Wee Man & the Eejit as Told by Sean “Burly” O’Shea
“There he stood, all of three-foot and six inches, clad in his finest green outfit, now covered in rancid muck. The big eejit that pushed him in the ditch had a bit much of the black stuff. He was acting the maggot he was. Trying to impress his floozie, hoping to score some fun time between her legs. The wee man, well, he wasn’t taking no shite from no codger. A real chancer that fella was getting a Mountain Leprechaun all hepped up. Everyone round these parts knows you don’t feck with a Mountain Leprechaun, a valley one maybe, worse they can do is change you into a potato until sunrise. You just pray to all hell nobody cooks you for their supper.
I saw that happen to a young lad once you know, and at sunrise when he changed back, his legs, well, they was chewed off just above the knees they was. Some yoke thought it would be a great riot to take a bite out of him when he was a potato just to see what would happen. Heads or tails he said twirling the potato in his hands before he took a good old chomp out of the damn thing. It was a riot all right; the poor lad screaming with blood gushing everywhere and everyone running around like a bunch of chickens with their heads lopped off. He lived though, that’s him right over thar in front of Flanagan’s bar in the wheelchair.
Now where was I, oh yeah, some folks leaned a lesson tonight, just cause it’s Halloween don’t mean that everyone you see on the street is wearing a costume. That lad found out the hard way cause he’s not from ‘round here, and he sure as all hell didn’t know we have real Leprechauns that come into town during celebrations. I mean Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I can still smell the ass juice that shot down the eejit’s leg when the wee man transformed into a troll and bit his fecking head off.”
Steve Thompson is the author of two short and flash fiction collections. You can check out his 2 latest short stories “Kill Point Club” in the anthology When the Clock Strikes 13 from his In Your Face Publishing that he started in June 2019 and “Malignant” which he co-wrote with Kenneth W. Cain which is in the Shallow Waters 2 flash fiction anthology by Crystal Lake Publishing.
Your time is running out. When the clock strikes 13, all manners of hell will break loose.
When the Clock Strikes 13 is a collection of thirteen short horror stories by some of the best horror and dark fiction authors writing today. Inside, you will find stories to frighten, shock and gnaw at your inner fears, and take you places that belong only in the dark recesses of your mind. There are monsters on these pages; some are human, some are not.
“Mom,” the daughter called as her mother entered into the Louisiana homestead, “did you get anything that isn’t shit?”
Her mother had been at the supermarket for the majority of the day, leaving the daughter alone at home, forcing her to lie under the tin roof and listen to the sounds of the rain pattering against the roof of the shack. After the death of the Husband, it was just the two of them deep in the murky swamp among the mosquitos, alligators, copperheads, and bears. They lived in a messily strewn together shack that only had one room. Mother usually slept on a blowup mattress on the floor, while Daughter had the luxury of using their couch as a bed. Other than that, they had a record player, a bug zapping lamp, an ancient wood stove, some rusted silverware, and a refrigerator. Filling their yard was a sea of trash, that would have smelled hideously, but blended in with the scent of the mold, mud, and still water of the swamp. Mother was far too lazy to clean up or take any of the trash to the landfill when she went out to the supermarket. It wasn’t like she was a hard worker or anything, seeing as they lived off of welfare checks that were sent to the family for Mother’s “injuries.”
“Watch your language, please,” Mother quipped back at her, stepping over a mountain of cigarette cartons, fast food boxes, soda boxes, and laundry. She held the groceries tightly in her hands: more cigarettes and a giant box of Goldfish. She set one of the bags full of dozens of cigarette cartons on the floor, then started to shake the Goldfish box, as if she was jiggling a present to see what was inside. It was easy to hear them sloshing around on the inside. The smiling fish on the front cover seemed to mock the rest that would soon meet their fate. In a way, it was disturbing that Pepperidge Farms could be so egregious by killing millions without a second thought, but then again, it was all for the greater good.
“Goldfish for dinner again?” Daughter whined. Mother frowned at her ungratefulness, but shrugged it off; she wasn’t at all in the mood to get in a fight that night.
“A nice man gave me a discount,” Mother retorted, “we actually talked awhile. His name was Mark. He even gave me his telephone number!”
Daughter sighed, rolling her eyes back.
“I’m not rushing it again, you know that! Mommy has just been… really lonely. I asked him if he wanted to get dinner sometime.”
“What did he say?”
“He was such a nice man, really! He said he would love to do something with me. He even asked asked me if I wanted to go over to his house to watch some movies this weekend! He was just splendid!” There was that word again. Every time that Mother found a male interesting, she seemed to describe everything with him as splendid. She would often bring one of them over for a night or two, and Daughter would usually go for long walks when this happened, only for a new man to be in Mother’s Life within a month or so.
“That’s great, ma, that really is.” In the dim candlelight of the shack, Mother’s operculum looked smaller than usual. Daughter almost wanted to compliment her, but she didn’t have the energy.
“Are you hungry, baby? I bet you’ve been so bored all day,” she asked her child with a slow blink of her eye. Mother’s skin almost looked like a rainbow of colors, looking entrancingly beautiful in the light. How Daughter wished that skin would shed like that of a copperhead. Maybe if she was able to have Mother’s skin, the kids at school would make fun of her less. She wondered if Mother knew how jealous she was.”
“Starving! Let’s eat!” Daughter begged.
The two sat down in the sludge on top of the mattress, their unnaturally skinny legs crossed over each other. Mother sat the Goldfish in between them, letting the screams from the inside howl into the shack. She pulled two rusty forks from under the mattress, taking one for herself and giving the other to Daughter, who nervously eyed Mother’s red, gelatin-like eggs in one of the corners of the shack.
“Mother, you never told me, who is the father of them?”
“That isn’t your business, now is it?”
“Yes, it is. It’s pretty moist out here, Mother, so most of them will probably survive till adulthood. I wanna know who made my siblings. Why are they red?”
“We can’t support all of them, you know that. We’ll probably have to eat some to stay alive.”
Daughter kept her mouth shut. She knew how disturbing and vile the suggestion was. Even still, her gills flared up in anger. She watched as Mother pried open the cardboard container in front of them, then they both took a good whiff of the contents. Inside of the box was a gallon and a half of water, and dozens of meatball sized fish were rushing from side to side, urging for some kind of escape. Unfortunately, the fish were too small to leave the box, and even if they somehow scaled the walls the two would happily be able to devour them.
“Are you going to eat?” Mother asked, noticing that she was staring off into space.
“You said you were hungry! So you better eat! I spent good money on these!” Mother practically screamed, then jammed her fork into the box, piercing one of the fish like Poseidon’s trident. The blood of the fish instantly began to float through the water, making the rest of them violently rush into the walls to escape, but to no avail. Mother yanked the fork from the murky water but had only grazed the fish, poking through its stomach and piercing through its intestines. The scales easily crumbled away for the might of the rusty fork, forcing the intestines to leave the flapping body of the creature and wrap around the silver, like a macabre rope. The fish dangled in the air, violently convulsing and gasping for water. Daughter watched in horror at the amusement Mother found in the creature’s torture. After a few more agonizing moments that sent blood splattering onto the mattress, she brought the fork above her head, letting the fish dangle above her mouth. With a quick chomp of her teeth, which were some of the only parts of her that were still human, she swallowed the creature and separated it from the intestines wrapped around the fork, sending the black grime of its digested food splattered against her face. Mother gleefully giggled, running her fins over his lips and letting the fluid slowly drip into her mouth.
Daughter’s stomach grumbled, and suddenly, she found herself craving the salty taste of their scales, the irony taste of their blood, and the cool rubbery texture of their insides.
“Do you think my eggs will taste this good?” Mother finally asked after the two spent nearly ten minutes feasting on the squirming animals.
“I think they will, Ma,” Daughter replied, rubbing her stomach, “but I ate too much.”
“Maybe we can have them tomorrow,” Mother responded.
“Sure.”
“They don’t have to know that their mommy got a little hungry, do they? After all, I made them with love,” she said, softly purring, eyeing her children. They were puny inside of the translucent red eggs as they wobbled around. If only they could understand what the two were talking about. Would they be happy if the same woman who created them would be devouring them? Would they embrace death, or they would be afraid of their mother?
William Becker is an 18-year-old horror author with a mind for weirder sides of the universe. With an emphasis on complex and layered storylines that tug harshly on the reader to search for deeper meanings in the vein of Silent Hill and David Lynch, Becker is a force to be reckoned within the horror world. His works are constantly unfathomable, throwing terror into places never before seen, while also providing compelling storylines that transcend the predictable jumpscares of the popular modern horror.
His first novel, Weeping of the Caverns, was written when he was 14. After eight months of writing, editing, and revising, the story arrived soon after his 15th birthday. During the writing sessions for his debut novel, he also wrote an ultra-controversial short story known as THE WHITE SHADE that focused on the horrors of a shooting. Living in a modern climate, it was impossible for THE WHITE SHADE to see the light of day. Following a psychedelic stint that consisted of bingeing David Lynch movies, weird art, and considering the depth of the allegory of the cave wall, he returned to writing with a second story, THE BLACK BOX, and soon after, his second novel, Grey Skies.
A man is arrested after a strange series of barbaric animal killings in the Rocky Mountains. He is taken away from his family, and then placed behind bars, but not even the solid confines of prison can save him from the hellish nightmare that begins to unfold.
Roman Toguri finds himself burying the body of a nun in Boone, North Carolina. As the skies darken and it begins to storm, he is forced to shove the corpse into his trunk and take it home for the night, unaware of the torment that playing God will bestow upon him.
Enter Hell with two bonus short stories: The White Shade, an ultra-violent look into the mind of a mass shooter, and The Black Box, a psychedelic dive into weird horror.
Last year, R.C. Rumple wrote a fantastic story – one that really had me giggling – so when this year’s guest post opportunity came around and he said he was writing me a story, I was seriously giddy in anticipation of what he would send me. And he did not disappoint. One of the best ones yet. I love the way this man’s brain works.
Halloween Lottery (You Gotta Play to Eat)
When ghosts and goblins hit the streets With empty bags awaiting treats And witches fly high overhead Cackling their laughter to wake the dead
For Halloween brings smiles to most Costumes covering each little host Children believe it’s all in fun Saying, “Boo” to scare everyone
They have no idea it’s all so real So precious their bodies that we steal In Hell we know whom to choose Which kids will win and which shall lose
We wait in shadows on sides of streets Watching them taste their candy eats Knowing our hunger will soon be sated With flesh from those for whom we waited
“So, how did you do in the lottery?”
All day long, that seemed to be the standard question asked around Hell. It was almost nice to hear something besides, “How many more friggin’ new arrivals are coming in today?” Oh, true, bitching about the way things were in Hell was normal. But recently, all of us demons were stressed out.
See, Heaven was getting extremely picky about who they let into their so-called Golden Gates. St. Peter had finally let go of his precious book and moved into the computer age, about twenty years behind everyone else. When he had once been slow to find reasons to keep out Heaven’s new applicants for entry before, now, all their bad deed files were so easy to find the bastard had basically locked the gates and thrown away the key. (Damn thing probably fell through the clouds and into a missing CIA file labeled, “The Truth About Weapons of Mass Destruction in the White House, 2001-Present.”) We demons were overworked with the torturing Satan required for new arrivals. Day and night, we whipped and beat them until it wasn’t the fun it had been. It’s pretty bad when torturing becomes torture. Kind of like the networks having to produce another Steve Harvey television show.
Anyway, with Hell becoming Hell for even the employees, Satan figured we demons needed something to look forward to. He had already tried broadcasting comedy returns on our IDGAF Network… shows like “Modern Healer Family” and “Christian Science: Aliens from Space,” but those were too predictable. Even the shows, “Hell’s Got Talent” and “Dancing with the Demons” drew poor ratings. So, a few year’s back, he’d started a lottery figuring it would give us something to look forward to each other year. You know, to keep us from going on strike and picketing… kind of like raising hell in Hell. Anyway, ten tickets would be up for grabs, each having a different value, but all giving their owners a chance to feed on the fresh blood of a human child. And, not just any child, but one whose spirit was deserving of early entrance to Hell!
Hot and spicy food… who could resist?
Anyway, the drawing date was set for noon on Halloween. For weeks, every demon in Hell fasted. We wanted to be ready to enjoy the grand prize… three “fresh meat” children to savor in one night… without being too full to enjoy them. Nothing could interfere with the weeks of joyous heartburn to follow the feasting.
So, a few minutes before noon, all of us gathered with our tickets, paid for by the compilation of screams of pain and “Help me, Jesus” profanities we’d been able to collect from our torture victims. (Two-hundred screams and one “Help me, Jesus” equaled one ticket earned.) Satan took the microphone and drew the numbers from an open torso of a new arrival, just for kicks. As the final ticket was read, the misery of the moans and groans from the losers put a big smile on the red guy’s face. “There’s always next year,” he announced, watching the demons trudge back to a fresh load of new arrivals being delivered. As his laughter roared through Hell, most gave him the honorary salute he deserved, a raised middle finger.
Ten of us walking away hid our smiles. We were the winners, the holders of the lucky tickets! But, to let the losers know would invite a mass attack. With the rule of Hell being, “Survival of the fittest,” we needed to keep our luck a secret. Otherwise, our tickets would end up in the claws of those who’d been there much longer. (See, in Hell, you continue to enlarge in size as a demon each year, so those there the longest would be larger and the strongest. I know it’s common sense, but since that’s in short supply anymore, I thought I’d fill you in.) I continued at my work, torturing some kid who’d committed suicide after being disappointed about living with his parents for years after graduating college with a degree in Political Science and thinking he was entitled to more. Try as I did, it was hard to keep my mind on my job. Deep inside, the joy at knowing I’d soon be biting into hot & spicy youngsters kept me going.
Returning to my pit after my shift, I filed down the scales of my wings to a nice point and sharpened the claws on my feet and hands. Checking out my image in the mirror, I was amazed at the great looking demon who stood there. I was one hot son-of-a-bitch, if I do say so myself. My eyes, with their red glow set on Medium, were ominous enough to bring fear, but not bright enough to be mistaken for a Harley Davidson set of taillights. My ears, long and pointed, cast a very nice shadow on the wall behind me, as did my dragon style wings. I had almost been ashamed of my appearance before I’d cleaned up. Flying home, my shadow had looked like a friggin’ flying elephant in a Disney cartoon. I flossed one more time, peeling away a month of plaque I’d accumulated from fasting, to ensure it didn’t mix with and taint my later meals. Popping in a breath mint, I was ready. I hated to lose the gangly odor of rotten breath, but the last thing I needed to do was have some kid smell my rot and alert them to my presence. It would ruin the surprise for them I’d planned.
Flying out of my pit, I joined the other lottery winners at the gate. Some had won the chance at one kid, others two. The lowest ticket combination had the least chance of success, while the Grand Prize winner was assured of at least some feasting.
I was that winner.
Yes, as Grand Prize Winner I had won the opportunity to feast three times… three! The temptation for my taste buds was totally tantalizingly tremendous. (I know, a play of words within an info dump. How callous of me. You were expecting friggin’ Stephen King?) I could hardly keep my tongue in my mouth. Yet, as with anything Satan cooked up, the quest for food wouldn’t be easy. I, and the others, would have to hunt for our food and follow a few rules.
Rule Number One stated we had to have our asses back in Hell at Midnight. After all, that was when Halloween ended. It made sense. But, I hoped to have an ace in the hole on that one. The time of Midnight was based on the local time of our victims. By being the Grand Prize Winner, I might just have the advantage of each being in different time zones. Rule Number Two stated we couldn’t harm any human besides our target. This took some of the fun out of the havoc and carnage I had hoped to indulge in, but rules were rules. Friggin’ Michael Myers had already put a hurt on the number of Trick or Treaters out and about, so I guess it was for the best. None of us wanted new year’s lottery to be called off for lack of victim participation. Rule Number Three is the toughest of them all. No one can see us but our prey… no one. That one’s a bitch! With all the scumbag meth-heads on the streets these days, parents are getting harder to avoid. All these damn millennials think it’s cool to go Trick or Treating with their kids and if a parent doesn’t, they’re reported to Social Services. I miss the good old days of conservative evangelism with Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Bakker’s PTL Club. Parents in those days were so naive about giving other’s their trust. Now, ANTIFA has everyone scared to trust anyone. Friggin’ liberals!
As the seconds before the first gate opened ticked away, I couldn’t help thinking about what lay ahead. Three kids… human veal… tender, sweet, and oh, so good to eat. I needed to control myself. My eyes were already beginning to glow brighter with anticipation, as were those of the others around me. (If we stayed this way, we’d make someone think they were following a friggin’ motorcycle gang.) Oh, don’t feel sorry for the little bastards. Like I said, most of the ones on the lists we were to be given were on their way to join us in Hell, anyway. In fact, rumor had it, Satan had gotten this whole idea from Santa Claus.
What? You roll your eyes at that? Shows what you know. Santa has elves, right? Elves are lazy bastards. Santa would do better to go to the Mexican border and hire his help there. At least it wouldn’t take two hundred of them to put together a friggin’ Transformer toy. Anyway, Santa uses elves to go through mail and decide who’s naughty and nice. One day, this elf says to the fat man, “Hey, why don’t we get Satan to eliminate some of those requests? He could send his demons out to feed on the naughty ones and cut our workload down a little. Every little bit helps!” So, Santa decides to use as his clean-up crew to help out his poor, overworked elves, and to save him from having to pay out for overtime hours.
Now, I hate to give the lazy bastards credit for anything. (It’s like, “How many elves does it take to screw in a lightbulb? Ten… all telling Mrs. Claus to get up off her big ass and do it!”) This, however, was a good idea. The first year of the lottery, Satan only allowed one demon to feast. Santa really bitched about that. So, the big red guy has annually increased the number we take.
A loud screeching overhead indicated the first level gate was open. This was to our prep and planning area. One by one, we showed our tickets to the guards and were given our individual victim/target lists and exit passes. Oh, my Devil, you wouldn’t believe the moans and groans, especially from the three millennial demons in our group. They always felt they were entitled to more than what they got. You know, crap like, “I want a big pit not a small one. It’s not fair they get one and I don’t. I went to college and they said we should have more than anyone else.”
There are times I wonder what’s happened on the surface world. It’s sure gone to Hell since I left it a couple of centuries ago. Our population explosion down here is proof of that.
I overheard some talking about their low chance of scoring a meal tonight. One had been given targets who were in juvenile detention and others in gang ridden neighborhoods. Both were unfavorable toward success. I envisioned Satan laughing his ass off when he had come up with those. It was his way of putting the Trick in the supposed Treat. Still, others had to pick theirs out of crowded city streets and apartment complexes… all again with huge chances of being seen. I was afraid a few would return to Hell as hungry as they’d left it. Taking the chance of breaking the rules and being seen would carry the penalty of losing their “Demon” status and returning to human form to be tortured. No meal was worth that.
My list showed promise. Being spread from East Coast to West, my hopes were granted with the advantage of having a three-hour difference in time zones. True, there was travel time involved, but with good weather, I could easily cover the ground necessary for a three-course meal. First, I had one in Providence, Rhode Island, then one in Oklahoma City, and then one in California in Huntington Beach. If I could snatch the first one quickly, I’d have no problem reaching the other two with time to spare.
“Demons, Start Your Wings!”
Lights were flashing and electric guitars were twanging… it was almost time. All of us, even the moaners, began flapping wings like crazy, hovering just in front of the starting line. (I hadn’t had such anticipation since watching the British light the first torch to burn down the Presidential Mansion in 1814.) When the lighting flashes in front of us, the race was on. You never saw a group head so fast up to the surface in your death… err… life. It was a mad rush, each pushing and shoving the others, like there was only one commode in the bathroom and we all had a bad case of diarrhea.
I immediately headed to the East coast. I had little time to waste, so I engaged myself to lead the pack. One by one, they faded away into the lights of the cities below, the last of them being two of my friends from work. Neither had much chance of feasting. New York was a nightmare. Few dressed up for Halloween there. With all the Drag Queens and Kings, half the population dressed like it was Halloween daily.
Within minutes, I was over Milford, Connecticut with the lights of Providence looming just ahead. I did a quick review of the directions on my phone and headed onward. (How demons ever got around before MapQuest is beyond me.) My first challenge to this target would be to locate him outside of his apartment. This would be my only complex dweller, the other two residing in their own houses. Plus, Providence was larger than I had remembered it.
Oh, my devil, I neglected to tell you how we were to know which kid was our target. (Yeah, time for another info dump. I’m practicing my skills, can’t you see?) Hunger does that to a person… makes them forget things. As children perform bad deeds, they earn an aura which can only be seen by selected demons, like myself. The more evil they do, the brighter the aura. First, it’s white, then yellow, then orange, and for the really bad ones… our targets… it’s bright red. This aura can be seen through every type of vehicle or structure. So, if we’re flying overheard and the target is inside the building, we can see exactly where they’re at. Bad thing for us is the aura only illuminates the evil one, no one else. (See, you were afraid we’d fly overhead and see you screwing around on your spouse with your battery powered lover, weren’t you?)
Locating my prey, he appeared to be going down an inside stairway and headed out onto the street. The best I could hope for was that he was alone.
He wasn’t.
Out from the building comes this eleven-year-old, with another youngster tagging along beside him. I’m guessing it was his sister, much smaller and younger… and without my aura. First thing this boy does is yank her so hard he damn near disconnects her arm from her shoulder socket. Of course, she starts crying, so he slaps her and yells, “Shut your fucking mouth!” He then drags her to the alley and sits her ass down in a puddle of dumpster rot, before taking off his vampire costume. It’s easy to see he could care less about Trick or Treating. This kid plans on scarfing up by stealing the candy gathered by others. (I almost hate to eat him. Such a nice lad.)
It’s early in the evening yet, so foot traffic on the street is light. Gradually, tired of being smacked around, his sister rests her head upon her knees and cries herself to sleep. No longer having her to pester, this kid takes his position at the alley entrance and keeps a lookout for any Trick or Treaters with full bags of treats. He has it all planned out. Well, almost. He never factored me in the equation.
I wait until just before the streetlamps are switched on and then silently swoop down into the alley behind him. I do a double check to make sure his sister is asleep (reminding myself to thank the kid for doing what he had to help me not be seen by her) and slip up behind him. I reached around, cover his mouth with my hand, and snap his neck, all in a split second. (Yeah, I have a bad memory. So much for thanking the little bastard.) As the boy fell back into my arms, I dug my claws into his shoulders and took flight. Just outside the city, I find a wooded area to land in and partake of my first meal.
I enjoyed stripping away his flesh and carefully chewing each mouthful, but hoped his taste wasn’t an indication of things to come. At eleven, he was borderline human veal. Kids seem to lose some of their sweetness as they get older. (Just look at Miley Cyrus.) Still, I couldn’t complain… fresh meat is fresh meat. Still, a little barbecue sauce would have helped nicely.
Feeling a little better with something in my stomach, I took to the friendly skies and made my way to Oklahoma City. Of all things, I ran into one hell of a rainstorm… more like a fuckin’ monsoon. The wind blew me halfway to Dallas and came close to putting me behind schedule with my luggage on another flight. Avoiding being dumped by overbooking, I finally made it to OKC. Checking my Smart Watch, I saw Trick or Treat time was nearly over. Plus, the storm I had been thrown had a sister here… and she was bringing a tornado along as a companion. I would have to hurry to make this one my second course.
My target was a young lady. While most little girls play with dolls, this one loved playing with animals… puppies and kittens to be exact. This seven-year-old got her jollies by dropping them off bridges, throwing them out of haylofts, and even pulling their legs from their bodies… one by one. She had taken her baby brother from his crib and bounced him down a flight of stairs while her mother had been playing a video game, and claimed he had managed it all by himself. She had the beginning of a future serial killer, for sure. This “Mommy’s Little Angel” had an extremely bright aura for a girl, even surpassing that of Lizzie Borden in her younger years.
Anyway, there she was being driven from house to house by her father, trying to hit as many homes as possible and get as much candy as she could before the weather shut her down. I knew I’d have to hurry. I’d already had a problem flying in the wind of the storm and a tornado would spoil my evening without a doubt. (I’d probably end up in Kansas with a damn little dog humping my leg while I clicked my heels together saying, “I wanna go home, I wanna go home.”) My only chance would be if I could get her father to shift his gauze away from her for a second or two. Thinking fast, as the girl walked up to the next house, I nose-dived at full speed, snapped a small limb off a tree, slammed it into the glass of his driver’s side window, and, while his attention was drawn the other way, plucked up his daughter, all in a split second. (Yeah, fuck Superman and the Flash, I’m faster than both of those suckers.)
Doing my best to get away before the storm caught up with me, I shook my head knowing I had almost messed it up. I had been traveling at such a rate of speed that I came close to snapping the girl’s head from off her neck. I’d have been pissed if that would have happened. Not only would it have left evidence as to what had taken place, but I would have missed out on sucking down her little brain. (Brains are a delicacy. All I do is fix my lips to her left ear and suck really hard. It’s my version of a Slurpee, minus the straw.)
With two decent meals under my scales, I pushed on to the West Coast singing,
“California here I come, gonna eat me another one. So tender, so helpless, oh they taste good. So sweet now, so young now, just like they should. California here I come, have me waiting another one. California here I come, I’ll wipe my mouth when I am done!”
I know, but I’m a demon. You expected Taylor Swift? (Maybe, next Halloween.)
The last stop on my list was Huntington Beach. Ocean beaches, vacant shopping malls, and miles and miles of Chinese restaurants offering special combo platter pricing. (A city where the loneliest man in town is the dog catcher.) Passing over a car dealership, I realized I had a few extra minutes and headed out over the ocean, hoping to see a shark grabbing a bite from a night surfer or swimmer. Once again, California proved itself to be all talk and no show as none were feeding. Disappointed, I turned back and went to seek out my third course, or dessert, if you will.
This target was indeed a special child. Barely six years old, she had already been showing powers far beyond those of many residing in the management offices of Hell. It was rumored that Satan himself had been her father on a visit to the human realm. Her mother, a topless dancer, had loved the size of his wallet and taken him home for a night. Yeah, you and I both know it only takes once.
Unknown to him, she’d set up her phone camera to record the event. Under threat of blackmail, Satan gave in to her demands of support, seeing how he knew how a trial would come out. (OJ had lucked out, but he had a glove. If Satan had worn a glove, he wouldn’t be in such a mess.) So, he had managed to indirectly provide the woman with cash whenever she ran short. Once, there had been a suitcase full of cash tossed in her yard by drug smugglers being chased by the police. Next, an armored car had smashed into a tree and caught fire next door. By some quirk of fate, one of the main deposit bags had flown through her bedroom window and never sought by the authorities. He had even set up her finding a mouse in a bowl of fast food chili. That had brought in a huge payoff. But, no matter how much she got, it was gone before you could ask, “Harvey Weinstein did what?” No, the mother was no angel, now or in the future. Satan couldn’t wait for her day in Hell. He was paying now, but she would pay later.
The daughter was following her mother’s example, but with powers most humans never had. The first incident took place two years before, during a kindergarten class. After stealing another girl’s doll, and ripping the appendages and head from its torso, she had gotten mad and turned the doll owner’s hair into the color and smell of vomit. It had stayed that way… even after being shaved and new hair had grown in. (To this day, the girl’s parents accept donations from those who think the youngster is going through chemotherapy.) Another time, she had been mad at being teased by a neighbor’s boy while visiting at their pool. When their parents had gone inside to prepare drinks, she had levitated the boy high above the pool and then dropped him. Sad thing was he missed the water, and instead, landed on the concrete side, instantly killing him. (Gotta admit, she had perfect aim.) Those two instances were just the beginning of things to come. Over the last couple of years, the young girl had gotten progressively worse.
Satan wasn’t the type of guy to handle fatherhood well. He was sick and tired of the girl’s mother blaming all the girl did on him never being around and providing his daughter with the proper guidance. (Yeah, she was a millennial as well… a real blame shifter.) The big guy just wanted done with the whole mess. Being ever so coy, he had listed her as my third victim of the night. There was one catch. I had to restrain my appetite to the point of saving him one of her legs and thighs to munch on. Something to do with the expression, “A family that eats together…” or something like that. I forget.
So, I soon found myself flying over the section of Huntington Beach once known as “Little Saigon” by the locals. Having been home to Vietnamese refugees at one time, several generations still made the area their home. Locating my target, her aura nearly blinded me. In fact, it temporarily destroyed my night vision. I was flying blind as a bat and looked like one, too. After a few minutes, I regained my sight and could see the girl’s mother taking her door to door, doing the Trick or Treat thing. I had to chuckle a at an elderly woman who had originally come into the states from Asia and rejected the candy giving custom. As the youngster walked away empty handed, the trees in the old woman’s yard became magically covered with rolls and rolls of toilet paper. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it had been used and stunk to high Heaven!
Now, where the carload of young hoods came from, I have no idea. I have my suspicions the big red guy might have had a hand in it, but have no proof to that. I have to say their entrance couldn’t have been timed any better. As the girl and her mother walked along the section of sidewalk where the streetlamps had mysteriously burned out, the car slowed and those inside began shooting at the house behind the two. The loving mother dropped to the ground instantly and covered her head, forgetting about her meal ticket… err, daughter. Panicked, the young girl went running off across the street and tried hiding in the bushes. No, didn’t make a lot of sense to me either, but who’s complaining? With all attention being on the car and the house being shot at, I swooped down and snagged the girl.
Boom-wacka-boom-wacka-boom… just that easy!
I sat on the beach, watching the waves rush into the shore, eating my ever so sweet third course, and enjoying my Slurpee. About halfway finished, I found myself getting a headache, probably from too much MSG, and decided to not only save the requested parts, but to add in the heart and an arm as well for my boss. It never hurt to brown nose a little, even with a red guy.
The peaceful calm of the ocean began to grate on my nerves. Yes, I missed the screams of those being tortured back home in Hell. Having had my fill of the fishy smelling ocean breezes, I took flight, returned home an hour early, and made my way to give Satan his snack. I think I made some brownie points with him. He especially enjoyed the girl’s heart.
Retiring to my pit, I folded up my wings, lay back against the rocks, and patted my bloated stomach. It had been a wonderful Halloween. I’d eaten well, traveled and seen places I hadn’t visited in a while. Plus, I’d made my boss happy.
Lying here, I wonder, since I have been such a good demon, what Santa is going to bring me in a couple of months. I hope it will be the winning numbers to next year’s Halloween lottery.
“Yummy, yummy, yummy … more kids for the tummy!”
* P.S. Dear Santa, take that damn eggnog and shove it up Rudolph’s ass. That shit sucks!
What happens when a Yankee transplants to the South? What happens when Rhode Island meets New York City meets Bloomington, Indiana meets Mobile, Alabama meets Lexington, Kentucky … with Europe in between? What happens when a 70’s radio DJ becomes a stand-up comedian, and then a corporate training director and manager of sales? Richard Rumple!
“The advantage of living in many places is that you get to experience the best and worst each has to offer. From that, you get to know the people and what makes them tick. You’re able to look at life from the outside and see various points of view instead of living life wearing blinders.”
People and their stories are the essences of his writing. Relationships are the basis of his tales and the rest, be it the horror of reality, or horror of the paranormal are added to spice things up. His stories don’t end with the dismissal of the foes. They end with life moving on and your interest in where they may go from there.
It’s a different style of writing. Don’t pass by without experiencing it.
A book that will have you wondering every time a door slams in your home! Horror Across The Alley isn’t the typical book you’ll find on Amazon. It contains a cast of characters you’ll either love or hate, as well as those oddities you’d never want to meet.
Renters move in but quickly move out … either on their own or by ambulance. Now, a recent military veteran moves in and finds another enemy to confront. Will he and his group of acquaintances survive, or will the spirits of the house claim more victims? You’ll need to “Add To Cart” to find out!
Summer vacation 1966… time for fun and excitement… NOT! “Stand By Me” meets “Cujo” when four pre-teens have to deal with a pack of man-eating dogs, venomous reptiles, a local thief and kidnapper, and much, much more. Action packed horror thriller that will have you wondering if you’ll ever go in the woods again!
Thirteen tales of horror from Gabriela’s past lives and those she’s heard in Hell while waiting to be reborn into her next. Demented human monsters as well as beasts of folklore, legend, and technology await you in these twisted stories. Advance readers have said, “I couldn’t sleep for days”, “You’ve got it down, now”, and “God, what a visceral read.” Don’t gamble with fate. Tame the demon cat before she seeks you out!
From deranged minds come twenty-two horrific tales of misery, torture, and savage acts. Stories to give you nightmares… stories to make you wary of what lurks in the dark. How will the shadows you see out of the corner of your eye haunt your very soul? How will those you trust plot your demise? Are your demons real, or only in your mind? The pages within provide answers to your questions. Are you brave enough to take the demented journey? Do you dare?
One of the last wagon trains heads west facing numerous dangers. The wagon master has dealt with most on previous trips… disgruntled travel companions, terrible weather, deadly reptiles, vicious wild animals… all common to him. Yet, there is a new beast stalking in the darkness. A creature created by the magic of the medicine men of numerous tribes, more savage and dangerous than he’s ever faced. Will any survive?
Steven Wynne is a very talented guy, and to have the honor of sharing another one of his shorts during my Halloween Extravaganza frivolities makes me happy. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. And make sure you check out the interview with him.
Man, you must have really fucked up to get yourself down here. Like, really fucked up, as in ‘I’ve been down here a long, long time, and I’ve never seen ’em bring anyone else down here’ kinda fucked up. You start a riot out in general, or something? Kill a couple guards? I mean, there are protocols and procedures for things like that, but those guys usually just go to solitary. I would love to hear what the hell you did to get yourself next to me.
Don’t worry, the guards are gone. Once they drop you off, they wait around about 15 minutes before they head back off to wherever. I like to think they stick around because they like my singing. I got this great little number for when they drop off my food. You wanna hear it? No? Ah, don’t worry. Chances are you’ll be here for a while. You’ll get to hear it soon enough. I’m a great singer. You gotta keep yourself occupied in here, you know that. You can lose your mind if you don’t have something to fill the time and keep you thinking. I’ve seen it happen. It ain’t pretty. Believe me, I’ve been here a long goddamn time, and I’ve seen my share of psychotic and schizophrenic breaks among you younger guys. You’d better start singing, or get a rock or paperclip and start etching the walls or something. Get your mind working, son, or it will unravel.
I know I don’t look old at all, fella. Shit, they ain’t talking about me up there anymore? Jesus, did all the lifers I knew back in the day die already? What year is it? 2015? God damn, that means I’m how old? Shit. . .
Well, sorry for whatever brought you down here. If you’re anything like me, it wasn’t entirely your fault. Sure, you might have fucked up, and fucked up pretty badly, but circumstances just happened to let the absolute worst people to see it saw it. Lo and behold, you find yourself in the Chokey.
No, that ain’t what this place is really called. Just a nickname, can’t remember where it came from. Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think this place has a real name. Maybe it did, at one point, when confinement like this didn’t fit the definition of ‘cruel and unusual punishment’. I guess it is really called the Chokey now, seeing as we’re the only people here who call it anything.
So, tell me. What’d you do? How’d you wind up down here with little old me? Hmm. Quiet type, I see. Well, no worries. I can do the talking until you’re ready. You’ll talk. Everyone talks. You may have lost your mind by that point, but you’ll start spilling some kinda beans. For both our sake, please try to find it in yourself to talk before then. You’ll be glad you did.
Shit man, you ain’t that old at all. Young, snotty, arrogant, all full of yourself, thinking you can throw yourself at the world and make it flinch. I got that right? Well, bang-up job so far, kid. And, if what brought me down here is any indicator, you’re down here because you’re never getting out of this fucking place, either. Lifer, right? At your age, too. Bad luck, man.
I can already tell, looking at you now, you’re gonna be an ugly one. You’re gonna keep them walls up, keep them emotions and feelings locked in. Hell, you might even be able to keep ’em up until the end, but they’ll crumble with you like a failed state. And man, it’s gonna hurt, knowing you could have just avoided some goddamn pain and opened up, told someone about who you were. You’ll die, and the last thing you’ll hear is me, sitting here, counting down your last breaths, and I’ll just tell you, ‘We could have had something, you and I’.
Oh, shit, where are my manners? This is no way to make an introduction. Please accept my humble apology, my dear young murdering neighbor. I hope I’m wrong about you, and you come to treasure my company as I’m already enjoying yours. My bed’s actually a lot nicer than the ones were out in general, when I was still out there. By the looks of it, yours is the same make. If it weren’t for this fucking light they’ve got on 24/7, you could actually get some decent sleep. C’est la vie.
You a praying man, newbie? Religious at all? I used to be. Don’t do a whole lot of good in here, I don’t mind saying. I don’t mind that my folks took me to church when I was kid, though I hated it. Every fucking Sunday, waking up to go to some goddamn stuffy building with shitty organ music and some dick in a robe telling me how I’d be going to hell for not giving him my money, and then Satan would buttfuck me for jerking off.
Oh, that reminds me: you can jerk off if you want. Just let me know when the urge hits. I can look away, if that makes it easier. No judgment. We all got our needs, and ain’t one of us higher than the other.
Don’t look at me like that. Just being honest, man. Look, all I’m saying is I wanna be as respectful as possible, but you’re gonna see me jerking off. I ain’t gonna stop that on account of you being here, but I just want you to know that it’s completely normal, and we’re both adults who can take care of ourselves. You ain’t gonna go to hell for it.
Where was I? Oh, the preacher, right. Well, he talked a good game. Getting people over to his side, scaring em all with that hell talk. Satan wants to torture you, God’s all love, and he loves you and wants your love too, he made you just the way you are and set everything in motion, yadda yadda, hell, thou, sin, torture, love, heaven, paradise, all that jazz. You’ve heard that all before, right?
Well, lemme learn you something, kid. It ain’t all bullshit. There is a God, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. He’s the whole reason I’m in this place. Well, I guess he’s the reason everyone’s in here, that whole ‘plan’ of his. Well, whatever good that whole ‘plan’ is worth, anymore.
See, they say God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent. Shit, God himself says that, but I can tell you something right now; one of those is a lie, another is impossible, and I can’t figure on the last. I don’t know about him being in all places, but I think there’s something else going on with that one. However, I can tell you that God doesn’t know everything about everything and everyone all the time. He might have some ways of finding that shit out, but at best, he’s just good at sniffing out lies and looking around.
Now, as for being all-powerful, that’s a wrench in the spokes of an already shitty argument. See, you can’t be ‘all-powerful’; it ain’t possible. I heard some apologists and bible bangers stopped saying ‘all-powerful’, and started saying ‘maximally powerful’, because I guess someone called ’em on their shit, and they realized they had to move the goal posts. That ain’t right, though; God ain’t maximally powerful. They had it right the first time, when it was a contradiction.
Get this: If God is all-powerful, can he make a rock so big he can’t move it? If the answer is yes, he ain’t all powerful because, well, he can’t move it. If the answer is no, well, shit. You get the idea.
Now, get this: the answer to that question? Can God make a rock so big, even he can’t move it?
Yes.
You go on, pacing like that, acting like you don’t hear me. As long as I keep talking, it’ll give your mind something to work on, and you’ll stay sane. If I stop talking, and if we just sit in silence like kids at a Pentecostal dinner, then you’ll lose your shit. So, keep listening.
See, the whole reason I’m here is I fucked up God’s plan. He’d been building that big-ass rock up for so long, and he was just so in love with the fucking thing, he didn’t even notice what he was building it on top of was totally unstable. So, when the ground got ripped out from under it, and he couldn’t do anything about it. And all because of little old. Just some eighteen year old kid taking his Dad’s Tucker out for a drive.
Oh, that get your attention, did it? And no, don’t look at me like that, I ain’t a spoiled little brat. This was years ago. You weren’t even born yet, I guarantee. Shit, your parents might not have been born. Tuckers were still rare then, but not entirely out of place with the time.
All this took place on May 16th, 1956. Eisenhower and Nixon were in office, and I destroyed a plan set in motion at the dawn of time by just being a stupid fucking kid.
Yeah, I told you I was older than I looked. No, I ain’t crazy.
I was out with some friends at a party. Just about to graduate high school, and we were letting loose and kicking back some drinks, having a good old time, thinking about where we’d go to college and plans for the future. We were good kids, for the most part. Wish I knew what happened to any of those guys, Brian and Mike, but they kinda steered clear of me after everything went down.
So, it’s well after midnight, and I’m trying to keep this bastard on the road. Tied one on pretty good with the guys, and the road’s crawling everywhere under the tires. I start drifting in and out, the coffee I had before I left isn’t helping one bit. Maybe I take a couple turns too sharp, maybe I run a stop sign or two. I don’t remember what happened or what I did, but suddenly everything explodes. The steering wheel tries to pull my spine through my chest, the windows turn into snow and fall all over me, and the world stops spinning so fast, vertigo rips everything from my stomach and throws it onto the dash.
For a few seconds, I’m frozen. Somewhere, metal is crumbling and crashing, then stops. Blood, bile, gasoline, steam, and smoke kick me in the nose and jerk me back into consciousness. In the blink of an eye, I’m sober as a judge. There’s a full moon, and it’s giving enough light to see the Tucker’s fucked like it spent the night with Fatty Arbuckle. I can’t open the door, so I knock out the rest of the glass that’s still hanging on and climb out the window. My chest and ribs hurt, my head’s bleeding, but that’s about all that’s wrong with me. I’m looking around, trying to see what the fuck I hit when all of a sudden, the Sun comes out.
It comes from behind the moon, some impostor satellite that gives no daylight, and it starts speeding down to Earth, and I swear, I can tell this thing is heading right for me. Lights start dancing ahead of me, a little off to the left. There’s a bridge just ahead, and as the lights intensify, they reveal skid marks that shoot off the road and become torn earth.
A sound, a wailing, screaming din I’ve never felt before rumbles through my entire body as the missile keeps falling from above. I’m walking, following the skid marks into the grass, even though I don’t want to see what’s there. The tracks stop at a harsh drop, about twenty feet down into a rocky creek bed where a car is upside down and torn completely to shreds. Something’s sizzling and hissing from the exposed undercarriage.
This voice comes from above, and it’s screaming at me, ‘What have you done? What have you done?’ I’m already asking myself, What the fuck did I do? So, me and the big man are in agreement on this one.
And then, I find myself in the presence of God, hisownself. He’s staring me down, and lemme tell you, he is fucking pissed. Funny thing, though, he looks like a regular person, apart from all the glowing and floating bullshit. Anthropomorphic. Guess we were made in his image, after all. He looks at me, and then he looks down at the car I just smashed up, and for a while, he doesn’t move or speak or anything, just leaves me to piss myself in silence and confusion. I mean, picture it. You just wrecked your dad’s car and killed some other fella in the process, and all of a sudden, you learn God is real and you’ve pissed him off enough to reveal himself to you.
. . . I think I pissed myself before he finally spoke to me, but I’m not sure, I can’t remember exactly when that happened. But, he’s looking down at the wreck when he finally says, ‘You killed them all. They’re all dead.’
He turns his head and snarls, ‘You have ruined everything! Two thousand years of planning, of waiting for the right moment! Everything you know, everything you’ve seen, all of it wasted! You have doomed the entire human race!’
So, after I add a considerable helping of shit to my already soggy pants, I say to God, ‘What?’
So then, God screams at me and, holy shit, you have no clue how painful it is to hear God scream, but he screams, ‘The Antichrist was in that car!’
So, you know much about the Antichrist, end times, all that bullshit? Yeah, I didn’t either around then, just that the Antichrist was supposed to be some bad guy who brings about Armageddon and the Rapture and all that. So, I keep staring at God, because I’m completely following everything that’s happening and am not standing mute in awestruck terrified confused in twice soiled britches.
God goes on. ‘The Antichrist is dead! Now, there is no one to bring about the end times! No one to unite the world for seven years, no one to lead following the Rapture! His coming was foretold, the world was ripe for his leadership, and you cut him down before he was old enough to walk!’
Hell of a way to learn you killed a baby, man. I mean, the baby was gonna grow up to be a pretty bad dude, but still. Now, I don’t know what it was that got my head and tongue free enough to start talking, but talk back, I did. I think maybe, it was just trauma after trauma, shock after shock until some verbal bat hit me upside the brain stem and got me back in the moment. So, I say to God, ‘Can’t you just make another one?’
God turns red, all burning bright and angry, and screams again. ‘It has been foretold! Prophesied! You dare question, you dare challenge the Lord, Your God?!’
Me, I look back at God, and I say, ‘You’re God! Can’t you do anything? You can’t bring them back to life?’ They say he did that, you know.
He grows to double the size, right in front of me, and screams again, ‘It was a divine plan! A perfect plan! It cannot be altered in any way! It must be fulfilled exactly as it was foretold when Man first fell!’
And suddenly, he gets right in my face, and man, God sure can be a scary motherfucker. He says to me, ‘And you have doomed mankind, until the prophecy can be fulfilled once more!’
I say to God, ‘What?’ I’m pistol quick, bud. Believe me.
God tells me that the end times were gonna come about in my lifetime. Some shit with the Cold War, Russians and Communists and what all, and he would finally be able to wage war on Satan and reclaim his kingdom, bring all his children home, all the shit in the Bible. He tells me it has to happen this one specific way, exactly as it was laid out, and now, he’s gotta do it all over again. I mean, everything from the New Testament on, can’t do any of that old time Leviticus shit, nobody could get away with that now, man. .
Anyway, he tells me that everything’s going to happen again, and it’s going to take time. It’s gonna be a couple thousand years before another Antichrist can be born, and maybe this time, the divine plan won’t get fucked up by some stupid kid who apparently has the power to fuck up the pillars of Western Monotheism.
And, get this: the kicker is, he says, I’m gonna be around to see it. God says to me, ‘In my creation you shall remain until the divine plan is seen through, and my children return to me. Not a day shall you age; you shall languish in the lowest places. I shall mark you as Cain; no man shall harm you as you serve my sentence. As I have said, so it shall come to pass.’
Then, poof: God disappears. And that’s how the cop out on patrol found me; alone in the road, reeking of booze right next to two wrecked cars and three dead people. I get booked. It’s an open and shut case, and boom. Granted immortality just in time to get life in prison. How do ya like that?
I’m 87 years old, and I still have zits. They threw me down here, what, in the nineties? Guess the state didn’t want to waste time figuring out my shit. Budget cuts, can’t afford scientists to come and do tests on me. Can’t erase the graffiti on the rock God made so goddamn big he couldn’t fucking move.
So, pal, that’s my story. Out of curiosity, on the outside, has the messiah come back yet? He should have been here by now. Is he American? Something else? Come on, man, you heard anything?
Oh, shit, where the hell did you go? God damn, did you. . . huh. Guards must have dragged him off while I was monologuing. How the hell did I miss that? Jesus. Ain’t right to have a man locked away with nobody to talk to, or introduce a guy and yank him away just 10 minutes later. Up and vanished, just like that. Hey, guard! Bring back my neighbor! Guard!
I need someone to talk to. You could lose your mind, not having anyone to talk to.
Steven Wynne writes dark fiction. His short fiction has appeared here and there, online and elsewhere. His metabolism is slowing down, and he looks bad. Like, have you seen him recently? Someone should call someone. He resides in Central Pennsylvania with his pain in the ass cat.
I also have a short story, Escape Velocity, in the December 2016 edition of Sirens Call Ezine. (The link will redirect you to the .pdf that you can download.)
You can also find my short story, Fireflies, as part of a previous Halloween Extravaganza here, as well as my short Hallowen story, The Yellow Line, last year’s contribution, here.
Frank J. Edler is one of my “new favorite people,” and has been for quite some time now. He’s definitely someone worth knowing. Talented, hilarious, and just a really good person. I hope you enjoy his story… that took me places very unexpected.
I dig and dig, fearing all hope is lost. A bust of a Halloween. Nothing but jank candy. Tootsie rolls, Mary Jane’s, Dots, and loose candy corn! Who gives out loose, unpackaged candy corn? Old ladies, vagabonds, and derelicts, that’s who! All jank! I throw caution to the wind and just dump the candy all over the carpet. Screw it, Halloween is ruined now with all this terrible candy. What the hell has happened to the world? We’ve all become too cheap to fill a little boy’s life with the joy of free premium candy? Everything is Dum-Dums and Sixlets! Not even a proper m&m but a knock-off, second-rate Sixlet! Heads will roll!
What’s next, one of those terrible strawberry hard candies that old ladies older than old ladies give out? Those old ladies give those out not because it’s Halloween, but because they don’t know it’s Halloween and they are confused and frightened as to why all these freaking young’uns are ringing their doorbell demanding candy when all they wanted to do was finish watching the last episode of Matlock and go to bed at two in the afternoon so they can wake up at four in the morning and start their day anew. Yup! There it is one of those strawberry hard candies. Never fails. It tastes like it’s on death’s door too. I was foolish enough to try one when I was very little, believing the lie of the fresh fruit looking wrapper.
Lies! All I got for Halloween this year was a bag full of lies and empty promises. This is all that stupid Walmart’s fault. Everyone goes there and just buys a 385 pound bag of discount, bottom shelf, no name candy to pass out to the children. People live with the delusion that this year will be the year that all the kids in town as well as the next three towns over will arrive at their door so they go for quantity not quality. It’s a perception Sam Walton’s offspring and disciples have been selling for years and each year all it does is decrease the amount of trick-or-treaters. So when Halloween comes to an end and it’s time to settle in for All Saints Day, millions of households across America are left ragged and depressed over the insurmountable volume of terrible candy they are left to suckle for the rest of the remaining year. Don’t worry, they’ll buy the same crap next year.
And me, here I sit with nothing more than a pile of dirt on the carpet. All trash. I wish there were some invisible mythical creature that could fix Halloween. Every other good holiday has one. Santa unfucks Christmas. The Easter bunny is like Milton Hershey with long ears. Hell, even the simple event of losing a tooth brings with it cold hard cash from the Tooth Fairy. Why can’t Halloween have something? Like Bllrrgin’ The Gimp or some crazy shit.
You know what?! What if there is a Bllrrgin’ The Halloween Gimp who devours all the kids awful Halloween candy and craps out rich, uber-sweet, chocolaty goodness in its place? What if Bllrrgin’ chomps on Bit-O-Honey’s and defecates the world’s greatest candy bar? What if he’s there right now, somewhere, and all that he needs is for just one kid to believe in him. To make him real.
I close my eyes, squint real hard, shutting them tighter than I ever have before this moment. I wish and wish for Bllrrgin’ to be real. I wish with all my soul and every ounce of my heart for him to come and eat my garbage. I believe in Bllrrgin’ more than I believe in me.
I hear a noise in my deep trance. Its faint and I half believe I heard it because I wanted to hear it. But, I open my eyes and find all the terrible, awful candy on the floor is gone!
It was Bllrrgin’ the Gimp! Come to save Halloween! No more JuJuBees! No more Necco wafers! Never again a Now & Later or an unbranded butterscotch! Bllrrgin’ has saved the day! I cry tears of joy and realize there is still another part of the deal with the Halloween Gimp.
Good candy! Where did he poop out the good stuff? Oh, I do so hope he dropped my absolute favorite from his magical anus. Bllrrgin’s reward is not on the floor. That makes sense, it would be uncouth for a Halloween Gimp to just crap on the floor like some common house mutt. No, like any good holiday figment of my imagination, he woudl need to make a game of the reward. A little sport of the whole thing, that’s what Halloween Gimps did after all!
I checked the most obvious spot, my empty trick-or-treat bag. Still empty. Too easy for a clever Halloween Gimp. I looked around everywhere. Under the couch, out by the front door, maybe tucked away somewhere around the cheesy Halloween decorations my mom put out on display. It wasn’t anywhere!
Where would Bllrrgin’ the Halloween Gimp crap out my prize candy!?
Duh! It was like the answer was right there in front of me the whole time.
I raced to the bathroom and lifted the lid. There it was, floating like a Baby Ruth in the Caddyshack movie my dad was always watching, half-drunk on Saturday nights after he thought I was asleep in bed. Only, it wasn’t a Baby Ruth, those are for Bllrrgin’ the Gimp. What he left me was the greatest candy on the planet.
My eyes grew like the oversized eyes on a too-cute-for-words stuffed pink giraffe and welled with tears of joy. Bllrrgin’ was real and he left me his gift. I plucked it out of the toilet and took an itty-bitty little bite. I saved the flavor of the best candy ever.
A Left Twix. Yum.
Happy Halloween and don’t forget to leave all your jank candy out for Bllrrgin’ to eat this year. And whatever you do, check the bowl before you flush away your Halloween treasure!
Otto Van Der Noodle has just been crowned the Bratwurst King of Wisconsin when he is gunned down in cold blood. Otto finds himself in line at the pearly gates when he is accidentally cast through the gates of Hell.
Otto lands in the middle of a power struggle for the throne of Hell. Satan rules the underworld with an iron fist and a delicious bratwurst. Satan’s brother, Dagobert has just found his secret weapon, Otto Van Der Noodle and his prize-winning bratwurst.
Dagobert will try to tip the balance of control in Hell using Otto’s delectable bratwursts. But Satan may have found the ultimate weapon in his new favorite pet demon.
Souls will be tortured, demons will fight demons and bratwursts will be cooked. Who will come out as the top chef and leader of Hell when the cook-off to end all cook-offs is fought?
Read BRATS IN HELL to find out. Its the WURST book ever written!
Vincent and his nagging wife, Wanda wind up getting themselves killed in Tijuana. Vincent wakes to find that he is now the Grim Reaper. With minimal training he is cast into the world of Deaths to collect the souls of the dead. The only wrinkle is his dead wife has come back as a screaming Banshee. She is hellbent on getting her husband to realize that its not ’til death do they part and he is set on getting through his first day on the job.
He will not go it alone. Along the way he is helped by his co-workers: a cowboy, a midget, an action figure and a bumbling grim reaper from Salem.
Will Death get the soul to Charon’s skiff by the end of the work day or will a squadron of maniac Banshee’s stop Death and upend the balance of power in the underworld? And, will Vincent ever be rid of his nagging wife?
It’s hard being a Killer Brain. Just ask Scatter, a Killer Brain who just wants to be a Killer Brain. But he can’t, his parents want him to get a job. Scatter would rather do what he does best, terrorize the city with his pack of Killer Brain friends. But Scatter is about to find out life isn’t fair.
Crazed neurosurgeon, Dr. Justin Case is out to avenge the death of his parents at the hands of the Killer Brains. And now he has Scatter in his sights. Along with his cohort, Coda, Dr. Case will stop at nothing to exact his revenge and seek the closure he has sought since he watched his parents get devoured by Killer Brains as a child.
The odds are stacked against Scatter. He must navigate life while trying not to fall into the clutches of his would-be nemesis. Can Scatter get by without a little help from family and friends. He just wants to live life doing what he loves but sometimes responsibility has a way of rearranging your priorities. Join Scatter as he navigates through life, the job market and a city full of crazies all keeping him from doing what he loves, being a Killer Brain.
Meghan's House of Books 