Screamscapes: Tales of Terror (23 page)

The watch started to beep. On the display the words COUNTDOWN COMMENCING flashed briefly, and then the numbers
60, 59, 58, 57
began ticking off.

I held my arm out as steady as a rock, just beyond my open palm I watched as the Scrambler began to hit full speed, the screams of riders growing loud in my ears just before they shot away again, leaving a blast of hot wind in their wake.

I glanced at the Nard and was surprised to see that he was now surrounded by several security guards. He must have been asking too many specific questions about the ride’s motor, I guessed. I hoped they’d arrest him as a possible terrorist and ship him off to Guantanamo, it would serve him right. The Nard was gesturing urgently, and then he pointed to me. The security guards all turned and looked straight at me.

What the hell is going on?
I thought.

I checked the time remaining on the watch. At the exact moment the watch hit thirty seconds remaining, I saw, in perfect focus just over the end of my outstretched arm, the redneck in car number twelve flash by. It was like a moment frozen in time, as his bloodshot squinty eyes gazed into mine, our lines of sight locked into each other’s for just the slightest fraction of a second before the ride yanked him away, his swine-sized wife squealing and oinking in delight as she crushed his ribs into the steel frame of the car.

At the exact instant the redneck lined up with me, the watch stopped beeping and let out a long high-pitched tone, like a heart-monitor alarm when a patient has flat-lined.

A pinprick of hot white heat flashed on my wrist underneath the watch and surged up my arm to my armpit. I tried to yank my arm back, but it was locked at the elbow, stuck straight out.

The events that happened next occurred undoubtedly in the blink of an eye, but to me it seemed as though everything happened in slow motion. The watch began to open itself up like a flower with thin shiny metal petals unfurling on a summer morning. The metal shifted and turned, like a densely-packed puzzle rearranging itself. In less than a second the watch on my arm had become what looked like a small gun in my hand.

The son of a bitch; the watch really
was
a transformer.

And then, it fired itself. A projectile exited the barrel with an odd-sounding whoosh and a small burst of smoke.

I heard someone shouting, “He’s got a gun!”

In my peripheral vision I saw dark shapes running towards me from all directions.

It’s hard to believe, I know, but I watched the projectile as it flew from the end of the gun. Maybe it was from my adrenaline surging, maybe it was the stuff the watch had stuck in me, but everything was in slow-mo –
Matrix-time
– whatever you want to call it, and the thing that came out of that gun was no bullet.

I watched the small object as it hurtled away from me and towards the ride, small plumes of flames burning blue at its tail end before little bits fell away from it. Then it stretched out like a spring, about the size of the spring inside a click-pen, and then fell back into itself, then stretched out again picking up steam.

I watched hopelessly as the tiny thing chased the twirling ride, glinting in the bright sun as it expanded and collapsed, going faster and faster.

Then I saw the redneck flash by me again, just a blur in my vision, a snapshot of his face red and straining against the crushing heft of his marital sow.

Then I saw the projectile do the impossible. Instead of flying past the right side of the ride in a straight line like a normal bullet, it shifted course. I saw it shoot to the left and then back towards me, then it shot off to the right again only ten feet or so in front of my face, expanding and collapsing, pulsing as though it was gaining momentum from its own movements.

The men in uniform were getting closer.

“Drop the weapon,” I heard one of them shouting, but I was mesmerized.

The projectile still flew, around and around the ride, darting this way and that through the spinning arms and cars and screaming heads, like a silver wasp, chasing its prey.

Car number twelve swung back into view again, the redneck’s eyes bulging as he strained to draw oxygen into his compressed lungs, his wife still laughing and snorting like the prize pig at the county fair.

Then the minuscule metal hunter stung.

The projectile straightened out into a single sliver of metal, sliding straight into the redneck’s left eyeball, like a pin through a pin cushion, and his entire eyeball disappeared in a spray of blood and viscous fluid, as the ride snatched car number twelve out of sight again.

I felt the gun disintegrate into hot particles in my hand. The gritty bits of it blew away like ash in the wind as they fell through my fingers.

“Hands in the air,” an angry voice screamed, and then a sharp blow to the back of my legs caused the asphalt to rush towards my face. The next thing I knew, I was being tasered from all sides, on my throat, my back, my arms.

The last thing I heard was the Nard’s whiny voice, gurgling and crying. “He told me he was going to do it, but I thought he was joking.”

I’ve been here ever since, that day replaying over and over in my mind, wondering what the hell happened, what I could have done differently.

The trial was a joke, there wasn’t even a gun and the redneck guy didn’t die. I told them over and over that the Nard gave me a watch that was a transformer and that it had turned into a gun; but all I got for trying to defend myself was to be declared incompetent and my bitch of a mom ended up being made my guardian.

I told the judge that my mom was a bitch and that there was no way in hell that a walking, talking twat was going to speak for me; they could all go to hell if they thought I would let her. But the fat fucker in the black robe had me ball-gagged and dragged out of the courtroom.

I was found guilty, based purely on a single photograph of me holding what looked a gun, pointed at the ride. Purely circumstantial, if you ask me, but nobody did. The police did a piss test on my urine, too. I peed into the cup willingly; I had nothing to worry about, I’ve never done drugs in my life. I’ve wanted to, but I couldn’t afford to. The report that came back from the lab said I had cocaine, heroin and meth in my blood, which is totally false. I was framed, pure and simple. There’s no other way to explain it.

Now I guess the rest of my life is going to be wasted, rotting away here in the state forensic prison with a bunch of Gumps. Every time I try to explain to anyone what really happened to me, they strap me down and dope me up until I pass out.

Now I just keep my mouth shut.

There’s nothing to do now but sit here and remember that god-damned day, over and over.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Here we go again.

I closed my eyes, and leaned back against the white cinderblock wall; before I know it I’m back in my old bedroom, the wet pillow, the pizza, the Nard, the watch – well, you know the story.

The banging stopped. I opened my eyes. Then the door to my cell swung open and a guard poked his head in.

“Stop daydreaming about the mushroom princess, limp dick,” he said. “Let’s go. You got visitors, sugarplum.”

He pushed me down the cellblock corridor to the visiting area, where there was a long line of windows and phones, and a bunch of folding chairs lined up in a row. I’ve been locked up for over a year now, but I’d never seen this area before; no need to, I guess, I’ve never had a visitor.

I like to imagine the reason Mom has never come to visit me is that she killed herself after I got sent away, overcome with grief and unwilling to go on. I always knew she was on the road to going completely bat-shit insane from her ongoing total lack of dick, and this happening to me probably pushed her over the edge.

The guard shoved me into the metal chair so hard that my butt bone made it ring like a bell. He handed me a phone so I could talk to my visitor. I began to complain, but then I saw who was sitting on the other side of the glass.

“Mom?”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. She beamed at me, a big cheese-eating grin plastered on her face; I almost didn’t recognize her. She looked years younger, slim, her hair styled, her teeth whitened; she almost looked
pretty
.

Then I realized who was sitting next to her.

“Why is the Nard with you?” I said into the receiver.

She turned and gave the Nard a look of such love and lust that I almost puked chunks, right then and there. Then she kissed him, right on the mouth.

“Oh Stephen, I’m so happy,” she began to blather. “Joe and I got married last month,” she said, holding up a finger with a big rock on it. “He’s so wonderful. I wanted you to know that he’s taking good care of me, which I need, especially after all you put me through, with your drugs and your murder and your porn. I think it’s good that you’re locked up, I just didn’t want you to be worrying about me.”

I stared at her in disgust. I didn’t have anything else to say to that bitch, not now, not ever.

“Guard, I’m done here,” I called, and dropped the phone back into the receiver.

The Nard leaned towards the glass and held up a magazine, smiling and pointing for me to look at it.

It was the latest issue of Nintendo Power. I couldn’t resist. I would have given anything to have a copy of Nintendo Power to read in my cell. Hell, even a single page torn out of it would help to relieve the crushing boredom of nothing but four white walls.

The Nard held up his index finger, giving me a “wait a minute” gesture; then he began flipping through the pages.

When he found the page he was looking for, he pressed the magazine against the glass so I could see.

It was the Nintendo High Score World Rankings. He pointed to the top of the list. It read:
Joe King, Super Mario Brothers, World Champion.

He pointed to the words printed underneath his name.

Perfect Score. Unbeatable.

Then he took my mom into his arms and sucked her mouth into his. I could see his thick tongue as it stabbed at her lips. She closed her eyes in disgusting bliss as Short Bus munched away at her wrinkled pie hole. The bastard actually flipped me off while he kissed her, behind her back where she couldn’t see what he was doing.

There wasn’t much to say after that - not that they stuck around much longer, anyway. They probably got a room at the Motel 6 on the way home so Mom could stick her rotten clam chowder in his mouth. I hope the Nard chokes to death on it.

Goddamn it, Mom - if they ever let me out of here, it’s gonna be pay back, I promise.

I’m going to kill you one of these days, you fuckin’ bitch.

“PAY BACK” was originally titled “ME & THE NARD” upon release, but the brightly colored cover art and odd title kept sales low.

After changing the title and updating the cover art, sales took off and feedback started rolling in. The polarization of reader response to this story was amazing to behold; either people realized that the story was tongue-in-cheek humor and loved it, or they thought the pigheaded outlook of the narrator was shared by the author and were outraged by it.

Love it or hate it, it was a fucking blast to write. You can’t please everybody all the time.

Curtains For Love

“P
romise me you’ll take good care of her.”

The old man leaned forward as he spoke, concern etched around the corners of his eyes. His wife, a frail woman, equally advanced in years, placed her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

“George Hill, now really,” she protested gently. “He’s a good boy! You’ll care for her, won’t you James?”

She smiled at the well-groomed, youthful, thirty-year-old from across the small kitchen of the new retirement village apartment. His face shone brightly with excitement underneath a shock of thick dark hair.

James glanced at the real estate attorney sitting across from him, a frowning man, with an angular face, who tapped his fingers tersely atop the papers that needed to be signed. It was clear from his expression that he thought the deal was going south.

“It’s important, Helen! You know how she is,” the old man snapped.

James decided it was time to get things back under control. He took the old man’s hand into his own and gave it a gentle yet businesslike shake.

“I take my obligations very seriously, Mr. Hill,” he said as his eyes met the old man’s withering glare with unwavering confidence. “You have my word. I will uphold our agreement.”

“And the curtains in the tower room?” the old man asked, for the third time in as many minutes. His voice was thick with skepticism.

“Not to be touched. Understood.”

“Young man, those curtains are not to be taken down, not altered, not covered - nothing - or else the deal is off,” Mr. Hill said stridently. “The maintenance company will be checking.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t want to take them down even if I could,” James said. “You made them yourself, didn’t you Mrs. Hill?”

As the elderly wife nodded in reply, the old man’s expression softened and he settled back into his seat with a palpable air of resignation.

“Let’s get it signed,” he mumbled.

Hearing this, the attorney perked up and quickly spread the papers out across the table.

“This is an incredible deal, Mr. Hill,” James asked as he picked up the pen. “Are you sure you’re okay with selling your house to me? I hope I’m not taking advantage.”

“The truth is, James, we don’t live there anymore and there’s no one else we’d let have it. We’d give the house to you straight out if we could afford it,” the old man said.

“She needs you James,” Mrs. Hill agreed, “we should have let you have her a long time ago. We were afraid that after all this time, you wouldn’t want her anymore.”

“Are you kidding?” James protested. “I’ve loved your house since I was little! I used to feel like I was in a magic castle whenever I came to play with Sophie.”

A look of sadness passed over Mrs. Hill’s face, as her daughter’s name was spoken.

“Sophie wanted to marry you when she grew up - did you know that? She was so devastated when you moved away,” Mrs. Hill said.

James shifted uncomfortably in his seat and let out a nervous little laugh, unsure of how he should respond.

Mr. Hill interrupted before he could speak.

“Martha, we don’t need to talk about this,” he said, taking his wife’s hand. “You’re going to scare him away, dear.”

He turned to James.

“She’s emotional in her old age, James, she doesn’t mean any harm by it,” he said apologetically.

“Your first love, your
true
love,” Mrs. Hill mumbled, and a confused look clouded her eyes as she spoke. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to make some tea now,” she said, and stumbled away to rummage through the pantry.