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Free Fiction Friday: Gluttony by Jesse Orr
GLUTTONY
by Jesse Orr
It had made it through security, only by an amazing stroke of good luck. A razor blade is just the kind of thing which all TSA agents are supposed to be on the lookout. But, some stupid crackhead in the line ahead of me tried smuggling a few kilos of what looked like powdered sugar out of town. He should have tried harder. A lot of people in wherever were going to be very disappointed. Anyway, while they were busy screwing with him, I calmly walked through the metal detector, not flinching as it beeped in protest. I held my arms up and assumed the position, so to speak. The lady with the wand was distracted by the ensuing drama and probably more than a little pissed off that she was the one who had to scan people who set off the stupid alarm with their watches and necklaces. I said, “It’s the bracelet,” and pointed to my right arm where a chain link bracelet was welded on. She ran the wand over it, it beeped, and she waved me through, satisfied. Her attention was already back with the smuggler while I walked through security with a razor blade.
You may ask, why exactly did I risk bringing a razor blade on board a commercial jetliner? Mostly to see if I could. A little for the thrill. For the sheer joy of it. Who cares? Stop asking stupid questions.
I stopped at the bar for a few shots of Cognac to take the edge off the hopeless flock mentality that was beginning to set in, and made my way to the gate, sparsely populated an hour before boarding. Finding an out-of-the-way looking row of chairs, I sat down and began the new Zhane Brock novel. Better than most bestsellers out today, many of the inspirations for my work come from Mr Brock’s twisted mind.
I was jolted from a seedy bathroom in Queens by a man sitting down two seats from me, yakking on a cell phone and oblivious to all but what was right in front of him.
Surely, I reasoned, the terminal had filled up rapidly while I was reading Mr Brock’s words, and this was the best place to sit? But no. There were two people sitting in the terminal, their numbers dwarfed by the empty seats surrounding them.
My attention turned back to this man, taking in details. He fairly reeked of yuppie. His khaki shorts had been out of the packaging less than a day, the creases so sharp they could slice elephant steaks. I could smell them, the steaks, along with the new clothes smell emanating from his green polo shirt. His cell phone was the latest model, a tablet-smart phone hybrid. Probably did everything but talk for him, and as soon as they came out with a model that did, he’d be the first one in line to buy it.
Gary [it was stitched on his carryon] continued talking without a care in the world, oblivious to my scrutiny. He blathered on about golf, bars and bikini clubs, punctuating sentences with phrases reeking of irritating enthusiasm and shifting constantly in his chair, swaying the row of chairs. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He was truly one of the most repulsive individuals I had ever laid eyes upon.
As soon as he was done talking and bouncing around, Gary brought a takeout box seemingly from nowhere. The second that box came into my eyesight, the stench of cheap curry hit me square in the nostrils, almost before my eyesight told me it was a box. My eyes beheld a green lumpy mess, which Gary proceeded to shovel into his mouth at a terrific rate, unhindered as he was by napkin or paper towel.
I knew once he finished his aromatic feast he’d be heading for the bathroom. Sure enough, once Gary the Yuppy finished licking green slime off his fingers, he crammed the box into a trash can and headed off down the terminal. I gave him a minute, stretched, and followed him. Luck stayed with me. Gary brought out a card, swiped it through a slot in the wall, and disappeared through a door saying MVP Platinum Members Only.” Hastening my footsteps, I stopped the door surreptitiously with my foot and made a show of fumbling in my jacket. Bringing out my wallet, I pulled out, swiped and replaced my imaginary card, then let myself in the door.
Again, luck was with me and nobody else was in that exclusive bathroom, save Gary and his fancy phone, which were both in a stall together. I knew luck wouldn’t keep the bathroom empty for long. Slipping off my shoe and sock, I slid the sock over my hand and grabbed the razor blade hidden inside the shoe.
Kicking Gary’s stall door in, I wasted no time. Before Gary could say a word, I lashed out with the razor blade, catching him across the throat, parting the layers of skin and tissue almost to the point of death. He would live, but would never again be able to speak above a gravelly whisper. For now, he sat partially on the toilet seat, pants around his ankles, grasping at his throat while making the first of many years worth of wheezing gasps. I put on my sock and my shoe, and dropped the razor in his lap. Maybe they would think it was a suicide attempt. I didn’t care. It was almost time to board.
There was a scream. Taking my boarding pass back from the attendant, I looked over my shoulder across the terminal. One of airport security was attempting to comfort a hysterical woman by the MVP Platinum Members Only door, another was coming out of it, his shoes red and his face green. I shook my head and padded down the jetway to my seat.
I was just about to open Mr Brock’s book again when I was distracted by a large someone clambering into the seat next to me. I blinked. There should be no one sitting there. I always bought two seats side by side, just so no one sat next to me. And yet, here was someone…sitting next to me. I bit my tongue. Maybe the rest of the plane was full and he was one of those lucky ones who gets an empty seat ten minutes before departure.
No…I watched and plenty of people were still getting on. There were plenty of open seats. This was getting to be routine. Meanwhile, the man to my right [I always get a window seat] was settling in, putting his laptop away, getting comfortable. He put his arms on the armrest, sat back and sighed.
My eye twitched. To avoid touching this man, I was sitting against the wall, practically on the wing of the plane, and had my elbows on the top of my hips. That’s when I noticed a lady’s pointed shoe under my window, considerably detracting from my arm space. The approximately three square feet the airline had allotted me was being invaded with extreme prejudice. The man to my left shifted, getting comfortabler, which I know is not a real word, and elbowed me in the side. The elbow stayed in my side. The shoe on my right nudged my arm.
That was enough. I opened Mr Brock’s book and began thumbing through it for inspiration, even committing my own faux pas and looking past the part to which I had read, seeking key words. I was so absorbed in my study that we had been pushed back, taxied, took off, and were cruising at 36,000 feet, before my seatmate’s standing to go to the bathroom roused me.
The bathroom?
Well why not.
Once again, I gave him time to make his way back and inside the stall before sliding past the man in the aisle seat and heading to the lavatories. Miraculously, only one of them was occupied. This was almost too easy.
Quickly and quietly, I jimmied the bolt with the second razor blade which I had tucked into my wallet and slid in with him, locking the door and knocking him silly with a slap to the brains before he really comprehended that something out of the ordinary was happening. As he reeled back, dazed, I took his left arm and slit first his wrist, then his inner forearm, then his upper inner arm, and stuffed as much of his fist as would fit into his mouth. The blood flew from his slashed arm, spattering the walls as he fought to free both his arm and his fist. It wasn’t hard to hold his fist and arm in place until his twitching subsided and his eyes glazed over.
Once he was dead, I wadded up a bunch of toilet paper over the gashes and put the razor blade in his right hand, after taking the fist out of his mouth, and left him sitting there with his pants around his ankles holding a razor blade. The next day’s paper would record it as a man who wanted to make a statement by snuffing himself in an airplane bathroom but had second thoughts and used TP to dam the red river, unsuccessfully. But by then I was in Europe and could have cared less.
The man in the aisle seat had ordered a Bloody Mary in my absence, the smell of which was enough to make me gag, and I was entertaining the possibility that the lady with the shoe had epilepsy, but only in the foot that kept kicking me. However, the luck had shifted from me to them, because I had left my last razor blade in the bathroom.
**********
Jesse Orr was born and raised in Alaska and has no idea, nor do his parents, when or how he began reading and writing; as is the case with so many things, they just are. Moving to Seattle in 2007, he settled down to a life of recording and performing music as well as writing whatever caught his fancy. He has a dog named Mr Dog and lives in West Seattle.
Grant Me Serenity: The End Part 2
“Well now,” Len said pleasantly, not moving. “I see we have quite a quandary.”
“Yeah?” Harding sneered. “I don’t see a quandary. You don’t get moving, there’ll be a bullet in your head before you can think about saying goodbye.”
“How are you going to do that without having to explain a lot of things to them?” Len nodded at the door leading to the hallway which opened to the parking lot. Decent group tonight, judging by the amount of door-slamming and the volume of residual chatter as the AA members who smoked lit up around the ashtray. “I don’t see a silencer on that gun of yours. Your arm must be getting tired, by the way.”
Harding’s face was frozen in the sneer but his eyes had filled with an uncertainty Len recognized. His arm, whether genuinely tired, or inspired to be so by the power of suggestion, began to tremble.
Len began to move forward, hands held out to his sides, a placid smile on his face. Harding raised the gun anew. “Get moving out that back door motherfucker, I swear to Christ I’ll blow your fucking head off. Don’t push me.”
“Oh I’m sure you would,” Len replied, still coming forward, still with hands out. “I’m not as heavily armed as that man but my pockets are full of shadows. Who knows, one of them could be an automatic.”
“Shut up!” Harding’s gun pointed at Len’s head, then his stomach, then his chest. “Just shut the fuck up and get out the door!” His voice had risen noticeably.
The smile dropped off Len’s face. Only some had seen the look which replaced it, most of whom were dead. “Last chance, EX-detective. Put your gun away and leave. You can continue being whatever you are now instead of what you will become.”
“Fuck you!” Harding raised the gun again and aimed it between Len’s eyes. “This is your last fucking chance!”
Len sighed, and plunged his hand into his pocket. Harding, his nerves strung tighter than a guitar string, fired.
“The jury finds the defendant guilty of the charge of murder in the first degree.”
The words hung in the courtroom, leaden. Guilty. Murder. Harding could scarcely believe it. Hearing the jury recommend the death penalty was even more surreal. Death penalty? For him? What the fuck had happened? How had he gotten here?
His mind whirred through the past like a flipbook. Yesterday’s meeting with his lawyer. Good record, recovery, acquittal is a sure thing, blah blah blah. The weeks leading up to that meeting, the trial, the hell of being torn apart in front of crowd, a judge, a newspaper, with the press, always the press out for his blood, and some days those four smirking faces from the church in the crowd, right there but unattainable. The months of incarceration prior to that whole media frenzy, pacing his cell, desperate for time with his lawyer, because then, only then, did he feel like he was making progress, moving forward. The weeks immediately afterward, when he had been in the purgatory of jail, not knowing what was coming, only knowing it was taking its sweet time and that it was going to be bad, then being proved correct in his worst assumptions. That horrible night he had been taken into the police station in the humiliating perp-walk, handcuffed past his peers, some of them gawking, some shaking their heads, some smirking like the pieces of shit they were. His mug shot, the most painful moment of all, somehow, was when they had fingerprinted him. Finally the ghastly night in the basement of the church when he had somehow, like a fucking idiot…
A small round dot appeared between Len’s eyes, visible for a split second before his head jerked back and threw him to the floor, arms flying out, hands open, nothing but emptiness inside. Unarmed.
“No,” Ed groaned, dropping to his feet beside Len and dropping his gun. “No, oh God oh God NO!” he screamed, pawing desperately at Len’s hand, as though by magic he could make a weapon appear in it. He slapped Len’s legs, hoping to manifest a gun in a holster, a knife in a pocket, something, anything, oh holy fuck not again…
“Oh my God!”
This new hellishly unwelcome voice cut in. Ed jerked his head around, eyes bulging, staring at the first alcoholic to enter the room, a matronly woman in a pink pants suit, whose face was hidden behind her ringed hands, horror in her eyes.
Ed held out his hands to her, numbly glad he had dropped the gun, his mouth working on excuses, somehow blurting out, “I can explain…”
His last meal was a big decision, and Ed thought about it long and hard. Finally, he settled on Shepherd’s Pie, sauerkraut, and pistachio ice cream, washing it down with two cans of Mountain Dew. He immediately regretted it upon finishing, wishing instead he had ordered beef stew, or ravioli, but that was just who Ed Harding was. Had he ordered all three, he would have wished for something different. As he sat there, tasting the sauerkraut and fishing errant strings of it from his back teeth, a guard appeared at his door. It was time.
As he was being strapped in to the chair, trying to keep from hyperventilating, the door in the back of the death chamber opened. Dr Pudge entered. Missy followed. She looked straight at him, with not a hint of recognition. His jaw dropped.
“Hey…”
The guard, moving so swiftly he seemed not to move at all, fixed a gag across Ed’s mouth. The room returned to its normal silence as the necessary plumbing was hooked up to Ed’s body. His eyes grew huger as he saw Jerry, Jessica and Paul sitting in the gallery. No one else was there. Paul smiled and waved. Jessica glared. Jerry’s face was a mask.
The guard, seeing the prisoner was ready for execution, made his speech. “Edward Harding, you have been sentenced to die by a jury of your peers. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?” The guard removed the gag, and Ed filled his lungs.
“Listen to me. This is the truth. That crazy bitch there,” he nodded in Missy’s direction. Her face didn’t move. “and those three assholes–” nodding toward the gallery, “are psychopaths! Murderers! I killed one of their little group after they sat around telling stories about how they’d done it as kids! Ask them! Go on!”
The guard nodded as though he believed every word. This was not the first time someone in the chair had screamed accusations with their last breath. It would not be the last. He looked at Missy. She nodded in return, and began opening valves in her deadly dance. Ed was still ranting as he noticed his eyes growing heavy. He began to yell, but by then, it was over.
Until his eyes opened.
“Oh, there he is, I told you he’d wake up, didn’t I?” A woman’s voice, nearly crowing with delight. Horrible to hear. Horribly familiar.
“Well done, Missy,” a male voice said.
Ed was shivering, but could not move. Was he still in that god damn death room? Was his execution still going on? Then why did the ceiling look so much darker?
A stinging smack on the side of his face brought the ceiling in to focus. He shook his head and looked around him just in time for the rolled up towel someone was snapping to take him in the eye and nearly gouge it out by the feeling, holy shit he had never felt that much pain in an eyeball and what the FUCK was going on..?
“Did that rouse you a bit honey?” Another female voice was crooning next to his ear. “Wouldn’t want you to sleep through Len’s memorial now would we?” She had just finished the last word when a fist smashed into Ed’s nose, bending it to the left with a crack. Ed howled.
“Cool it,” the first woman said. “There’s no rush, and we want him to stay conscious at least for a little while.” Harsh laughter.
The abuse ceased and Ed shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His right eye was a stinging slit of agony misted with red, but the left was taking things in all too well. His mind began to process them.
He was in a chair, arms behind him, stripped to the shorts and soaked. Apparently he’d been doused with water to wake him up. He tried to bring his hands around front and found, to no real surprise, that they had been restricted behind him. He pulled, expecting to hear the clank of chains and heard… nothing. No movement either. They had glued his hands together behind his back, as though he were rubbing them together. He could not move so much as a finger.
They stood around him, over him, surveying him. Missy still wore her business suit but her hair had come out of its bun.
“Curious? I bet you are.” A hand dropped into her pocket and procured a little glass vial. “I just switched out the deadly stuff for some sugar water and switched you for some other corpse on the way out of the morgue, once I declared you legally dead.” She grinned, and Ed felt his blood run cold.
“Brilliant, doctor,” Jerry said, and applauded her. Paul and Jessica joined in, giving Missy a well deserved ovation.
“Thank you,” she said, giving them a curtsy and turning to give one to Ed as well. “Len has been cremated long since, but we waited to have the memorial until you could join us for the fun. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
Ed could only look on in dumbstruck horror as she picked up the briefcase sitting beside her and turned to place it on a counter nearby. She opened it.
Fluorescent light ricocheted off the angles of the cutting tools filling the briefcase. Razor blades, scalpels, assorted knives and something which looked horribly like a cheese grater grinned at Ed with shining teeth.
Ed began to blubber.
Jerry reached forward and took a scalpel. Jessica grabbed a razor blade. Paul took a large butcher knife. Missy took her favorite, the cheese grater, and the small salt shaker that came with it.
Ed began to plead, to threaten, to bargain, forgetting that for all intents and purposes, to the world, Ed Harding was already dead.
The four of them lined up, Missy at their lead. They would continue taking turns, until the sport had worn off. But it would take a while. They were in no rush.
Ed began to scream.
Missy walked forward, her eyes searching for the perfect patch of skin to begin her ministrations. Behind her, she heard them praying.
Grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change
the courage to change the things I can
and the wisdom to know the difference.
THE END
**********
Jesse Orr was born and raised in Alaska and has no idea, nor do his parents, when or how he began reading and writing; as is the case with so many things, they just are. Moving to Seattle in 2007, he settled down to a life of recording and performing music as well as writing whatever caught his fancy. He has a dog named Mr Dog and lives in West Seattle.
Grant Me Serenity – Ed
Surprise, Motherfucker!
My name is Ed and I’m an alcoholic. That’s how I came to be in this room, waiting to attend an AA meeting, after being one my whole life. Learned from my dad, and he was one of the best. Tasted my first beer at five I think. Didn’t do me much good at the time but what did I know. Fortunately I learned from dad how to pretend not to be an alcoholic at the same time, and I’ve been pretty good at it since. It got pretty bad when I got about high school age, went away when I joined the military. Just too damn tired to drink. It was after I got out and police work started to get dull that I started to drink, just a few beers during lunch, then rolling around with a nice buzz, chewing mints, smoking cigarettes and listening to the radio. Eventually, the lunches got longer, the buzzes afterward became outright drunks, and since I was plainclothes, eventually a uniform saw me weaving a bit too much and flipped his lights on. I’d smoked my last in the bar and I was out of mints so when I opened the window and he smelled my breath, he didn’t care about the badge I showed him.
I happen to be acquainted well with the daughter of a local judge, and through his grace my little indiscretion never saw the light of press, nor police report. But everybody knew. I could see it when I walked through the station, when I passed someone in the hall, when my path coincided with another guy on the uncomfortable shared walk to the restroom. I could see it, and what’s more, I could feel it.
But I didn’t stop. Not even then. I just stopped not hiding it. The beers at lunch became bourbon sipped throughout the day from a flask which was often refilled, and I lived in fear of straying too far from a white or yellow line when I drove. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. You all understand that, don’t you? I’m pretty sure that given what I’ve just listened to, you all know exactly what I’m talking about. You’re just lucky you don’t puke afterward.
Then, after months that seemed like years of ridicule, an old buddy was short a man and asked if I could get my shit together and jump on his team for serving search and hopefully arrest warrants on some goon somewhere. I didn’t care. Second-string or not, someone was looking at me as more than just a fuckup. Naturally I made sure I was properly drunk at the time so I didn’t lose my nerve or anything, and naturally, I overdid it. Subconsciousness, maybe? Who the fuck knows. All I know is when we were walking up the path to this house, I was weaving worse than when I was pulled over on the road, the guy behind me is hissing under his breath “Get it together for fuck’s sake you fucking drunk” and the guy in front is following the leader, and hisses back “shut the fuck up, it’s too late now” because the boss was mounting the step and the show was about to kick off.
So to make a long story short, the door opens, the guy runs, we chase him through the house. He goes upstairs, like a genius, and gets cornered in the bathroom. Like in The Shining or some shit. He’s locked in there, hollering he’ll die first, fucking pigs, blah blah, and the sarge is doing his usual COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP routine. I’m still seeing double at this point and my stomach is doing a weird queasy thing that never means good news. So naturally, the sarge tells me “Harding, cover that goddamn door and if anything comes out without its hands up AND empty you fill it full of lead. Any questions?” I shook my head, afraid to open my mouth and vomit on the sarge under the best of circumstances. He turns back to the door and I pull my gun on it, trying like hell to draw a bead on something, anything, that looks like more than a doubling mirage. “The door is coming down” bawls the sarge, “so get your goddamn hands out of the way, then put them up and walk out!”
Two guys bring up a ram. Just as they’re about to start their charge, the door flies open and the guy comes out. I don’t even know his name. All I know is he’s got a gun and I start shooting. I pull the trigger over and over, aiming at first one of the blurred visions I’m seeing, then the other. Left, then right, then between them, back and forth, until I realize the gun is empty. I wonder how long it’s been empty and I shake my head. That motion and the concussions of the gunshot with the gunsmoke in my nose is what did it in the end.
That was my lowest point. Vomiting my liquid breakfast onto my feet in front of a squad of SWAT guys after emptying my gun into an unarmed man with, it turned out, nothing but a shadow in his hand.
My friend’s dad the judge had a bit harder time covering this one up, not because of the man I’d killed, but because a number of the squad were of the opinion that there should be nothing covered up. In the end, they settled for my resignation. But as I said, people talk.
“So now,” Harding said, holding his gun on each of them in turn as he spoke, his hand trembling but not drunk. Not for two years. “Now, when I bring you all in and it comes out that I arrested you in the course of attending my AA meetings after years of sobriety–” The gun came to rest on Missy. Harding exhaled, and grinned.
HorrorAddicts.net 120, Chantal Noordeloos
Horror Addicts Episode# 120
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Intro Music by: Valentine Wolfe
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Grant Me Serenity-Flashback
“Mommy, hurry up!” Missy, aged 9, fussed at her mother. Len and Dennis were already going down to the river and if she didn’t hurry she’d be left behind. Not on purpose, she knew. Her brothers were always glad, often eager to have her along. They always said she wasn’t the typical little sister. But they weren’t the typical older brothers. They had not ditched her rather, than minding the brat, they had been unable to contain their eagerness, and left before Mommy had finished braiding her hair. They couldn’t possibly be across the second field by now but she’d have to run to catch them, and if they were lost in the woods before she found them she’d have to stay home, because Daddy told her never to go in the woods without someone else until she was older.
“Young lady, if you don’t hold still I’m going to braid your hair to this porch!” her mother barked, yanking the attempts at pigtails back into place and setting her daughter’s head. “Don’t move this time and you can go!”
Missy tried not to move but she couldn’t help craning her head, trying to see that last corner of the last field, the one with the path to the creek through the woods she was never allowed to go in on her own. If she moved just a little more, she could see it and if her brothers were there and she ran and screamed they might stop…
Her mother hauled her head back into place and resumed braiding. “Honestly, Missy, you haven’t the patience God gave a sparrow. You’re going swimming, so you’re getting your hair braided.” Eventually the braids were done, containing her daughter’s long dark hair, but the braids looked like cancerous snakes. Her mother couldn’t help giggling.
Missy looked over her shoulder. “What is it? Are you done? Can I go?”
Barely containing her mirth, she nodded and gave Missy both a kiss on the lumpy braid and a little push. “Yes. Go on honey. I love you.”
The little girl was gone like a shot. Her mother contained her laughter at the sight of the two tumorous reptiles attached to her daughter’s head until they were out of sight.
Missy sprinted down the fence line of the first field and crashed through the shallow waters of the brook separating the two fields. Up the hill, she could see two shapes just beginning to merge with the colors of the forest. She stopped and took a deep breath, stuck two fingers in her mouth and whistled. A piercing blast emanated from her hand, and the two shapes stopped merging with the darkness of the treeline. Gratified, Missy renewed her sprint. Dennis had shown her that trick and after weeks of practicing she had mastered it. That whistle, Dennis and Len assured her, would stop what they were doing. A second would bring them running.
“Hoy!” she hollered, and resumed her run, but at a leisurely jog rather than a full sprint. The two shapes grew arms, legs, a head, and features as she got closer.
“Nice whistle,” Dennis said, giving her a five and she slapped it.
“Not bad,” Len agreed, and immediately turned back to the trail they had just sighted when Missy had whistled. “Come on, let’s go. It’s hot, and I’m hot.”
They all were, and fell into line behind Len. Missy next, and Dennis followed, cataloging as if to himself what he planned to do upon reaching the water.
“First, I wade in up to the ankles. Then the knees, then turn around and back in slowly until it gets up to my waist. Then I can slowly lower myself in and not even have to get my head wet if I don’t want to.” Dennis smiled at the sky, and the sun, whose bounty made this trip necessary. “If I don’t die of heat stroke first.”
After a while, the path narrowed and brush grew up around it. Branches grabbed and Missy was glad of her pigtails now, time-consuming though they had been. They ducked under and hopped over and elbowed their way through brush until they came out at gray sandy beach with crystal clear turquoise water reflecting a blue sky and a few puffs of clouds. In the water were around a dozen children varying from just able to swim to unable to remember how not to. There was a great deal of splashing and yelling and was punctuated by the occasional splash as someone ran up a small ridge and jumped off the six-foot bluff into the water. Len wasted no time in racing up the ridge and creating a massive splash with a war-whoop. Dennis followed suit. Missy, not feeling the ridge and war whoops to be quite her style, waded in and dog-paddled out to where her brothers latched on to her and towed her around in circles.
A boy with long dark hair slicked back on his head paddled up beside them, grinned, and spat water at them. Dennis laughed and splashed at him. The boy splashed back. Immediately there was an all-out war of splashing, spraying and laughter as they battled it out, each seeking to soak the other in the water in which they all bathed. Missy didn’t know anything was amiss until she noticed there were only their three heads instead of the four. She looked around, thinking the boy had gone away to splash someone else. She saw only Len and Dennis, breathing rapidly as they trod water and grinned back at her.
“Where’d he go?” Missy looked around again, then looked back at her brothers.
Len looked down.
Missy looked too.
The boy with the long hair was between them, beneath the surface, his fingers no longer breaking it in their quest for freedom. Their movement had slowed, and were visible about a foot beneath the surface, where they gradually stopped moving.
Dennis winked at her, and Len let out a yell and hauled up on the hand of the long-haired boy, screaming as he did, “Help! Help! Someone get help, I think Harry’s dead!” Dennis now took up the cry. “Help! He’s not breathing! Someone get help!” Dennis nudged Missy, and she gave voice to her own scream. “Help! Somebody HELP!”
Her piercing shriek carried across the fields as her mother hung the laundry out to dry. She shook her head and went on pinning the clothes to the line, an indulgent smile on her face.
“Those kids,” she said to herself, and sighed, not quite ruefully.
“Those were the days,” Missy smiled, and looked around at the group. “Back when not getting caught and Mom’s apple pie were the two most important things in the –”
There was movement from the back of the room. Long curtains covered the wall for some reason and the shape now moving independently from them had blended almost perfectly with the shadows and the dark gray of the drapes. This shape rose up from the ground slipped behind the drapes, and clawed them aside with a curse. The fabric fell aside and revealed a man’s face, gray with stubble and haggard, bloodshot eyes framed by not-yet-grayed brown hair falling across his forehead in a greasy mat. He pushed himself off the wall and stood erect, squaring his shoulders and pushing the hair out of his face. Once he had collected himself, he spoke, reaching under his coat as he did for the tools of his trade, fighting to stay upright.
The group had drawn back from the drapes as the shape had moved and now they bunched together as the newcomer voiced their worst nightmare even as he palmed his gun and showed his badge with his other hand.
“Police department. Everybody get on their knees with their hands behind their head. Nobody fucking move unless they want a bullet in the eye.”
I’ll do it too, Ed Harding thought, as he sighted on the younger woman with a hand which would not stay steady. Starting with this sick bitch.
Grant Me Serenity – Missy
My name is Missy, and I’m an addict. That’s what you guys say, right?
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been like this. As a little girl in pigtails and jeans, I remember I would grab the stinkiest chemical out from under the sink and pour the whole bottle down the anthills and watch them run. One day I saw my brother with the magnifying glass trying to light a fire, and it occurred to me how much more personal it would be if I just applied that bit of heat to a tiny ant, rather than drowning them with chemicals. It took most of the afternoon but I finally mastered the glass, and could bring a pinprick of hell to bear on an ant within seconds. Like the hand of God, I smote and smote, unable to control the huge grin on my face. Inevitably though, I grew, and as I did, the ants ceased to hold their interest. Like any addict, I now needed something more.
I saved up my coins and bought a mouse trap. I was so excited the night I set it under our porch. I couldn’t wait to get up the next morning and see if I’d gotten anything. I lay awake for ages, listening for the snap, before waking up to the light of day. I flew out of bed and down the porch stairs in my bare feet. There it was, snapped across the skull of what I later learned was a shrew. Its eyes bulged and there was a deep crimp in its head where the bar of the trap had snapped, but it was otherwise unmarked. I was disappointed. Sure, I had killed it. But it was cold and stiff and I had been asleep while the trap did the actual dirty work hours before, crushing its brain as efficiently and humanely as it had been designed to do. The satisfaction I received from roasting ants was better than this!
Frustrated, I saved my money again. This time, I went to the pet store, a jumpy nervous excitement bouncing my stomach. Straight to the Small Animals section, where a strange thing happened. I looked in the eyes of a white rat with a spot on its forehead, and my original plan evaporated. I did purchase her, but she became my companion rather than my victim, living in my sweater hood and riding on my shoulder as I went about my day. I named her Rat, and cried for a week when she finally passed away.
This inconvenient softening did not help my deeper issue, namely something larger than an ant and less quickly dispatched than a mousetrap. However, thanks to Rat, the easy pickings such as all the neighborhood pets, as well as regular trips to the pet store, were unthinkable. There were times I would look at a random cat curled up on my mother’s car as though it had every right to be there, and I would wonder how bad it would hurt me before I could get it immobilized and start…
Rat’s beady little black eyes regarded me solemnly from my shoulder. I could feel her looking at me, as though she knew what I was thinking, and I would look away from the cat, embarrassed. It was just being a cat. Rat was just being a rat, and the ants were just being ants. They had no say in the matter and knew nothing of malice.
People, though…
More and more I couldn’t stop thinking about a girl in my class at school. Rachel S, I’ll call her, and she was Perfect, with a capital fucking P. She knew it too, and made sure everyone else did. None of the Perfect girls had any problem with me, but if Rachel knew what I thought about as I watched her bitching her way through life, she would never have accepted my invitation to spend the night that Saturday.
The next morning, she was gone. I told my family we had argued, and she had left sometime around midnight. This was not unreasonable, she lived two blocks from our house and there were streetlights the whole way. Besides, she was twelve years old, and she could take care of herself, she said when she left, I told Mom. When she was missed, I told her parents and police the same thing, explaining our quarrel away as over a boy. She was never found, and ultimately it was assumed someone had snatched her in those two blocks and made a clean getaway. Nobody ever asked me about it in any official capacity again.
She was my first person, but I was smart enough to know I couldn’t go around preying on everybody I knew. Once I could get away with, I was sure. Twice, I was pretty sure I could get away with as well, but not sure enough. I began spending time at various summer camps in the woods, where many accidents were possible, and accidents did happen. The worst for me, personally, was when a girl and I fell off a log into a river and were washed over a decent sized waterfall. I broke my leg. The girl I was with broke her back and couldn’t move from the waist down. I pulled her to the bank and she was gone by the time we were found, some two hours later. I told counselors through an Oscar-winning show of hysterics that she had died immediately.
Finally, not being stupid, Mom confronted me, and I broke down, tearfully spilling all of my extracurricular activities and expecting her to call the police at any moment. The last thing I expected was the scolding, the “why didn’t you tell me young lady” and the tour of the basement. I quit going to the camps, relieved to have found a steady outlet. But even so, it wasn’t enough. I longed for a more visceral experience. I thought military or law enforcement might be a suitable outlet, until I went to my first execution when I was eighteen with Mom.
She took all of us when we turned eighteen, just so we knew what the stakes were. I remember equally the lesson, and the executioner. His face was like granite, but his eyes were a volcano. When I read the files on those being executed, I could see why. I knew that look; I had seen it in my own eyes when I caught sight of myself in one of the basement’s mirrors when things were really going down. The fun comes in dispatching someone who truly NEEDS to die.
“So here I am,” Missy finishes, looking around with bright eyes. “Through hard work, luck and the necessary ruthlessness, I became the lead physician, or executioner, or whatever you want to call it. A detailed summary of what these guys have done to innocent people makes injecting them a great pleasure.” A pause. “And every time I do it, I think about what it would be like to lay on the couch instead of stand beside it.”
Dawn’s Dark Music Corner: New Years Day
Seattle Sounds-New Years Day- By Dawn Wood
I had the pleasure of opening for New Years Day and the Birthday Massacre with my band Murder Weapons in Seattle at the end of 2014. I was pleasantly surprised at the charisma and talent of New Year’s Day. Their music appealed to Metal/Gothic and Industrial fans and their humility in relating to the audience/fans was refreshing.
Their new 5 song EP entitled: “Epidemic” is brilliant, with the title track “Epidemic” being a huge fan fave.
New Year’s Day formed in 2005 and began an aggressive DIY promotion of their music on Myspace. They were featured on “Myspace Record 1 Compilation”. Since that time, they have toured with the likes of: The Birthday Massacre, Motionless in White, Blood on the Dancefloor just to name a few.
They describe their music as:
”Imagine if Dexter Morgan with side kick Eric Northman, hosted a late late late night talk show in a haunted mansion deep within the enchanted cemetery, then NEW YEARS DAY would most assuredly be their house band with warm blood-spattered bottles of True Blood offered in the red room for the visiting undead.”
Members include:
Ash on vox
Tyler & Jeremy on guitars
Nick on drums
Anthony on bass
Check out these links to New Years Day:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nydrock
Twitter: NYDROCK
Lastfm: http://www.last.fm/music/New+Years+Day
”Epidemic” download:https://play.spotify.com/trackset/mediabar/6JE2QBD2FmzMgYqu65Uzhb%2C1J4FkTOZNz9ooQjZPszM5W%2C165QuY1DUqXzqqA1IZ3Unm%2C049O57ssi7ReAFOmPCPHOZ%2C4B6oGnWjAfnLIApzHkHkDm%2C0gpTgDbkZczXoXiTlGch4t%2C0jVXpiW37MVzkDAptUOXle%2C12hm7s2WGdIFLo13FXoeuy%2C1LY0tTpCaNIqQSqWheIX5l%2C2d6iLsfggnvjl1dep2rpuE%2C5gLMuCZKVpbshie2OpT10M%2C20qReIgUUTYLhojoWyNObg%2C6QmBmb9PaVUqNJaRHrxFkH%2C1JgkDsrK8nnwP8lxhpJXgS%2C031S2FIn62EYApsRJXNAFU/%23/12
NEW EP: http://www.nydpreorder.com/
Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKFyoG_RFbY
Writer’s Workshop Winner: Jesse Orr
For episode Horror Addicts episode 112 our featured author is the winner of our annual writer’s work shop Jesse Orr. Jesse’s band Murder Weapons has been showcased on the horror addicts podcast last season:
https://horroraddicts.wordpress.com/2014/06/08/dawns-dark-music-corner-murder-weapons/
Jesse also has a 12 part story that is being showcased on the horroraddicts blog this season. The series is called Grant Me Serenity and you can read part one at this link:
https://horroraddicts.wordpress.com/2015/03/15/grant-me-serenity-jerry/
Here is what Jesse had to say on his music and writing:
1. When did you start writing?
Earliest memory of writing I have is it being part of our daily routine in elementary school. One of my favorite activities was to take a picture from a metal box containing laminates of various random things, then write a story based off of it. I don’t remember most of the photos but two I recall are a gorgeous looking strawberry shortcake and some sort of tranquil wooded creek scene. I used the creek scene for a my first ever story with chapters. There were five chapters in that story, each one maybe fifty words. I remember being irked that they were so short upon typing them. There was also a unit called Written and Illustrated the whole school did every year in which as the title implies we would write and illustrate our own stories, then bind them into crude but awesome books. I still have some of them that I wrote, one of them a Sherlock Holmes mystery.
2. What are some of the subjects you like to write about?
Invariably something dark with a high likelihood of no happy ending. I wouldn’t say I have certain subjects I prefer over others. Generally nothing supernatural but that could be changing. I wish I could give a better answer but I’ve spent forever trying to and the idea of choosing to write about subjects is completely alien to me.
3. What is your story about for episode 112?
This was written sometime back in 2001 and was lost on a dead hard drive for about a decade. Once recovered, I had no memory of the story outside of knowing I’d written something ”fucked up and bloody” and retooled what I found to fit in with the origin part of a vampire story I’ve been working on for years. As you might guess, this is the origin of the vampire species itself on earth, with the newly turned largely running on mad savage instinct alone. What you don’t see in the story I submitted is that the longer one of these creatures stays alive, the more refined it gets and becomes less a zombie and more the vampire we are familiar with since Mr Lugosi redefined the role.
4. Could you tell us about your music career a little?
No.
Just kidding. The thing which started me on the path to where I am now was a review for a KISS concert in Anchorage Alaska in January 2000. I didn’t even go to this show, but the photo was very striking. I thought, “Holy shit, people are allowed to look this weird on stage? You can do that???” I started playing drums, took up bass upon moving out of my parents’ house, and moved to Seattle to further my career, Alaska not being known for producing musicians. I joined two projects within a month of moving here, one experimental avant-garde industrial and one 80s metal, the former I played keyboards and the latter I honed my bass skills with the help of the frontman. In 2009 I joined Desillusion, where I learned a whole new school of musicianship. I always wanted to start my own project though, and so I finally started writing my own tracks and looking for people who would play them with me. Murder Weapons was born in 2012 and we’ve been playing shows since. Currently we’re about to put out a CD and we’re planning a music video.
5. Is the process for writing a short story a lot different then writing a song?
The strangest things randomly inspire me, and I frequently wake up with gibberish scrawled on my dry erase board I have only a hazy recollection of writing. When writing a story, I always have it in my head, at least a concept for it, and then it’s just a matter of transcribing it. With a song, I frequently just sit down, choose a key and a cool sound and let it go from there. Sometimes I’ll have a sample or a concept in mind but normally I have no idea how a song will turn out when I start. With writing I normally have at least a vague idea.
6. Which one is easier for you?
They are equally easy when the muse is in. I wrote an entire song once start to finish within six hours because the muse was screaming in my ear that night. I have also had songs in progress for years and not finished. The same is true with writing. Some weeks I’ll have 10000 words, some I won’t even press a button. The hard part is being able to indulge the muse when it knocks, which more and more frequently is about ten minutes after I lay down to sleep.
7. What are your plans for the future in writing and in music?
With writing, I’m always trying to push myself to write at least in a way I haven’t yet. I like to write about certain things, and when I write about them time and time again I have to find some way of making it fresh. I’m hoping the column I have biweekly on this site is well received and eventually I’d like to publish some sort of book, or something. In music, I’m following the logical progression of album, music video, promotion, shows, repeat.
Best Band Season 9 Poll
Best Band Season 9 poll is now open!
Go to the blog and vote on the right sidebar.
Nominees:
Endless Sunder
Desillusion
Grasp Logic
Murder Weapons
Charlie Drown
My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult
Dead Animal Assembly Plant
Mixed Messages
Post Rapture Party
Strap on Halo
Good luck guys and gals!
https://horroraddicts.wordpress.com/
HorrorAddicts.net 101, Ann Wilkes
Horror Addicts Episode# 101
Horror Hostess: Emerian Rich
Intro Music by: Cancer Killing Gemini
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138 days till Halloween!
ann wilkes, murder weapons, lee, cushing, price
vincent price, baycon, horroraddicts.net panel, laurel anne hill, j. malcolm stewart, ha facebook page, buffy the vampire slayer, christopher lee, peter cushing, vincent price, horror addicts guide to life, look back in horror, j. malcolm stewart, a treasury of recipes by mary and vincent price, fashion avatars, world goth day, hr giger, band poll, end of the world radio, murder weapons, perish, even hell has standards, chantal noordeloos, tim lichtenberg, zombie nights, 60 black women in horror fiction, sumiko saulson, camp 417, web of deceit, smothered, deep like a river, tim waggoner, ghosts of punktown, jeffery thomas, events, halloween, jamie lee curtis, michael meyers, lost boys, goonies, joel schumacher, buffy the vampire slayer, joss whedon, kate beckinsale, wesley snipes, dead mail, not for norms, writer’s block, flash fiction friday, anne wilkes.
http://traffic.libsyn.com/horroraddicts/HorrorAddicts101.mp3
Find all articles and interviews at: http://www.horroraddicts.net
Murder Weapons, “Perish”
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Write in re: ideas, questions, opinions, horror cartoons, favorite movies, etc…
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h o s t e s s
Emerian Rich
s t a f f
Sapphire Neal, David Watson, Dan Shaurette, Marc Vale, KBatz, Mimielle, Dawn Wood
Want to be a part of the HA staff? Email horroraddicts@gmail.com
b l o g / c o n t a c t / s h o w . n o t e s
Dawn’s Dark Music Corner: Murder Weapons
The sound of Murder Weapons has been described as Shock-Rock Horror Industrial.Samples from actual trials of serial killers, horror flicks and other auditory terrors are amply delivered by this quintet, punctuating the tracks with bloody CHEESE. Live shows feature a “SPLASH ZONE” of blood and various body parts. Audiences have become accustomed this Murder Therapy, featuring gory visuals, simulated murders and blood splattered cage dancers. Amidst the scene of chaos, gore and murder the band churns out a barrage of guitar driven, hard hitting, rhythmic, aggressive, electronic industrial audio terror for your delight!
Murder Weapons began in 2012 when founder Jesse RazOrr begun writing music based on a fascination with serial killers, horror films, and the finer things in life. Not surprisingly, the music was dark and aggressive. Jesse began forming the band with keyboardist, Luke Guillotine , drummer Lynn Shank and guitarist, Gorey Clawhammer. All that was needed was a vocalist. In summer of 2012, Murder Weapons was offered the opportunity to open for a national act in Seattle. Seattle rock-electronic vocalist, Dawn WoodKill, joined the Family and rehearsal commenced. By December, Murder Weapons was opening for major Industrial acts such as My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult, Angel Spit, Angels on Acid, Psyclon 9, Charlie Drown and Hanzel und Gretyl, as well as co-headlining Seattle’s Mechafest later that year. Currently, Murder Weapons is working on new material as well as a studio album and is obliterating the Northwest regularly. The next live show in Seattle will feature Murder Weapons, once again, opening for My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult.
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/murd3rweapon5
Twitter: @murderweapons
Reverb Nation: http://www.reverbnation.com/murderweapons
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/user/MurderWeapons
EVENT: Tacoma, WA Murder Weapons, Desillusion, and Charlie Drown
HorrorAddicts.net 