65 Proof (42 page)

The quest to be number one had become such an obsession with Horace that he actually flew to Phoenix to meet Brett Gantner, to see what he had that Horace didn’t.

As it turned out, it was what Brett didn’t have that made him the World Record holder. Brett was missing his left leg, above the knee.

“Car accident,” Gantner had told him over wheat germ smoothies. “I get around okay with the prosthesis. It hasn’t slowed me down any. Don’t you agree, Mr. Second Place?”

Horace felt his bile rise at the memory. Gantner had beaten him not because he was the superior athlete, but because he weighed less. About fifteen pounds less. The weight of one leg.

After that meeting, Horace had gone on a crash diet. But his body fat percentage was already dangerously low, and the diet caused him to lose muscle: he couldn’t even break six hundred. That led to steroid injections, which led to heart palpitations and perpetual shortness of breath, which made him give out at just over five hundred. He finally went back to his old regimen of diet and supplements, and again regularly hit the seven hundred mark, but he couldn’t reach seven-forty. The last time he tried he’d hung on the bar, tears streaming down his face, putting so much effort into his last few pull ups that he shit himself. But seven twenty-five was as high as he could go.

But then inspiration struck. Epiphany. All Horace needed was a doctor who would be willing to perform the surgery. He’d been searching for two months straight, and so far had gotten nowhere. Doctor after doctor turned down his request. One had even told him his problem wouldn’t be solved by plastic surgery, but by psychiatry. Asshole.

An internet forum on body modification and voluntary amputation eventually led him to Dr. Ricardo and this dinky little bar.

Horace wasn’t sure if the whack-jobs on the website were telling the truth. One guy bragged he had his hands removed. If he did, how could he be using a computer keyboard? Was he typing with his face? But if the forum people were right, Dr. Ricardo might be able to help him.

“I want you to cut off my legs,” Horace told the doctor.

Ricardo didn’t miss a beat. He drained his whiskey and then used a fork to roughly bisect a golden fried fillet of perch. He only answered after his mouth was full of fish.

“Ten thousand. Cash. Up front.”

Horace was overcome by a surge of joy, but mingled in were feelings of wariness, and oddly, remorse.

“Five beforehand, five after the operation.”

Ricardo dunked a greasy bit of fish into some mayo and popped it into his mouth.

“That’s fine. But why stop at your legs? Human’s have lots of unnecessary body parts weighing them down. A kidney is a few ounces. You don’t need all of your liver. Appendix, tonsils, gall bladder, half your stomach and a few yards of intestines — that’s several pounds of material.”

Horace’s face fell, and he realized that the man sitting in front of him wasn’t simply an incompetent drunk — he was insane. Much as he longed for the surgery, he wasn’t about to subject himself to…

Ricardo’s body shook, and it took Horace a moment to realize the doctor was laughing.

“Just kidding, Mr. Kellerman. Let’s talk dates. The sooner you lose those legs, the sooner you can break your record. When are you free?”

Horace stared up at the operating room lights. Actually, this was a bedroom, and the lights were the kind do-it-yourselfers used when repairing drywall. He turned his gaze to Dr. Ricardo, who was fussing with a tank of anesthetic, turning the dials this way and that.

Upon arriving at the building — a crumbling brick duplex with empty beer bottles and used syringes decorating the front porch — Horace almost decided to forget the whole thing. But the inside seemed much cleaner than the exterior, and the ersatz surgery theater was extremely white and bright and smelled like lemons; courtesy of the can of disinfectant on the counter. The doctor had walked Horace through the whole procedure, and he seemed to know what he was doing. Tourniquets would restrict massive blood loss, veins and arteries would be tied off one at a time, and an extra flap of skin would be left on each leg to cover the bone and form an attractive stump, just below the buttocks.

Dr. Ricardo poured a fresh bottle of rubbing alcohol over a hacksaw blade, and Horace looked down the table at his legs, one last time.

They were good legs, as legs went. Perhaps a bit thin, but they’d treated him well for twenty-six years. Horace felt no remorse in losing them. His goal to become the world record pull-up holder was more important than petty things, like walking. And his job had amazing disability insurance. Horace would make do in a wheelchair just fine.

“Are you ready?”

Dr. Ricardo had on his surgical mask, and to Horace’s eye seemed sober as a judge. Horace nodded, and Ricardo fit the gas mask over his face.

“Take a deep breath, and count backwards from one hundred…”

Horace began to count, but not from one hundred. He began at seven hundred and forty.

By the time he reached seven hundred and twenty, he was asleep.

Recovery was harder than Horace might have guessed. The pain was minimal when he was lying down, but moving, sitting, taking a shit — these all brought agony.

Ricardo had given him drugs, both oral meds and morphine to inject into his stumps. He only used them once, and as a result slept all day. That was unacceptable. Horace couldn’t afford to miss a work out.

While in bed, he stuck with barbells, but after a week he was ready to hit the pull-up bar again.

The results were impressive. On his first attempt, he hit six-hundred and fifty. Not bad after major surgery and seven days on his back. His balance was a little off, but he was thrilled by the results. Ricardo had warned him against resuming activity so soon, and Horace did manage to rip a few of his stitches, but he knew — knew — that the world record would soon be his.

A month after his double amputation, Horace felt great. His stamina was back, and constantly moving around on his hands had made his arms stronger than ever. He set up his video camera, used a step ladder to reach the pull-up bar, and prepared to break the record.

The first two hundred pull-ups were candy. They came smooth, easy. Horace didn’t even break a sweat.

The next two hundred were harder, but he still felt good. No leg pain, good breathing, good stamina, and a full half an hour left on the clock.

Horace paced himself for the next two hundred. Fatigue kicked in, and the familiar muscle pain. He also felt a bit of dizziness. But he still considered himself better off than he did while still having legs, and knew he’d make it no matter what.

When he reached seven hundred, he wasn’t so sure anymore. He became extremely dizzy, and nauseous. While his grip was strong, the up and down movement had begun to make his stomach lurch. Perhaps it was still too soon. Perhaps he needed more recovery time, more workouts.

At seven hundred and ten Horace threw up, lost his grip, and fell hard onto his stumps, sending lightning bolts of pain up his spine that made him throw up again.

He waited a week before giving it another shot. Made it to seven hundred and thirty, then hung there for ten minutes until the time ran out, unable to do any more.

The week after that he could only manage seven hundred and twenty-five. A few days later he ran out of time at seven hundred and thirty-two. In the following month he posted numbers of 722, 734, 718, 736, 728, 731, 734, 729, and a tantalizingly frustrating 737. But he couldn’t reach seven hundred and forty. No matter how hard he tried.

Depression set in. Then anger. Then a plan. Dr. Ricardo had mentioned all of the extra organs in a human being, extras that amounted to several pounds.

If Horace were five pounds less, he could easily get over 740.

When Horace rolled up to Dr. Ricardo at his usual table in the Red Lion, the good doctor was tilted back in his chair and snoring. Horace shook him, hard.

“I need help. I still weigh too much.”

Ricardo took a few seconds to focus. When he spoke, the booze on his breath burned Horace’s eyes.

“I remember you. Howard something, right? You needed your legs amputated for some reason. What was it again? Some sort of fetish?”

Horace roughly grabbed Ricardo by the shirt.

“You mentioned that people have extra organs. Kidney, liver, appendix, stuff like that. I want them taken out.”

Ricardo blinked, and his eyes began to glaze. Horace gave him a shake.

“Remove it, Doctor. All of it.”

“Remove what?”

“Everything. Take away everything I don’t need. All of the extra stuff.”

“You’re crazy.”

Horace struck the doctor, a slap than sounded like a thunder crack. The Red Lion’s three patrons all turned their way. Horace ignored them, focusing on Ricardo.

“I got a disability settlement. Half a million dollars. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars for each pound of me you can remove.”

Ricardo nodded. “I remember now. You want to weigh less. Some sort of world record. Sure, I can help. A few yards of intestines. Half the stomach. The arms.”

“No! The arms and the muscles stay. Everything else that isn’t essential to life can be removed.”

“When?” Dr. Ricardo asked.

Horace smiled. “Doing anything tonight?”

Horace awoke in a drug-induced haze. Thoughts flitted across his drowsy mind, including his last instructions to the doctor.

“Leave the arms, leave the eyes. Everything else goes.”

Like a fire sale on body parts.

He squinted at the table next to him, saw the mason jars lined up with bits and pieces that used to be his. Pounds and pounds of flesh and organs.

Several large loops of intestines, floating in formaldehyde.

A kidney.

A chunk of liver.

So far, so good.

An appendix and a gall bladder, though Horace didn’t know which was which.

A jar of fat, suctioned from his buttocks.

Part of his stomach.

His penis and testicles.

When Horace saw that, he gasped. No sound came out — in the next jar were his tongue, his tonsils, his vocal chords, and a bloody half moon that he realized was his lower jaw.

Doctor Ricardo had gone too far. The drunken bastard had turned Horace into a monster, a hideous freak.

But…Horace still had his arms. And even as maimed and mutilated as he’d become, he could still do pull-ups, still break the…

Horace’s eyes focused on the last mason jar. Horace filled his remaining lung with air and screamed, and he was absolutely sure he made some noise, even though he had no ears to hear it.

The last jar contained ten fingers.

Just about every horror mag in the world rejected this story. I’m not sure why. Sure, it’s a standard EC Comics supernatural comeuppance, but I think it’s fun. It eventually sold to Surreal Magazine.

“T
hat’s gotta be where the money is.”

Rory took one last hit off the Kool and flicked the butt into a copse of barren trees. The orange firefly trail arced, then died.

Phil shook his head. “Why the hell would he keep his money locked up in a backyard shed?”

“Because he’s a crazy old shit. Hasn’t left the house in thirty years.”

The night was cold and smelled like rotting leaves. They stood at the southern side of Old Man Loki’s property, just beyond a tall hedge with thorns like spikes. The estate butted up against the forest preserve on the east and Lake Fenris on the west. Due north was Fenris Road, a winding, private driveway that eventually connected with Interstate 10 about six miles up.

Phil peered through the bramble at the mansion. It rested, dark and quiet, a mountain of jutting dormers and odd angles. To Phil it looked like something that had been asleep for a long time.

“Even crazy people know about banks.”

Rory clamped a hand behind Phil’s head and tugged the smaller teen closer. “If it’s not money, then why the hell does he got that big lock and chain on it? To protect his lawnmower?”

Phil pulled away and glanced at the shed. It stood only a few dozen yards away, the size of a small garage. The roof was tar shingles, rain-worn to gray, and dead vines partially obscured the oversized padlock and chain hanging on the door.

“Doesn’t look like it’s been opened in a while.”

Rory grinned, his teeth blue in the moonlight. “All the more reason to open it now.”

It felt all wrong, but Phil followed Rory onto the estate grounds. A breeze cooled the sweat that had broken out on his neck. Rory pulled the crowbar from his belt and swung it at a particularly tall prickle-weed.

“Yard looks like shit. Can’t he pay someone to cut his goddamned grass?”

“Maybe he’s dead.” Phil chanced another look at the mansion. “No lights on.”

“We woulda heard about it.”

“Could be recent. Could be he just died, and no one found the body yet.”

Phil’s words bounced small and tinny in the open air. He felt a rush of exposure, as if Old Man Loki was sitting at one of the dark windows of his house and watching their every move.

“You turning chicken shit on me? Baby need his wittle bottle?”

“Shut up, Rory. What if he is dead?”