual will stumble upon me. How long could that take? I don’t even know where I am. I could be in fucking North Dakota for all I know. This piece of shit could have driven across the country to lock me down here. I could easily die from thirst or starvation or infection before anyone even finds me. I could be a rotting corpse with the bugs and rats feasting on my disintegrating flesh before anyone figures out I’m down here. 

I can see his hands. Every time he’s got a bottle of Poland Spring in his right gloved hand and a Powerbar in his left gloved hand. Flashbacks to late-night college study sessions. I used to survive on that shit when I was cramming for an exam. Now I’m literally surviving on that shit. Maybe that’s irony. Or maybe that’s just some sick, callous god rubbing my fucking face in this situation. Seriously, what the fuck did I do to deserve this? How the fuck does this happen to me?

He finally steps onto the cement floor. He pauses for a moment at the base of the stairs—like he’s collecting his thoughts or building up his courage—then he advances on me. He ducks his head to avoid smacking it on the hanging light bulb. With only a short walk between the stairs and where I’m chained, he’s towering over me in no time, staring down at me with cold brown eyes. He stinks of cheap hairspray, as he always does. I can see the hardened filaments of his long, brown hair glisten in the flickering light. 

“Y-Y-You look pretty tod-day,” he stutters. He always sounds like a fucking retard when he talks to me. At first I thought that maybe it meant he was nervous and thinking twice about what he’s done. Now I just think he’s completely socially inept and has no idea how to talk to a pretty girl. I mean I may not be the hottest piece of ass in the world, but I know I’m pretty fucking attractive. Sometimes I feel like any time he opens his mouth he’s just going to puke all over me cause he’s so nervous. Fucking pathetic. 

“Fuck you,” I yell back at him. “Fuck you, you sick freak. Let me the fuck out…”

And just like that, a kick to the stomach. Sitting down with my ass on the cold cement, I double over as much as the chains will let me. 

“W-What have I told you about that m-m-mouth of yours? You were so s-sssweet when I first brought you down here.” 

He’s right, I was. At least when the needle wasn’t present. Initially I thought if I were a sweet little thing he’d feel sorry for me and let me go. Yeah… no dice on that one. Now I’m just a cunt to him because I like to see him get flustered. I like to see the doubt in his eyes as he wonders if he’s really in control. Fuck this psycho. If he wants to kill me, he can kill me. I’m sick of pissing and shitting in a fucking bucket, sitting next to my own excrement until he decides to come down here and take it away, waiting for him to offer me scraps of food and just enough water to keep me from totally dehydrating. 

“Yeah, well that’s before I realized what a heartless, fat, pathetic fuck you…” 

Whack! Another kick to the midsection. This one came closer to my chest. The pain is persistent, more sharp than usual. I think he may have shattered a rib. 

“Now you be g-good,” he spouts like an idiot. “I d-d-don’t want to hurt you. You just be good to me and you’ll be f-f-fine.” 

“F-F-Fuck you,” I mimic and spit in his direction, but I’m dehydrated so the spit only falls from my mouth onto my already filthy shirt. 

I can’t see his mouth, but I can see the corners of his cheeks elevate. He’s smiling. What a sick bastard. 

“C-C’mon now, no reason to be a FILTHY LITTLE BITCH!” He shouts the last words with such a sudden and unexpected ferocity that I instinctively push myself back against the wall behind me as hard as I can. He twitches like some insect is stinging his face. Clearly the abrupt anger and volume were as startling to him as they were to me. He positions his eyes on the floor and appears as though he’s contemplating something deeply. “S-See,” he’s back to his normal, timid, retard tone now. “I don’t like to yell. I don’t like to s-s-scare you. But sometimes you’re just so m-mean to me.” 

I could be wrong, but for a second it looks like a tear may be forming in his right eye. Oh God, this guy is completely fucking batshit crazy. Maybe I should take the attitude down a notch if I don’t want his dirty cock shoved in me this second. “I’m sorry,” I say with as much pitiable sweetness as I can muster. “I’m just so scared. It’s cold down here and I’m hungry and thirsty and I just want to go home.” 

“Well I brought you some f-food and water and I can bring you down a b-b-blanket in a little bit.” He’s already untwisting the cap from the bottle of water. “And if you can just b-be a good girl, I’ll get you home s-s-sssoon.” 

As much as this should strike me as utter bullshit, I fall for it like a pre-pubescent teen gushing over their favorite Hollywood heartthrob. “Really? You’ll let me go home? You’ll take me home to my family. Cause you totally can.” I’m completely rambling at this point. “I have no idea where we are. I haven’t seen your face. You can let me go and I couldn’t even turn you in if I wanted to.” 

He leans down and pushes the open bottle of water against my dry, cracked lips. He tilts the bottle and I drink greedily. The water isn’t even cold, but it feels so good pouring down my throat. Once my mouth is full I pull my head back and some of the water splashes on my shirt. He places the bottle on the ground next to me and begins to unwrap the Powerbar. 

“You know t-tomorrow’s my b-b-b-birthday?” He asks this question non-rhetorically, as if I might actually know it’s his birthday. He also seems to have exceptional trouble saying the word ‘birthday.’ 

My ribs are killing me. Another kick and I could be in serious trouble, so I play along with him. “Is it really? How old are you going to be?” 

He does that creepy little twitch again to accompany that creepy smile. Even without being able to see his mouth, it still sends chills down my spine. “Now d-d-don’t you know it’s rude to ask s-s-someone’s age?” He leans down and sticks the unwrapped Powerbar in front of my mouth. I bite down and chew. I’m so fucking hungry so it tastes incredible. Before I’m even finished chewing I take another bite. 

He pulls the Powerbar away from my mouth and shuffles awkwardly—even more awkwardly than usual. “S-So will you have d-d-dinner with me tomorrow for my b-b-b-birthday?” 

Just great. Psycho-tard wants to have a fucking dinner date. The thought is so infuriating that I almost burst out with another hate-filled attack. But I take a moment and realize I might be able to work with this. “Well, I’d love to have dinner with you, but don’t you think it’s kind of depressing to celebrate your birthday in this dreary basement? Don’t you think it would be more… romantic…” Even saying the word makes me nauseous to the point of nearly gagging. I try to play it off like I’m having an issue with some Powerbar remnants. “Don’t you think it would be nicer and more romantic if we at least went upstairs? It’s so filthy and cold down here and these chains are cutting my wrists and I just don’t see how we could have any kind of celebration down here.” 

He thinks and twitches, thinks and twitches, shuffles awkwardly, thinks and twitches. He may be a psychopath, but I know how to manipulate a guy with a crush. Turns out college was excellent practice for that. But I have to be careful; a guy with a crush can be easily manipulated, but he can also turn on you dangerously quickly if he thinks you’re fucking with him. And somehow I’m pretty sure if this guy turns, it will get real ugly real fast. 

After what feels like minutes of contemplation he finally agrees. “Okay,” he says and then squats down so he’s looking me right in the eyes. A vile combination of cheap hairspray and noxious breath invades my nasal cavities and his stare is cold and evil. I’ve never seen what a killer’s stare looks like, but I’ll be damned if this isn’t it. “But you have to be good.” The timid retard has suddenly evaporated from his speech. He’s a businessman now, speaking flawlessly and matter-of-factly. “If you don’t behave I’ll fucking gut you. I’ll fucking gut you and fuck your entrails while you’re still alive and watching.” 

Wow. I’ve never seen him so in-control, so confident. With his previously unstable speech it was tough to picture him as anything but a big, dumb animal. But this last threat was calculating and certain, like he was just completely giving in to his inner killer. It’s so fucking frightening. The tears start welling in my eyes as I nod my head frantically. “Yes, I’ll be good.” I’m speaking through a mouth of spit as tears stream down my cheeks. “I’ll be good. I promise.” 

He nods—still cool killer cowboy—then stands back up. He picks up the water bottle and pushes it back to my lips. I regain control of my emotions enough to take another sip. He offers me some more Powerbar and I accept, still chewing as he puts the cap on the water and begins to walk back to the stairs. I’m relieved that he doesn’t use Mr. Needle, but there’s something so ominous about his ascent up those stairs, something so demonic, and the tears begin to form again. For the first time since I’ve been down here, I begin to accept the fact that I probably will not see my home or family ever again. 

*Part 2 to be posted 10/21/08.

This material is the property and copyright of its owner. Copyright © 2008 LegalZoom.com