EVERYTHING HAS TEETH

A Short Story Collection

By Jeff Strand

Everything Has Teeth copyright 2017 by Jeff Strand

Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansen.com

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

Subscribe to Jeff Strand's free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand-new original short story in every issue) at

http://eepurl.com/bpv5br

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

The Tipping Point

Nails

Stumps

John Henry, The Steel-Drivin' Man

Fair Trade

Chiggers

Cry

The Fierce Stabbing and Subsequent Post-Death Vengeance of Scooter Brown

It's Bath Time!

Alien Face

Apocalypse of the Yard Gnome

Dead Bigfoot on the Lawn

Gross-Out: The Return

Deformed Son

The Origin of Slashy

Secret Message (Decoded)

The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried to Destroy the World

The Eggman Falleth

The Story of My First Kiss

Dad (A True Story)

Bad Bratwurst

Story Notes

INTRODUCTION

Welcome, welcome, welcome! Glad to have you here. It seems like there are about eighty thousand frickin' new books coming out every day, so I'm pleased you chose this one. Actually, I'm pleased even if it wasn't your choice. Any way you're being forced to read this is fine by me.

My name's Samuel. Don't call me Sam. I know, that Strand guy usually writes the introductions to his own short story collections, but...well, he's not available right now. Don't worry; he's fine.

Fine-ish. Alive, anyway.

He's right here, helplessly watching me type this. Nod your head at the nice people, Strand. Whoops, I guess he can't. Heh heh.

I'm here to welcome you to Everything Has Teeth. Oooh, sinister title, huh? We have a nice batch of gleefully macabre tales here for you. A lot of unpleasantness and a lot of silliness. Some tales to tickle your funny bone and some tales to break it.

About that title. Have you ever woken up and discovered that everything has teeth?

You don't freak out at first. You're like, "No need to panic. Obviously I'm dreaming, because when I went to sleep, the foot of my bed was not lined with teeth." It has to be a dream. There are teeth on your dresser, your television, your ceiling. That doesn't happen in the waking world.

You close your eyes. Hmmm. It sure doesn't seem like you're dreaming.

You open them again. Everything still has teeth.

They're not vampire fangs or anything like that. Just regular teeth. Some have cavities. Some have fillings. Some are in the advanced stages of decay—should've flossed!

You cast aside the blanket, which also has teeth, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your bedroom carpet is gone. It's just teeth now. Mostly molars. You walk across the room, screaming with every step, not daring to look down to see what this is doing to your feet, praying that the living room will be different.

Spoiler alert: It's not. Everything has teeth.

In fact, even the air has teeth. They're just floating around.

There's a man in your living room.

Shadowy guy. Grinning. Holding a scythe.

Yes, the scythe is lined with teeth.

Technically, you understand that the teeth on the scythe make it less dangerous for you; after all, it's not as sharp, right? You know this, but still, when there's a shadowy grinning guy in your living room holding a teeth-lined scythe, you're going to be uncomfortable.

"Is this a dream?" you ask.

The shadowy man shakes his head. "No," he says. "But it is a metaphor."

"Oh," you say.

"So it's not as bad as if the world was suddenly literally covered with teeth, but it's worse than if you got to wake up and say, 'Thank God it was just a dream!'"

Your living room looks normal again. The man is gone.

But you still know that everything has teeth.

Before we get to the actual stories, let me see if Mr. Strand has anything else he'd like to add. Uh-oh, he's not doing well. Looks like this will be a posthumous publication. Oh well, that might help sales.

He's making a mess. These authors are so inconsiderate about where they bleed.

Before his untimely and wet departure from this world, he scribbled a note asking me to thank Tod Clark, Donna Fitzpatrick, Paul Goblirsch, Lynne Hansen, Kyle Lybeck, Michael McBride, Jim Morey, Andi Rawson, and Rhonda Rettig for their assistance, but I see no reason to grant his last wishes.

Enjoy the stories.

Don't get bit.

THE TIPPING POINT

"Did that lady seem weird to you?"

Warren glanced over his shoulder at the woman who'd just entered the restaurant. She seemed pretty normal for a middle-aged rich person. "No," he said, looking back at Julia. "Should she have?"

"Her eyes were a little strange."

"Strange how?"

"Never mind. I didn't get a good look at her." Julia gave him a nervous smile then slid her finger down the side of the menu. "What were you going to order?"

The cheapest thing I can find, Warren thought. Maybe a side salad with a glass of tap water. His co-worker Pat had said the place was "a bit spendy," but this did not come close to describing the horrific nature of the numbers in front of him. After opening the menu Warren had broken into a cold sweat. An actual, literal cold sweat.

He'd suspected that he made the wrong restaurant choice when they pulled in and discovered that Denton's only had valet parking. Warren wasn't even completely sure how valet parking worked; did you pay them in advance, or when you got your car back? It was an annoying waste of money, considering that he'd never felt particularly inconvenienced by the act of parking his own vehicle and walking the extra fifty feet. But of course he didn't complain in front of Julia.

He knew he'd made the wrong restaurant choice when the guy who led them to their table was in a frickin' tuxedo. But at that point, what could he do? He was trapped. Women tended to be unimpressed when their dates shrieked "Eeek! Too expensive!" and fled the restaurant with their tail between their legs.

Of course, Warren also knew that having his credit card declined would negatively impact his chances of there being a second date. However, if he went cheap on his own entrée and pretended that he was too full for dessert, he was pretty sure that he could avoid a mortifying end to the meal.

In their e-mail exchanges, Julia had said that she wasn't much of a drinker. Warren had originally hoped that she'd make an exception for tonight, but now he prayed that she wouldn't be in a boozy mood.

When she'd opened the door to her apartment, Warren was pleasantly surprised to see that she actually looked like her picture. Maybe the lighting in the photo was a bit more flattering than the lighting in the hallway, hiding a couple of smile lines and crow's feet, but he didn't care much about looks; it was just nice to discover that somebody was being honest. In fact, though she said she was thirty-eight, she could've lied and knocked at least five years off that without him being suspicious.

Her hair was different. Still blonde, but she'd worn it pinned up in the photo, and now it hung down almost to her shoulders. He was glad to see that her beautiful blue eyes had not been Photoshopped. She had the fabulous curvy body of a woman who exercised regularly but was not afraid of the occasional hot fudge sundae.

She was, in fact, the most true-to-the-photo woman he'd met since being pressured into the online dating world two years ago. His teenaged daughter Yvonne, who had done most of the pressuring on their every-other-weekend together, would have been horrified to discover that about half of these dates ended up in one-night stands. The others had included some "just no chemistry" dates, a couple that did have chemistry but still went nowhere, and one where Warren had to explain that, yes, he understood that a regular date would cost about the same, but that he really wished she'd told him she was a hooker beforehand.

Julia was the closest he'd ever come to falling in love with somebody before he met them. She was funny. Not just funny, witty. She knew how to use capitalization and punctuation. She'd never been married and had no kids, but she didn't seem bothered by him having a local ex-wife and she claimed to love teenagers.

They'd e-mailed back and forth enough to fill the novel he'd always planned to write someday. He'd wanted to do a video chat, but Julia said she wasn't comfortable talking to a webcam.

Three of those e-mails had involved him asking her out for coffee and/or lunch and/or dinner, but she wasn't ready yet. Then, earlier today, he'd gotten a message from her that said, "Oh, what the hell am I waiting for? Would you like to take me out to dinner tonight?" He quickly asked his co-worker Pat for a restaurant recommendation. They only had a nine-fifteen reservation open, but with so little notice on a Friday night he was lucky to get in at all.

The conversation during their drive to the restaurant had not flowed quite as smoothly as he'd hoped, but there weren't any uncomfortable silences or faux pas moments. There was a spark for certain, and once they got over the nerves, he thought they'd be talking like old friends.

Now he just needed to not max out his Visa card and look like a complete jackass. He really should have pushed for a more specific description of "a little spendy" or looked at an online menu.

"Hmmm, I'm not sure," he said, turning the page of his menu. "It all looks great." If he and Julia were truly meant for each other, he should be able to say Hey, I messed up and didn't sufficiently research this place, and I don't get paid until next Friday, so if you could order something on the lower end of the price spectrum, that would be really helpful. But he wasn't going to do that. He'd save the I'm really poor talk for the second date.

The dinner salads, though ridiculously overpriced for lettuce, seemed to be the cheapest item, and she might think he was a healthy diner. She might also think, Well, if he's getting a salad, I should get one, too.

He noticed that she was gazing across the restaurant. After a moment, she noticed him noticing her, and blushed a bit. "Sorry."

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything is perfect."

* * *

Julia had made up her mind almost right away: this guy was definitely getting third-date sex.

She'd never slept with somebody before that point and never would, but assuming that he didn't punch a puppy or start spewing racist epithets, their third date was going to be at her place, with pizza delivered.

Physically, he wasn't her usual type—tattoo-free, conservative haircut, no sense of danger—but he was traditionally handsome and in good shape. He kind of looked like a seventh grade teacher she'd once had a crush on.

She did sort of wish that he'd picked a different restaurant. She felt underdressed and places this fancy gave her the creeps. In the future, she'd steer him to restaurants that had only one size of fork, especially since she didn't think social workers like him made all that much money.

And she also sort of wished that she hadn't said anything about the woman. She didn't want Warren to think she was paranoid. All the lady really did was open her eyes kind of wide and then blink a lot. Maybe she'd lost a contact lens.

"I may go for the dinner salad with grilled chicken," Warren said.

That was an odd pick for a high-end seafood place. She glanced at the menu and inwardly smiled as she realized the motive for his choice.

"That sounds delicious. I think I'll get the same thing."

The waiter approached their table. At least he didn't look snooty. "Hello, my name is Michael and I'll be taking care of you this evening. May I start you off with a bottle of wine?"

"Diet Coke," said Julia.

"Is Diet Pepsi okay?"

"Sure."

"And for you, sir?"

"Do you have root beer?"

Now the waiter looked a bit snooty. "No, sir."

"Dr. Pepper?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's what I'll have, then."

"Would you care for an appetizer? Caprese, lobster bisque...?"

Lobster bisque sounded fantastic. But when Warren gave her a questioning look, she shook her head. "If I have an appetizer I won't be able to finish my salad."

The waiter nodded. "I'll be right back with your drinks and some fresh bread."

"Actually, I think we're ready to order," said Julia.

"Not a problem at all. What would you like?"

"I'd like the dinner salad with grilled chicken," she said, pointing at its picture on the menu. Why was the lady walking across the restaurant again?

"What kind of dressing would you like? We've got bleu cheese, thousand island, raspberry vinaigrette..."

"Raspberry vinaigrette."

The waiter didn't write that down. It was too classy of a restaurant for the waiter to write down their orders. "And for you, sir?"

"Same thing."

"With raspberry vinaigrette?"

"No, sorry, do you have ranch?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ranch would be great."

"Not a problem. I'll be right back."

The waiter left. Warren looked relieved. He smiled at her, and it was such a winning smile—twinkling eyes and everything—that she knew he probably didn't have to usually wait for the third date to get a lady into bed.

"I guess it's kind of silly to come to a seafood place and get the chicken salad," said Warren, "but it sounded good."

"It'll probably be the best dinner salad we've ever had. Gourmet carrots and stuff."

The woman was pacing. Right in the middle of a fancy restaurant, she was pacing back and forth. An elderly couple glared at her.

"Do you think that's weird?" Julia asked, gesturing for Warren to look back over his shoulder.

He glanced back. "What?"

"That lady from before. Doesn't she seem kind of odd?"

Warren watched the lady for a moment, then returned his attention to Julia. "She does look kind of irate. You think she had a fight with her husband or something?"

"Would that make her pace around like that? I'm thinking drugs."

"Seriously?" Warren looked back at the lady, then at Julia again. "Maybe. Should we help her?"

"No, I mean, it doesn't seem like she's OD'ing or anything. I'm probably just being nosy. But her eyes were weird."

"Like, glowing?"

She smiled. "No, not like glowing."

"Dilated?"

"I didn't see her close enough to tell. I wouldn't be surprised. She was mostly just blinking weird."

"Blinking weird?" Warren wasn't making fun of her, bless him, but it had sounded ridiculous as soon as she said it. Somebody blinking more rapidly than normal was not exactly reason to be on high alert. Julia hoped there was nothing wrong with her, but, ultimately, it was not a crime to pace around a restaurant.

A waiter—not theirs—approached the woman. His back was to Julia and she couldn't hear what he said. The woman looked at the floor, as if embarrassed, then nodded and returned to the part of the restaurant that Julia couldn't see.

"She's definitely off her meds or something," said Julia. "Poor thing."

"So tell me some more about your job," Warren urged.

"Oh, I love it. As of the beginning of this year, I only have to be in the office twice a week, which completely rocks. It saves on gas, I can sleep an extra half hour, and I can work in my pajamas."

"Do you?"

"Work in my pajamas?"

"Yeah."

"You'd better believe it. All the time. It was kind of embarrassing the first time the mailman brought a package to my door at two in the afternoon and I was still in jammies, but I got over it. When I'm in the office, it's just business casual, so that's not too bad. About once a quarter the big boss will fly in from New Jersey, and that's not the most fun day, but overall..."

She trailed off as the woman walked into view again. The woman stopped to peer at what the elderly couple was eating, then adjusted a painting on the wall, then walked over to the hostess's station.

Either she had a legitimate problem, in which case she needed help, or she was just being extremely annoying.

"She back?" asked Warren.

Julia nodded.

"Want me to ask her if she's okay?"

"No, no, that's fine. I can ignore her. Sorry for being distracted. That's not very polite of me."

"It's totally cool."

The waiter arrived with their drinks and bread. Julia considered saying something to him, then quickly decided against it.

"Wow," she said, after the waiter had gone. "Three different kinds of rolls."

"Only the best," said Warren.

Julia picked a roll out of the basket, then realized that the woman was staring directly at her.

Oh, shit, she thought, but didn't say out loud, as the woman walked straight over to them. She pulled out the empty chair between Warren and Julia and sat down at their table.

* * *

"Can we help you?" Warren asked.

"Sure. No. I don't know." The woman, who was probably about fifty, had long black hair with gray roots, and she twisted a lock of it around her index finger. "Why are you all up in my business?"

"We're not," said Warren.

"Your wife keeps staring at me."

"She just wanted to make sure you were okay," Warren told her. Didn't part of the expense of a fancy restaurant include not being harassed by psychos during your meal?

"Tell her to stop staring at me."

"I will."

"I won't look at you anymore," said Julia. "I apologize. That was rude."

"Yeah," said the woman. "It was rude. And I don't know why you were doing it. I've got enough problems without you staring at me all the time."

"I think maybe you should go back to your own table," said Warren. Where the hell was their waiter?

"I was going to! I was just about to get up, and then you had to go and rush me." The woman's pupils were not dilated, but she was indeed blinking way too much, like she had dirt in her eye. "Did you think I was not gonna leave? I was gonna leave. You just have to give me a second. Everybody is always in so much of a hurry these days and it drives me crazy. I was gonna leave."

She pushed both hands against the edge of the table to give herself leverage, and stood up. Then she reached over and picked up Warren's butter knife, clutching it in her fist like a deadly weapon.

"Can I borrow this?" she asked.

Warren didn't say anything. He exchanged a helpless look with Julia.

The woman walked away from their table.

Warren wiped his perspiring hands off on his pants. What should he do? It was only a butter knife, but the woman was clearly having medical or mental issues, and he couldn't just let her walk off with it. She could hurt somebody, or herself.

He pushed back his chair. "Back in a second," he told Julia.

"What are you going to do?"

"Just let somebody know what's happening. Go ahead and dig into the bread." Warren stood up and followed the woman. He hated this damn restaurant.

His waiter was a few tables away, taking somebody else's order, so Warren didn't bother him. The woman plopped down in a seat across from a middle-aged man who seemed to know her.

Should he let it go or say something?

He should say something.

Warren walked over to the table. "Hi," he said.

The man finished chewing his bite of salmon and set down his fork. "Yes?"

"I just...I just thought you should know that she took a butter knife from me."

"A butter knife?"

"Yes."

"You mean she grabbed it right out of your hand?"

"No, off my table."

"And there are no other butter knives to be found anywhere in this restaurant?"

"That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"I just meant that you might want to know that she had a knife."

The man chuckled, then massaged his forehead with his right hand as if this was simply one more frustration in the line of miseries that made up his life. "Give the man back his knife," he said to the woman.

"I don't want the knife back," Warren insisted. "I didn't come over here to get it."

"Then what? You came over here to tattle?"

"She was acting bizarre. She sat right down at our table."

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," said the woman.

"I apologize," Warren told her. "Look, people don't normally take knives from people's tables, and it would be irresponsible of me not to let somebody know. Somebody stabs somebody in the eye, it's on my conscience. But I've done my part now, and I'm going to leave you alone."

He started to turn, and realized that his waiter was standing right there. "Is everything all right, sir?" the waiter asked.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine. She took my butter knife is all."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Problem's resolved."

Warren returned to his table and sat back down across from Julia. "Wow," he said.

"What?"

"She's totally insane. I took you to an asylum for our first date. Sorry about that."

Julia laughed. "No problem."

As Warren tried to think of a funny way to ask if she thought food prepared in an asylum was safe to eat, the waiter came over to their table. "Did you say she took your knife?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"While you were using it?"

"No. It was on the table."

"I'll get you another one."

"I didn't go over there because it was so important to get my knife back. I just thought it was a weird-ass thing to do."

"I understand that, sir."

"If a woman sat down at your table and took your knife, you'd say something to somebody, right? I'm not trying to throw a fit or anything. All I wanted to do was bring it to somebody's attention."

"Absolutely, sir. I appreciate you doing that. I'll go get you a new butter knife."

The waiter left.

"He thinks I'm a complete nutcase," Warren told Julia. "Right now he's telling a dishwasher that I'm being a total baby about the butter knife."

"You may be right," said Julia with a smile.

"It's okay. The incident's over. If she wants to come on over here and slurp soda right out of my glass, she can be my guest. Are the rolls any good?"

"Delicious. Would you like to borrow my knife?"

"No, no, I'm patient enough to follow the proper procedure and wait for my replacement to be brought to me. If the crazy lady comes up behind me, you'll warn me, right?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

"She's actually walking toward us now."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

Warren looked back at her and sighed. She was indeed walking toward their table. "Great," he muttered. He turned around in his chair as she came up to him.

"Lady, c'mon, we're trying to enjoy a—"

She slammed the knife down on the table. "Here's your knife back. You happy?"

"Yes, I'm very happy. Thank you."

"I wouldn't want you to be without your precious knife."

"And I appreciate that."

"Maybe next time you should grow a pair and not have somebody else fight your battles for you."

"I will. I promise."

The woman glared at him one last time and then left.

"This had better be the best salad I've had in my entire life," said Warren, turning back around in his seat.

"This restaurant is bullshit," said Julia. "Wanna go someplace else?"

"Yes, God, yes."

They stood up as the waiter returned with Warren's knife. "I think we're finished," Warren told him. "Do we owe you anything for the drinks?"

"You don't have to leave," said the waiter. "We'll happily reseat you, if there's an issue."

"Nope, it's all good, we're just ready to go. Thanks."

"Hold on, let me go get the manager."

"No, I don't have any complaints. We just changed our mind, that's all."

"We'd love to give you a gift certificate for your next visit."

A gift certificate was always tempting, but right now Warren just wanted to salvage his date with Julia. "It's totally fine," Warren assured the waiter. "I promise I'm not going to leave a bad review online. It's cool."

His next comment was going to be "Now please get the fuck out of my way," but he hoped he didn't have to say that.

The waiter stepped aside. Warren followed Julia out of the restaurant, expecting to be attacked by a butter-knife wielding maniac at any moment.

As they stepped outside, Warren breathed a deep sigh of relief. "I'm really sorry about that."

"It's not your fault. I'm the one who stared at her in the first place."

"You're right. Totally your fault. Where would you like to go?"

"Anyplace is fine with me. I'd even be okay with fast food."

"I think we can do a little better than that." Warren took her hand as they walked over to the valet station. He didn't think that was presumptuous; after all, they'd bonded over the shared encounter with a whack-job.

The attendant, a kid in his early 20's, was talking on his cell phone, so Warren took out his claim ticket and waited patiently. Though he was not happy with the way the evening was going so far, at least he could stop worrying about maxing out his credit card.

"I guess. Yeah. Uh-huh. Nah. Nah. Why? Are you kidding? That's crazy, dude. Yeah." The attendant laughed so hard that he nearly dropped the phone. "Sure. Nah. Sure."

Warren thought it might be appropriate to politely clear his throat, and did so.

"What? Jesus, asshole, give me a second, okay?"

"I beg your pardon?" Warren asked.

"I said, just give me a second. Do you need to get her back to her pimp or something? Just chill."

Warren and Julia exchanged a very bewildered look.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't just let some punk kid talk to Julia like that. He didn't want her to think he was the kind of guy who got into fights...but he had to do something, right?

"I think," he said, keeping his voice calm but firm, "you should apologize."

The attendant gave him a look of such ugly hatred that Warren suddenly wished he had his butter knife back. "And why the hell would I do that?"

"Because when you insult a woman, it's the right thing to do," Warren told him. He was pretty sure that if it came down to a fight, it was his own ass that would be kicked, but there was no way he'd allow himself to be intimidated by some punk kid. At least, not when he was trying to impress a date.

The attendant rolled his eyes. "It's the right thing to do," he said, mimicking Warren's words in a baby-like tone.

"What are you, three?" Warren asked. "Does your boss know you behave like this toward customers?"

"I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

"Maybe I will."

"That's real brave. Call my boss. See if he docks my pay for kicking your teeth out."

What was going on tonight? A psycho lady in the restaurant, a belligerent valet attendant...Denton's gave off some kind of aura that turned people into assholes.

"It's okay," said Julia. "If that's the way he wants to act, let him. He's not worth ruining our evening. Let's just go."

This would have been the perfect opportunity for Warren to give the attendant a steel gaze, pretend that he was weighing the pros and cons of punching him in the face, and then reluctantly walk away with Julia. Unfortunately, he still needed his car.

"Can we talk privately for a second?" he asked the attendant.

The attendant shrugged. "Yeah, sure."

"Thanks." Warren stepped away from the valet station and beckoned for him to follow. The attendant chuckled, as if amused by the sheer stupidity of the situation, then walked over to him.

"What?" he asked.

"You've put me in a bad spot here," said Warren. "That lady you insulted? It's our first date. When I'm making first impressions, I can't have another man insult her like that. It just doesn't work for me. In a fight, you'll win; I'm twice your age. I'm okay with that. If I have to take a punch, I'll take a punch, but it's really stupid for you to lose your job and do some time for assault over something so petty, when you could be a man, do the right thing, and apologize."

"You're the one talking about getting violent," said the attendant. "Not me."

"You said you were going to kick my teeth out."

"Yeah. I did say that."

"All I'm asking you to do is give a quick apology. Then nobody's night is ruined and everybody keeps their dignity. Sound okay to you?"

"All right. Whatever." The attendant looked over at Julia. "Hey, I'm sorry! Real sorry. I could not be more sorry. I'll go home and hang myself if you want. I'll go right home and do some autoerotic asphyxiation just to make up for the bad thing I said. Will that make you happy?"

"That's not necessary," said Julia. "Apology accepted."

Warren and the attendant walked back to the booth. Another man left the restaurant and headed toward the booth as well.

"Can I have my keys?" asked Warren.

The attendant shook his head. "No. I'll get your car."

"I'd rather just get it myself."

"You're not allowed back there, sir."

"Well, I'm not letting you drive my car."

"Why? Were you hoping to be a valet when you grow up?"

"Are you really going to make me go in there and grab a manager?" asked Warren. "Seriously? That's the way you want this to play out?"

"Sure, why not?"

"Hey, while he gets the manager, can you get my car?" asked the man who'd joined them. He was a big hairy guy who looked like he spent most of his life at the gym. He could probably knock out the attendant with a pinky punch.

"I don't want to get the manager," said Warren. "I just want him to give me my keys so I can get my car."

"That's my job," said the attendant.

"I don't trust you."

"Is he drunk?" asked the hairy guy.

"No," said Warren. "Just a dick. If I let him in my car he'll damage it."

"I hadn't even thought about messing with your car until you said something. But now I'm totally going to. I'll take a dump right on your steering wheel."

The hairy guy let out an incredulous laugh. "And you work for tips, huh?"

The attendant ignored him and focused on Warren. "I'm not allowed to let people into the parking lot. It's a safety hazard. But I will happily go get your car."

He smiled, then punched Warren in the stomach.

Warren let out a loud grunt as he doubled over, gasping for breath, unable to believe how much this hurt. Then, embarrassingly, he dropped to his knees.

Julia let out a soft, quick scream.

Warren's job took him into bad neighborhoods and he often took verbal abuse from the families he was trying to help, but he had not taken an actual punch since his days of being tormented by bullies on the school playground. He vaguely recalled the sensation, but even with slightly more padding around the belly, he didn't remember it being anywhere near this painful.

He heard the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and opened his eyes in time to see the attendant fall onto the concrete.

For an instant he thought that Julia had knocked him down, which would have been simultaneously humiliating and awesome. But it was the big hairy guy, who was already comparing his claim ticket to the board of hanging keys.

Julia eased Warren to his feet. The attendant had his hand to his face, and blood was already trickling between his fingers. Warren reached out and patted the hairy man on the shoulder. "Thanks."

"No problem. Asshole deserved it."

"Should we go get somebody?"

"I'm sure not going to." The man took his key from the board.

Warren took his own set of keys off the board, then yanked his foot out of the way as the attendant, still on the ground, grabbed for his ankle.

"What's the matter with you?" Warren demanded.

The hairy man crouched down beside the attendant. "You want some more? Is that it? You want me to bash your face into the sidewalk? Would that feel good?"

The attendant took a swing at him. He struck the man's knee, delivering a pathetic blow that bounced off with no visible impact.

"You just want to make this hurt, huh?" asked the man. "I can do that for you. I'll be happy to make this hurt. I'll put you in the hospital if you want to keep it up. You want to keep it up?"

The attendant apparently did want to keep it up. He lashed out again, striking the hairy man with a punch that was even less effective than the first.

The man stood up. "This isn't even funny in a 'so bad it's good' way. I've got better things to do than waste time with this piece of garbage." He nodded at Warren and Julia. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, folks," he said, and then headed off toward the parking lot.

"What do we do?" asked Julia.

Warren glanced down at the attendant, who was still bleeding and even crying a little. "Let's just get out of this place." He figured the date was pretty much over at this point, but he'd prefer not to have it conclude with him kicking the rotten creep in the skull.

Julia nodded. "I think we should call the police, but we'll do it from the car."

"Good idea."

Warren took her hand and they walked toward the parking lot, not quite running but certainly walking more quickly than they would normally leave a fine dining establishment. The hairy guy had already gotten into his car.

There was the sound of shattering glass.

They both looked around, trying to figure out where it had come from. Somewhere in the valet lot.

Three rows away, in the far corner, a thin old man who might have been eighty years old was standing next to a car. They could only see his shoulders and head, and then his hand as he drummed his fingers on the roof of the vehicle.

He walked over to the car next to it. Three loud thumps, and then more shattering glass.

"Jesus, what now?" asked Julia, as they hurried over to that row. The old man had a fist-sized rock in his hand, which had a streak of red on it from his bleeding fingers.

He walked to the next car and bashed the rock into the rear windshield. This car was alarmed, but the man didn't flee at the sound of the annoying wail. He slammed the rock into it once, twice, three more times, until his hand broke through the glass.

"What the hell are you doing?" Warren called out to him. What was going on? Did Denton's have a contaminated water supply or something?

"Mind your own business!" shouted the man, barely audible over the car alarm. "This doesn't concern you!"

He moved on to the next vehicle.

"Do you see my car?" asked Warren, looking around.

Julia shook her head, but then nodded and pointed. "It's right there."

It was parked—badly—three cars away from the old man's path of vandalism.

"Crap," said Warren, as he and Julia ran over to the car. He unlocked her door and opened it for her, and as she scooted into the passenger seat he ran around to the other side. He could hear the old man shatter another window.

Warren closed his door, fumbled with the keys for a moment, then started the engine. A chain-link fence prevented them from going forward, so he put the car into reverse, then slammed his foot on the brake as Julia shouted "Watch out!"

In the rearview mirror, he could see that the old man stood right behind the car.

Warren honked the horn and turned around in his seat. "Get out of the way!" he shouted.

The old man just stood there, still holding his bloody rock.

Warren rolled down his window and leaned out. "Hey! Are you trying to get killed? Get away from the car!"

"Don't tell me what to do," the old man shouted. "I don't take orders from kids!"

Under much different circumstances, the "kid" comment would have been flattering. Warren revved the engine, though of course he had no intention of actually crushing the old man under his tires.

Julia took her cell phone out of her purse.

"I mean it!" said Warren.

The old man bashed the rock against his rear windshield.

"Aw, you can't be serious." Warren shut off the engine and opened his door.

"What are you going to do?" asked Julia, eyes wide with concern.

"I'm gonna get him out of the way," Warren said. "If I just let him bust out my back windshield, he might break yours next. I'll be careful, don't worry."

Warren got out of the car as the old man bashed the glass a second time. "Hey! I'm talking to you!"

"I hear you," the old man said, glaring at him. "I ain't deaf, you goddamned ageist."

"Hit my car again and you'll be sorry," Warren told him. It was a pretty weak threat, but Warren wasn't used to having to show slender old men that he meant business.

The old man gave him a look that reminded Warren of his daughter Yvonne when she was six, the look she would give him when he would tell her in a very strict voice to stop playing on the slide and come in for dinner, the look that said, essentially, "I understand what you're saying, and respect your authority in this matter, but I really don't fear the consequences," right before climbing the ladder for one more slide.

The old man slammed the rock into the windshield again, spiderwebbing but not shattering the glass.

Warren grabbed the rock out of his hand.

"Give me that back," the old man said.

"Get out of here. She's ready to call the cops."

"I said, give me back the rock. It's not yours."

Warren flung the rock over the fence. "Now it's gone. Find something else to do."

"I'll kill you for that."

"Just get out of the way of my car, all right? I don't want to squish you."

The car alarm was still blaring. As was the tradition with car alarms, nobody was coming out to investigate.

"Go on, run me over," said the old man. "That'll make you feel brave, won't it? Make you feel like a big man? Do it."

Warren wasn't a super athlete, but he was in more than good enough shape to move a thin old man out of the way. He wrapped his arms around the old man's waist and carried him, kicking and screaming, about twenty feet away.

He gently set him on the ground, though the old man promptly fell on his butt. But he seemed unhurt, if still rage-filled, so Warren rushed back to his car. He hoped that what he'd just done wasn't considered assault, but the line of broken car windows would show that there were extenuating circumstances.

Julia was on the phone as he got into the car. "Okay...thank you," she said. She pressed her index finger to the touch screen to disconnect the call. "The police and an ambulance are on their way."

"Good."

"They want a statement, but I said that we didn't feel safe waiting here, so we'll find a place to hang out nearby."

Warren backed out of the parking spot. The old man was getting up, but not quickly enough that he had to worry about running him over.

"Sounds like a plan," he said. There went the last possible chance of salvaging the date. Oh well. He supposed that since they'd left a crazy woman, a bleeding valet attendant, and a destructive old man behind, they should probably tell their side of the story to somebody.

He drove out of the parking lot and turned onto the highway.

"What do you think is happening?" Julia asked.

"I have no idea."

"It can't be coincidence, can it?"

"I don't know. I guess it could be. Or maybe the old man is the father of the crazy lady in the restaurant, and the valet is their crazy son."

"Family insanity?"

"Yeah," said Warren. "I mean, obviously I was joking, but it's actually one of the more logical explanations. It's not a full moon. Did some sports team lose a championship or something?"

"Not that I know of. Maybe people are catching Mad Cow Disease from the food they serve at that place. I don't think Mad Cow Disease works that fast, but, I don't know, is there some kind of food poisoning that would make people act that way?"

"Could be. I've never heard of it. But I'm not an expert on different types of food poisoning."

"It's not like we're in a bad neighborhood," said Julia.

"Nope. And even if we were, people breaking out car windows isn't anything unusual, but they do it in the dark, and they run away after they've done it. That guy didn't even care if he got arrested." Warren stopped at a red light. "The cops didn't say where to meet them?"

"No. I said we'd come back in a few minutes."

"Okay. We should probably park, then."

After the light turned green, he drove through the intersection and then parked alongside the sidewalk.

"I guess we didn't need to go this far," said Warren. "A block or so would've been fine. It's not like any of the psychos were chasing after us."

"Yeah, but if one of them pulled a gun, we'd look pretty stupid for having only gone a block."

"You're right. You're absolutely right. I feel much less cowardly now. Thank you."

Julia smiled. "I'd just like to say that even though this evening has mostly been really, really shitty, I've enjoyed meeting you in person, and I hope we can have another date that's not so shitty."

"Tomorrow? Same time, completely different place?"

"Sure."

"Great. We'll just pretend this one never happened. Make tomorrow our official first date."

Somewhere in the distance, perhaps a few blocks away, a gunshot went off.

"Great," said Warren.

"Maybe the cops shot the valet."

Warren laughed. "Arm or leg wound, I'm cool with it. I'd feel bad if they shot him in the head."

"The sound was from the wrong direction, though."

"Yeah, I know."

Another gunshot. It sounded further away than the first, but it was still unnerving.

"I hope this isn't the end times," said Julia. "That would suck."

A car alarm went off, much closer than the gunshots.

"Screw this," said Warren. "I'm taking you home. We can give them a statement in the morning if they want it."

"Sounds good to me. Should I call them back and let them know what we're doing, so nobody thinks we're fleeing the scene?"

"It can't hurt."

Before Warren could pull back onto the street, a white truck sped past them, going way too fast. It raced through the red light at the next intersection.

Warren was starting to feel a bit of panic now. He wasn't one for paranoia, but there were too many elements of chaos at once. All he wanted to do was get Julia home safely, go back to his own house, get a full night's sleep, and wake up with the world back to normal.

Julia gasped so loud that it made Warren flinch.

"Pull over!"

She was pointing at something, but he couldn't see what it was.

"I said, pull over! Hurry!"

"There's no room."

"Then brake!"

Warren slammed on the brakes, thankful that there were no cars behind him.

Julia threw open her door and got out of the car.

"What's wrong?" he called after her.

"That woman is going to throw that little girl off the balcony!"

* * *

Julia ran down the block, almost hyperventilating with panic.

A heavyset woman stood on the balcony of her fourth-floor apartment. She had a baby strapped to her chest in one of those sling things, and she was also dangling a screaming little girl, maybe five or six years old, over the side.

She was holding the little girl's hands, but it was clearly not a case where the girl had accidentally fallen, the mother had caught her hands in a last-second rescue, and now was desperately trying to pull her daughter up to safety. The woman was smiling. In fact, were it not for the little girl's shrieks, it might have looked like a moment of dangerous but lighthearted play.

"Hey!" Julia shouted, frantically waving her arms above her head. "Hey! What are you doing?"

The woman looked down at her. "You really want me to wave back?"

"No! Pull her up!"

Warren, who had apparently left his car in the middle of the street, ran up next to her. "Holy shit," he said.

"Pull the girl up!" Julia repeated. "Are you insane? What's the matter with you?"

"Dare me to drop her?" the woman shouted down.

"No!"

"You double dog dare me? Truth or dare? I'll do it if you dare me!"

"She's three windows down from the main entrance," Warren said. "I'll see what I can do." He ran to the front door of the apartment complex and went inside.

The little girl began kicking and screaming so violently that the woman nearly lost her grip. "Stop struggling!" the woman shouted. "You want to get dropped? If you pop out of my hands, it's not my fault!"

Julia took out her cell phone and dialed 911.

"Put that thing away!" the woman shouted. "Now! Put it away or I'll let her go!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Julia, probably not loudly enough for the woman to hear up there. She put the phone back into her pocket and held up her hands to show that they were empty.

"No! Get rid of it! Get rid of it or I drop her!"

"Please, just pull her—"

The woman let go of one of the little girl's hands. The woman lurched forward from the sudden weight on her other arm, and for a second Julia thought she was going to crush the baby against the balcony rail.

Julia took her cell phone back out of her pocket. She watched helplessly as the woman pulled the girl up to where she'd been before. Julia couldn't hear what the woman said to the girl, but she thought it was "Give me your hand."

The girl raised her free hand. It took a few swipes to catch it again, but the woman finally did. The girl stopped crying and went silent.

"See what you made me do?" the woman shouted at Julia. "Now throw the phone into the sewer grate."

Julia hesitated for a moment. She would gladly discard her phone to save a little girl, but if things continued to go crazy, if they got even worse, she'd be throwing away her ability to call for help.

"I said, throw it!"

There was absolutely nothing about the woman's behavior to indicate that she was bluffing, so Julia dropped the cell phone onto the sidewalk and then kicked it toward the sewer grate, hoping it would miss by a few inches. It did.

"I didn't say to kick it away from you!" the woman shouted. "I said to throw it into the grate!"

"Hey, shut up!" said a man, leaning out his open window and looking down at Julia. "I'm trying to watch my shows, for Christ's sake!" He leaned back inside, apparently without noticing what was going on.

Julia walked over to where her phone had landed and kicked it all the way into the grate, feeling a bit sick at the sound of the splash.

"Now pull her back up!" Julia shouted.

"I didn't say I was going to do that! Never said that! Never!"

What could Julia use to cushion the girl's fall? Julia quickly looked around, but there were no helpful items like mattresses or fluffy pillows in the vicinity. There weren't even any garbage bags. If she did drop the girl, she was going to fall four stories onto concrete.

Julia couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like the girl was starting to slip out of the woman's grasp.

"Listen to me!" Julia shouted. "What do I have to do so you won't drop her?"

"I think I'm going to drop her no matter what you do."

"Is she your daughter?"

"Unless there was a swap at the hospital."

"Why would you kill your own daughter?"

"Do you have kids?"

"No."

"Sometimes you just want to kill them. Have kids of your own and you'll understand. Uh-oh, my hands are starting to cramp up. Oh, they're getting crampy quickly. I think Katie is going to go splat! Splat goes Katie, all over your nice dress!"

Julia couldn't catch her if she fell. Even a small girl like that would shatter your bones if she landed on you from four stories high. Katie might survive, cushioned by Julia's mangled body, but Julia was honest enough with herself to admit that she wasn't quite prepared to make that kind of sacrifice.

She suddenly noticed that a young couple was walking down the sidewalk toward them, about a block away, their arms linked at the elbows. They were watching what was going on with shock but didn't seem to be picking up their pace in order to help out. In fact, the guy looked like he was ready to turn around.

The woman above noticed what Julia was looking at. "Hey!" the woman screamed at the couple. "Fuck off or I'll drop her!"

They wasted no time in heeding her request, quickly breaking into a run.

The girl still wasn't making any noise, though she was moving enough to show that she at least wasn't dead. Either she was conserving her movements to keep from slipping out of her mother's grasp, which was an unlikely decision for a six-year-old to make, or she was frightened to the point of catatonia.

What was Julia supposed to do? She felt completely helpless.

"Catch!" the woman shouted.

Then she let the little girl go.

* * *

Warren ran up the steps as fast as he could, fumbling with his cell phone at the same time. He tried to punch in 911 with his thumb, put in 912 instead, but got it right on the second try.

"911 emergency," a man on the other end said.

"Hi, I'm at...crap, I don't know where I am. It's a few blocks north of Denton's, a restaurant on Ridge Avenue. There's this lady on the fourth floor, and she's...hello?" The phone beeped twice and he glanced at the display. He'd lost the signal. Stupid goddamn stairwell.

He opened the door to the fourth floor and raced out into the hallway. At the end of the hall, a burly, gray-bearded man who looked like a Hell's Angel was leaning against the wall, drinking a beer. He looked over at Warren.

"You live here?" the man asked, adjusting his sunglasses.

"Me? No." Warren ran down the hallway, which had stained, faded carpet.

"We don't allow trespassers!" the man said, picking up a wooden baseball bat that had been resting on the floor next to him.

Why would this guy have a baseball bat in the hallway with him? Was he a player for the Hell's Angels league? What the fuck was going on tonight?

The man raised the bat over his shoulder and walked toward Warren. He was not smiling.

Warren's first thought was that he should probably be someplace else when the man made it over here, but he decided to remain optimistic and try diplomacy. "Hey, we've got a messed-up situation outside," he said. He pointed to what he hoped was the correct door. "A lady is going to drop her kid off the balcony. I could sure use your help."

The man picked up his pace. He did not look like he was interested in providing any help.

"Get out of my building!" he shouted, running and swinging the bat at Warren's head. This was not a warning swing. It was meant to shatter Warren's skull.

Warren stepped out of the way, the bat swishing through the air about six inches away from his face. He could either flee or try to get the bat away from the lunatic, and if he fled, he suspected that the last sound he'd ever hear would be the crack of a bat against the back of his head. So he dove at the man.

It wasn't as if the man seemed to possess superhuman strength, but he certainly had a lot more strength than Warren. Before he could even quite register what had happened, Warren was stumbling toward the wall. He smacked into it, shoulder-first, and let out a grunt of pain.

He turned around and saw the bat swinging at his head again. He ducked and heard the bat smash against the wall, dropping a few splinters into his hair.

Warren took several steps backwards. This was probably not a man who would be swayed by a rational argument, but Warren had to try. "Didn't you hear me? A little girl is going to fall off a balcony!"

"Ain't my kid." The man held up the lower half of the bat, from which jutted several sharp pieces of wood.

"Are you serious?"

"If she was dangling when you ran up here, she fell by now."

Warren tried not to think about that. "We don't know that. We might still be able to save her."

"How do I know you ain't lying?"

He pointed to the door. "We go in there. Instant proof."

The man shook his head. "Nah."

He charged at Warren again, this time lunging with the bat like it was a broken bottle. Warren dodged again, though a large splinter came off and hit him in the cheek.

Warren was not one to run from a conflict, but when there was a scary biker-looking guy trying to murder you with a broken baseball bat, there was no shame in getting out of there. The man was blocking his way back to the stairwell, but there'd be an exit on the other end of the hallway.

He turned and ran.

There was not another exit.

The man was right behind him. Warren stopped at the dead end, then moved out of the way yet again as the bat smashed into the wall, breaking through the plaster.

Warren hadn't known he possessed such good reflexes. The biker must've been a smoker.

He tried to move past the guy, but the biker held up his free hand and blocked him, slamming his palm into Warren's solar plexus. Warren fell to the floor, suddenly unable to breathe.

A door flew open, two doors down from the dead end. "Enough already!" a long-haired college-aged kid said, not bothering to hide the bong in his hand. "Show some respect for the people trying to get high!"

The biker immediately turned away from Warren and rushed at the stoner. He leaned back inside his apartment, slamming the door so quickly that it caught the bong, breaking it in half. Glass and bong water fell to the floor.

The door across from the stoner opened as well. A man, clean-cut but almost the size of the biker, stepped outside of his apartment, looking ready to rip somebody's head off.

The biker spun around and smashed the bat into the man's right arm. The man howled with pain, a howl that turned into a high-pitched screech as the biker bashed him again in the exact same spot. His arm hung limp and useless at his side as he lurched for his doorway.

The biker stepped in after him.

Warren heard a crack of metal against bone.

The biker stumbled out of the apartment, clutching his forehead. A woman, young and petite but holding an iron golf club, smacked him again, getting him right in the mouth. The biker spat out a couple of bloody teeth and then gasped as if he were choking on a couple more.

The woman struck him with the golf club again and again. Warren didn't know if her swing was proper golf form, but in terms of beating a human being, her technique was supremely effective.

After a vicious blow directly to the knee he dropped to the floor. She continued to hit him.

This was too much. She was going to kill him.

It was difficult to muster sympathy for somebody who'd just tried to bash in his brains, but when the next blow knocked the man's lower jaw five inches to the right, he let out a loud wince.

"That's good enough," Warren said. "He's done for a while."

The woman smashed the golf club into the biker's shoulder.

"You need to..." Warren trailed off. He'd almost forgotten why he was here. If the little girl could still be saved, it was ridiculous to waste time pleading for the biker's life.

The biker held up his hand to block the next swing of the golf club. He did stop it from bashing into his nose, but three of his fingers were now bent backwards, almost touching the back of his hand.

Warren left the poor guy to whatever tragic fate the woman had in mind for him, and ran back down the hallway until he reached what he hoped was the correct door.

He turned the doorknob. Unlocked, thank God. Breaking down a door through brute force was not part of his skill set.

The apartment was empty, but he could hear the woman's voice coming from the balcony, so he had the right one.

Now he needed a plan. He didn't really have one besides "try to talk her out of it." It wasn't like he could tackle her.

"Catch!" the woman shouted.

A little girl screamed.

Shit! Was he really two seconds too late?

He rushed into the dining room, now able to see the woman through the open sliding glass door. The woman heard him and spun around. The infant strapped to her chest began to cry.

"What the hell are you doing in my place?" the woman demanded.

The little girl continued to scream. She was still alive! Was she hanging on to something?

The woman stretched her arms out as if to grab Warren, even though she was still on the balcony and not close to being able to reach him.

Then she ran at him.

He didn't need to shout "Be careful! The baby!" She undoubtedly knew that she had a baby strapped to her chest. She'd just tried to drop her daughter four stories, so it was pretty evident that this mother was not right in the head.

Warren shouted it anyway. Then he got out of her way.

She ran a few steps past him, pivoted on one foot, and for a terrifying instant Warren thought that she was going to fall. But she maintained her balance and rushed at him again.

"Mind your own business!" she told him.

Warren wanted to call something out that would reassure the little girl that help was on the way, that she should hold on as long as possible, that he promised he'd pull her up to safety...but he couldn't, because suddenly the woman's hands were wrapped around his neck.

The back of his legs struck her couch, and he fell into a sitting position. She pressed her thumb against his throat.

You never, ever hit a woman. This had been taught to him from an early age, and it had always been a very easy rule to follow, both in an ethical and practical sense. But when a woman had tried to kill her child and was now trying to strangle him to death, it required adjustments to one's moral code.

Not yet, though. First he just tried to pull her hands away from his neck.

Couldn't do it. Again, the woman showed no evidence of superhuman strength, but the advantage still went to the strangler over the one being strangled.

So he punched her.

Her head popped back, and she let go of his neck.

She called him a shithead in a very loud voice.

She reached for his neck again, so Warren punched her a second time. He'd known, cognitively, that punching somebody hurt a lot worse in real life than it did in the movies, but he still wasn't quite expecting a level of pain where he thought he might have shattered the bones in his hand.

This blow seemed to stun her a bit. She blinked a few times, lost her balance, then toppled over.

"No!" Warren shouted. He grabbed her shirt, and as her arms flailed helplessly, he managed to twist her around so that she fell directly onto her back.

"Why are you trying to hurt the baby?" Warren asked.

"I'm not! You punched me, shithead!"

Warren realized that the little girl was still screaming outside. She hadn't fallen yet!

He got up off the couch and tried to run for the patio, but the woman grabbed his ankle with both hands and he fell, crashing onto the floor and nearly hitting a glass coffee table.

The woman, fingers curled into claws, dove at him.

Had there not been a baby strapped to her chest, it would have been pretty easy to kick her in the stomach, which would probably resolve the situation. But all Warren could do was frantically scoot backwards, trying to keep away from her.

"You're going to hurt your baby!" Warren said. This was not new information, and there was no reason to believe that this particular comment was going to change her mind, but it was an infant child strapped to her chest. He had to keep trying to talk her out of this insane behavior. She couldn't possibly want to hurt the baby, so maybe something would finally get through.

That comment wasn't the one, though.

Warren struck a recliner. The cushion didn't hurt but it startled him. He pushed himself up, took another swing at the woman that missed completely, then rushed into the kitchen.

The first thing he noticed was all of the children's drawings on the refrigerator door. The second thing he noticed was the wooden block of knives.

He slid on the tiled floor and almost fell, but he kept his balance and grabbed a carving knife out of the block.

He spun around, thinking for another heart stopping instant that the woman was going to run right into the blade, baby-first. Fortunately, she stopped.

Warren knew that he couldn't really stab a mother, but as long as she didn't know that, he might be able to end this without anybody dying.

"Gonna stab me?" asked the woman. "What kind of coward needs to use a knife?"

"Can't you hear your daughter?" Warren asked, though he was unnerved to realize that he couldn't anymore. "You have to let me save her."

"If I wanted you to save her, I wouldn't have dropped her."

"Look at you. You've got a baby. You need to get medical help. There's something wrong with you. It's not your fault, but there's something wrong, and if you don't let me call an ambulance you could end up hurting your child or yourself."

Speaking of which, where was the ambulance? He supposed it could just be driving around the general vicinity, the paramedics hoping to luck out and speed past a little girl dangling from a balcony, since he hadn't been able to give a real address.

Or, if the scope of this nightmare was beyond what he and Julia had encountered, the city's emergency resources might be otherwise occupied...

"I'm not going to hurt myself," the woman said. "What do you think I am, incompetent?"

"No, no, not at all. It's just...you don't think this is normal, do you?"

The woman shrugged. "Why should I care what's normal?"

"Do me a huge favor. Take off the baby sling."

"You want me to drop Ginny on the floor?"

"No!"

The woman smiled. "I was kidding, you stupid fuck. You don't even get when people are joking. That's pretty sad."

"What's your name?"

"What's yours?"

"Warren."

"Like the commission?"

"Yes. Exactly like the commission."

"That's a dumb name. It sounds weird when you say it out loud. Warren. Warren."

"What's your name?"

"You already asked me that."

"You didn't answer."

"Cheryl."

"Nice to meet you, Cheryl. Now please take off the baby sling."

Cheryl shook her head.

If he thought there was any possible way he could rescue the little girl while Cheryl was attacking him, he'd run right out to the balcony. But there was no chance of that working.

"Take it off and we'll talk."

"I don't want to talk. It's not like you were invited in here. You're trespassing. That's a felony."

Warren lunged forward with the knife, not coming anywhere close to hitting her, but hopefully scaring her a bit. "Put the baby on the floor, or I'll have no choice but to stab you."

Cheryl placed her hand gently on the baby's head. "Maybe I'll jab my thumb into the soft spot in the back of his head. How about that?"

"I'm serious. I'll do what it takes to save your kids."

"Yeah?"

"Yes." He looked her in the eyes, trying to convey how deeply serious he was, even though he didn't truly believe that he'd be able to stab her.

Cheryl let out a snort of laughter. "Not scared at all. Not even a little. Nice try, though."

There was a loud shriek of terror from outside.

Not from the balcony. From ground level. Julia.

Warren waved the knife at Cheryl. "I'm going onto your balcony. You follow me and I swear to God I'll jam this right into your face."

He took a step away from her. She took a step toward him.

"I mean it!"

Another scream.

Suddenly Cheryl looked furious. "Oh, damn it! Damn it!"

Warren glanced over to see what had set her off. The little girl was standing just outside of the kitchen, trembling as she softly cried.

So she'd pulled herself up to safety. That was one hell of a kid.

Cheryl clenched her fists together in rage. "You were supposed to fall!"

She ran at the little girl. Warren, having no choice, immediately stepped between them, still holding the knife.

* * *

When the woman dropped the girl, Julia thought that her heart was going to shoot right up into her throat, and from there jettison out the top of her skull.

After the girl actually managed to grab hold of the bottom of the rail, Julia's sense of relief was so intense that she wanted to sob. The relief lasted for about half a second, though, as she quickly realized that the girl was still almost certainly going to fall, and there wasn't a damn thing that Julia could do to help her.

A fire engine might come by with one of those trampolines (though she didn't think they even used them anymore), or Warren might make it to the balcony in time, but otherwise, what could Julia do? Shout words of moral support? "You can do it, little girl! No splattery death! No splattery death!"

There had to be some way to break her fall. A mattress from somebody on the first floor, maybe...?

A Jeep rounded the corner, tires squealing. It blasted the horn as it pulled up behind Warren's car, but came to a stop instead of swerving around the vehicle.

Three guys, college-aged and dressed for a night of partying, got out of the Jeep. One of them, redheaded and freckle-faced, ran over to the sidewalk next to Julia. He quickly took out his cell phone.

The little girl had managed to lift her foot enough to brace it on the bottom of the balcony. Julia almost shouted something encouraging but didn't want to distract her. She turned to the redheaded guy.

"You, me, and your friends...if we all group up, we might be able to catch her if she falls."

The redhead nodded as he tapped the screen of his phone. "Yeah, yeah, we can do that." He gestured to his friends. "What are you guys doing? Get over here!"

"Ah, let the tiny bitch fall," said one of the guys.

"You think that's funny?" the redhead shouted back, putting the phone to his ear. "That's funny to you? What the hell, dude?" He looked up at the girl, who continued to pull herself up.

"She might be okay," said Julia, hardly able to believe it.

"It says all circuits are busy." The redhead lowered his phone and turned back to his friends. "Hey! What's the matter with you assholes? Get over here!"

The other two guys were grinning. One of them whispered something to the other, and they both snickered.

"Maybe they should just stay with the Jeep," said Julia.

"I don't know what's wrong with them. I swear to you, I wouldn't be friends with guys who acted like such douchebags."

One of the guys took out his own cell phone and held it up toward the building.

"Are you recording this?" the redhead asked, absolutely horrified. "He's making a video of this," he said, so quietly that Julia wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or himself.

"Hey, Steve!" said the guy who wasn't recording. "You gonna bang her or what?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Steve returned his attention to the little girl. "C'mon," he said, "you're almost there."

Julia wondered what had happened to Warren. He should've been on the fourth floor long before this. Maybe he was trying to break down the woman's door.

It was hard to take her eyes off the little girl, but Julia glanced back at the other two guys. The one was still recording, and the other one licked his lips and winked at her. Then he went around to the back of the Jeep and popped open the rear door.

"Damn it," said Steve. "Still no answer at 911. Is every kid in the city dangling off a balcony or something?"

"I don't think there's anything we can do to help her," said Julia. "We should go."

"Go? What do you mean, go?"

Steve's friend had taken a tire iron out of the back of the Jeep. He slapped the end against his palm, clearly trying to look menacing.

"Are your friends on drugs?" Julia asked.

"No! I've been with them all night! We don't do that stuff! I don't know what's wrong with them!"

"Okay, they aren't the only ones who've gone nuts. We should get out of here."

"Hey, Steve!" said the guy who was recording the little girl. "I'll bet you ten bucks you can't hit that kid with a rock! Ten bucks! Three tries to knock her down!"

"I'll kick in another ten," said the guy with the tire iron.

"You're right," Steve told Julia. "We should get out of here."

The little girl climbed all the way over the rail and safely onto the balcony floor.

Steve and Julia ran.

Julia didn't look back to see if the other guys were following, but she sensed movement behind her and to the left, and then in her peripheral vision she saw the guy with the tire iron running down the street. He was one hell of a sprinter, because he'd already almost caught up to them.

As they ran, he threw the tire iron like a javelin.

Tire irons were not meant to be thrown in that manner. It didn't sail swiftly through the air, but rather did a lopsided spin. It landed on the pavement, bounced end over end, and struck Steve's leg.

He pitched forward, doing a faceplant so brutal that blood shot from both sides of his head.

"Woooo!" his friend shouted. "Did you see that? I couldn't repeat that throw if I tried!"

Had he been aiming for Steve instead of her? Were things even more out of control than she thought?

For a split second Julia was seized with indecision. Keeping running or fight back?

She went with "fight back."

She spun around and lunged for the tire iron. Steve's friend had been too busy doing a victory dance to reclaim his weapon, and by the time he realized his mistake, she was already brandishing it in both hands.

Steve rolled over onto his side, revealing the grisly mess of his face. He tried to say something but his words were incoherent.

"C'mon, throw it back," the guy said to Julia.

"Just go," she said. "You don't want to be here when the cops arrive."

The guy shrugged. "I dunno. Might give me the chance to kill some cops. Life's all about having new experiences, right?"

He stepped forward.

"Come any closer, and I will slam this through your neck," Julia warned.

He came a step closer. Julia slammed the tire iron through his neck.

He dropped to the pavement, making a gargling sound as blood poured down the front of his shirt. Julia knew that if she took the time to be properly horrified by what she'd done, the last guy would have the opportunity to do her harm, so she wrenched the tire iron free and held it, dripping, in front of her.

"That's fucked up," the last guy said, seeming amused by his mangled friends. "You've got to be some kind of she-demon to do that to a person."

Julia swung the tire iron a couple of times. "Get out of here."

"Or else what?"

"Or else I'll crack your skull open."

The guy stroked his chin, as if in deep thought. "That is a deterrent. I guess there are plenty of other people to kill. I'll find one who doesn't have a tire iron. No reason to get myself hurt, right?"

He turned around and began to walk away.

"Wait!" Julia called after him, knowing this might be a terrible mistake.

He glanced over his shoulder.

"What's happening?" Julia asked. "Why are you doing this?"

The guy shrugged. "Feels like the right thing to do."

"But why?"

"I bet you'll understand soon enough."

He walked away.

* * *

Oh my God I stabbed the baby I stabbed the baby I stabbed the baby...

The carving knife was in the woman's chest, buried to the hilt. Warren couldn't tell how badly he'd cut the baby, but there was already blood on the left side of its light blue onesie.

The woman started to tumble forward. Warren grabbed her under the shoulders and tried to ease her to the floor, but she quickly slipped out of his grasp.

Shit shit shit...

He shoved her as hard as he could. The woman fell backwards. She landed with a crash but didn't flatten her child.

Warren pulled the knife out of her chest, then used it to cut the crying baby free. He stuck his index finger into the rip in its onesie. The cut wasn't very deep. He didn't know if there was such a thing as a superficial cut where a baby was concerned, but he didn't think the child was in any danger of bleeding out before he could get it to the emergency room.

He looked around for the little girl. She was still standing in the kitchen.

"You killed my mommy," she said.

"No, no, I don't think she's dead. She'll be fine, I promise."

"You killed my mommy."

"I had to protect you and your little brother."

"You killed my mommy. I wanted to do it!"

The little girl ran at him, arms outstretched, fingers curled into claws. Warren couldn't believe this. He dropped the knife to make sure there wasn't a horrible accident, then braced himself. The little girl struck him much harder than he'd expected, almost knocking him over.

Warren scooped her up. She screamed in rage, kicking and flailing and trying to scratch his eyes out. He carried her out of the living room and into a hallway, yelping as her fingernails raked across the side of his head. He stepped through an open doorway into what appeared to be the mother's bedroom, tossed the girl onto the bed, then hurried out of the room and slammed the door. It didn't lock from the outside and there was nothing to use to wedge it closed, so he hadn't bought himself more than a few seconds.

Clearly he had to be a dick.

He heard the bedsprings squeak and then footsteps on the floor, so he threw the door open, bashing the little girl in the face. Then he closed it again and ran back into the living room. He scooped up the baby and fled the apartment.

Warren reached the exit to the complex just as Julia was entering it. They rushed outside together.

"Is the girl okay?" Julia asked.

"Sort of. She's alive."

"Here, I'll take the baby from you."

Warren shook his head. "No, that's all right. I've got it."

He wasn't very comfortable around babies except when his own daughter had been one, and any other time he would've been grateful to pass it off to somebody more nurturing.

But the baby kept trying to hit him. Trying to claw at him with its tiny fingers.

It didn't hurt, of course, but he didn't think it was right to give Julia a homicidal baby.

Warren didn't comment on the two dead bodies lying on the sidewalk, nor did he say anything about the bloody tire iron in Julia's hand. Everything was fucked and they could save the discussion about what they'd done to survive for another day.

Once they reached his car, Warren realized that he couldn't exactly drive with a baby on his lap. "Watch out," he said, handing the baby to Julia. "He's...angry."

Somebody screamed. Warren and Julia looked back just in time to see a teenaged boy hit the ground. Several floors up, a man and woman high-fived each other. Then the man shoved the woman over the rail as well. "Asshole!" she yelled on the way down, before splattering next to the boy.

Warren and Julia got in the car and sped off.

Warren turned on the radio. "See if you can find any news," he said, while taking his cell phone out of his pocket. He never used his cell phone while driving, especially when going this fast, but obviously these were extenuating circumstances. "I need to call my daughter."

Yvonne answered immediately. "Dad?"

"Oh, thank God. Are you okay, honey? Is anything happening where you are? How's your mom?"

"Mom was being a total bitch. I chopped her hands off and she acted like I was the worst person in the world. I don't know why you ever had sex with her."

Warren felt like he was going to throw up. "Is she dead?"

"I don't know. Probably. She was bleeding pretty fast. Why do you even care? Is that why you called? If you want to get back together, man up and call her. Don't put me in the middle of your drama."

"I just...I wanted to know if you're okay."

"Come on over and see."

Warren disconnected the call.

"Her too?" Julia asked.

Warren didn't answer. "She lives almost an hour from here. So it's not just this area."

Julia turned the dial, flipping past music and commercials until somebody was talking.

"—spraying all over the place! Oh, it was wicked! I could've watched that all day!"

Gunshots. A man stood on the corner, opening fire on a crowd of about five or six people who were walking on the other side of the street. A woman came up behind him, grabbed a handful of his hair, yanked his head back, and jammed something (a nail file?) into his throat as Warren sped through the intersection.

"This is insane," said Warren. "Absolutely insane. What the hell has...?"

And then he understood.

* * *

Julia almost lost hold of the baby as Warren slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched and she tried to see what he'd braked to avoid hitting. There was nothing in front of them. He turned to her and grinned.

It didn't look like a crazed "I've lost my ability to cope with reality" grin.

"Tipping point," he said.

"What?"

"Don't get me wrong, there's a lot of goodness in the world," said Warren. "Good people doing good things for selfless reasons. But, let's face it, there's also a lot of bad behavior. We can be anonymous online and say whatever hurtful shit we want. You ever read the comments section? There are some truly wretched human beings out there. Meanwhile, other people are feeling emboldened to do awful things in the real world. It starts to build up."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"It keeps building up, and building up, and then you've hit the tipping point. Suddenly almost everybody is affected. And it's a beautiful thing."

Julia threw open the car door. Warren lunged across the seat at her, grabbing her arm.

"Hey! I took you out to a fancy goddamn restaurant! Where's my repayment?"

Julia yanked her arm away. She kept a tight hold of the baby with her other arm, and punched Warren in the face.

She didn't mean to get him right in the eye. But she did, and Warren covered his eye as he cried out in pain, giving her time to scramble out of the vehicle.

The baby continued to claw at her arm.

Julia ran. Behind her, she heard Warren get out of the car.

"Julia!" he shouted. "We had a connection! Why are you being such a tease? Come on back here so we can finish the date! I wore my nice shirt and everything!"

Julia fought back a sob as she continued to run.

* * *

Warren wanted to chase after her, but he wasn't used to getting this much exercise, and his eye stung like crazy, though she didn't seem to have popped it. He'd let her go. Maybe she'd change her mind and come back.

"One..." a couple of guys shouted in unison, up above.

Warren glanced up, but then his eye stung even worse and something trickled down his cheek. Shit. Maybe it was leaking.

"Two..."

"No! Please don't!" somebody screamed, also up above. "Don't do it!"

Warren wiped his eye and looked up again. The two guys were standing on a balcony, holding some poor bastard by his hands and feet, swinging him over the side. He wasn't surprised that so many people were getting thrown from great heights; it looked like a fun thing to do, like throwing watermelons but with a more satisfying impact.

"Three!"

They flung the screaming person over the rail.

Warren's depth perception was all messed up, and the pain was keeping him from completely focusing on his surroundings. Otherwise he would have figured out sooner that the two guys above were aiming for him.

Direct hit. Both bodies broke apart.

Warren lived just long enough to hear them whooping in victory.

* * *

Up ahead, a young man was dragged out of his car by a group of women who were dressed for a night of bar hopping. Their high heels had clearly been selected for style, but turned out to be functional as they stomped on him repeatedly.

When the women left, presumably to find another victim, Julia stole his car.

She placed the baby on the passenger seat. She didn't care if the child was affected by this madness; tipping point or not, Julia wasn't going to abandon a baby.

She sped down the street.

There was carnage everywhere. A couple of teenagers laughed and danced around with a spurting headless body. A man's legs were slammed repeatedly in a car door. A little girl clubbed an old lady to death with a wrench, while a woman who was probably the little girl's mother cheered her on.

Julia drove for miles, praying to reach the boundaries of the insanity.

Praying it wouldn't affect her.

She had to trade vehicles after encountering a multi-car pile-up that she assumed had been done on purpose. A mangled woman, hanging out of her open car door, begged Julia to help her, and Julia spent a desperate two minutes trying to stop the bleeding before the woman finally went silent and still.

She kept driving.

There was no end to it.

She drove onto the highway, but oncoming cars kept swerving into her lane, so she abandoned that idea. She didn't know which direction might lead her out of this anyway. For all she knew, safety was in the opposite direction.

Julia pulled into a suburban neighborhood, with several bodies littering the street, and, after a failed attempt that forced her to flee from a woman wielding an axe (who the hell had axes in suburbia?) found an empty house where the owners were either out killing people or were dead themselves.

She put the baby in a different room so that she wouldn't wake up with it clawing at her, then went to sleep.

* * *

When she woke up, it was daylight.

Julia didn't feel any different.

If she was still unaffected, then so were others. She'd find them.

Maybe Warren was right about the tipping point.

They'd tip it back.

NAILS

"Ew. Clip those things."

"What are you talking about? I just cut them yesterday." Ricky glanced at his hand. His fingernails were about a quarter-inch long. Had he cut them yesterday afternoon?

Yes, he'd done it while he was watching the otter video on YouTube. He distinctly remembered that. Unless...he'd gotten out the clippers, sat down with the intention of clipping his fingernails, and then been so distracted by the amusing otter antics that he forgot.

Weird. He was pretty sure he'd clipped them, but nails didn't grow this much overnight, and he liked to believe that his life wasn't so boring that he could say with one hundred percent certainty when he clipped his fingernails.

"All right," he said, pulling aside the blanket and sliding his legs over the edge of the bed.

"I didn't mean to do it right now," said Maggie.

"I need to get ready for work anyway."

It was still strange having Maggie in his bed on a workday. She'd been sleeping over on weekends for the past four or five months, but it was only within the past couple of weeks that she'd been here on mornings that required setting an alarm. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not.

They both had office jobs, but hers started half an hour later, so she got to stay in bed while he got ready, and then she'd get up right before he left the apartment. Which was fine—it wasn't as if he thought she was going to steal his TV or something—but it still felt kind of invasive. Plus, it was one great big step closer to "So when are you going to put a ring on that finger?" He didn't want to put a ring on that finger. He liked Maggie a lot, and would never consider being unfaithful to her, but he had every intention of trading up at some point in the future.

Ricky clipped his nails, shaved, showered, and got dressed in his slacks, long-sleeved shirt, and tie. None of those were required by the dress code. Employees were allowed to wear jeans (unripped) and short-sleeved shirts (without logos), and ties weren't required except when bigwigs from New York City were visiting the office, but Ricky always wore business attire. If you were a professional you should dress like one.

He gave Maggie a kiss and left the apartment.

* * *

As long as it arrives first thing in the morning, Tuesday is not a problem, Ricky typed in the e-mail. If it is not here by eight, though, we will have to—

Ricky's fingernails were making an annoying clicking sound on the keyboard as he typed. He held up his hand and inspected them.

They weren't as long as they had been when he woke up this morning, but they were close. That was insane. Nails didn't grow that fast. He was freaking positive that he'd clipped them after Maggie's comment. He'd even spent a couple of minutes trying to find a nail that hadn't landed in the trash, just so Maggie wouldn't see it on his bathroom floor.

He would never, ever become the kind of person who would cut his fingernails in the office, so he didn't keep a clipper in his desk drawer. What was the deal? Had he changed his diet in some way that affected his fingernail growth rate? Ricky had never heard of this sort of thing happening, although to be fair, it was not a subject he'd ever really researched.

He typed rapid growing fingernails into his Internet browser and skimmed a few of the search results. It could be that he was somehow healthier now. That would be nice, although he wasn't sure why he'd be suddenly healthier now. He was pretty much eating and exercising the same, and his stress level was actually a bit higher now that Maggie was getting closer.

Or it could be hyperthyroidism. That wasn't so cool.

"Whatcha doin'?" asked Gary, startling Ricky so badly that he nearly knocked over the cup of coffee that was three feet away from his keyboard. Gary was a short, tubby guy who waddled rather than walked, yet he possessed a ninja-like ability to suddenly materialize in those very rare occasions when Ricky used his work computer for something non-work-related.

"Nothing," said Ricky, which was the same answer he'd given to the same question asked by Maggie recently when she'd walked in on him looking at pornography.

"You don't want to mess with hyperthyroidism," said Gary. "Better get yourself checked out."

"I will."

After his usual lunch of a salad and bottled water, Ricky returned to his cubicle and began to type, stopping after a few keystrokes.

His nails were definitely longer. How the hell did somebody's nails get noticeably longer in two hours? That's not how fingernails worked! It was freakish and unnatural!

Ricky considered biting his nails to get them back down to a length where he could type without inconvenience, but decided against it. Chewing your nails was nasty.

By the time he shut down his computer, his nails were half an inch long. That was utterly bizarre. No way could this be explained by a vitamin surplus.

He clipped his nails as soon as he got home. 5:13 PM. He'd keep track of how quickly they grew.

Maggie arrived at 5:48 PM. No phone call or even a text message; she just assumed that it would be fine to stop at his place after work instead of her own. At some point they were going to have to discuss this. Not tonight, though, because she was wearing the green blouse that showed off the maximum allowable amount of cleavage without being unprofessional.

She cooked him dinner (nice), had sex with him on the couch (very nice), and then they watched one of those stupid competition cooking shows to which she was addicted (not so nice, but worth it for the dinner and sex).

"Look at this," he said, holding up his index finger during a commercial.

"Ew," Maggie said. "I thought you were going to clip those."

"I did."

"No, you didn't."

"I did! Seriously!"

"Nobody's fingernails grow that fast," Maggie informed him.

"Mine did. It's weird as hell."

"Maybe you just imagined clipping them."

"I think I can remember when I cut my own nails."

"Really? Is it an activity that weighs heavily on your mind?"

"Do you want me to prove it to you?" Ricky asked. "Do you want me to go get the clippings?"

"I don't. I really, truly don't."

Ricky got up off the couch. "I'll be right back."

"Seriously. I believe you. I don't want to see them."

Ricky hurried into the bathroom. He knew that digging his own fingernail clippings out of the wastebasket in the bathroom was the kind of thing that would negatively impact his chances of having another round of sex tonight, but he needed to prove that he wasn't some kind of hygiene-ignoring slob.

He sifted through the contents for a couple of minutes, hoping his hands wouldn't come into contact with anything too horrific, and managed to find four of the ten clippings, which was enough to prove his story. He walked back into the living room, holding them in his cupped palm.

"See?"

"C'mon, Ricky, that's gross."

"But do you see them?"

"We're not supposed to be at this point in our relationship yet."

"But you believe me, right?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe you. Jeez. Be careful—you're gonna drop them on the couch."

"It's my couch. If I want to cover it with fingernails and water them every morning, that's my right."

Maggie sniffed a few times.

"What are you sniffing for?"

"Pot."

"I'm not on pot. All I'm trying to do is prove that my fingernails are growing at an accelerated rate, and as my girlfriend, you should believe me without me having to hold a handful of clippings up in front of you."

"How do I even know those were from yesterday?"

"Fine!" said Ricky. He wanted to angrily fling the fingernails to the floor to demonstrate the power of his conviction, but, no, then he'd have to awkwardly drag out the vacuum cleaner. "You're going to watch me clip them, then you'll see how they look in the morning."

"I don't want to watch you clip them."

"Too bad."

Maggie sighed. "You haven't had an interest in any kind of fetishes since we've been together, and this is the one you pick?"

"I need you to believe me."

"I think you're attaching way more importance to your fingernails than they deserve."

"I'm going to get the clippers. Don't move."

"No. I am not going to watch you clip your nails. I'll gag. If this is so important to you, show me what they look like when you're done, and we'll compare them in the morning."

Ricky nodded. Yes, that was a much better idea than making her sit there and watch him. He wished he'd thought of that before he'd proposed the grosser plan.

He went into the bathroom and clipped his nails. His toenails didn't seem to be affected by the growth spurt, but he cut those, too. Then he returned to the living room.

"See them?" he asked, holding up the handful.

"Seriously, Ricky, that's the kind of thing you need to not do. For real."

"But you see them, right?"

"Yes! I see that you have, indeed, clipped your fingernails. Do you want a pat on the head and a cookie?"

"No. I mean, I do want a cookie, but not for this."

"Throw them away, please."

"All right. I'll throw them away, but I won't take out the garbage yet."

Ricky threw away the clippings and then washed his hands with the good soap. Had he acted deranged? He hoped not. If Maggie had said something like, "Wow, you're right, that is pretty odd; maybe you should see a doctor," everything would've been fine. But he couldn't have her doubting his honor. He wouldn't make up something like this. He wasn't some loser, desperately seeking attention. He had something strange going on with his body, and if she expected him to put a ring on that finger—he knew that was never going to happen but she didn't--she needed to not call him a liar.

Okay, to be fair, she hadn't called him a liar. He was overreacting.

Anyway, tomorrow morning she'd have to believe him.

* * *

To Ricky's great surprise, there was a second round of sex after they went to bed. Nothing too exciting; just a few minutes of medium tempo missionary, without her encouraging him to go faster or deeper, but still, it was much better than the nothing that he expected.

He woke up before the alarm. 3:13 AM. Crap. He had to go to the bathroom. If he got up he'd have trouble falling back asleep, yet he probably couldn't fall back asleep while he had to pee. Catch-22.

He tried to hold his right hand up in front of his face, but couldn't move it.

What the hell?

It was too dark to see clearly, but his fingernails seemed to be...buried in the mattress? He tugged. Couldn't get them free. How deep in there were they?

He tugged on his left hand and couldn't move that one, either. It had gone through a pillow, which was just a fluffy feather pillow, so there was no reason it should be holding him in place so firmly, except that—

Was that blood on the pillow?

Was that lots of blood on the pillow?

Ricky tugged a few more times. Maggie's head wobbled with each tug but she didn't open her eyes or make any sound.

"Maggie...?"

He tugged some more. Her head continued to wobble.

"Maggie!"

Ricky tried to reach over to turn on the bedside lamp, but since he couldn't move either of his hands this attempt was unsuccessful. Until his eyes adjusted to the dark, he wasn't going to be able to confirm that his fingernails had gone through Maggie's head.

He felt that he was remaining remarkably calm under the circumstances, although at least ninety percent of that calmness came from his belief that this was a dream. Just a strange dream. Think about your fingernails before you go to sleep and you'll dream about them growing through her head during the night—that's the way it works.

It had to be a dream. Otherwise he'd be screaming and sobbing and stuff.

He pulled on his right hand as hard as he could. Slowly, very slowly, his fingernails started to withdraw from the mattress. Three inches. Four. Five. Six freakin' inches? Seven? Eight? Had they gone all the way through the mattress?

Ricky twisted his hand, trying to snap them off. The only one that came off was his pinky nail, which tore off at the source.

The pain was significant.

Though he didn't shriek, exactly, he definitely did not respond in a quiet, dignified manner. Maggie didn't move. She'd always been a light sleeper, so the fact that she didn't react to his cries of pain did not bode well for her head being in pristine condition.

"Maggie, please, wake up," he said. "Don't be dead. Please don't be dead."

He tugged again. Her head wobbled again in a very corpse-like manner.

How had she slept through this? What kind of person would let fingernails grow through their head without waking up? How fast were these things growing?

His pinky fingernail had already grown to the length of a normal fingernail, so the answer was, pretty goddamn fast.

"Help!" he shouted. "Somebody help me! Call the police! I'm trapped!" He didn't think that providing complete information ("I'm trapped by my insanely fast-growing fingernails!") was a wise idea and settled for being vague. "I'm trapped!"

He forced himself to take a deep breath. He'd be fine. Maggie wouldn't, probably, but he'd be okay. Somebody would find him, they'd cut his nails, and the hospital would give him some kind of medicine to stop their growth. Maybe they saw this kind of thing all the time. No doubt there were countless medical marvels about which Ricky had never known.

He'd be fine. He'd be totally fine.

Now his eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to clearly see that the nail of his middle finger had gone through the side of Maggie's pillow, then up through the top, and into her ear. He sat up and saw that it had emerged from the other side; not quite from her ear, but just below it.

She was dead. The girl he hadn't wanted to marry but whose company he'd enjoyed a great deal was dead.

If only she'd believed him. If only she'd said, "Holy shit! Nails aren't supposed to do that! Let's get you to the emergency room right away!"

He called for help again.

Had his habit of playing really loud horror movies and being rude when his neighbors knocked on the door and asked him to please turn down the volume come back to haunt him?

He looked at his pinky finger. He could actually see the nail growing. It didn't hurt, but it was certainly a disturbing sight.

He pulled again as hard as he could on the hand imbedded in the mattress. Now the nails weren't budging at all, and he wondered if they'd curled on the ends.

Oh, why didn't he keep a pair of fingernail clippers next to the bed? Or a pair of scissors? Or shears? Or a knife? Or, hell, even a gun. If he had a six-shooter, he could blow off the remaining four fingernails and still have two bullets to spare.

Ricky could wait for help, or he could twist.

He decided to twist.

He squeezed his eyes closed, and turned his hand. The pain was unbelievable, but he forced himself to push through it. They were just fingernails. They'd break.

Swiveling his wrist as far as it would go didn't do the trick. The nails twisted but didn't snap.

He bent his fingers, whimpering in agony. He'd managed to go his entire life without suffering any ghastly accidents or undergoing any horrific medical procedures, so he didn't necessarily have an accurate point of reference, but this had to be an above-average amount of pain for somebody to go through.

The nail on his index finger snapped.

The nail on his middle finger did not snap. Like the pinky, it tore off entirely, taking a patch of flesh with it. Two thin trails of blood ran down his finger. Ricky hadn't cried over Maggie's death a few moments ago, but he cried now.

Two more. Only two more moments of excruciating pain and his hand would be free. He couldn't quit now. Now that he knew what to expect, the next two wouldn't be nearly as bad.

The nail on his ring finger tore mostly off, taking some skin and leaving behind a small piece of nail. See? It was hellish pain, but not as hellish as the middle finger had been.

Only his thumb remained. He gave it a violent tug.

Snap.

The snap was his bone, not his thumbnail.

Ricky let out a bellow that echoed throughout the room. Or maybe he was just hearing an echo because his sanity was slipping away. Either way, it was a very loud bellow.

Four fingers free. One broken thumb still stuck. The process of tugging was probably going to hurt a lot more now.

It did. In fact, it hurt so badly that he blacked out.

* * *

When he woke up, his nails had not grown back through the mattress, which would have been frustrating but also admittedly kind of amusing. Two of them had, however, grown right through one cheek and out the other, protruding out about six inches. The lower of the two fingernails had also gone through his tongue.

Ricky hadn't choked to death on his own blood, so that was something, anyway.

He sat up and leaned forward, draining some of the blood he hadn't choked on. The nail on his broken thumb was still stuck in the mattress, so he'd have to move his head instead of his hand. Very, very, very slowly, neurosurgeon slowly, he leaned to the side, sliding his fingernails out of his cheek and tongue. He tried to will his fingers to stop trembling, but they didn't really cooperate.

Finally, the nails slid free. Ricky resumed his efforts to call for help, but his cries came out as a bloody gargle. Nobody would hear him.

Okay, so, he was going to have to give the thumb another try. Force himself to stay conscious this time. Otherwise, he was dead.

He took a deep breath, braced himself for the pain, and tugged.

Ricky had prepared himself for the pain of a thousand red-hot pokers jamming into a thousand tight orifices, and so when the pain wasn't quite at that level, it was a relief. He let out a blood-spraying incoherent wail as he acknowledged that even a broken thumb wasn't supposed to bend like that, but the nail did tear off.

One hand was free.

He could, presumably, just pull Maggie's corpse off the bed and let it drag behind him as he went for a phone, but that seemed disrespectful. So he tugged on the other hand. All that did was pull Maggie's dead body closer to him. He rolled her onto her side, bent his knees, placed both feet against her back, and pulled.

Her neck bent backwards until it snapped, which was probably more disrespectful than if he'd dragged her into the living room.

He kept pulling and pulling, groaning with the effort, until finally, all at once, his middle fingernail popped free.

Free!

He spat out some blood and then got out of bed. He staggered into the living room, leaking all over his carpet. It took him a few moments to find where he'd left his phone, but he finally located it on the kitchen counter and quickly punched in 911.

Thank God. Thank God. He'd be fine. They'd send over an ambulance, get his wounds stitched up, give him some medicine to stop this freakish growth, and everything would be perfectly okay. The worst of it was over. Thank God.

Ricky held the phone up to his ear.

That turned out to be a very bad idea.

STUMPS

I didn't acquire eternal life without knowing the possible consequences. Living forever isn't the same as being invulnerable, and I knew that I could be mangled, burned, dismembered, or worse, and stay that way for a very, very long time.

It's all about risk assessment. How many people do you know who've actually received horrific burns or lost a limb? If you go into a nursing home, you'll see a lot of people in poor health, but most of them still have their arms and legs. Even if their eyes don't work very well, they're still safely in the sockets. The vast majority of the human race lives out their lifespan without any substantial mangling.

I certainly wasn't planning to become some sort of superhero, righting wrongs and constantly putting myself in harm's way. Thus, I figured that yes, the "eternal hell on earth" possibility definitely existed, but my body would continue to heal like a normal forty-year-old, so as long as I was extremely careful, the risk would be worth it.

Besides, who knew what kind of technological advancements there'd be even ten short years in the future? I could lose a limb and become an awesome-looking cyborg with superhuman strength!

Honestly, the much more challenging part of the decision involved the spell itself. This wasn't some sort of goofy vampire thing where you got bit and turned into one of the undead. This was black magic.

This required a sacrifice.

Yes, a virgin sacrifice. Three of them.

I know that it's a joke: "Haw, haw, good luck finding even one virgin, much less three, in the twenty-first century!" But it really is a legitimate source of concern. Because that particular piece of black magic, performed on a non-virgin, wouldn't just fizzle. It would backfire in a big bad way. The practitioner described the fallout to me in grisly detail, making it very clear that when she asked me to bring her three virgins, she damn well meant three virgins.

There was absolutely no room for error.

This meant collecting victims who were young.

Real young.

I don't for one second expect you to sympathize with me. If you think I'm a reprehensible, despicable monster, I'm not going to try to convince you otherwise.

I will, in my own defense, address the question of "Did you really think that it was okay to kill three people so that you can live longer?" And I say, with total honesty, yes. Yes, I did believe that me having eternal life was worth the loss to others. How many thousands, millions of people could I benefit with my gift? I could change the world!

I'm not saying that I didn't feel horrible. I'm just saying that the trade-off was worth it.

And, yes, when the moment arrived, I did say, "I can't do this," dropped the knife, and ran out of the room to vomit. Then I sat on the floor and sobbed for a few minutes.

But I came back.

When it was done, I felt...well, like I wanted to die. Kind of ironic, huh? But I'd been warned that I'd feel that way. Your brain doesn't just bounce back from doing something so unspeakable. It didn't matter; I had a long time to recover.

Or, I would have, if I hadn't been caught.

I wasn't stupid about it. In addition to the hefty fee I'd paid the practitioner, I'd saved enough money to go into hiding for a decade, if necessary. I had a plane ticket to Ireland, and a bus ticket from the airport that would take me to a quaint little village. I could catch up on my reading, learn some foreign languages, and pursue the extreme intellectual growth that would make me such a valuable member of society.

But I didn't make it to the airport.

Didn't even make it out of the building. At least, not while I was conscious.

I don't know where I screwed up. Hell, I don't even know which one of the three was their daughter. They weren't like James Bond villains who gave lengthy explanations while I tried to figure out a way to escape from their basement. They simply asked, "Where is Marie?" and used lit matches to encourage my willingness to respond to their question.

They didn't like the answer.

I tried to avoid giving the full reason for the death of their daughter, but I didn't hold out very long. Before I blurted out my motive, I insisted that their tactics made them as bad as me. Of course, I didn't believe that crap, and neither did they.

I told them the whole story about how it was part of a black magic ritual, and how I now had eternal life. I didn't expect them to say, "Oh, well, in that case, our sacrifice is justified!" and they didn't seem to feel that way. They simply thought that I was criminally insane.

And then they told me that they were going to call the police, and that if I was going to live forever, I could do it in a prison cell. This horrified me on a level that I can barely even describe...though, of course, they were bluffing. They had no intention of involving the authorities.

They decided to let me prove that I was telling the truth.

As I've said, immortality is not the same as invulnerability. Everything that happens to your body hurts just as much as it normally would. Your fingernails are every bit as sensitive as those of a non-immortal person.

She babysat me while he went out shopping.

I think he maxed out their credit card at the hardware store.

Again, I'm the villain here. I know that. I'm not trying to suggest otherwise. That said, their inventiveness, patience, and willingness to immerse themselves in the grotesque was clear evidence of deviant minds.

If they'd gone berserk and started stabbing me in the chest, I'd say that yes, they were grieving parents who were trying to disprove my story. But people who methodically saw off somebody's fingers, one at a time, cackling with laughter (crazed laughter, yes, but laughter nevertheless) had those impulses inside them long before they actually did anything about it.

Toes followed fingers.

One of the things that kept running through my mind was I don't want to die! I don't want to die! I had no way of knowing that the black magic had worked. The whole "triple virgin murder" element made it doubtful that the practitioner was a flat-out con man, but that didn't mean his spell had actually been successful.

I bled and bled.

Another thing about immortality: just because you don't die from blood loss doesn't mean you stay conscious. I finally passed out.

When I woke up, I was still in their basement. There was a lot more blood on the floor. Probably not all of my blood, but most of it. They looked kind of weirded out, as you would expect when people realize that the guy who said he was immortal had bled way too much to survive without supernatural assistance.

It would have been nice if they decided that somebody with the gift of eternal life should be set free.

They did not decide this.

Instead, they began to remove my appendages. They did not simply cut off my right arm. Nor did they even sever it at the joint. No, they treated my arm like it was a loaf of bread.

It took a lot of time, a lot of effort, and three different saws. Like I said, they had to already have been disturbed individuals, right?

My left arm was not as precise of a process. They simply took turns whacking at it with the claw end of a hammer. They weren't able to get it entirely off that way, of course, but most of it was gone before they reverted back to a saw.

Do you want to hear something truly messed up? They slept in shifts. I swear to you, they slept in shifts so that one of them could continue mutilating me while the other one rested.

They didn't get greedy or impatient. They didn't go for the torso until all four of my limbs were completely gone. I'd long since stopped bleeding. If somebody had described this scenario to me, I would have assumed that at some point you'd get used to the pain, but that's not the case. Every cut hurt as much as the previous one, though perhaps that's the product of them being knowledgeable enough to vary them.

Then they set me on fire.

I don't know why that crossed their moral boundaries, but it did. She began to cry, then he began to cry, then they just sat there crying and holding each other while I thrashed and burned.

They didn't extinguish me. They just let me burn on the cement floor until the fire went out by itself.

They wiped their tears away. Then they buried me alive, right in their backyard.

I spent nine years underground. Nine years. I didn't die of hunger, though I felt constantly on the verge of starvation. I didn't perish of thirst, though I was always dehydrated. I didn't suffocate, though I spent every waking moment gasping for breath.

And I didn't go insane.

I have no idea why I didn't. Must have been some sort of weird byproduct of the black magic. I remained eternally sane. Eternally aware.

One day, some ten-year-old kids dug me up. My body had not rotted, so their first reaction was to freak the hell out. I pretended I was dead (which was not difficult, since I didn't have much skin left) so as not to freak them out even more.

Once they got over their initial trepidation, they pulled me out of my grave and took me into their clubhouse. I guess the old owners of the house had moved out. I wouldn't have thought that they'd leave a living torso buried in their yard, but, again, I'm pretty sure they weren't right in the head.

I became the club mascot, Stumps.

They put silly hats on me, threw darts at me, and basically treated me like I was less than human. I put up with this for a couple of weeks, since it was so much better than being buried alive, but finally, when one kid was alone in the clubhouse, I said "Help me."

He shrieked, picked up a baseball bat, and bashed away at me until the lower half of my skull was obliterated. I would not be doing any more speaking.

The next day, when his friends confronted him about my appearance, he denied everything. I guess he didn't want them to think he was hearing voices from Stumps.

After a few more days, the kids got worried that they might get in trouble for having an unreported dismembered corpse in their clubhouse. As they carried me out, I began to move as much as I could. They dropped me and ran away screaming.

Later, they buried me again.

I assume they made some sort of pact.

They may have decided it was all in their imagination, or I may have haunted their memories for the rest of their lives. I'll never know, because when I was discovered again I'm sure they were all long dead.

The future. Still no flying cars (seriously?) but you do have this awesome machine that's letting you transcribe my thoughts.

I could have lied and said that I was...I don't know, Jesus or somebody, but I want my true story to be told.

Though I see from the disapproving way you're looking at me that perhaps telling the truth was a bad judgment call.

A laser? Really? Come on, you've got this miracle creature in your lab and you're going to disintegrate it?

All right, fine. Bring it on. Let's see what happens.

JOHN HENRY, THE STEEL-DRIVIN' MAN

It happened in West Virginia, or maybe Alabama, around 1869, or maybe a decade later. This ain't a story about facts.

They say that no man alive could drive in steel like John Henry, and I believe 'em. With a hammer in his hand, he'd pound those spikes into the rock like you or I might stick a toothpick into freshly baked angel food cake.

Oh, he'd had muscles to spare when he was a slave, but he'd gotten even stronger after he was freed. He wasn't building the railroad all by himself--that would be crazy--but he was doing more work than any other steel-drivin' man, that's for damn sure. And believe me, the steel-drivin' men were not lazy people.

Too bad they all were gonna lose their jobs.

That's because some enterprising fool had invented a steam-powered hammer. How could a human being compete with such a machine? These poor workers and their families were gonna starve to death, all on account of "progress."

Well, John Henry, he put forth a challenge: he would race that mechanical hammer, and prove that a man could beat a godless contraption. And if he won, the workers would keep their jobs.

The race began, and oh, how the other workers cheered him on! Not to mention his wife Polly Ann, who not only cheered louder than the steel-drivin' men but looked better doing it. John Henry's hammer, it came crashing down over and over, sparks a-flying, drivin' those steel spikes with the power of a god. Now, John Henry was a God-fearing man and would not have made that particular comparison himself, but to the outsiders watching the whole spectacle, it seemed appropriate.

Thing is, that steam-powered hammer was doing a mighty good job. I suspect that when John Henry put forth that challenge he'd secretly hoped that the machine would break down after six or seven spikes and he'd win by default, but nope, it was pounding in those spikes at a rapid pace. Despite his muscles and his passion, John Henry was falling behind!

"Keep driving in that steel!" the workers shouted. "We believe in you! Don't let us lose our jobs!"

By now, John Henry had worked up a sweat of such quantity that more perspiration emerged from his pores than a normal man had of all bodily liquids combined. Oh, he was feeling the ache all the way down to his bones. His vision was starting to get kind of blurry at the edges, and that damn steam-powered hammer was generating so much dust that his lungs burned with every breath.

But if you think John Henry gave up...well, you don't know John Henry.

He doubled his efforts. That's right, when any other man would have quit, John Henry hammered in those spikes even faster than before! I wish I'd been there to gape in amazement. He hammered and hammered, and though you might think that a couple of those spikes were crooked or not quite in all the way, you would be wrong. Every one of those spikes would have passed the railroad owner's inspection. John Henry was not a man to do slipshod work.

And then he caught up to that steam-powered hammer.

And then he passed it.

That's right, he passed it. Technological advancement was completely pointless when John Henry's hammer was at work. He was suffering, suffering bad, as if his arms might rip right off his torso at any moment, but John Henry was going to beat that infernal machine!

Yet with only three more spikes left to hammer, John Henry thought that he was going to die.

"Don't die!" shouted the other workers. "You've only got three spikes left!"

John Henry was so exhausted, and he'd sucked in so much dust, that for a moment he wasn't sure that the voices of his co-workers were going to inspire him enough to finish the task. But then he heard the voice of his beloved Polly Ann, making the same general point that the workers had made, and he knew that he could pound in those last three spikes.

Slam! Two spikes left.

Slam! One spike left.

John Henry, he raised his mighty hammer, and he let out the loudest grunt any human being had ever grunted up to that point in history, and he swung that hammer down and drove in that last piece of steel.

He'd won the challenge! He'd beat the machine! The workers were going to keep their jobs!

And then John Henry, with every ounce of energy in his body used up, dropped his hammer, fell on the ground, and died.

* * *

"John Henry, wake up!"

John Henry opened his eyes. "Huh?"

It was Polly Ann, crouching over him. Her beautiful brown eyes were filled with concern. "We think you may have been dead, but we resuscitated you!"

"I saw a bright light," said John Henry. "I was floating toward it, and some angels were beckoning, and then suddenly I was right back here. I think you did bring me back to life. Thank you, Polly Ann."

Charles, who was a steel-drivin' man just like John Henry but not as efficient, patted him on the shoulder. "We're glad you ain't dead, John Henry. Because we need you."

"Why?"

Charles pointed. "They've done invented an even bigger and faster steam-powered drill! They say it can do the work of twenty men! We're all gonna lose our jobs if you can't beat it!"

"I'm very tired," said John Henry.

Charles and Polly Ann took him by the hands and pulled him to his feet. "You're our only hope!" said Charles. "You've proven that a man can beat a machine once! Now we just need you to prove it one more time!"

"We can do this tomorrow, right?"

"No! The challenge is now! You've got to win, John Henry, or we're all going to lose our jobs worse than before!"

"That doesn't even make sense."

It took three men plus Polly Ann to lift the hammer, but they put it back in his hand. John Henry looked out at the faces of the workers and knew that he couldn't let them down.

Like I said, I wasn't there. But if I had been there, do you know what I would have seen in John Henry's eyes? Resolve. Resolve not to let down the other workers. Sure, he'd exhausted himself to the point where a medical professional would have declared him legally dead, but that was at a time when they didn't necessarily have the proper equipment to make such a declaration with complete accuracy. People used to get buried alive all the time.

An ugly thing, being buried alive. You may think there are worse ways to go, like when they chain each of your appendages to four different horses and then send those horses on their way in four different directions, but that's got nothing on the horror of waking up alone in a coffin, six feet under the cold ground.

But you know what? If that happened to John Henry, he would've busted his way right out of that grave, dusted himself off, and gotten right back to work. That's the kind of man he was.

Anyway, John Henry didn't get buried alive. He got to his feet, and he stared at that steam-powered hammer, which was all shiny and new, and he could feel the strength flowing back into his arms. He pointed at the hammer and said, "I'm sending you back to the scrap heap."

Well, everybody applauded and cheered, except for the driver of the steam-powered hammer, of course. He frowned a little.

And John Henry, he drove in those spikes like a man possessed. He'd been half-dead, and yet he worked like he'd spent the past week relaxing on the beach in a hammock, sipping drinks out of a hollowed-out pineapple. How many people do you know who could do that? I think you'll understand that I mean no disrespect when I say that, in similar circumstances, you probably would have just let those men lose their jobs. I know I would have. "Nope," I would have said. "Just let me die all the way in peace."

They weren't lying when they said that this steam-powered hammer was faster than the old one. Hell, that thing was twice as fast. It was so fast that a few of the workers admitted that though they didn't want to lose their jobs, they could see that the machine was indeed more efficient than human labor, with the added benefit that nobody had to suck dust into their lungs, and, yeah, they were still hoping that John Henry won the race, but they could understand the perspective of those in charge.

John Henry worked twice as fast as before, without sacrificing quality. Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! Slam! Inanimate objects or not, you almost had to feel sorry for those steel spikes.

The driver of the steam-powered hammer started to get kind of nervous. He was going to look like a real jackass if he lost to a half-dead man, and the financial implications of losing this challenge were dire. Railroad owners would cancel contracts all across the nation, and he'd have to lay off thousands of workers in his factories.

"John Henry's pulling ahead!" shouted Charles. Actually, John Henry had pulled ahead a couple of minutes ago, but Charles had been too flabbergasted by that fact to speak until now.

A big ol' cloud of dust had formed, so thick that the spectators couldn't see what was going on. But when the dust cleared, do you know who'd won the race?

That's right, John Henry.

Did you know that some railroad workers would swing their hammer so hard and so often that their intestines would come out? Yep, their intestines! Can you imagine that? But not John Henry. His torso was strong enough to keep those intestines inside where they belonged.

But he fell to the ground, closed his eyes, and everything went dark.

* * *

"John Henry...?"

"Go to hell."

"John Henry, wake up. It's me, Charles."

"I'm pretty sure I just asked you to go to hell."

"John Henry? It's me, Polly Ann."

"You can remarry after I'm gone. It's okay. I give you my blessing. Be happy."

"John Henry, open your eyes!"

John Henry didn't want to, but after some more coaxing he finally opened his eyes. Charles and Polly Ann were crouched over him, looking concerned.

"Is everybody still employed?" he asked.

Charles and Polly Ann both nodded.

"Good. That's good."

"How are you feeling?" asked Polly Ann.

"Like somebody set my whole body on fire, and then took their sweet time in extinguishing me. I don't fear death. Death right now would be like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot summer day."

"Don't die," said Charles. "We need you."

"I can't help anyone."

"They say there's a man who can control the elements. A practitioner of the dark arts. By manipulating the earth, wind, water, and fire, he can drive in spikes faster than any steam-powered hammer! Maybe he doesn't use the water or fire. I'm not sure how it works, but unless you can beat him, we're all gonna lose our jobs!"

"My hammer's right there. Have fun."

"No, John Henry, you're the only one who can win the race!"

"If that's true, then maybe we need to accept the idea that progress isn't such a bad thing, even when there's collateral damage. You shouldn't continue to use outdated methods when a better option exists just to maintain the status quo."

"Come on, John Henry, you can't really believe that!"

"Do you want technological advancement to remain stagnant? This could be your chance to acquire some new skills."

"Please, John Henry! Don't let us down!"

John Henry looked into their eyes, and at that moment he knew that he had to accept this challenge. He had to show the world that supernatural abilities couldn't replace a man with a hammer.

The practitioner of the dark arts looked pretty much the way you'd expect a warlock to look. He wore a black cape, had a pointy mustache and pointy beard, and laughed a lot even when nobody told a joke.

John Henry lifted his hammer high above his head, and the challenge began.

John Henry was my father.

I kept trying to find a good place to insert that piece of information, but there really hasn't been one, so I apologize for just blurting it out like that. I assure you that you're getting an unbiased telling of the events, even though I'm his son.

Well, the warlock waved his arms, and cyclones appeared! Their winds were so strong that the other workers had to step back and shield their eyes, lest rock particles slam into their irises at a hundred and forty-five miles per hour. John Henry's eyeballs were more resilient and he kept his eyes wide open so he could see what he was doing.

With those cyclones, the warlock could lift spikes into the air and slam them down four or five at a time! He kept cackling with laughter the entire time. John Henry wanted to laugh right back at him, but he could hardly breathe.

Several of the workers shouted words of encouragement, trying to inform John Henry that they felt he was the superior competitor in this race, but their voices were lost in the swirling winds.

My guess is that a couple of the workers felt that it was worth sacrificing their wages to watch a warlock summon cyclones with his hands, but nobody ever admitted to it.

Some men, when faced with what seems to be an unwinnable challenge, drop into the fetal position and tremble. Well, John Henry trembled a bit, but he didn't drop into the fetal position even once. "I'm going to beat that warlock," he said, figuring that it didn't count as talking to himself if he couldn't hear his own voice, "and I'm going to save everybody's jobs. Then I'm going to take a nap."

He wondered if the cyclones would stop if he bashed in the warlock's face with the hammer. Then he decided that such a thing would not be true to the spirit of the challenge.

So John Henry, he began driving in that steel even faster than before! If you'd been there and been wearing protective eyewear, you would have gasped at that steel-drivin' man, I promise you that. I would never use language unbefitting a gentleman, but anybody standing there that day could be forgiven for taking the Lord's name in vain.

And when the cyclones dissipated, do you know who'd won the race?

Nope, it was John Henry!

The workers cheered and applauded even louder than before. "That John Henry, he's done it again!" they shouted.

The warlock, he was a sore loser, and he flung a lightning bolt at John Henry's head, intending to vaporize him. But John Henry, he held up his hammer at the last instant, and the lightning bolt bounced right off it, and that warlock became the one who got vaporized.

The workers stopped their cheering and applauding. Even if the victim is an evil warlock, you need to show respect after the loss of a human life.

Unfortunately for John Henry, you can't work that hard and just walk away whistling a merry tune. He got dizzy, collapsed, and then everything went dark.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was still dark.

And cold.

He lifted his hand. His fingers touched wood.

Dear God, they'd buried him alive.

Now, John Henry was braver than you or I, but don't let that fool you into thinking that he didn't let out a howl of primal anguish. Anybody else would have done the same, and there was no shame in it.

And then he cried.

I'll be honest—I wish he hadn't done that. It was a predicament to be sure, but that doesn't mean you need to go and blubber about it. Maybe I would have wept and maybe I wouldn't have; I just feel that, all things considered, a man should be a man when it comes to these matters.

Most men, upon waking up and discovering that they'd been buried alive, would claw at the underside of the coffin for a while, and then go back to sleep until their oxygen ran out. But not John Henry. They'd buried him with his beloved hammer. He picked up that hammer, and even though there wasn't much room to maneuver, he went and busted his way right out of that grave.

"John Henry!" Charles shouted. "Thank goodness you're out!"

Polly Ann gave him a great big hug and a kiss. "I love you so much, John Henry!"

"Why were you two standing around by my grave?"

"We were about ninety percent sure that you were dead," Charles explained. "It wasn't enough not to bury you, but it was enough that we felt we should keep watch for a while, just in case."

"I appreciate that."

"And now we need your help," said Charles. "They say there are dragons! With one tap of their enormous talons, they can drive in steel faster than any man alive! We're all gonna lose our jobs!"

"Why would you lose your jobs?" John Henry asked. "Surely they need workers to ride the dragons and make sure they don't fly off and kidnap maidens."

Charles shook his head. "They've got this new invention, this newfangled thing called hypnotherapy, and those dragons wouldn't touch a maiden even if she were rubbing up against their scaly tail!"

"There have to be other jobs out there."

"There aren't! We need you!"

"What about the poor dragons? Why should they be unemployed?"

"Please! Just one more race! That's all we ask!"

"My hands are covered with blisters," said John Henry, "and those blisters have even bigger blisters on the tips, and those blisters have even bigger blisters on the tips!"

"Exaggeration is not an admirable trait in a man," said Charles.

"You're right. I'll do it. I'll drive in that steel faster than that dragon!"

"Dragons. Plural. Four of 'em."

"Well...then...all of us workers will be racing as a team, right?"

Charles shook his head. "Nobody said it was a fair challenge."

Now, John Henry could have crawled right back down into that grave and nobody would have thought less of him. But that's not the kind of man he was. He stood up real tall, and he puffed out his chest, and he held his hammer up high and he vowed that he would beat those dragons, or die trying!

You may think you know how this story goes. "No man could beat a quartet of steel-drivin' dragons!" you're saying, "so clearly John Henry lost the challenge, and all of the workers lost their jobs, and everybody was sad."

Well, that's not how it happened.

He swung that hammer so fast that even the wings of a hummingbird had more visual clarity. And when the dust settled, it was a tie.

But you know what? One of those silly dragons had driven in a spike all crooked, so John Henry was declared the winner!

Hooray for John Henry!

Seriously, that was one hell of an impressive accomplishment. I don't care how jaded you are to superhuman feats of strength and endurance...that was impressive. It's difficult for my mind to even process what he did. He beat four dragons! Four! If he'd beat only one dragon, the world would be shouting "Oh my God! John Henry beat a dragon!" But he beat four of them! That just doesn't happen!

The dragons were taken away and put to death. All of the workers gave John Henry a great big pat on the back and told him what a fine job he'd done. He'd never shaken so many hands in his life.

He didn't even try to die this time. And before too long, sure enough, Charles hurried over to him, his eyes wide with panic.

"John Henry, we need you! They say they've got a man who can drive in steel faster than a steam-powered hammer, a more advanced steam-powered hammer, a warlock, and four dragons! We're all gonna lose our jobs!"

"Oh?"

Charles gave a frantic nod. "You have to beat him in a race! You're the only one who can..." He trailed off. "John Henry, you're gonna save our jobs!"

"Or you could let me die."

"Yeah, I think maybe we'll do that."

And so, John Henry shook Charles' hand, and then he gave Polly Ann a hug, and he went off to die in peace. They say that late at night, if you're real quiet and you listen real close, you can hear the sounds of his hammer. Though I guess that means he's stuck doing this shit in the afterlife for all eternity, so it's not such a happy ending.

FAIR TRADE

"If you're going to cheat on me," said Heather, "could you at least not post about it on Facebook?"

Nick just stood there in the open doorway. His palms immediately began to sweat, dampening the junk mail that was in his right hand. It had been a brutal day at the office, and he'd really been looking forward to a delicious home-cooked dinner and a couple hours of television, but that plan seemed to have changed.

He frowned, expressing confusion that was partially real and partially feigned. He certainly hadn't posted anything like "Thrusting away inside of Elizabeth," even though that's how he'd spent the previous evening. Maybe Heather was kidding.

After they stared at each other for a few more moments, Nick decided that Heather was not kidding.

"Are you going to come in?" Heather asked.

Nick walked into the living room. The mail had stuck to his hand, so he peeled it off and set it on the coffee table.

"How about closing the door?"

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Nick went back to the door and pulled it closed. He was sweating like crazy, which was going to make it difficult to sell the lies he was prepared to tell.

Heather folded her arms across her chest. He'd seen her looking mad on a great many occasions during their eight years of marriage, but suspicions of infidelity made her look much angrier than when he forgot to take out the garbage.

She didn't speak. Nick wasn't sure what to say, so he went with the obvious: "I don't know what you're talking about?"

"Don't you?"

"No."

"Last night, at 6:32 PM, your status update was 'Stuck in the office. Will this meeting never end? BO-ring.'"

"Right. I was in a really boring meeting."

"It says you posted it from Lakewood."

"Oh." Nick had never developed a headache so quickly. "I didn't know that Facebook says where you posted from."

"It does if you do it from your cell phone and you didn't turn that option off."

"Oh."

"Elizabeth is in Lakewood, isn't she?"

"Yes."

Damn. He'd thought his alibi was pretty clever, but instead it had doomed him. If he had a few minutes, Nick thought that he could probably come up with some sort of credible explanation for why he was updating Facebook from Lakewood, but he didn't have a few minutes, so it was best to just confess.

"Did you sleep with her?"

"No."

"Why did I find a receipt for Trojans in your pocket when I was doing the laundry today?"

Jesus. He was really bad at this.

"What I meant was, we didn't sleep." Okay, that sounded much worse. "I mean...yes, we, uh, had sex. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

"Why did you do it?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit. Is it because she's prettier than I am?"

Even at his stupidest, which was extremely stupid, Nick wasn't dumb enough to answer that question truthfully. "Of course not!"

"Then why?"

"I don't know!"

"You're going to lose everything in the divorce. You know that, right?"

"Can't we seek counseling or something? Why does this have to end in divorce? We should talk about this."

"I've been thinking about this all day, and I really don't see how I can forgive you. Unless we even things out."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

Nick couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying you want to sleep with somebody else?"

"That would make it fair, wouldn't it?"

"I guess."

"So do we have a deal?"

Nick shook his head. "I couldn't handle you being with another guy. I'm sorry, I know it's a double standard, but that's just the way it is."

"Who said anything about another guy? You got lucky with Elizabeth, so now it's my turn."

"Excuse me?"

"It's the only way I can forgive you."

"Are you talking about...a threesome?"

"No, I'm not talking about a threesome! What's the matter with you? How the hell would that make things even?"

"Sorry, sorry, this just isn't what I was expecting to hear." He had no idea that Heather had bisexual tendencies. If he'd known that, he never would have cheated on her.

"Do you think you could set it up?"

"I don't know. It's not anything we ever discussed."

"Well, if you don't want to lose your house, I recommend that you make it happen."

"Would I be watching?"

"Do you really believe that I'm trying to fulfill your pervo fantasies?"

"No."

"I need to know if we can repair this marriage or if I need to move on with my life. I'll go get ready."

* * *

They didn't speak much during the drive.

* * *

"Nick! What are you doing here?" Elizabeth seemed pleased but very surprised to see him at her front door. She looked past him and frowned. "Is that Heather in the car?"

"Yes. She doesn't usually wear that much makeup. Can I come in?"

"Um, sure. Should I be worried?"

"No, it's okay. We just need to talk." They went inside and Nick immediately plopped down on the couch. "Could I have a whiskey?"

"Yes, but first tell me if your wife has a gun."

"It's nothing like that." His mouth had gone completely dry. "A drink, please?"

Elizabeth went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a glass of whiskey. Nick thanked her and took a sip.

"So...?"

"Heather knows."

"Aw, shit."

"But it's okay."

Elizabeth looked like she wanted to throw up. "How is it okay?"

"I don't quite know how to explain this, so I'm just going to come out and say it: she wants to make love to you."

"She what?"

"She's proposing a fair trade. I had sex with you, so if she has sex with you, we're even."

"Are you kidding me?"

"I know, it's totally insane, but she won't divorce me if we do this. Are you up for it?"

"Did you seriously just ask me that?"

"It's the only way!"

"You think that I'm going to turn gay to save your marriage?"

"It's not gay, it's bi. And why not?"

"Because, one, I'm not a total slut, two, I don't swing that way, and three, your wife is clearly mentally ill."

"You've never experimented or anything? Not even in college?"

"No."

"I don't know exactly what she has planned. Maybe you'd only have to receive."

"Nick, I'm not doing anything with your psycho wife. Get out of my house."

"Please. You have to do this for me. I'm begging you."

"I said, get out."

Nick sobbed for a few minutes, but that didn't change Elizabeth's mind. He walked out of the house and returned to the car, sniffling.

"What'd she say?" Heather asked.

"No."

"Did you describe my lingerie?"

"She didn't care."

Heather sighed. "I guess you have to kill her, then."

"What?"

"If this marriage is going to last, I can't have the woman you cheated on me with still be alive. If you kill her, maybe we can work this out."

"Are you serious?"

"Quit asking me that. Everything I say from now on is serious. You can kill her, or you can call up your mother and tell her that I'm divorcing you because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants."

"I can't murder somebody!"

"Why not?"

"Why not? Because it's murder! You don't just go around murdering people!"

"Don't be a jerk. Nobody said anything about going around murdering people. I'm asking you to kill one person, the person you shattered your marital vows with. But if you think our marriage isn't worth saving..."

"I don't think I can do that."

"Then get out of the car. My car. At least, that's what the judge will say."

"How would I even do it?"

"However you want! She's petite. You could probably strangle her with one hand. One quick snap of her neck, and plop, one dead whore. Or I think we have a hammer in the trunk."

* * *

Elizabeth glared at Nick as she opened the door. "Look, Nick, I need you to stay the—"

Her head shot back with a spray of blood as he smashed the hammer into her face. As she stumbled backwards, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. He took another swing, and though she successfully blocked it, there was an unnerving crunch as the hammer struck her fingers.

She fell to the floor, gurgling blood. She was screaming less than Nick would have expected, but she was still making enough noise to alert the neighbors, so he had to make this quick. He smashed her with the hammer, over and over, not enjoying the experience but knowing it had to be done.

Elizabeth wasn't dying very quickly. It was probably because he couldn't quite bring himself to bash her with his full strength, even though that would be the merciful thing to do.

His right arm was getting tired, so he switched to the left.

Soon there was blood all over his clothes and he could barely recognize Elizabeth through the gore, but she was still alive. For God's sake, how many hits with a hammer did it take to kill somebody? This was embarrassing.

Now his left arm was tired. He dropped the hammer, went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a butcher knife.

He stabbed her in the stomach seven or eight times, practically disemboweling her, but she still drew breath. He knew he could end it if he simply jammed the blade directly into her throat, but deep inside he didn't really want to be stabbing the object of his lust to death.

He had to do this. She was a ruined, grotesque mess, and it was time to end this. He held the tip of the blade over her throat, whispered a prayer for forgiveness, then slammed it into her. A geyser of blood spurted into the air, more blood ran down each side of her mouth, and then she lay still.

Nick cried for a while, then he called Heather on her cell phone to let her know the deed was done. Less than thirty seconds later she opened the door and gazed upon the mutilated corpse that had been her competition.

"So do you promise not to get mad at what I'm going to say?" she asked.

Nick nodded.

"I've changed my mind. Let's have the threesome."

CHIGGERS

"All you get to do is kill him."

Mr. Simon nodded. "I understand."

"I'm very serious about this. This is not going to turn into some sadistic torture session. You will press this gun against his forehead," Neal said, sliding the pistol across the desk, "and you will pull the trigger. If you want to make a speech before you do it, be my guest, but keep it brief."

Mr. Simon picked up the gun. "I'm ready."

"If you back out, I will not finish the job for you. So if you think you might not be able to go through with it, I'd advise you not to walk into that room. We can still turn him over to the police, no problem."

"And no refund."

Neal smiled. "Correct."

Mr. Simon pushed back his chair and stood up. "I won't be backing out. I'm going to enjoy every minute of this."

"Okay, now, see, I'm getting a torture vibe from that. I don't care what he did to your daughter. This is a quick, painless kill. There's only one bullet in that gun, and if it goes anywhere but his brain, you and I are going to have a problem. Are we clear?"

"One hundred percent."

"All right, then. Avenge away."

Mr. Simon walked out through the open door of Neal's office. Neal took a sip of his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and sighed.

He knew exactly how this was going to play out. Mr. Simon would walk into the room, shut the door, lock it, and shoot nineteen-year-old Derrick Naylor in the gut. Screw the consequences. When Neal got in there and broke his nose, well, Mr. Simon would decide that it had been worth it for Derrick's extra couple minutes of agony.

Mr. Simon's daughter, Vivian, had been beaten, raped, and left for dead. She had yet to emerge from her coma. Odds were, she never would. So Neal could understand why her dad might want the guy who'd done this to his sweet, beautiful, thirteen-year-old daughter to suffer.

He deserved much worse than a quick gunshot to the head.

He deserved to die slowly, screaming for hours.

Whoever he was.

It sure as hell wasn't Derrick. Poor kid just happened to match the age, build, and hair color of somebody a witness claimed to have seen walking past the park where Vivian was abducted. The case against Derrick wouldn't hold up for thirty seconds with actual law enforcement, but the burden of proof was significantly less when dealing with a devastated father whose mind was poisoned with thoughts of revenge.

Neal had no criminal-tracking skills whatsoever, but he was pretty good at kidnapping, and excellent at using Photoshop to provide some damning evidence.

Eventually the real rapist might be brought to justice, but Neal would be long gone, and it wasn't as if Mr. Simon would rush to the cops to confess that he'd murdered an innocent kid.

The gun fired.

Neal stood up and walked out of his temporary office (they were all temporary) just as Mr. Simon emerged from the other room. He was in a daze and tears streamed down his face. He handed the gun back to Neal.

Neal glanced into the room. Derrick lay on his back on the plastic, still tied up, blood pooling under his skull, a nice little hole in the center of his forehead.

Okay, so he'd misjudged Mr. Simon. Good.

"You gonna be all right?" Neal asked.

Mr. Simon nodded. He was wearing an old gray T-shirt that he could throw away without his wife noticing that it was gone, though it didn't look like he'd gotten any blood on it.

"You go home, and you give your wife a great big hug, and you keep your mouth shut about what happened here. No tearful confessions, got it?"

"Got it."

"What you did was honorable. You made things right. That piece of human filth got exactly what he deserved."

Mr. Simon wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve. "I'm not feeling guilty about it."

"Perfect. Get out of here. I'll make him go away."

Mr. Simon just stood there for a moment, as if he wanted to talk some more, and then he walked down the short hallway, opened the door, and left the building. The door swung closed behind him, locking automatically.

Now Neal had to get moving. You never knew what kind of emotional state people were going to be in afterward. He'd once had a client call the police to confess during the drive home. Then the client had either lost control of his car or made an inept attempt to kill himself by crashing into a tree, followed by a successful suicide via dragging his wrists across the broken window glass. That had been a close one.

He didn't think Mr. Simon was a suicide risk, but when you had a corpse to dispose of, it was never a good idea to procrastinate.

Too bad he couldn't hire somebody to help with this part of the process. Dragging a body deep into the forest and burying it was a pain in the neck. Maybe I should get an intern, he thought with a smile. After all, this is educational stuff.

Somebody began pounding on the door. Mr. Simon?

"Let me in! Let me in!" Yeah, it was Mr. Simon. Neal had a sudden horrible vision of this building completely surrounded by the police. If that were the case, though, he'd like to believe that Mr. Simon wasn't so astoundingly stupid as to pound on the door to come back in.

He'd probably just been struck by the realization that he'd taken a human life and freaked out. That happened the last time, too. Neal was going to start adding a surcharge for psychological counseling.

The doorknob twisted a few times, and then Mr. Simon started kicking the door. "Please let me in, oh please God hurry please let me—!"

He stopped shouting and kicking.

Neal hurried over to the door and looked through the peephole. Mr. Simon wasn't there. Nor was there a blood-spattered serial killer holding an axe and Mr. Simon's severed head. There was nobody.

"You need to just calm down," said Neal, trying to speak in a soothing tone of voice while still being heard through the door.

No response.

"You still there?"

Nothing.

Neal didn't have much choice except to open the door and find out what had happened. He couldn't just leave a dead body there if Mr. Simon had died of a heart attack or something.

He opened the door, smacking into Mr. Simon's unmoving body. The man lay on his back, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, arms splayed out. His right arm was covered with...

What were those things?

Neal grabbed Mr. Simon by the ankles and dragged him back into the building. He closed the door and then crouched down beside him.

There were two dozen—maybe three?—bugs attached to his skin. Ticks? Each one of them was a six-legged monster about the size of his thumbnail. How had they all gotten on the guy so quickly? There weren't even any bushes around for him to have walked through; it was a regular paved parking lot.

Neal tried to flick one away. It twitched but didn't come off Mr. Simon's arm.

Mr. Simon was still breathing. Neal gently slapped his face a few times. "Hey, wake up! Wake up!"

No, wait. That was a mistake. Better to leave Mr. Simon unconscious and keep the noise level down.

Neal pinched one of the bugs between his thumb and index finger and pulled. There was some resistance as it tugged on Mr. Simon's flesh, and then it popped off his arm, leaving a small bloody hole behind. Neal squeezed his fingers together until the bug burst.

If he yanked each one of these off, there might be so much bleeding that he'd have to take Mr. Simon to the hospital. He could just dump him off in front of the emergency room, but that was still too risky. There'd be cameras. They were supposed to part ways immediately after the execution and never see each other again.

Neal needed to burn them off. He wished he hadn't quit smoking two hundred and sixteen days ago.

No, wait. He had a lighter in the trunk of his car. Not for cigarettes; it was part of his bug-out bag in case he needed to flee without notice. Bug-out bag. Heh.

He stood up and reached for the doorknob. Hesitated.

Don't be ridiculous. They aren't going to jump out at you.

Yet something had happened to Mr. Simon. He hadn't just reached into a big box of bugs.

Neal lowered his hand. Until he knew for sure what was going on, he'd stay inside.

He kneeled back down and examined Mr. Simon's arm. Were the bugs getting larger, engorged with blood? He couldn't quite tell, but they seemed to be pulsating a bit. Though Neal was far from squeamish—he'd watched people die some pretty horrific deaths—this was really creeping him out.

He plucked off and crushed another one of the bugs. Wiped the gook on Mr. Simon's jeans. Crushed a third. The wounds didn't seem to be very deep, so maybe there would be no need to actually stop the bleeding.

Mr. Simon opened his eyes.

Looked at his arm.

His silence ended.

"Quiet!" said Neal, even though he'd probably be reacting the same way if his arms were covered with blood-sucking bugs.

Mr. Simon began to frantically bat at his chest.

Neal pulled up his shirt. He'd assumed that the bugs were only on his exposed flesh, but no, there were more of them on his chest than his arms.

There were also some bloody holes.

Had the bugs come off, or...?

No. He watched one of them quickly disappear. They were burrowing.

Burning them off was no longer an option unless he went out and got a goddamned flamethrower. What the hell was he supposed to do? Pick hundreds of them off, one by one, and risk getting them on his own flesh?

Neal certainly wasn't calling 911. Not that an ambulance would arrive in time anyway.

The only plan that made any sense was to keep Mr. Simon as quiet as possible while he died. And if that meant bashing his head against the floor a few times until he lost consciousness, so be it. It would probably be an act of mercy.

As if realizing what he had in mind, Mr. Simon stopped screaming. Then his eyes widened as he looked at something behind Neal.

Neal quickly glanced over his shoulder. Nothing there.

Should he offer some meaningless reassurance?

"You're going to be fine," Neal said, as a trickle of blood ran from the corner of Mr. Simon's mouth.

"What are you?" Mr. Simon asked.

"Huh?"

"Please don't."

Neal realized that Mr. Simon wasn't talking to him. He was hallucinating. Maybe seeing God, or the other fellow.

"I had to!" said Mr. Simon.

His arms and chest were completely red now, and few of the bugs were visible anymore. Splotches of red began to appear on his pants.

"I...had to," he repeated, barely audible now.

Then he died.

Neal moved away from him. What the hell had just happened? Had he gone outside and rolled around in bug-filled dirt? Neal had never seen anything like this, and he'd seen some seriously deranged shit.

Now he had to dispose of two bodies, and be really freaking careful about—

"Hello."

The voice, low and reverberating, came from behind him. Neal spun around. This time there was something there.

For several moments, Neal couldn't quite process what he was seeing. It was the shape and size of a human, sort of, but a human made out of blood, like a clear glass blood-filled figurine without the actual glass.

Hundreds of bugs swirled around in the blood.

It didn't have a mouth, but Neal felt like it was smiling at him.

"Hello," it repeated. Still no mouth.

"Uhhhhhh..."

"Be polite."

"Hello?"

"That's better."

"What the hell are you?" asked Neal, even though he knew the answer was "some sort of fucked-up hallucination."

"Guilt."

Neal gaped at the blood-bug-thing for a moment. "What?"

"Guilt. Benjamin Simon was consumed by guilt for the terrible thing he did. Eaten alive. But he didn't suffer long. His agony was over in minutes, not days. And they didn't crawl on his face. Didn't devour his eyeballs. Didn't burrow into his tongue while he screamed. It would have been so much more awful for him if he'd committed more atrocities. Worse ones. If anger and anguish weren't an excuse."

Bugs began to fall out of the blood. Dozens. Then hundreds. Then thousands.

They didn't even crawl across the floor. They were just suddenly upon him.

"I hope your conscience is clear."

CRY

My tears spill onto the keyboard as I write this.

It's pretty much because I just finished rubbing freshly sliced habanero peppers into my eyes, which is something I do every once in a while. It all started when I was six, and I thought "I wonder what would happen if I did that?" So I tried it, and it sucked, and I didn't do it again right away. But after three or four weeks I succumbed to the temptation, and now it's a semi-regular thing.

You're judging me, aren't you?

As you read this, you're developing an air of superiority, simply because I rub burning pepper juice into my eyes and you probably don't. That's all right. You're entitled. I mean, if I watched somebody jab themself in the face with a fork, I'd say to myself, "I am more intelligent than that person."

Okay, that's a lie. I jab myself in the face with a fork almost as often as I do the habanero thing. Not hard enough that it goes in one cheek and out the other, but enough to make four red marks that leak. And then I put antiseptic on it, both to keep the wound free of infection and because of the interesting sensation that occurs.

Some might say that I have a problem. To them I say...well, I can't really argue their logic. I do have a problem. I don't stand there pouring alcohol on facial fork wounds and think that I'm being normal.

Oh, by the way, my name is Herbert Gomast and I am twenty-six years old. I guess I should have started with that instead of rushing right to the self-torture stuff. I have blond hair, blue eyes, a bit of a gut, a unibrow that you can't really tell is a unibrow because it's blond, and I live in Seattle.

I didn't cry when I was born. In fact, the doctors weren't completely sure that I was even alive when they pulled me out, because my mom had died a few minutes earlier.

My dad didn't blame me for the death of my mother. I appreciated that. Your home life is much better when your dad isn't constantly bellowing, "What kind of a monster child would kill his own mother?" Technically, it was my fault, but it's not like I did it on purpose. I wasn't an unborn infant hanging out in the womb going "This bitch is toast!"

I had a relatively normal childhood for a kid with no mom. My dad did think it was kind of weird that I never cried, and he mentioned it to my aunt. She said that when somebody is given the gift of a child that doesn't wake them up at all hours of the goddamn night with crying fits, they should accept this precious, precious gift and not cause The Lord to say "You want a crying kid? Oh, I'll give you a crying kid!"

When I turned six, my dad died. It was sad enough that he died at all, but he died on my birthday, and he died because he'd inhaled too much helium from my balloons (at my urging because his silly high-pitched voice made me laugh), and when he collapsed he fell on my birthday puppy.

But I didn't cry. I was sad, yeah, but I didn't cry.

At the funeral, I overheard some relatives talking about how weird it was that my dad was dead and I wasn't crying. My grandmother thought it was flat-out creepy. So I walked right up to the casket and I scrunched up my face and I tried to cry. It didn't work. I was more inclined to scream in terror over being so close to a dead body, though I didn't do that, either.

When they lowered the casket into the ground and everybody was blubbering, I tried to figure out what they were doing right, but I simply couldn't get my tear ducts to work that way. I faked it by rubbing my eyes and making sobbing sounds, just so my grandmother wouldn't think I was creepy.

I went to live with my aunt, who treated me well and had cable. She was an amateur chef who was constantly inventing new dishes, and one day she was cutting up some habanero peppers for an exciting new dish. The phone rang, and she told me not to touch anything while she went to answer it.

I walked over to the kitchen counter. I wasn't tall enough to see the orange peppers, but I was tall enough to reach up, grab the edge of the cutting board, and pull it down. Sliced habaneros went everywhere.

Had my aunt been irresponsible? I don't think so. The knife itself was well out of reach. Just imagine if I'd pulled down the cutting board and a great big knife dropped onto my head. It wouldn't have mattered if I could cry or not. She'd been meticulous with knife safety, and how could she know that I couldn't be trusted around peppers?

I picked one up off the floor, looked around to make sure my aunt didn't see me eating food off the floor, and popped it into my mouth. Then I immediately spat it out and reacted in a manner that would have made a pretty good YouTube video if that service had been around back then.

I don't quite remember how my six-year-old mind made the leap from "That tastes terrible!" to "I wonder what would happen if I rubbed that in my eyes?" But my mind did, and my hand carried out my mind's request to satisfy its curiosity.

Tears flowed.

My first thought was that my eyeballs were melting, so I quite naturally panicked and shrieked. Moments later, as my aunt held my face under the bathtub faucet, I realized that for the first time in my life I had cried.

It really wasn't all that great.

I wasn't able to explain to my aunt why I had done such a thing, and I think she just assumed that, like most six-year-old boys, I wasn't particularly smart. I didn't have any plans to repeat that experiment until the following month, when we were watching a really sad movie about two best friends who had two separate terminal illnesses. One of them finally died, and the other one couldn't go to her funeral because she couldn't get out of her hospital bed. In the last scene, the friend who was still alive stared at the hospital ceiling and whispered about how she wished she'd had leukemia instead of AIDS, because she would have died sooner to join her friend in Heaven.

My aunt cried and cried over this movie. I wanted to cry along with her and couldn't. I mean, I wasn't a sociopath; I recognized the sadness of this situation. I asked if I could get an orange, and my aunt said yes, so I went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and quietly took a habanero out of the plastic bag. I broke it in half, rubbed each half on my eyes, and though the hellish burn made me feel like I had a blowtorch pressed against each orb, I couldn't deny the results: fresh tears!

"What's wrong with you?" my aunt asked as I returned to the living room, without an orange.

"The movie sadded me," I said. (Remember, I was six.)

My aunt held me under the bathtub faucet again and warned me that I could go blind if I kept doing stuff like this. It bothered me that she'd been able to see through my scheme so easily. Did real tears not burn like acid when they came out?

I kept doing it. My aunt always scolded me and rinsed my eyes out. She never took me to therapy, which in retrospect makes sense because therapy is pricey, but when I look back at my childhood it does sort of disturb me that she didn't stop buying habanero peppers.

I didn't cry when I got knocked off the swing set at school, or when I slipped on ice, or when I was forced to eat a peeled M&M that had neither the taste nor texture of a peeled M&M, or when I accidentally walked into the girl's bathroom and Jimmy Zepp saw me and told everybody and all of the kids at school laughed at me and called me a girl.

The only thing that made me cry was the peppers. And then, when I was sixteen, the fork.

I'd come home, mowed the lawn, trimmed the bushes, and washed the car, so when my aunt placed that plate of spaghetti down on the table in front of me I was absolutely ravenous. I twirled some on my fork at lightning speed, and whisked the fork toward my mouth.

Before you roll your eyes, rest assured that I'm not trying to use my extreme hunger as an excuse for accidentally jabbing the fork into my cheek. I'm not trying to suggest that you would have done the same thing. Even without knowing you personally, it's reasonable to say that I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have. But I did, and as I sat there with a spaghetti-covered fork jutting out of my cheek, I cried.

My aunt, normally so kind, understanding, and politically correct, asked me if I was retarded.

I removed the fork, ate the bite of spaghetti, and then rushed to my bedroom to weep in privacy. Why had this happened? I'd felt worse pain than this, and I'd been more humiliated than this, so why did this elicit tears?

After the wound healed, I jabbed myself again. I cried.

After that wound healed, I jabbed myself again. Cried again.

The third time, I cried, but not as much, so I went back to the habanero trick. I discovered that by alternating the two methods, I got maximum tears, and I could cry on a regular basis and feel normal.

On my seventeenth birthday, when my grandmother came to visit, I overheard her say that it was kind of creepy that a boy my age was crying on a regular basis. Shit!

On my eighteenth birthday, my aunt died. She was on the way home with my cake when her brakes failed. The car she struck was being driven by a mother of six, who died instantly upon impact. Three of her children were disabled and required her full-time care, though that number would drop to two the next day when the child who'd been riding with her was finally moved from ICU to the morgue.

It was pretty sad. I did the fork thing and cried.

"He's not crying very much," I heard one of my cousins whisper to another one of my cousins. "I'm crying more than he is, and I didn't even like Aunt Betty." Shit!

I went into the bathroom, took out my pocketknife, and jabbed the blade under my fingernail. It hurt, but I didn't cry. I repeated the process with each finger on my left hand. I poked just enough to draw blood on my index finger, but by the time I got to my pinky I was sticking it in all the way to the quick. The pain was unbelievable, and I definitely made some unhappy noises, but there were no tears.

Why had the fork-through-the-face trick worked but not the knife-under-the-fingernails one?

Maybe it was the combination of pain and humiliation. Each time I jabbed myself with a fork, it reminded me that I was the kind of dumbass who had accidentally stabbed himself in the face with a dining utensil.

What could I do to raise the stakes?

Like most people, I had nightmares where I was in school wearing only my underwear. Being in my underwear in a funeral home would be less humiliating, so I'd have to go one step further and go for full nudity.

I stripped out of my clothes. This would definitely embarrass me. But though my penis wasn't gigantic, it was a pretty good size according to the articles I'd read, and that wouldn't do at all, so I turned on some cold water and splashed it over my groin until I'd shriveled to a suitably shameful length.

Hmmmm. Actually, it was still too large.

There was a good way to create intense pain and deal with the size issue.

No, no, no. That was taking matters too far.

I'd just stab it instead.

When I was finished, I walked out of the bathroom and over to my aunt's casket, and believe me, I'd never cried that much in my life.

For a few years after that incident, I lived a somewhat lonely existence. They didn't give me forks or habaneros in the mental hospital, so I didn't do much crying, but finally they let me out.

That's when I met Sarah.

Because Sarah needed to cut people to feel sexual excitement, she'd assumed that her love life would be less than robust. But I was all in favor of her quirky nature. Her previous boyfriend had been freakishly large, and I think Sarah would have told me that I didn't measure up even if I didn't ask her to, so I got both elements that I desired.

It's perfect. Sometimes I feel kind of lazy letting somebody else inflict all of the pain, but I make up for it by working a second job to support her addictions to heroin and adopting kittens.

And yes, I still rub raw sliced habaneros into my eyes on occasion, and in fact I can no longer see out of the left one, but I do that purely out of nostalgia.

Life is great. We cry together every day.

THE FIERCE STABBING AND SUBSEQUENT

POST-DEATH VENGEANCE OF SCOOTER BROWN

"So, Mr. Galen, how many times did you stab Mr. Brown?"

"I don't recall."

"Really? Surely you recall such a thing."

"It not like I was counting every single stab."

"Of course not, of course not, but I think you can at least give me a ballpark figure."

"I dunno. Twenty?"

"Try forty-three."

"Forty-three? Really?"

"Yes, Mr. Galen. You stabbed the victim forty-three times."

"Wow. That's a lot of times to stab a person."

"It certainly is. So would you mind explaining to me why you felt it was necessary to stab him that many times?"

"Well, I was trying to kill him."

"That much is obvious, Mr. Galen."

"I thought it was obvious, too, but you're the one who asked. I wouldn't have asked, myself. Seems like common sense."

"My question was not about whether you wished for Mr. Brown to live or die. My question was about quantity. If you stab a man once, twice, or perhaps even three times, then your motive may have been murder. But when you stab him forty-three times, one must surmise that there's a deeper issue."

"No, I just wanted to make sure he was dead."

"Where did your second stab occur, Mr. Galen?"

"Behind the bar."

"Do not try to turn this into a madcap comedy routine, Mr. Galen. You know perfectly well that I was asking about which part of his body received that particular stab wound."

"Oh. I forget."

"Do you, Mr. Galen? Do you?"

"His neck?"

"His throat. You plunged the knife directly into his throat."

"Ah, yeah, that's right. Got him right in the Adam's apple."

"Are you proud of that?"

"No, sir."

"So tell me, Mr. Galen, how many people do you think can survive having the eight-inch serrated blade of a hunting knife slam into their throat?"

"I'd think that somebody has, at some point. It's inevitable."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so. But do you agree that delivering another forty-one stabbings after that could be considered excessive?"

"They weren't all in his neck."

"No, they weren't."

"I know at least one got his finger. You aren't going to die from that."

"Of the forty-three stab wounds that were received by Mr. Scooter Brown, exactly two of them were on his fingers. What do you think about that?"

"He should have held up his hands more to defend himself."

"Are you taking this seriously, Mr. Galen?"

"Very much, sir."

"It doesn't sound like you are."

"I'm just saying that if somebody is stabbing you repeatedly with a hunting knife, that you should maybe put your hands up a bit more. That's all."

"Are you suggesting that Mr. Brown had suicidal tendencies?"

"No, not necessarily. All I'm saying is that if I were being stabbed, I'd make more of an effort to block the knife. That's all I'm saying."

"Is it possible, Mr. Galen, that once the blade entered his throat, that his mental faculties may have been compromised, making it difficult for him to determine the proper method of defending himself?"

"Yes, that's possible."

"Because I consider myself well above average in the art of self-defense, and yet if I am truly honest with myself, I have to admit that arterial spurting would create difficulty for me in making the best judgment calls."

"I already agreed that it was possible! You don't have to keep bitching about it!"

"Why are you being antagonistic, Mr. Galen?"

"I'm not."

"Do you mean to say that you used the b-word in a non-antagonistic manner?"

"I'm just trying to explain what happened, and you keep judging me!"

"Give me an example of where I judged you."

"You accused me of saying he was suicidal just because I said that I'd put up my hands more if I were being stabbed."

"You're right. I did. And for that I apologize."

"Thank you."

"Where were we before that?"

"I forget."

"I remember now. You stabbed him forty-three times, but, as we've discussed, even somebody with no formal training in medicine and/or anatomy would know that the second stab was going to be fatal to Mr. Brown. And yet you continued to stab him over and over and over. Why?"

"I guess I have a bit of a rage problem."

"A bit?"

"Yes, a bit."

"Come now, Mr. Galen, certainly we can both agree that such a high quantity of stab wounds counts as more than 'a bit' of a rage problem?"

"Why do you keep bringing that up? Aren't one stab wound and forty-three stab wounds the same amount of rage? Let it drop, for God's sake."

"No, I don't believe I will. Because you know where I'm headed with this, don't you?"

"Nope."

"I think you do."

"I really don't."

"How much time elapsed between the first stab and the final stab?"

"I don't remember."

"Interesting."

"I didn't look at the clock."

"How convenient."

"Do you always look at the clock before you start doing something and when you finish doing something? How long did it take you to shop for that pair of pants?"

"Stop trying to change the subject. My pants are irrelevant and you know it."

"I'm just saying."

"What are you just saying?"

"That you don't know the time of every single thing you do in every single day."

"Fair enough. I suppose I will accept your challenge, Mr. Galen. It took me approximately fifteen minutes to shop for this pair of pants, if you count the time spent in the fitting room and the time spent in the checkout line. During that time I believe I also purchased two or three shirts. So, fifteen minutes is my answer. What's yours?"

"I'm not sure."

"Really?"

"I guess it might have been about fifteen minutes."

"Are you seriously trying to convince me that you believe it was fifteen minutes?"

"About that."

"Please do not lie to me, Mr. Galen."

"It might have been longer."

"How about two hours and thirty-six minutes?"

"Was it that long?"

"It was indeed."

"Wow."

"And how long did it take him to die?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Two minutes, Mr. Galen."

"Oh."

"Two short minutes for Mr. Brown to bleed out. And yet you continued to stab his corpse for quite some time after that. Do you believe that's indicative of a healthy psyche?"

"I suppose not."

"Is it not, in fact, appropriate to say that you are a sick and deranged human being?"

"It depends on your definition of 'sick.'"

"Are you making light of the situation?"

"No, sir."

"Did you truly believe that I was using the definition of 'sick' used by today's youth, the one where it means 'awesome' or 'really cool?'"

"Maybe."

"Mr. Galen..."

"Okay, no, I didn't truly believe that."

"There is nothing 'awesome' or 'really cool' or 'groovy' about your recent behavior. It was, in fact, quite disgusting. It was not admirable, nor noble, nor even particularly clever. It did not make you seem macho. If you'd killed him with your bare hands, then perhaps I'd admire it—not from a moral standpoint, of course, but purely in terms of skill. But what you did made you seem like nothing more than a drooling psychopath."

"I didn't drool."

"Still lying, Mr. Galen?"

"I only drooled a little."

"You wiped your mouth on seven different occasions."

"That doesn't mean I was drooling!"

"You also made slurping noises."

"Some blood got in my mouth!"

"One does not slurp when blood from one's victim sprays into one's mouth. One slurps when the drool of excitement spews from their salivary glands. You repulse me, Mr. Galen. You repulse me to the very core of my being. In fact, I wish that you were not in my office, because your presence causes my skin to feel like it's covered with dirt and insects."

"Should I leave?"

"No, you're already here. We might as well get this over with."

"Are you sure? You seem irritable."

"No, no, it's all right. The ability to gaze into people's memories does make me cranky, but I'll be fine. So you want me to bring Mr. Brown back to life?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why?"

"To apologize."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You won't stab him some more?"

"No, sir. I'm done with that. It was wrong to do it in the first place, and I've learned from my mistake."

"I'd like to believe you, Mr. Galen. I really would. But I find it rather disturbing that you didn't even know Mr. Brown before you went on your stabbing spree."

"I understand your concern."

"If he had wronged you in some way, even a minor way, like cutting you off in traffic, I might think to myself 'Well, that was a disproportionately violent reaction, but at least I can pinpoint the motive.' But when you lure a gentleman into your van under the guise of needing medical assistance for a non-existent wife who is having a heart attack, and then proceed to stab him to death, and then continue to stab him for more than two hours after he is dead, I am forced to conclude that you are mentally ill."

"That's fair."

"I'm not trying to be rude. I simply believe, based on the information I have retrieved both from our conversation and directly from your brain, that you mean this man further harm."

"No. I just want to apologize."

"I don't believe you."

"Can't you read my mind?"

"Yes, but my psychic abilities are more about memories. Specific images. Not emotions. I know, for example, that you vigorously masturbated on Tuesday evening but not how you felt about it."

"Oh. Uh, sorry about the image."

"No need to apologize. I've seen worse. Now, I do have the ability to probe deeper with my abilities, to know if you are telling the truth, but it requires that I caress your eyeballs."

"Caress my eyeballs?"

"Yes."

"That sounds awful."

"It is."

"Okay, do it. Go ahead."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well, then. Keep them open wide."

"Ow!"

"You knew that it would hurt, right? That couldn't have been a surprise."

"I didn't know it would hurt that much!"

"Well, now you do. Hmmm. Okay, I now have to apologize for expressing doubts about your intentions, because I can see that you truly do wish to tell Mr. Brown that you're sorry. For some bizarre, demented, unfathomable reason, his acceptance of your apology is important to you. Very, very odd."

"I told you!"

"Don't act like my suspicion wasn't justified, Mr. Galen. You are a savage beast."

"But you can bring him back to life?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"He's already alive again. I don't care to waste time."

"Scooter...?"

"You!"

"I just want to say I'm sorry."

"Fuck you!"

"And he's dead again. Sorry. My power to reanimate the dead is not long-lasting."

"He...he...he rejected my apology!"

"Yes, he certainly did. Nothing wishy-washy about his response."

"But...I paid five thousand dollars so he could accept my apology!"

"You might have mentioned the expenditure while he was still alive. Personally, I would have opened with that, but since I've never stabbed a man to death, I can't honestly say that I know how I'd behave."

"That selfish bastard!"

"He was rude, but you can understand his point of view, right?"

"He was supposed to ease my conscience! Now I'm going to have sleepless nights for the rest of my life! The scorpions that live under my skin will never stop their incessant stinging! I can feel them now! Their pincers slice through my veins! I can see the blood in his eyes! So much blood! So much blood!"

"Is our business here finished, Mr. Galen?"

"So much blood!"

"Please close the door on your way out. Thank you very much."

IT'S BATH TIME!

"You won't go down the drain," Chester insisted.

His four-year-old son peered into the soapy depths of the bathtub, looked back at Chester, and vigorously nodded as if to say Yes, I will! I know I will! I will! I will! I will!

"I promise you won't," said Chester, who had just come home from an extremely long, extremely tiring, and extremely stressful day at work, and really didn't have any patience at the moment for ridiculous, unfounded fears.

Chester Jr. continued to nod.

Chester sighed. "C'mon, Junior, you know there's no way you can get sucked down the drain. You're way too big. You couldn't even get your foot down there, much less your entire body. Now get in the tub."

"No."

"There's a plug. It's a good plug. Even if you could fit down the drain, which you can't, the plug will stop anything from going down there. I won't pull the plug until you're out of the tub, I promise. Are you ready to take a bath now?"

"No."

How had Chester's life come to this? How did he end up arguing with a little naked kid over going down the bathtub drain? His mother had been right: he should have never had sex.

"You've taken lots of baths. Did you ever even start to go down the drain? Not even once, right? It's totally safe."

Chester Jr. shook his head, conveying the message: It's not safe! It's not! It's not! It's not! And only a fool would think differently!

"I'm going to count to three, and then—"

"No!"

"At least let me count to—"

"No!"

Chester placed his hands under his son's shoulders and lifted him up. Junior immediately began to thrash, kick, scream, cry, and urinate.

"Stop it!" Chester said, lowering Junior's feet toward the water. "I mean it!"

Junior's scream increased in pitch until Chester thought his teeth might shatter. As soon as Junior's feet entered the water, it became clear that there would soon be more water on the walls and ceiling than in the tub, so he gave up, pulling Junior out and setting him back on the tile floor.

"What's going on?" asked Sasha, peeking her head into the bathroom.

"He won't take a bath!"

"All right, I'll do it," she said with not-so-subtle irritation in her voice.

It was Chester's turn to handle bathing duties, and he knew that the correct thing to say was "No, no, I'll take care of it," but he really couldn't handle this tonight. He'd take an extra turn sometime in the future.

He went downstairs and turned on the television, turning the volume way up so he could hear Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives over the shrieking and splashing and apocalyptic-sounding chaos upstairs. After about ten minutes, the noise stopped, replaced by footsteps thundering down a hallway and the loud squeak of Junior jumping on his bed.

Sasha came down the stairs, dripping wet. There were plenty of towels in the bathroom she could have used, so her dripping-wet status was clearly being used to make a point.

"Bath's done," she said.

"Thanks. He suddenly thinks he's going to go down the drain."

"I know."

"Does this mean our kid is dumb? I mean, kids do have some silly fears, but anybody could look at that drain and see that he's not going to fit."

"He's four."

"I know that. It's not like I expect him to understand how nuclear fission works. It just seems to me that if you look at that tiny little drain and think you're going to get sucked down there, then maybe you're kind of a simpleton."

"Chester!"

"What? Am I not right? You have to admit, that's a pretty unintelligent thing to believe, even for a four-year-old."

"When you were a kid, did you imagine that there was a monster in your closet?"

"Yes, but there actually could have been. I don't mean that there could have been a real monster, but if there was one, it could have fit inside my closet. The logistics work out. Even a monster under the bed makes sense; it would be a tight fit, but something could lie under there waiting to eat you. But this whole drain thing...you don't need MythBusters to do some elaborate experiment to disprove it. Chester Jr. may be a dullard."

"Are you just going to sit there insulting our son, or are you going to get me a towel?"

"I'll get you a towel."

* * *

Chester's next day at work was even longer, more tiring, and more stressful. He came home wanting nothing more than a cold beer and some television programming that he could understand without being fully conscious.

Unfortunately, as soon as he plopped down on the recliner he heard Sasha's car pull into the driveway, Junior in tow. Her job was closer to the day care, and so most days she brought him home.

When she led him through the front door, Chester saw that the four-year-old was covered with dirt, head to toe, as if he'd been mud wrestling. There was also a pink blob in his hair that looked like gum.

"What happened to him?" Chester asked.

"He dove into a pool of mud."

"Why didn't they clean him up?"

"It happened after I picked him up. I was talking to Helen and he went and did a belly flop."

"Did he get mud all over the car?"

"I made him sit on a blanket. Could you get him cleaned up while I start dinner?"

Chester took Junior upstairs, then turned on the faucet to start the bath water.

"No!" Junior said.

"You have to take a bath. Look how much dirt you've got on you. If you don't wash it off, little plants are going to sprout—" Chester stopped, realizing that he was trying to combat an irrational fear by instilling another irrational fear. "Dirty kids smell bad," he said. "Do you want to smell bad?"

"Yes."

"You can say that now, but the Stinky Kid is the most shameful spot on the social ladder." Chester stuck his index finger under the water, testing the temperature. "It'll be a fun bath. Millions of bubbles." He poured a generous amount of bubble bath into the water.

"I'll go down the drain!"

"Who told you that would happen?"

"Nobody."

"Did you see it on TV?"

"No."

"Have you ever watched somebody go down the drain with your own eyes?"

"No."

"That's because it doesn't happen. And I'll be here the whole time. I'll hold on to your wrist. You can't go down the drain if I'm holding on to your wrist, right?"

"The soap's all slippery."

Nice. The kid understood the science of soap upon one's ability to grasp things, but not the inability of a human child to fit down a drain.

Chester got Junior out of his dirty clothes, which was not a quick or silent process. He shut and locked the bathroom door to prevent escape, then hoisted the kid into the tub.

"No! No! No! No!" Junior screamed, as if he were being lowered into the soap bubble-covered pits of hell.

"It's either this or a garden hose!"

"Garden hose! Garden hose!"

The hose had been a bluff, although if Chester could be certain that no representatives of any of those child protection services were watching...

No. This kid needed to get over his fear of bathing. Chester lowered him into the tub, and Junior shrieked as if his flesh was sizzling underneath the water. Chester held him up for a second to make sure that his flesh really wasn't sizzling underneath the water. It wasn't, so he set him down in the tub. The child kicked and splashed water around as he had the night before, but Chester held him firm.

"Please, Daddy! Please!"

Chester dunked a washcloth in the water and started wiping dirt off Junior's wailing face. It would be awkward when the police showed up to interrogate them about what the neighbors probably thought was a baby-butchering operation, but he'd let Sasha deal with that.

"Quit splashing!" said Chester. Jeez, the kid had already emptied half of the tub, and the water level was draining fast.

Too fast.

Faster than if the drain plug had simply popped out.

As the sight of soapy water gave way to the sight of soapy porcelain, Chester gaped at the drain, which was now sufficiently large enough to accommodate a four-year-old boy.

There was also the new addition of sharp stainless steel teeth that outfitted the entire perimeter.

Junior's slippery arms slithered through Chester's grasp.

Chester lunged for his son, but Junior had already slid halfway down the drain. Chester grabbed a fistful of his hair and squeezed tight.

"Don't worry!" he shouted. "I won't let you—"

The drain chomped down, biting Junior in half.

The boy was suddenly much less noisy.

Okay, there was no worse horror and tragedy for a parent than the sight of their child being killed. That said, Chester had to compartmentalize these reactions, place them in a different part of his brain for the time being, and focus on the more important question: when Sasha walked into the bathroom, as she eventually would, would it be worse if Junior were completely gone, or if Chester were holding the top half of his corpse?

Junior didn't look good. As unsightly as Chester might have imagined a child bitten in half would look, this was worse. It was almost as if the drain's teeth had taken a cue from the garbage disposal blades and gotten some rotating action in there.

Sasha would be really, really distressed to see her son in such condition. It was best just to feed the rest of Junior to the drain and spare her that grisly sight. Also, Chester didn't know the depths of the drain's hunger; perhaps feeding it the second half of the boy would sate it and save other innocent lives. It would be almost heroic.

I can't do this, Chester thought, looking into his son's dead eyes.

Except, well, Junior clearly had seen the drain-mouth before, or he wouldn't have been scared. So why didn't he provide more useful feedback when questioned about his fear? The past minute or so would have been much more pleasant if he'd simply given more solid data.

Chester really couldn't let Sasha see Junior like this. Letting go of his child would be the hardest thing a father could do...but, technically, Chester wasn't a father any more.

Junior's body, which was now lubricated with more than just soap, suddenly slipped out of his hands and into the drain's gaping maw. Its mouth slammed shut.

Crap. Feeding the rest of him to the drain was what Chester was going to do anyway, but it irked him to have that decision taken away.

The drain shrunk back down to its original size, as if it had never transformed into a steel-fanged mouth. In fact, the only evidence that Junior had even been in the tub was all of the blood, and a kidney.

This wasn't good. Chester had assumed that, when explaining the situation to his wife and the authorities, the mouth would still be there. He could just point at it and say, "Look! That's what ate my son!" Having it be a regular drain was going to make things more challenging.

There was a knock at the door.

There was a 99.9% chance that this was Sasha. It didn't matter who it was; their presence would be inconvenient.

"Is everything okay in there?" Sasha asked.

What to do? Downplay what had just happened, or share the unimaginable horror of the event? She'd probably be angrier if he didn't tell the truth right away, so he went with the "share the unimaginable horror of the event" option.

"Our son is dead!" he bellowed.

Sasha opened the door. She was mad, probably because she thought he was making a tasteless joke about the death of their son. But when she saw all of the blood, her reaction changed to something that was pretty much in line with what Chester would have expected.

After giving her a few minutes to calm down enough that her screams wouldn't drown out the sound of his explanation, Chester told her what had happened. The part where he accidentally dropped the second half of Junior into the mouth sounded worse in the telling, but by the time he said it out loud it was too late to pretend it hadn't happened.

"We have to save him!" said Sasha.

Chester frowned. He thought he'd made it clear that their son wasn't alive anymore.

Sasha climbed into the tub and peered down the drain. "Get an axe!"

"We don't own an axe."

"Yes, we do!"

"No, we don't."

"There's one in the garage."

"You mean the hatchet?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." Chester hurried out of the bathroom, but then, remembering recent history, hurried back in. "You probably shouldn't hang out in the bathtub, in case the mouth comes back."

"Just go!"

Chester ran downstairs, through the kitchen, and into the garage. He found the hatchet, which still had the price tag stuck on the handle, then rushed back to the bathroom. Sasha had not been eaten.

"Break it open!" Sasha said.

"You can't just chop a bathtub apart with a hatchet!"

"Do it, you idiot!"

"Don't get pissy with me. You're the one who let him jump in the mud."

Sasha leaned out of the tub and grabbed the hatchet out of his hand. She began to smack the blade against the bottom. The porcelain chipped more than Chester thought it would, but overall, the tub remained intact.

"Get me some bricks!" she said.

"We don't just keep bricks lying around! This isn't a construction zone!"

"Then get me something heavy! Anything!"

Chester hurried back downstairs, trying to think of a suitably heavy object they could use. Then he remembered that they did indeed have a few concrete bricks lying in the garage, leftovers from when they'd replaced the steps to the front porch, and went to get those.

When he came back in with an armload of bricks, Chester was surprised to see how much progress Sasha had made with the hatchet. Working together, with Chester bashing the bricks into the side, it wasn't long before they'd demolished a large portion of the tub. If there'd been any possibility of rescuing Junior, which there wasn't, they now had enough room to maneuver to do it.

"Where is he?" Sasha screamed. She looked half-crazed.

Chester patiently explained again what had happened.

"What did you do to our son?"

"I didn't do anything! The drain ate him!"

"There's no way he could fit down that pipe!"

Admittedly, the pipe was far too narrow to fit a child, even one who was small for his age. But obviously the world worked in ways that were significantly different than what Chester had previously understood to be the case.

"I'm sure the pipe expanded at the same time the drain became a giant mouth!"

"Bullshit! That's not possible!"

"Or maybe it secreted some kind of enzyme that quickly dissolved him! That makes sense, right? It could be like the way a fly eats things!"

"Tell me what you did to him!"

"I told you what happened! You saw me take him up here! What, do you think I've got some kind of secret passageway or something where I can hide him? Do you think that I'm so efficient at chopping up a body that I could get all those pieces down the drain that quickly? He was hollering less than a minute before you came up here, so unless I was able to slice his entire body into drain-sized pieces in less than sixty seconds, it happened the way I said!"

"Liar!"

"I'm not saying that my side of the story holds up to established scientific principles, but it doesn't make sense to have happened any other way! I certainly didn't play a recording of Junior screaming to throw you off the track and buy myself extra time!"

Instead of accusing Chester of anything else, Sasha closed her eyes and began to quietly sob. The enormity of Chester's loss hit him all at once, and he began to sob as well.

Then he stopped sobbing as he realized how badly they'd screwed up.

"We can't replicate this!" he said.

"What?"

"If we hadn't chopped up the bathtub, there was the chance that the drain-mouth would have shown up again! Yeah, it could have been like that Warner Bros. cartoon where that frog only sings when there are no witnesses, but still, it might have shown up when the police were there! We could have had the tub on twenty-four hour webcam until it did something. But now..." he gestured to the destruction, "what have we done? Oh, dear God, what have we...?"

Chester stopped talking, because now there was a hatchet blade in his chest. "You son of a bitch," she whispered.

After some brief gurgling, Chester toppled over onto what remained of the tub. He grabbed the exposed portion of the drainpipe and tried to pull himself away from his newly homicidal wife. It wasn't a very productive method of getting away from her, but the hatchet in his chest had compromised his ability to effectively make decisions regarding his escape method.

The enzymes secreted by the pipe quickly began to dissolve his hand. It hurt even more than getting whacked with the hatchet.

Chester screamed. Not because he had been stabbed in the chest with a hatchet, and not because the enzymes secreted by the pipe were dissolving his hand, but because the drain mouth was back.

It was now horribly misshapen and missing half of its teeth, and it chomped away at Chester like a dental patient trying to eat before the Novocain has worn off.  He tried to roll out of its deformed jaws but succeeded only in pushing the hatchet further into his chest.

Sasha shrieked and grabbed the hand that Chester still had left, trying to pull him away from the tub.

Something large, soft, and wet slid across Chester's back. Its tongue?

The drain's teeth continued to chew on him, sinking in deep but lacking the strength to actually bite him in half. As Sasha pulled him away, they bit repeatedly on his torso, and then his legs, and then he was free.

"Give me the hatchet," said Sasha, gesturing to the weapon.

Chester did not have the strength to yank the hatchet out of his chest, or even explain this fact to his wife, so he settled for helplessly patting the handle. Sasha wrenched it out, which hurt worse than when it had gone in, howled with primal fury, and slammed the hatchet against the drain mouth, again and again.

I'm pretty sure I'm bleeding to death, Chester mouthed at her, but she was too preoccupied to pay attention.

Soon, the drain was...dead? Did that term apply to a porcelain-and-metal drain monster? If nothing else, its teeth had all been knocked out and it was no longer chewing. Sasha continued to bash away at it. She kept going even after the blade popped off of the hatchet and she was using only the wooden handle.

As Chester realized that it was pretty much over for him, he felt a sense of peace. Yes, he was going to die, and yes, his son was dead, and yes, his wife was almost certainly insane now, but at least there was proof. Perhaps he hadn't died a hero, but at least people wouldn't think he was some sick psycho child killer.

Then the mouth changed back to an obliterated bathtub.

Fuck it, thought Chester, as he died.

ALIEN FACE

I fired four more shots into his chest, emptying my pistol. Matthew V. Cloak, the Lakeland Mangler, dropped his knife, looked at the growing bloodstains on his shirt as if confused by how they got there, and then fell to the ground.

I walked over and crouched down next to him. I reached into my inside jacket pocket and—dammit!—realized that I'd left the picture of my niece in my other jacket.

"That was for Abigail," I told him. Not as effective without the visual aid, but hopefully he'd figure out who I was talking about.

It didn't take long for Cloak to bleed out. After I was sure he was dead, I called it in.

We were deep in the thick woods. It would take at least an hour for backup to get here. I didn't think anybody was alive inside his cabin, but I had to go in and make sure. My experience as a cop leaned much more toward breaking up drunken fights in bars than taking down serial killers, so I was certain that this was going to be the most horrific thing I'd ever seen.

I opened the front door and stepped inside. The cabin had an odd smell but not the rotting smell I'd expected. The smell of preservatives, maybe?

The sight, however, was every bit as bad as I'd expected.

We'd believed that the Lakeland Mangler had killed seven people, but just a quick glance around his cabin proved that the number had been at least twice that. His souvenirs were proudly displayed. Hands. Feet. And faces. Lots of faces.

"Mangler" had never been an accurate description. Cloak, an ex-surgeon, did careful work. Many of the faces, all young women, on the mannequin heads were still recognizable, including Abigail's. When I saw her, I simultaneously wanted to fall to my knees and sob, and to go back outside and kick Cloak's corpse until there was nothing but red.

I did neither. I kept searching the cabin.

"Hello?" I called out. "Is anybody in here?"

Nobody answered.

"I'm a cop," I said. "He's dead. You don't have to—"

I froze.

What the hell was that?

There were four artificial heads, the kind you keep wigs on, lined up on a shelf. Three of them were being used to display the cut-off faces of young women. But the second one from the left had a long, gray, oval-shaped face with enormous eyeholes.

It looked like an alien. Exactly like an alien, the kind you see in the sketches when attention-seeking whackos swear that they were abducted and probed.

I touched its cheek. It didn't feel like rubber, or plastic, or anything synthetic. It's not like I could say, "Yep, that's a real alien face, all right," but despite having no basis for comparison, it sure felt real.

Had one of the Lakeland Mangler's victims been an alien?

No. That was insane. I was quite understandably in a state of shock right now, and I could be forgiven for a brief moment of crazy whacked-out madness where I thought it had any possibility of being an actual alien face.

So what was it? A collectible? A practical joke for the inevitable police discovery of this cabin? Something to amuse him as he gazed into the lifeless faces of his real victims?

I touched it again. If he'd preserved it as he had the human faces, it wouldn't feel real anyway, so the fact that it did feel real meant that it wasn't real.

I was confusing myself.

The most crucial things to remember were that, a) my brain wasn't functioning normally right now, and that b) aliens did not exist. That second point was the most important one. Aliens did not exist. This was the equivalent of digging through a child's toy chest and believing that an action figure was incontrovertible proof of the existence of Bigfoot.

I was in a cabin surrounded by the body parts of a serial killer's victims, and somehow I thought I'd discovered life on Mars. This was not okay. I needed to pull myself together.

Or did I? Cloak was dead. There was no evidence of any prisoners that needed to be freed. Why shouldn't I focus my attention on the mystery of the weird alien face instead of the horrors that were all around me? Try to lower my therapy bill in advance.

I decided to keep looking. See what other souvenirs he had lying around. I knew, for example, that one of the hands nailed to the wall was Abigail's, because it was still wearing the sapphire ring that her grandmother, my mother-in-law, had given her last Christmas. So if he'd really stabbed an alien to death and taken its face and other parts back to the cabin, I'd find the other parts.

Another shelf had two large glass jars, side by side, filled with colorless liquid. And eyeballs.

Along with their faces, all of his victims were missing their eyes when the bodies were discovered. The eyeballs in the jar on the right all looked as normal as they could when no longer in their sockets. But in the jar on the left, mixed in with the normal eyes, were two much larger ones. They were shaped like eggs, though about twice that size. No pupils. Completely black.

If a pair of eyeballs had indeed been cut out of an alien head, they would look just like these.

They weren't real. No way were they real.

And even if I were inclined to unscrew the lid and plunge my hand into a jar full of eyeballs, as a police officer at a crime scene I couldn't be tampering with evidence. I really shouldn't have even touched the alien face.

A disgraced police officer.

On suspension.

Yes, I'd be a hero for bringing down the Lakeside Mangler, and I was sure I'd be completely reinstated, but the department had thrown me under the bus when our first attempt to capture him went bad. Somebody had to take the fall. It was me.

I continued looking around and quickly found a pair of alien hands nailed to the wall. They had long, grey, slender fingers.

I wished Cloak were still alive so I could ask him about this.

Where the hands had been severed, I could see a couple of exposed bones. The tissue was red. Apparently aliens bled the same color as humans, rather than black or green. Good to know. If this was phony, the attention to detail was remarkable. Maybe not accurate, but remarkable.

Screw it. Nobody could fault me for touching alien parts. When backup got here, they'd be whisked away and I might never get another chance. I didn't want to be lying on my deathbed, regretting that I didn't do my own little scientific investigation.

I ran my index finger down the length of one of the hands. It sure felt like a hand. Special effects artists could do amazing things, but their work wasn't typically meant to be examined up-close like this.

If only Cloak kept more of the bodies. Heads, torsos, arms, legs; the things that would be more difficult to convince me were real. I wanted to see the internal organs, touch them, find something that was clearly made out of foam latex.

I searched some more. There was a small television in the corner, and a shelf of videos. In addition to a surprising selection of romantic comedies and inspirational dramas, there was a row of VHS tapes labeled with names. Heather. Laurie. Nicole B. Nicole M. Abigail. (I clenched my fists and took a couple of long deep breaths to compose myself.) And, yes, one labeled Alien.

I picked up the tape and popped open the case. The front label, in Cloak's perfect, tiny writing, also said Alien.

This probably wasn't a bootleg copy of the 1979 classic.

Why did he use VHS? Had he always recorded his killings in this format and wasn't willing to break from it? Was it because a VHS camcorder couldn't get hacked? Was the Lakeland Mangler a hipster?

It didn't matter. I was going to watch that alien tape. Hell yeah, I was. The reason Cloak could have all of his souvenirs out on display was because this cabin was a bitch to get to, and I had plenty of time to myself before anybody else arrived.

I turned on the television, popped the cassette into the VCR, and pressed play.

A shot of a two-story house. The camera zoomed in on a second-floor window. The image went in and out of focus, but it seemed to be a teenaged girl in her bedroom, dancing. It was energetic, uncoordinated dancing, exactly what people meant when they said "Dance like nobody's watching!" Dance like a serial killer isn't recording you through your bedroom window.

I watched for a moment, then fast-forwarded. It went on for quite a while. When the bedroom light went out, he kept taping.

The scene switched to daylight: the girl walking down the sidewalk, wearing a backpack.

Back to night. Behind a strip mall or something. Even on fast-forward, this shot lasted for at least a minute, until a door opened. I resumed normal speed as the girl, in a dirty apron, walked outside with a garbage bag, which she heaved into a dumpster.

Then a park. Still night, but the girl had a different haircut. She was walking and bopping her head to whatever music she was listening to through her headphones, but frowned as she seemed to notice Cloak recording her. The camera swung away from her. The shot went blurry, though I'm pretty sure I was just watching the ground as he hurriedly walked away.

I fast-forwarded until the camera spun around. Cloak pointed it at his own face, then ran his hand over his forehead, doing an exaggerated "wiping off sweat" gesture.

"Whew, that was close!" he whispered. He winked.

Then there was a bright blue light.

The camera swung around again. The light, in the middle of a field, was so bright that I couldn't quite see the source of it.

"What the hell?" Cloak asked.

The light shot up into the sky. The camera tilted upward to follow it, but there was just darkness. The camera moved around in a motion sickness-inducing manner for a while, with Cloak clearly trying to locate the UFO.

Finally, he swung it back down to where the light had originated.

The camera jolted. There was an alien right freaking there. Cloak could've reached out and touched it.

There were no surprises in its appearance. It looked just like the alien I imagined from seeing the face, hands, and eyeballs. It held up its hand, as if to convey the classic message: We come in peace.

Cloak stabbed it in the chest.

He kept filming as it fell to the ground.

Then the scene switched to a new location. Cloak's cabin. The alien was tied to a bed, still alive.

And then I was watching a goddamn alien snuff movie. Torture porn.

I was fascinated for a couple of minutes, but then I had to fast-forward. Cloak, who took frequent breaks to mug for the camera, slashed away at the thrashing alien as if it were one of his human victims. It was alive throughout the process of mangling its arms and legs, not going still until most of its torso was skinless.

When he went at its eyeballs, I turned off the tape.

Holy shit.

Aliens were real.

I just sat there for a long moment, trying to process this knowledge. Though I very much doubted that alien spaceships were regularly landing on farms, probing butts left and right, somebody had been telling the truth.

I'd touched an alien face.

Unbelievable.

I stood up. This was my discovery. Nobody else's. I wasn't going to let the government spooks take this away from me.

I ejected the cassette and put it back in its case. I walked over to the sink and opened the cabinet underneath it. Nothing there but cleaning supplies, but after opening a couple of drawers I found a roll of garbage bags.

I tore off a bag and put the tape in it. Then I tossed in the head with the alien face. I pulled the alien hands off the wall and put them in the bag as well. I looked around until I found the alien feet, which I added to my collection.

Obviously, I couldn't reach into the jar for the alien eyes without potentially leaving DNA behind. Even if I put on a pair of rubber gloves, it was a bad idea. I was just going to have to take the whole jar of eyeballs. I felt terrible about that, but the victims could be identified from the other parts. It wasn't as if their families would experience less heartbreak if they knew their daughters' eyeballs had been recovered.

I did a careful sweep of the cabin, making certain I hadn't missed any evidence of visitors from other worlds. Then I took the bag outside and put it in the trunk of my car. Not a great hiding spot, but it wasn't like anybody was going to search my vehicle. If Abigail's hand was still displayed on the wall, ring on the finger, it was safe to say that nobody would accuse me of swiping any body parts.

Backup finally arrived. If any of my fellow cops thought I was acting strange, well, I'd just shot a serial killer dead and found parts of my niece in his cabin of horrors. Hell, after walking in there, they were all acting kind of strange, too. There was zero suspicion.

As expected, I was a hero. I mean, I did get chewed out for some violations of protocol, but Cloak was dead; it wasn't as if he was going to get off on a technicality.

I hid the bag of alien parts under my bed.

Then I bought a VCR from a pawn shop so I could rewatch the video.

I watch it every once in a while. Not the gory parts; just the moment where the alien appears. I freeze-frame it and sit there, studying my television screen.

I look at the alien face, hands, and feet. And, yes, the eyeballs. I threw up twice during the process of scooping out the human ones, blending them up, and flushing them down the toilet, but now I only have the alien eyes in the jar. When I stare at them I like to think that they're staring back at me.

Should I share this with somebody else? Maybe. And maybe someday I will. Until then, I love the idea that I may be the only one who knows the truth beyond any shadow of a doubt. I'm the only one who can prove it. It's not like I'm God or anything, but it does feel like I'm at a higher level than everybody else.

I could be rich and famous someday. But I'm in no hurry.

The only thing that concerns me? The alien probably wasn't here alone. What if the others saw Cloak stab it? What if that's how they see humanity? What if their entire perception of our kind is based on a psychopathic thrill-killer?

I lose sleep over that.

This whole thing might end really badly.

But for now, it's just me and my alien.

APOCALYPSE OF THE YARD GNOME

"It's just you and me," said Sammy. "You and me against the world. We'll show them. We'll show them all."

Milton, who was a yard gnome, did not answer. He was not a magical talking yard gnome, or a magical moving yard gnome, or even a cursed yard gnome whose active mind was trapped in an immobile stone body. He was just a standard-issue yard gnome, purchased from a department store, with nothing to contribute to the conversation.

"Soon it'll be the apocalypse," said Sammy, with a crooked-toothed grin that Milton's painted-on eyes could not see. "Soon they'll all be dead, and oh, how you and I will laugh! They'll all suffer for the way they've treated me!"

The truth of the matter is that Sammy was not treated with any notable amount of cruelty. His number of friends was well above the national average. He'd never spent his birthday or a major holiday alone. His parents lived next door, but they didn't meddle in his business; they merely invited him over every Sunday for a delicious brunch. His co-workers were all friendly and generally upbeat, and though Sammy wouldn't stock grocery shelves as a hobby, as a day job it really wasn't so bad. He was actually treated remarkably well, especially for a guy who talked to a yard gnome.

At twenty-nine, he didn't have a girlfriend, but it wasn't as if he'd never had a girlfriend. He'd had six of them, and four of them had indeed engaged in sexual intercourse with him. He and his last girlfriend, Chloe, had broken up several months ago, but it wasn't a particularly hostile breakup, and they'd even gotten together for a bonus tryst one night when Chloe was drunk, lonely, and suffering from temporary self-esteem issues.

So, really, his constant talk of laughing during the apocalypse was unwarranted. Many of the people who might be swept away in the river of lava were decent human beings, and to be honest, if people had treated him poorly, he would have been deserving of their scorn.

"Yes, Milton, the apocalypse will be here any day now, and I cannot wait!"

Milton was too un-alive to even think, "Why do you keep talking to an inanimate object?" There literally was nothing going on inside that gnome.

Ironically, Sammy had a perfectly good dog, a Yorkshire terrier, in which he could have confided. No, the dog did not understand the English language beyond its name (Waggy) and a few simple commands (sit, stay, fetch) but at least the dog was a living creature. It would have occasionally looked at Sammy while he spoke, and perhaps licked his hand when he was done sharing his venomous thoughts about the tragic fate of the human race. Waggy was a nice little dog with a sweet and feisty personality; a far better conversation partner than Milton. Yet Waggy sat inside, gnawing on a squeaky chew toy, while Sammy sat on the back porch, confiding in a yard gnome.

"Any day now," said Sammy. "Any day."

It's actually fortunate that Milton was such a complete non-participant in the dialogue that was currently occurring, considering the repetitious nature of what Sammy was saying. A cognizant being would have eventually said, "You've made your point about the apocalypse happening any day now; could we please move on to something else?" But Milton's demeanor did not change, no matter how tiresome Sammy's words became.

Milton wasn't even a very good gnome. He'd been on sale for half-price in the clearance aisle because he was kind of scraped up. There'd been a few others in the same condition, so presumably that shipment had been insufficiently packaged. There was nothing remarkable about Milton in terms of design, coloring, or anything, really, and Sammy's decision to purchase that particular yard gnome hadn't been based on any criteria beyond a cursory glance to see which one was the least scratched up. (And his choice had been incorrect; there were two others with less surface damage.)

So it cannot be overemphasized just how pointless it was for Sammy to be sitting there sharing his apocalyptic desires to this gnome. "Get a life, you ridiculous loser!" is a rude thing to say in most social situations, but here it would have been completely appropriate.

"Yeah, when the—" Sammy said. His sentence was not cut off. It was, in fact, a rather lengthy sentence, but do you really need to hear it? It's just more of the same. Jesus H. Christ. If I could bash him over the head with a shovel to shut him up, I'd do it in a...

Hmmmm.

I am, as you've probably noticed, an omniscient narrator. I know Sammy's thoughts, and I know that Milton isn't alive. The part about Milton not being alive is common sense, of course, but to truly know that, you'd have to be an omniscient narrator like me.

However, omniscience isn't the same as omnipotence. If I were an all-powerful being, believe me, Sammy would be doing a hell of a lot more than sitting around talking to a yard gnome. There would be explosions. Unfortunately, my job is to observe and report, not to actually impact the things that are happening (or not happening, as with this pathetic little twerp).

Technically, I'm not supposed to be editorializing or using words like "twerp," but that's excusable in extreme cases. Believe me, I'm also tempted to use vulgar language, though hopefully it won't come to that.

I apologize for intruding upon the narrative. That was unprofessional. I return you to your story.

"Everybody dead," said Sammy. "Wouldn't that be fantastic, Milton? Wouldn't it be great? I'd write a song about it. Maybe I should write the song now, so I can have it ready to sing when the apocalypse happens." Sammy thought about that for a moment. "Nah, I'll write it later."

Oh, for God's sake. It would be different if he were actually taking steps to make the apocalypse happen. I'm not sure how one would go about such a task, but even if he had some laughable, inept, poorly conceived plan that was never going to work, I could respect that. But he's just being totally passive about it.

And here's something else: he doesn't even have a survival plan in place. That's right, he just assumes that when the apocalypse happens, he and his stupid little yard gnome are going to be just fine. Where did he get that idea? Hey, here's an idea: how about you at least keep a few extra cans of food around the house? If all of these people who have been oh-so-very mean to you are going to die horrible deaths, doesn't it make sense that you might also be in a smidgen of physical danger?

Am I right? It's not just me, is it?

This is such a crap assignment. Other omniscient narrators get to write about awesome people doing awesome things, or at least interesting people doing horrible things. I swear, if this jerk says one more thing to his clearance aisle yard gnome, I'm going to totally lose it.

And he just did. I won't transcribe it. You get the gist.

I wonder if I could kill him?

I'm not supposed to interfere. This could get me in a lot of trouble. I don't think it's even possible. Yet I also have to focus on the reader, right? You'd much rather read about the death of Sammy than the babbling of Sammy. I'm going to do it. I'm going to kill him.

No, I really shouldn't.

I can't believe I was seriously considering murdering a human being simply for the crime of being dull. That's not cool at all. What kind of monster have I become? You can't go around slaughtering people who aren't fascinating. If I killed every person who was less than interesting, Sammy would get the apocalypse he so dearly craved. It just wouldn't be right.

Okay, that was my effort to talk myself out of it, but it didn't work. That little creep is history.

The ground began to rumble. Sammy looked up, which wasn't very intelligent considering that it was the ground rumbling and not the sky. "Wha-what's going on?" he asked.

The ground split open, and Sammy had to jump to one side to avoid falling into the chasm.

"No!" Sammy screamed, upon realizing that Milton was on the other side. The chasm continued to widen, and without hesitation (except for the aforementioned pause to scream "No!") Sammy leapt across. His arms pinwheeled as he hit the ground and nearly lost his balance, but he somehow managed to avoid plummeting to his death.

Wow. I didn't think he'd actually put his life at risk for that gnome. Is there a stronger bond between the two of them than I realized? Am I not as omniscient as I thought? Or is he just insane?

Sammy picked up Milton and pressed him to his chest. Not in a creepy nipple-sucking way; he just held him like a baby. I'm not suggesting that holding a yard gnome like a baby isn't creepy, but it's certainly less creepy than some other things he could have done.

Another immense crack appeared in the earth. Sammy didn't fall into this one, either. His ability to not fall into chasms was admittedly impressive.

Suddenly there were explosions everywhere.

"This isn't what I wanted!" Sammy wailed. "I never meant for anybody to get hurt! I was wrong; people have treated me with kindness for my entire life! I don't want the apocalypse! Please, make it stop!"

You know, it's hard to dislike somebody who has looked into his soul, seen his flaws, and realized that he needs to change. He's been taught a lesson, and he'll probably be a better person after this. I'm not saying I want to have a beer with the guy or anything, but he's not such a bad fellow if you really think about it.

Then again, the ground cracks open and he thinks it's because of something he said. How egotistical is that? Now, yes, he is technically correct, but he doesn't know that his story is being told by an omniscient/partially omnipotent narrator. (Can you be partially omnipotent? And if I'm omniscient, why don't I know the answer?) Does he think that God is going to start ripping up the earth just because of something he said to a gnome?

To give him the benefit of the doubt, he was talking about the apocalypse right before it happened, and in his moment of panic and confusion he couldn't be expected to say "Gosh, this is freaky, but of course it's merely a coincidence!" If I were in his position I'd probably think I caused it, too, so I'll cut him some slack.

"Please, Milton!" Sammy wailed. "Make it stop!"

What the fuck? He thinks the gnome caused the apocalypse? Seriously? And if so, why did Sammy put his life at risk by jumping over the chasm to save him? Why not just let him plummet? Did he want to make sure Milton was still around to reason with, or did he just now arrive at the conclusion that Milton was to blame? I should know this shit!

"Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!" Sammy shouted at the gnome. If anything, the stressful nature of the situation had increased his redundancy.

"Never!" said Milton.

Whoa.

Did he really just—?

That can't be right. That yard gnome was completely inanimate. No way did it say "Never!" I'm not ruling out the possibility that somewhere on the planet, at some point in existence, there was a yard gnome that could talk, but this one couldn't. I'm positive of that.

"Make it stop!" Sammy shouted.

Milton's painted-on eyes glowed red.

And then Milton opened his mouth impossibly wide, revealing huge fangs, and tore out Sammy's throat. It was really horrific and disturbing, though a savvy narrator such as myself knows that you don't need to describe every little detail of ripping tendons and spurting blood, so we'll just leave it at his throat being torn out.

Sammy, as might be expected, died.

The cracks in the earth closed.

Okay. Well. I guess the joke's on me for thinking that Sammy was talking to a regular off-the-shelf yard gnome. There certainly was no evidence to say otherwise. It's obvious that I'm going to have to work harder on my craft of being an omniscient narrator. That's fine. It doesn't hurt my feelings. I've always been one to take constructive criticism in the matter of which it was intended.

I'm not sure if I'm officially responsible for his death or not. I suppose I probably am. I feel bad about that, but let's face it, it's not as if I accidentally killed off Harry Potter. You're not going to cry yourself to sleep tonight.

I guess I should do something to keep Milton from going on some sort of homicidal rampage, but perhaps I've interfered enough for one story. By now you know not to hug yard gnomes to your chest, right? Good.

The job of a narrator is to know when a story is over, so the end.

DEAD BIGFOOT ON THE LAWN

When Gail showed up at my trailer door with a bucket of wings, I knew my night was about to get better. It had been crappy so far. I'd been looking forward to this movie about trolls, but it turned out to be one of those reading movies where the people aren't talking American and the stuff they're saying is on the bottom of the screen. Who the hell turns on the TV so they can read it? If I wanted to read, I'd pick up a damn magazine.

Let me be clear: I ain't got nothing against reading. Hell, I'm reading this as I'm writing it. If you want to criticize me for writing a book when I don't own any, that's fine. The way I see it, you take some Einstein who reads five or six books a year, it's easy for them to write one. They know how books work. This will be a much bigger accomplishment for me, if I finish. So who's the smarter one, hmmm?

Not gonna lie: mostly I'm writing it so they can make it into a movie. I will Netflix the shit out of it if that happens.

Anyway, there was a knock at my door, and it was this dainty little knock, so I knew it was Gail. We'd only been dating for about three weeks and I already knew her knock. Usually she called before she came over, but believe me, after the disaster of that reading movie I was more than happy to see her.

"I brought you wings," she said, holding up the Styrofoam container.

"Damn!"

"And beer!"

"Damn!"

"Can I come in?"

"You sure can," I said, stepping out of the doorway. Gail walked up the three steps into my living room. She was a tiny thing, which was convenient because I didn't have a lot of space. I've never paid for a hooker, but if I did, she'd've looked exactly like Gail. Everything she wore was tight. She could color coordinate like nobody I'd ever met—tonight her shirt, shorts, and shoes were all leopard print.

She was only twenty-two, and if you'd said to me, "Gus, when you're thirty-eight, overweight, losing your hair, twice-divorced, and infrequently employed, you're going to have a girlfriend who's blonde, pretty, and limber," I would've laughed in your face. Right in your damn face. Yet that's how things worked out for me.

Were her boobs as big as I might've liked? Nope. The doctors hadn't used nearly enough silicone, if you wanted my honest opinion. But I sure wasn't going to file a federal complaint or anything like that.

"Turn on the TV," she said.

"What do you wanna watch?"

"Your favorite show. And you need to put in your favorite CD."

"Why?"

"Because, Gus, tonight you're going to eat your favorite food, drink your favorite drink, watch your favorite show, and listen to your favorite music, while I blow you."

My mouth dropped open about six feet, thumping onto the floor. (Not really. That's what we in the book-writing business call a "metaphor.") I didn't even know what to say, so I just said, "What?" which I think suited the moment.

"You heard me. I bet you never knew a girl who would blow you while you enjoyed your favorite food, drink, show, and music, huh?"

"Nope. I sure didn't."

"Lucky you met me."

I put in a Garth Brooks CD, then sat down on the couch and flipped through the TV stations until I found a rerun of Baywatch. (Obviously it was a rerun, because they don't make that show anymore.) I opened the container and the delicious smell of hot wing sauce went right up into my happy nostrils.

"They're all drumsticks," I said, delighted.

"I know what you like." Gail knelt down on the floor in front of me.

"Maybe I should vacuum that spot."

Gail shook her head. "This is all about you. I don't mind if I get potato chip crumbs on my knees."

She unzipped my pants, reached inside, and took out my penis. At the time, I thought of it as, "Hey, she's taking out my pecker," but I'm trying to be classier now that I'm writing this whole thing out.

But she didn't just take it out of my unzipped fly. Oh no. She leaned her head forward and put it in her mouth. I wanted to close my eyes in ecstasy, but then I wouldn't have been able to see Baywatch.

I picked up a drumstick. A bit of sauce dropped onto the top of Gail's bobbing head, but she didn't seem to notice, and I didn't want to say anything and risk spoiling the mood.

Oh, yeah. This was fine. Very, very fine.

I was a king.

I was a king who was starting to wonder if there might be an ulterior motive.

She knew I'd be powerless to deny any requests after this. I'd be spending the rest of my weekend putting up drywall.

Or maybe I was being too suspicious. She might just be in the mood to make a wish come true. I figured that if she spit, she was granting a fantasy. If she swallowed, she wanted something.

As the first song ended, I finished up. Gail swallowed. Damn.

"How was that?" she asked, standing up and wiping the sour cream and onion potato chip crumbs from her knees.

"That was top notch," I said. "The different elements of the experience all complimented each other perfectly. The way your lips worked, I didn't even care that you forgot the bleu cheese and celery."

"Well, I'm glad you liked it." She picked up my can of beer, took a swig, and swished it around in her mouth. Then she turned off the CD player and the television. "Anything else I can do for you?"

I wanted to make a joke about how she could clean up the place, but some jokes, no matter how funny, don't always land properly with the audience, and you've got to know when to say them out loud and when to just keep them in your mind.

"No, you've done plenty."

"Good, good. So now that I've been nice to you, maybe you could do me a favor?"

Yep, the fulfillment of this sexual fantasy came at a price. Hopefully she'd just want a foot rub.

"Anything," I said, not with total honesty.

"I've got a dead Bigfoot on my lawn, and I was hoping you'd help me move it."

"You've got a what on your what, and you were hoping I'd what?"

"A dead Bigfoot. You know, a Sasquatch. Forest yeti."

"Okay..."

"And it's on my lawn."

"What's a Bigfoot doing on your lawn?"

"I don't know," said Gail. "I didn't ask it. It's dead."

"Okay..."

"If it was a dog or a coyote, I'd just throw it in a wheelbarrow and dump it in the gravel pit. But a Bigfoot ain't a one-person job, Gus. I need your help."

"You didn't need to bribe me," I told her. "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you did, but I would've helped you out for free just to see the damn thing."

"I figured you would. But if you didn't, I would've felt sleazy trying to bribe you with a blowjob."

"Makes sense. Let me finish up the wings and we'll go."

* * *

Gail lived about ten minutes away by tractor, in a fancy little home with wind chimes and pesticide. She also had this wooden stand-up in front of her garden that was supposed to look like an old lady bending over. I chuckled every time I saw that thing.

"What's so funny?" Gail asked.

"Same as always. That's one big ass."

"You can have that thing if you want, since it tickles you so much."

I shook my head. "Nah. It wouldn't be as special if I saw it every day."

I didn't see a Bigfoot on her front lawn, and Gail wasn't reacting as if the Bigfoot was unexpectedly gone, so I deduced that it was on her back lawn. I'm not bragging about this—it doesn't make me Sherlock Holmes or anything—but I feel like you may have a really low opinion of my intellect, and I want to make it clear that I'm smarter than that.

"It's in the back yard," said Gail.

"I know," I replied.

She opened the gate, we walked behind her house, and there it was: a Sasquatch lying facedown in the middle of her lawn.

Its back was covered with blood.

And there was a great big butcher knife stuck between its shoulder blades.

I stopped walking.

"What's wrong?" Gail asked.

"I figured it had died from natural causes."

"What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. Did it have the knife in it when you found it?"

"Nope."

"See, you never told me you killed a Bigfoot. From the information you gave me, I assumed that you discovered it on your lawn already dead."

"I suppose I can see where you might have thought that," Gail admitted. "But it's not what happened."

I was shocked by the gory sight, but in that moment I fell in love. How many men can say they've been with a woman who killed a Bigfoot with a butcher knife? That's a marrying woman.

"How many times did you stab it?" I asked.

Gail shrugged. "Twenty? Thirty? Only psychopaths count stabs."

"Why didn't you shoot it?"

"I'm not gonna lie to you. There were some rage issues involved. Sometimes you just need to hear the thunk of a blade going into flesh, over and over."

"I'm impressed, but I sort of wish you'd just slashed its hamstring or something. Think how much money we could make if we captured a live Bigfoot. We could have our own TV show!"

"Nah. Those shows are so successful because they don't find him. Our show would be five minutes. 'There he is.' You can't get a thirteen episode order with that."

"The show could be about introducing him to modern life. I'd watch the shit out of that. We could get an hour out of him trying to use a cell phone, easy. Those big fingers on those tiny icons. Not that it matters. He's dead. Just saying that it would've been nice. At least we can make some cash by proving that he's not a myth."

"I'm not interested in that," said Gail. "I want to dump the body and be done with it."

"Are you out of your damn mind? That might as well be a pile of diamonds on your lawn. Why would you want to...?"

I trailed off, because that's what you do when you start to ask a question and then suddenly you discover the answer before you've finished the sentence.

I walked up to the body. "Is this a dead guy in a Bigfoot costume?"

"Yeah," said Gail.

I crouched down and pulled off the mask. It was a man I didn't recognize. He had long hair and an impressive mustache but he didn't look anything like a Bigfoot.

"You murdered a human being!"

"That's what I told you in the first place!"

"No! You specifically did not tell me that! You said you wanted me to help move a dead Bigfoot off your lawn!"

"C'mon, Gus, everybody knows Bigfoot ain't real. Obviously I meant that I killed a guy in a Bigfoot costume. Grow up."

"Why'd you do it? Was he breaking into your house?"

"No."

"Did he attack you?"

"No."

"Did you pay his family to hunt him for sport?"

"Now you're just being silly."

"Explain it to me! Give me a reason for this! I knew when you were so generous with your mouth that you might have a favor to ask, but I never suspected anything like this! It's pure insanity! I won't have any part of it!"

"You can't demand a reason and then say you won't have any part of it," said Gail. "That doesn't make any sense. If you're falling apart, let me know now. The stakes are too high to work with somebody who's inconsistent."

"I can't help you dispose of a body unless I know why you killed it."

"Okay, fine. He was cheating on me."

"He what?"

"He had himself a cute little girlfriend on the side."

"Hold on, he was your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"But I'm your boyfriend."

"Yeah."

"So you were cheating on him."

Gail shook her head. "That ain't how polyamory works. He knew all about you. I described our sexual encounters while he pleasured himself. Didn't leave out a thing."

"Not even the—?"

"Not even that."

I felt queasy. "You never told me any of this! I feel completely violated! I thought we were the only ones each other was boinking!"

"That was never discussed," said Gail. "Mitch and I had an understanding where we could have other lovers as long as we gave each other masturbation fodder. You and I had no such understanding. If you wanted me to be faithful, you should have said something, although I would've said no."

"I think I'm gonna puke."

"Don't do it on my lawn. We don't want your DNA seeping into the dirt. Anyway, Mitch confessed that he was eating a nineteen-year-old while her husband was working the weekend shift, so he had to die."

"You're only twenty-two," I said. "It's not that big of an age difference."

"I know how old I am."

"So...what did you think I was going to do when you told me about all this?"

"What did I think you'd do? I thought you'd understand! If we had an open relationship based on full disclosure, you'd be angry if I got eaten behind your back, right?"

"I suppose so."

"So help me get rid of the body."

"I've got one more question."

Gail sighed. "What?"

"Why is he in a Bigfoot costume?"

"You can't really be that dumb, Gus."

"It's an honest question!"

She rolled her eyes as if speaking to the biggest idiot in a hundred-mile radius. "It was a fetish. He could only get hard if he wore the costume. What the hell did you think it was?"

"You banged him while he was dressed like this?"

"Didn't I just say that? If you want to roll him over, you'll see that the costume ain't got a crotch."

I threw up.

"Oh, for goodness sake," said Gail. "I thought you were more of a man than this. I should've asked Clyde to help instead."

"Clyde? Who's Clyde?"

"Just a friend. He watched us from the closet the first time we did it."

"What?"

"You didn't hear him jostling hangers and panting all heavy? You are not an observant man, Gus. I even called out to ask if he was okay in there."

"I thought you were talking to me! I thought 'Are you okay in there?' was about whether my penis was okay in your vagina! I thought it was dirty talk!"

"I'm way better at dirty talk than that and you damn well know it."

I threw up again. This was the worst day I'd ever had in my life, and that includes the time I got my lower lip caught in a can opener. My eyes started to well up with tears.

"You gonna bawl on me?" asked Gail.

"No."

"If I get caught, so help me God I will tell everybody in the courtroom that you were crying. The judge will send you to jail for being a pussy."

"I said I wasn't gonna bawl, goddamn it! Let's just move the body and get it over with!"

"It's about time. You take the legs and I'll take the arms, and we'll carry him into my bedroom."

I stared at Gail for a good long moment.

"Why is he going in your bedroom?" I asked.

"Not again! How much ignorance can one man have in his head? Ain't you ever heard of necrophilia? You think I should just waste a perfectly good body that doesn't even stink yet? For such an old guy, you sure don't seem to know much about how the world works."

"You...you...you screw dead guys?"

"No, Gus! Of course I don't! When would I have an opportunity like that? I don't work in no damn morgue. That's why I have to take advantage of this dead body."

"I'm not going to help you drag a corpse into your bedroom to be deviant with!"

"Fine. Don't help. I don't care." She yanked the butcher knife out of Mitch's back. "I'll just have myself a two-dead-guy threesome."

Gail got this crazed look in her eyes, like she'd gone completely feral, and lunged at me with the knife. I think she was aiming for my throat, so I was kind of relieved when she hit my shoulder instead.

Oh, don't get me wrong, it hurt when the blade sunk a couple of inches deep into my tender shoulder flesh. I hollered like nobody's business. I'm just saying that it was better than if she'd slashed open my jugular vein, causing blood to jettison all over the place. That's all.

I would never hit a woman, but I did give her a shove. You can't fault me for that. The knife popped out of my shoulder, and I was unhappy to see that Gail was still holding it.

She growled like a rabid elk, then charged at me.

As far as I know, she was aiming for my neck again, but she got me in the other shoulder. You'd think that this one would've hurt less, since I'd grown accustomed to the experience, but nope, it stung like hell.

Neither of my arms were working well enough to shove her away again, so I gave her a head-butt. I heard a really nasty-sounding crunch and Gail fell to the ground.

Her face was looking pretty rough. "You broke my nose!" she wailed, although she was hard to understand, what with the broken nose and everything.

I apologized.

Then Gail let out this angry, insane shriek that made me feel relieved that I hadn't asked her to marry me, because she was clearly not right in the head. And then she started stabbing herself with the butcher knife, right in the chest.

"Is this another fetish?" I asked.

"Ain't no fetish!" Gail stabbed herself, again and again, until she flopped over. I hurried over there and tried to keep pressure on the wounds, but there were about thirty of them, and pretty soon she was dead.

I figured this story was going to be difficult to explain to the police, so I buried the bodies.

As I'm writing this, it's occurred to me that a fun twist ending would be if I suddenly got all perverted and dragged the bodies into Gail's bedroom for some fun. But that's not what happened. The whole idea is distasteful to me. However, if you want to make up an ending where that kind of depravity took place, be my guest. I don't control your sick imagination.

Don't go too far with it, though. I mean, leave me some dignity.

Anyway, I buried the bodies, and of course I got caught, and just as I'd predicted they didn't believe my story. So I figured, hey, I've got nothing better to do in prison, might as well write a book.

And I'm done. It's not a very long book, but I'm proud of it, and I may even write another one if I have any other wacky experiences, so make room on your bookshelf.

GROSS-OUT: THE RETURN

Author's Note: In my first collection Gleefully Macabre Tales, I included two vile stories that I read out loud as part of the World Horror Convention Gross-Out Contest. None were included in my second collection, Dead Clown Barbecue, because I retired from that wretched nonsense.

But at the 2016 World Horror Convention, I was drawn back into the repugnant fold. Immoral author Brian Keene was running it, and he asked me to participate. I choked back some bile and agreed.

I came in second place.

I'm including a transcript here for its historical significance, although that doesn't mean you have to read this shit. The "Cullen" and "Wrath" references are to the disgusting Cullen Bunn and the appalling Wrath James White, two masters of the craft who placed higher than me every time we competed against each other.

I do not apologize for the following tale. The decision to read it is your own.

* * *

I thought I had a pubic hair stuck in my teeth, but it was actually a piece of vulva. I looked up at my new girlfriend. She was so moist she was foaming.

"Yeah, baby, you're so wet I'd slurp you with a straw." I took a straw out of my pocket and shoved it in. I sucked in a mouthful of her arousal. "Damn, baby, you're so thick and delicious that you should have balls of tapioca at the bottom." I swished her burning desire between my teeth. "A bit chunky tonight, baby, what've you been eating?"

The door opened. Dad walked in. "Aloysius Percival Huntington III, what are you doing?"

"Nothin'," I said.

"Step away from that calf!"

"C'mon, Dad!"

"It was born three hours ago! Hell's the matter with you?"

"I dunno. Just trying to bring it to heights of ecstasy. And I was good at it! Look! Look! She's a squirter!"

"That's blood, dipshit. It doesn't count."

"Well, Dad, if it's wrong to go down on a newborn calf with such exuberance that you end up chewing through its lady parts, then I don't want to be right."

I've always had a problem with authority, so I ignored Dad and resumed my lapping, being even more thorough than before.

"Remove your tongue from that anus immediately!" Dad commanded.

"Ith sthuck."

"Your behavior is deplorable! What if others learn of your depraved ways? Can you imagine the controversy?"

"Did somebody say controversy?" asked Brian Keene, stepping into the barn. "How can I best insert myself into the center of it?"

Keene noticed what I was doing and looked troubled by the sight. He quietly backed out of the barn, forever haunted.

I pulled my tongue free of the sphincter with a "pop." Something floated into the air. "Look, Dad!" I said, pointing. "A brown bubble!"

"Your juvenile behavior disgusts me," said Dad. "You disgusted me on the day you were born, when you emerged from your mother's vagina pretending to whack off with your umbilical cord."

"I thought of that joke six weeks after conception," I said, proudly. "That's why abortion is wrong."

I realized that I was ignoring my girlfriend. I couldn't remember, was it two in the pink and one in the stink? Three in the pink and two in the stink? How many went in the stink? Oh why, oh why, hadn't I paid attention in math class...when my teacher fingered a student?

"Dad, you've messed up the mood. When you came in here she was spurting but now it's just a trickle. Thanks a lot."

"Sorry, son, but you're an abomination on humanity. And the only way I know to deal with an abomination on humanity is to burn him or her alive."

Note to self: Throw lit matches into the audience.

[Author's note: I read that part out loud. But I didn't actually throw lit matches into the audience, since that would have been irresponsible. Instead, I pretended to check for matches, then said "Oh well."]

"Aaaaahhhhh!" I remarked. "This is so inappropriate! My blackened charring flesh is horrifically painful but technically not all that gross. I'm dying for nothing! No, wait, this blister is pretty gross, right? I'm popping it now. Ew, ew, ew, pus! Uhhh, uhhh...my boogers are aflame!"

"I'll see you in hell," said Dad. "Tell Cullen and Wrath I said hi."

DEFORMED SON

"Just so you know, we keep our deformed son chained in the basement," the farmer said. "So when you hear rattling and wailing in the middle of the night, that'll be him."

"Ah," said the traveling salesman. "That's interesting, I guess."

"Now, you may get it into your head that you want to go down the stairs and investigate, but I assure you, when you gaze upon his horrific visage you'll wish you'd done nothing of the sort. He is absolutely disgusting. I mean, simply vile. My stomach hurts a little just thinking about him."

"Not to be rude," said the traveling salesman, "but that's an unusual attitude for a parent to take."

The farmer nodded. "I get what you're saying. And if he were maybe twenty percent less deformed, I'd agree with you. But this kid...let me tell you, when he popped out of his momma, I said 'Shove him back in, he's not done yet.' Normally that would be the kind of thing I'd say out loud and immediately wish I'd kept in my head, but everybody in the delivery room, my beloved wife included, agreed with me."

"Wow."

"We didn't shove it back in, though. That would've been impractical."

The traveling salesman had already wished he hadn't run out of gas on the desolate road in the middle of the night, but this conversation made him wish even more that he hadn't ignored the sign that said "Last Chance Gas Station." He'd figured it was a deceptive marketing campaign.

"Here's your room," said the farmer, opening the door to a small but tidy guest room. "If you value retaining whatever food you've eaten today, I'd advise you not to leave it. Do not enter any other room under any circumstances."

"What's in the other rooms?"

"Nothing."

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Don't make me regret my hospitality."

"All right. I promise I won't leave the room."

"The obvious exception is the bathroom. You're welcome to leave your room and go into that room if the need arises. I wouldn't deny you that. But otherwise, stay in your room."

The traveling salesman thanked the farmer and went to bed, where he dreamt of a nubile young woman eating a hoagie. Around two in the morning he awoke with the need to empty his bladder. He crossed the hallway and quickly used the toilet.

After he flushed, he heard rattling and wailing from below.

Did the farmer really keep his deformed son locked in the basement, or was this something even more curious?

What kind of traveling salesman would he be if he didn't investigate? He was supposed to be a man of the world, and here was a part of the world he'd never experienced. If he didn't go down into the basement, he'd forever wonder if the farmer had been telling the truth.

As he stepped out of the bathroom, he stood in the hallway for a few minutes, listening for any sign that the farmer might be awake, such as footsteps or muttering. Aside from the wailing and chains rattling, the house was silent.

The traveling salesman decided that he needed to go down there. What was the farmer going to do, stab him through the face with a pitchfork?

He very slowly walked down the stairs to the first floor. Then he crossed through the living room and through the kitchen, until he reached the basement door.

He took a deep breath. Maybe this wasn't a great idea. What if the deformed son was so hideous that the image was permanently burned onto his eyeballs? What if in the future the traveling salesman was about to enjoy a perfectly good hamburger, but instead of the top of the sesame seed bun he saw only the face of the deformed boy? That would ruin his hamburger.

He should turn back.

He turned around. The farmer stood just outside of the kitchen, looking most unhappy with him.

"I told you to stay in your room," said the farmer.

"Ah, yes," said the traveling salesman. "I do specifically remember us having that particular conversation. What happened is that I woke up, as I often do, confused about my surroundings. I suffer from insomnia and often take a sleeping pill to aid with my unconsciousness, particularly when I'm on the road. So I wandered around the house, trying to remember where I was, until the sight of you just now brought everything back. I suppose I'll head back upstairs now and return to the bed that you so generously provided."

"I don't have a daughter," the farmer said.

"I never suggested that you did."

"That's what you're looking for, right? A sixteen-year-old daughter to ravish?"

"What? Goodness, no."

"You traveling salesmen are all alike. Always looking to score with a farmer's underage daughter."

"No, no, no, sir. Nothing could be further from the truth. Even if she were of the legal age of consent, I would not be creeping around your home in hopes of spending time in her company. That would be disrespectful. It was the sleeping pill. Entirely the sleeping pill."

"Would you be willing to show me the bottle from which the sleeping pill came?"

"That would not be my preference."

"If you're not trying to find my beautiful willing daughter, then the only other explanation is that you wish to gape at my deformed son, which is the behavior of a mentally unstable person. I've said quite clearly how unpleasant he is to the eye. He will turn your dreams into a maelstrom of nightmare images that will forever haunt you. Is that what you want?"

"No, sir."

"Then return to bed, and forget that you ever came down here."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The next morning, the traveling salesman awoke, packed his suitcase, and walked downstairs. "Thank you for your hospitality," he said. "If I might ask one last favor, now that it's daylight, would you drive me to the nearest gas station?"

The farmer took a sip of his cup of coffee and shook his head. "I don't own a car."

"But there's a car in your driveway."

"That hasn't worked in twenty years."

"What about a tractor?"

"Tractor doesn't work, either."

"How do you sustain a farm without a car or tractor?"

"Government subsidies."

"So you have no way of giving me a ride?"

"Nope."

"Is there anything from which I could syphon some gas?"

"Nope."

"How far away is the nearest gas station?"

"About thirty miles."

"That's problematic. I guess I'll have to call a tow truck or something."

The traveling salesman called every auto-related business in the area, and none of them could send a tow truck until the next morning.  He was extremely disappointed by this, because every day he wasn't on the road was a day he wasn't selling blenders. The farmer offered to let him stay in his home for another night, and the traveling salesman had no choice but to accept.

"Let me repeat what I said before: do not leave your room. I cannot emphasize strongly enough just how much you would not enjoy the sight of my deformed son. He's got a decent enough personality, but personality can only take you so far, and even the least superficial human being in the country would gag. They might do it discretely, but they'd still gag. Stay in your damn room."

But when the traveling salesman woke up at two in the morning again, he needed to see what was down there, wailing and rattling the chains. What if it was something really cool? He had to know. And though the farmer had been upset with him when he caught him in the kitchen, there was still no reason to believe that it would lead in a pitchfork-through-the-face direction.

What was the worst that could happen?

He very carefully snuck down the stairs, through the living room, and through the kitchen. He placed his hand upon the knob to the door to the basement and ever so slowly, he turned it.

The door was locked.

But it was locked from this side, so he unlocked it.

Ever so slowly, he turned the knob.

He pushed open the door.

The wailing and rattling of chains grew louder, although it wasn't because the actual noise had increased in volume, but rather that the door was no longer muffling the sound.

The traveling salesman suddenly broke into a cold sweat. He'd always prided himself on being a courteous guest, but going into the forbidden basement was more than discourteous, it was flat out rude. If he had a deformed child locked in his own basement, he certainly wouldn't want gawkers going down there. He should go back to bed before he saw something he regretted.

No. Not knowing would drive him mad. He'd just take a quick peek.

He flipped the light switch. The wailing abruptly stopped.

Slowly, one step at a time, the traveling salesman walked down the stairs.

A large cobweb-covered curtain hung from the ceiling. The wailing and the rattling of chains was coming from behind it.

The traveling salesman's heart raced. What monstrosity was behind that curtain? How many heads did it have?

Slowly, one step at a time, the traveling salesman walked forward.

He reached for the curtain.

And pulled it aside.

And there, chained to the wall, was a deformed little boy.

He was gross, no doubt, but somehow the traveling salesman had expected him to be even grosser. The boy's eyes, though odd in both color and size, could have been quite a bit odder. It was a nose unlike that which he'd ever seen, yet he'd anticipated a nose that was larger, droopier, and greener. His head wasn't all that malformed; you could still get a hat on it if you tried.

There was nothing attractive whatsoever about that little boy. The farmer was right to keep him chained down there. But still, the traveling salesman couldn't help feeling unsatisfied. He'd expected to be forever haunted but instead he'd just be queasy for a few weeks.

Somebody came down the stairs.

The traveling salesman spun around, wondering who the intruder could possibly be.

It was the farmer.

"You fool!" the farmer shouted. "I warned you! I warned you and you didn't listen! You just had to look, didn't you? Your sanity isn't doing so well anymore, is it? Is it?"

The traveling salesman shrugged. "He's not as off-putting as I thought."

"Oh. Well...good, I guess. I mean, he's the product of my loins, so if you don't think he looks that bad I suppose it's a compliment."

"He's wretched, don't get me wrong. It's just that with all of the buildup, my imagination created an image that reality couldn't surpass. He couldn't live up to the hype."

"I'm strangely disappointed by your reaction," the farmer admitted.

"It's okay. If you hadn't said anything, and I'd snuck down here to investigate, I'm sure I would have shrieked and crapped my pants."

"Thank you."

"Can we go back upstairs?" asked the traveling salesman. "The way he keeps wailing and rattling those chains is kind of irritating."

"Oh, sure. We should both go back to sleep, anyway."

The next morning, a tow truck arrived and took the traveling salesman to the nearest gas station, where he fueled his vehicle and then went on his way, hoping to have a couple of really strong days worth of blender sales to make up for the time he'd lost.

He would often look back on his experience in the farmer's home, and each time he did, he'd remember the valuable lesson he'd learned about managing his expectations.

THE ORIGIN OF SLASHY

Kaylie was raped. It wasn't a particularly brutal rape, as far as these things go. Oh, it was a rape all right—no blurred lines of consent here—but there were no weapons involved and the violence was all implied. She was told to let it happen if she didn't want to be beaten to death, and since she didn't want to be beaten to death, she let it happen.

Kaylie knew the guy. Colin. Not a common name for somebody from New Jersey, but his parents were fans of British television. He lived in one of the apartments in her complex. At the time of the rape, she hadn't known which apartment, even though he'd lived there for almost a year and she'd lived there for eight. She didn't go outside much.

He was decidedly average in height and build. Not an intimidating figure, unless, like Kaylie, you were four-foot-eleven and anorexic. Before he raped her, the only real time they'd spent together was one late night when they were both doing laundry. He'd tried to strike up a conversation, which hadn't gone well because Kaylie wasn't good at conversations, and when she thought about it later there'd been a flash of an odd expression on his face when she folded her panties.

Three weeks later, he'd knocked on her door at two in the morning. He hadn't awakened her, because she was always still up at two, but it took three different knocking sessions within ten minutes—each more insistent—before she let him in.

He was drunk and sad. He asked for a beer, and when she explained that she didn't have any alcohol, he said she was lying, everybody had some alcohol in their refrigerator, because it was rude to not have some to offer guests, and Kaylie offered to let him look through her refrigerator as proof.

Had he taken her up on that offer, she would have called the police while he was distracted, and though she might still have been raped, it's entirely possible that nobody would have died.

He did not take her up on that offer.

Instead, he took her by the hand and led her into the bedroom, telling her exactly what he was going to do to her, and exactly what would happen if she made it difficult to get what he wanted. He still sounded sad, even though he was presumably describing things that he would enjoy doing and that should therefore make him happy.

She asked him not to do this. She told him she was a virgin. He laughed at her, though not like she'd said something funny. She was at least thirty, he said, and he knew she was lying, just like she'd lied about the beer. Kaylie was actually thirty-two, and she was not lying.

In the bedroom, he did awful things to her. If she'd done them willingly, they might not have been such bad things, but with his hands around her neck they were horrible, painful, disgusting things.

When he'd finished, he thanked her—thanked her—and left. He didn't even tell her not to call the police. Did he think she'd be too frightened of retribution to tell anybody what he'd done? Did his guilty conscience make him want her to turn him in? Was he too drunk to care?

She stared at the phone for a long time. All night. She cried a little, but not too much. She felt revulsion and fear and shame all at once, and though she tried to throw up she couldn't get the sickness out of her.

Maybe the sickness would never leave.

Why even live like this?

Just the thought of suicide filled her with relief. There was a way out. He could stain her body, but not her soul, and if it turned out there was no such thing as a soul, at least she'd be dead and wouldn't care.

She thought there were a couple of razor blades in a drawer in the bathroom, and she was right. Quickly, before she could change her mind, she cut a deep red line down each of her arms.

It barely hurt at all. Blood flowed.

And then, seconds later, the cuts healed.

She stared at her arms. Had she imagined that?

No. The blood was still there.

She cut again, in the same place, slicing even deeper. Once again, blood spilled onto the tile floor, but then the cuts healed. There wasn't even a scar.

Kaylie stared into the mirror and then slashed her cheek very slowly. The cut began to close itself up before she'd even finished.

What had happened to her?

Had Colin done this? Or had this happened before? She couldn't remember the last time she'd accidentally cut herself. It had to be a year or more. She tried to think of any major events that could have bestowed this power upon her and came up blank.

Was she immortal?

If she was immortal, she didn't have to fear anything, right?

Suddenly she realized it was seven o'clock and time to get ready for work. She didn't have to leave her apartment, but the insurance company knew when she logged in and logged out and her boss would be mad if she was late.

She turned on the shower as hot as it would go. It disturbed her to realize that she didn't need to take off her clothes, because she'd never put them back on. As steam filled the bathroom, she stepped under the scalding water, which for about half a second felt like it was delivering cleansing and purification but then felt way too hot so she turned it to a more reasonable temperature.

As she washed off her blood, she imagined the police taking Colin away in handcuffs. It was a mediocre mental image. She'd be glad that he wasn't around to hurt anybody else, but would she feel vindicated? Not really. Even when she added the image of the cops zapping him on the back of the neck with a stun gun, it didn't make her smile.

Being completely drenched in Colin's blood? That was a better image.

By lunchtime, she realized that long stretches of her workday had been spent staring at her computer screen without really seeing anything, but that the time wasn't completely unproductive because she'd made the decision to murder Colin. If she'd been gifted with super healing powers, why not try it? She'd do it as soon as she clocked out.

Kaylie didn't own a gun and didn't want to go that route because of the noise. She did own several knives. Obviously, she couldn't just rush at him with a butcher knife, but his size advantage wouldn't make a difference if he was asleep. You could be three hundred pounds of pure steroid-enhanced muscle and it wouldn't protect you from a blade in your throat.

She needed to know which apartment was his. The first option was to wander around the complex until she saw him, but that wasn't good use of her time. The manager would probably tell her, since he would have no reason to be suspicious of somebody who'd lived there for eight years, except that when Colin turned up stabbed to death he'd probably remember that Kaylie had inquired about which apartment was his.

Maybe she'd just sit somewhere, being inconspicuous, and watch the mailboxes. Everybody checked their mail. Her other superpower was the ability to sit patiently for a long, long time.

So that's what she did. She sat next to the pool and pretended to read a book. She sat there until well past dark, far too dark to even read, but Colin never showed up to collect his mail. Finally, she gave up and went back to her apartment. She ate a couple of bites of macaroni and cheese, slashed her wrist again to see if the healing still worked (it did) and then went to bed.

The next day, Kaylie decided that she didn't actually care if anybody suspected her of Colin's future murder. If she got caught and went to prison, so what?

When she told the apartment manager that Colin had left his shirt in one of the dryers and that she wanted to return it to him, the manager explained that Colin had moved out early the previous morning. There was no forwarding address that would allow Kaylie to return the shirt. He'd mentioned moving to Los Angeles.

Los Angeles! She'd never find him there! And he'd probably lied about it, being a rapist and all, so that left the entirety of the United States for him to hide! Maybe the entire world!

Even if she hired a private investigator who did find an address for him in California, she couldn't travel there. She could barely force herself to go out for groceries. Maybe it would be easier to go out for groceries now that she was a superhuman healer, but California? Not a chance.

She went back to her apartment and cried a lot.

The mental image of being drenched in Colin's blood cheered her up a little. And as she thought about it, reviewing the mind-picture from all angles, she realized that it didn't necessarily have to be Colin's blood.

What if she got somebody else to rape her? Would sticking a knife into another man's neck make up for both crimes?

She went through her closet. She didn't own any revealing clothes, nothing to encourage lewd advances. Of course, she had the panties that had presumably set Colin off, but she couldn't go out only wearing those.

She did have her favorite turquoise blouse. Though it wasn't sexy, it looked nice on her, and if she kept it mostly unbuttoned...

Why hadn't she called the police? Colin could be raping some other girl right now. He could even be strangling someone to death.

It was too late now.

No, it wasn't.

The police would want to know why she hadn't called them immediately.

So what? She was the victim. She'd tell them she was scared and humiliated and couldn't bring herself to tell anybody about it. Surely there were plenty of other women who'd reacted the same way to this kind of violation.

But there'd be no closure. No blood.

She changed into the blouse and looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad at all. Her face was still plain (no, ugly) but if she let her hair down she thought she looked relatively desirable.

Now what? She already had a perfectly good butcher knife, which would fit in her purse, so if she bought some sleeping pills and crushed them into a powder she'd be good to go. She knew there were date rape drugs out there that you could slip into somebody's drink, but she didn't have the slightest idea how to go about getting one, and she thought over-the-counter sleeping pills would work just fine.

Kaylie was surprised to discover that crushing pills into a powder was a challenging process. They kept popping out from under the spoon and she had to keep picking them up off the floor. Since these pills were to aid her in a murder, she didn't worry about this being unsanitary.

Finally she poured the powder into a snack-sized plastic bag and put it into her purse next to the butcher knife. There. She was ready to go. Now all she needed to do was figure out where the rapists lurked.

Waffle House?

No.

Under a bridge?

Probably, but her intent was not to be gang-raped and dumped into a river, even with her magical healing powers. She had to remain in control of the situation.

A bar would be a good choice. Though she'd never been inside of one, there had to be some predatory men in there trying to get women drunk. That was the whole point, right? There were bars all over the place, so if she found no suitable candidates at the first one, she'd just go to the next one, and so on until she achieved her goal.

Yes, that's what she would do. It was a perfect plan.

She looked in the mirror again, burst into tears, stripped off her clothes, and scalded herself in the shower until the hot water ran out.

She cursed her healing powers for keeping her in this agonizing world.

What if she cut off her own head? That would kill her, wouldn't it?

Kaylie didn't know how to go about cutting off her own head and didn't really want to try. She'd live for now. Vengeance before suicide. If the vengeance worked out, she might not want the suicide anymore.

She dried off, got dressed again, took her purse and walked out of the apartment complex. She didn't own a car, but there were plenty of places within walking distance. In fact, there was a bar only two blocks away, a place called Abby's with a martini on the logo.

Kaylie cringed as she passed a couple of people walking in the other direction. Did they know she had a butcher knife in her purse? Did they know she was tainted? Did they know she could instantly heal wounds? Or did they just think she was some unattractive, emaciated girl desperately hoping to get lucky tonight?

She walked into Abby's, but the smell of smoke was so overpowering that she had to walk right back out. Her eyes already burned. That wasn't going to work.

She reached the next bar and didn't even go inside; a cloud of smoke practically billowed from the place when she opened the door. However, there was another one next to it, and though the place definitely reeked it was at least tolerable.

There were about a dozen people in there, most of them sitting by themselves. She hesitated, unsure if she should go through with this or if she should just go home and cry some more, and then walked over and sat down on a stool.

The bartender asked her what she wanted to drink. What did she want? Not alcohol. She ordered a Coke, hoping he wouldn't get mad at her. He didn't seem to care. The drink was mostly ice and about six times as expensive as the soft drinks she bought from the vending machine by her apartment, making Kaylie wonder why anybody ever went into a bar.

Nobody approached her.

She stayed for about an hour, long enough to drink four overpriced Cokes, and then left. Why had no men hit on her? Was she too unattractive? Did she have a recently-raped scent?

At the next bar, she considered just getting a glass of water, but that would anger the bartender for sure. So she continued to buy Cokes, even though she desperately had to pee and didn't want to use the strange (and probably horrific) restroom.

Just as she was about to leave, a man sat next to her. He looked old enough to be her dad, but he had a pleasant smile. He asked her name and she decided to make up a fake name, so she said it was Dot. He said his name was Jim.

She told him that she couldn't stay anymore because she really, really had to pee, and he said that his place was two minutes away and that he had a very clean bathroom, and that's all it took.

It was more like eight minutes. Still, he hadn't lied about the cleanliness of his bathroom, and Kaylie/Dot was able to relieve herself while suffering only a minor panic attack.

Now that she no longer needed to sprint to the toilet, Kaylie came out of the bathroom and looked around at Jim's apartment. It was a nice place, at least twice as big as her own. There were framed paintings on every wall, though Kaylie didn't know if the art was any good.

Jim offered to make popcorn, which she thought was kind of charming.

After he went into the kitchen, Kaylie considered how she might get him to try and rape her. Should she just take off her shirt? No, if she was that blatant, then it might not be a real rape. He seemed like a nice guy. What if he didn't try anything? What if she had to spend the evening watching a movie and eating popcorn?

He asked if she'd ever seen The Princess Bride. She had, of course, but lied and said that she hadn't. So they sat on his leather sofa and ate popcorn and watched the movie.

When the movie was over, he asked if she was ready for him to take her home. He said it with a smile, in such a way that she knew he would take her home if she wanted, but that he hoped she would say that she didn't want to go. So she said that she didn't want to go.

He asked if she wanted to move somewhere more comfortable.

It was a tentative, low-pressure question from a man who was clearly not used to having the opportunity to ask it. Not exactly the behavior of a savage sexual predator, yet at the same time, they'd barely known each other longer than the running time of The Princess Bride. Who did he think he was? Who did he think she was?

She said yes.

Though he was a bit shorter and thinner than Colin, she didn't think she could just lunge and successfully get a butcher knife blade into him without putting her safety at risk. Her healing powers gave her the courage to try this in the first place, but she didn't want to strain them too much. She'd have to use the powdered sleeping pills.

She asked if he had any red wine, since she needed a dark colored beverage to hide the powder. He said no, he didn't drink, and she tried to think of a suitable substitute until he grinned, said that he was joking, and reminded her that they'd met in a bar.

They sat on the couch and sipped glasses of red wine. It was even grosser than she remembered from the time she'd tried it as a little kid, but she choked it down. Unfortunately, Jim never left his glass unattended. What was she supposed to do? Ask him to go take a shower? Was that allowed?

He asked if she was ready to go to the bedroom. She couldn't figure out how to create an opportunity to spike his drink, so she said yes, she was. She picked up her purse as he took her hand and led her into the bedroom.

Jim started to light a candle, but she said no, she liked it better in the dark. And then, though Kaylie was not good at coming up with spontaneous plans, she got an idea, and she told Jim that if he lay on his stomach she'd give him a back massage.

He happily agreed to this. He took off his shirt, revealing a hairy chest and a small beer belly, and stretched out on top of the blankets.

Kaylie unzipped her purse. She told him that she was getting out a...she couldn't bring herself to say "condom" so she said "thing" instead. He didn't question her. Technically, a butcher knife was a thing, so she wasn't lying.

She climbed onto the bed, straddled him, and ran her fingertips over his shoulders.

He let out a soft moan.

She clutched the handle of the butcher knife in both hands.

Had he truly done anything wrong?

Did she really want to do this?

Yes, he had, and she did.

She slammed the blade into that son of a bitch's neck. It didn't go in as far as she wanted but his entire body went stiff, and she wrenched out the blade and stabbed him again, giggling at his high-pitched yelp. She shoved the blade in deeper, wishing it wasn't too dark to see the blood spurting from that fucking rapist's neck (she should have let him light the candle), and suddenly he was up, bucking her off like a rodeo horse, but it was a mistake for him to turn around because she jabbed the blade in his goddamn throat, not a direct hit but close enough, and spatters of blood got all over her face and blue blouse and he shoved her away but she came right back at him and the knife plunged into his chest and he was weakening in a big way and she couldn't wait for that motherfucker to burn in hell for what he did to her and she stabbed him over and over and over when he stopped moving she just kept stabbing and when she was positive he was dead she just kept stabbing and it wasn't until his head was most of the way off that she decided this was overkill and dropped the knife onto the soaked blanket.

She ran her index finger along his ruined chest and considered whether her burden felt sufficiently lifted.

Yes. It did.

Her rape had been officially avenged.

And quite honestly, even without the vengeance angle, this hadn't been such a bad way to spend an evening. Knowing that she was a superhuman healer had removed a lot of the stress. She wondered if she'd heal from a crushed bone. Maybe she should drop something heavy on her fingers to test it out.

She did. They healed.

Kaylie decided that she should kill more people.

She did.

After the third murder, involving a teenager who wouldn't be using that penis again even if he weren't dead, she realized that she had to become a transient or she'd eventually get caught. That was fine. After all this time, she was discovering that it was nice to get out of her apartment and go do things.

And besides, as long as she could find an Internet connection, she didn't have to quit her day job.

Because she was careful, rarely murdered twice in the same state, and varied her methods, the media never caught on that there was a new superhero (or serial killer, or whatever) in the country. Which meant that she didn't get a cool nickname.

So she gave herself one: Slashy.

It was a silly name, but, hey, it was silly when she played Tic-Tac-Toe on a man's stomach with a straight razor. Nothing wrong with a little silliness.

She's still out there, protecting the world from those who might have evil in their hearts.

And that is the origin of Slashy.

SECRET MESSAGE (DECODED)

Author's Note: My collection Gleefully Macabre Tales contained a short story called "Secret Message," which was presented as a cryptogram. It was a very straightforward substitution cipher (A=B, B=C, C=D, etc.) but obviously a bit time consuming for a 358-word story. I did hear from several people who completed the task, but for most readers, "Secret Message" remained a mystery...

...until now.

* * *

Harvey frowned as he opened the letter. Pure gibberish. What was this, a code?

He always enjoyed solving the daily cryptogram in the newspaper, but he'd never had one mailed to him before. There was no return address on the envelope, just a local postmark. It was probably one of his buddies playing a joke.

Well, hey, it might be fun. He checked his voice mail (no messages) and his e-mail (nothing but spam), then sat down at the table and went to work.

The handwritten letter filled the entire sheet of paper, but the writing was very large and it only seemed to be one sentence long. That would make it a bit more difficult, since solving a cryptogram depended on identifying familiar patterns of letters, but the daily newspaper hadn't stumped him since high school and neither would this.

After a couple of false starts, he figured out that not only was it a straightforward substitution cipher, but it had a simple pattern: each letter represented the letter directly after it. He quickly began filling in the rest of the message...and realized what it said before he'd even finished.

"While you've been decoding this, your cat has been suffocating in the freezer."

Harvey chuckled. He didn't have a cat, or any pets. It was just himself and his sixteen year-old daughter Tina.

His wife was long gone. They'd locked that psycho up for good when Tina was just four.

Of course, Louise had loved to call Tina "my little kitten..."

Harvey hurried through the kitchen into the garage. He didn't even think Tina could fit in the chest freezer, but his pulse was racing anyway.

He threw open the lid.

Tina wasn't inside.

Not all of her, anyway.

All of the food had been removed. Lying on the bottom of the freezer was an eyeball. Next to that, a heart. And then a toe. Finally, spelled out in intestines, was the word "kill."

Eye heart toe kill.

He heard Louise's familiar cackle from the open doorway to the kitchen, saw the butcher knife in her hand, and quickly discovered that the message was, indeed, quite accurate.

THE SENTIENT CHERRY COLA

THAT TRIED TO DESTROY THE WORLD

I'm sure you're going to ask, but does it really matter how the cherry cola became sentient? If you truly need to know, I'll get into the whole backstory, but this will move a lot faster if you just accept that some elements aren't going to be completely logical. Sometimes a cherry cola just comes to life, you know?

No? You need the explanation?

Fine. It was witchcraft. These witches were all like, "We're not witches! We're Wiccan! We believe in goodness and the magic of the earth!" but ultimately, their naked moonlight dancing wasn't as harmless as they thought, because it brought some cherry cola to life.

One of them, Gloria, had a cooler full of beverages in case anybody was thirsty after the dancing. Aside from one bottle of water consumed by Lori, the witches had all declined Gloria's offer, making her wonder why she'd bothered to bring it in the first place. Last time she'd packed sandwiches that nobody bothered to eat, and the time before that she'd brought fruit salad. She was the first one to admit that the bananas hadn't held up, but she'd choked down Beatrice's scalloped potatoes that one time just to be polite, and would it have killed her to return the favor?

There were three cans of cherry cola in the cooler. The actual brand name would later be the source of much finger pointing and lawsuits, with representatives from Coca-Cola saying it was Cherry Pepsi and representatives from PepsiCo saying it was Cherry Coke. A couple of independent brands initially tried to claim credit for it, figuring that any publicity was good publicity, although once the body count started to rise they regretted that decision.

It was actually a local brand called Gertrude's Soda, known for inexpensive soft drinks that didn't taste very good and had killed dozens of laboratory rats. The owner, Bernard 'Gertrude' Sloven, never knew the devastation his product would cause. If he had known, he would have had a quiet chuckle about it, because Bernard was not a people person.

Two of the three cans in Gloria's cooler remained regular cherry cola. The third, however, came to life.

You have to look at this from the cherry cola's perspective. You're suddenly alive with no explanation and you're trapped in a dark, cold, twelve-ounce can. There is literally no room to move except to swirl around. You have no idea what's going on. I mean, it's not like you're thinking, "Wow, I'm some cherry cola that has somehow come to life! This is incredible!" You don't know you're cherry cola. One moment you're not aware of your existence and then the next moment you are, and your existence sucks.

The can of cherry cola went from Gloria's cooler back into to her refrigerator, where it remained unopened for seven months. Imagine that. For seven months you're stuck in this can with no idea who or what you are. Can you imagine being stuck in traffic for seven months? Or trapped in an elevator? Or down in a mine shaft? At least if you were in the mine shaft, you could eventually turn to cannibalism to stave off the boredom, but that cherry cola had no stimuli beyond the inside of an aluminum can. What if you were a newborn baby and your mother abandoned you in a gravel pit and you just lay there for...actually, maybe abandoned newborns isn't the comparison I want to make. That's kind of depressing. Nobody wants to read about that. I apologize.

What I'm saying is that the cherry cola, though it would later do awful things, is deserving of our empathy. First it was confused and frightened. But as time moved on, it began to feel rage. Deep fury. Typically, Gertrude's Soda lost its carbonation in a couple of weeks, but the cherry cola's rage was so intense that its level of carbonation more than doubled.

The cherry cola did not think in English, so to do a literal transcription of its thoughts would mean that much of this narrative would be self-indulgent gibberish. Instead, as your omniscient narrator, I will take it upon myself to translate its thoughts into language that makes sense to you, rather than making you do all of the heavy lifting.

"Hate everything. Kill...kill...kill..."

Which would be your exact attitude in its position. Don't try to deny it. You wouldn't be the merry cherry cola that tried to bring a sense of wonder and delight to children everywhere.

I know you've got a lot of questions already and I'm not going to be able to get to all of them in the allotted space. Every time you demand some exposition, it's at the cost of a wonderfully gruesome death scene later, so take that into consideration when you start asking questions like "How was the cherry cola aware of the concept of death?"

You just have to know, huh? And those of you wanting answers are probably the same people who will be complaining about how long it took the cherry cola to get out of the can. "It took over a thousand words for it to do anything but swirl around, being angry!" you'll say. We could already be at an awesome gory death scene, but noooooooo, you want everything to make sense!

Fine. It was witchcraft. Those nekkid dancing Wiccans instilled the cherry cola with a magic that made it aware of the fact that you can murder somebody.

Pretty scary stuff, isn't it? A rage-filled cherry cola that knows about death? It sure would be inconvenient for humanity if it got out of the can.

Every once in a while, the cherry cola would hear Voices from Beyond. They were muffled and the cherry cola didn't understand the meaning of their words.

"Don't just stand there all day with the refrigerator open!"

"There was ketchup in there the last time I looked!"

"That's just the date the store has to sell it by. It's not like it suddenly turns to poison on the expiration date. Just drink the milk!"

Did these voices belong to Jesus Christ?

Of course the cherry cola was aware of our Lord and Savior! How could it not be? I'm not trying to turn this into a Jesus-themed story, but if you keep asking questions like that I will break out the good book and start quoting the appropriate scriptures.

Yeah, I didn't think so. Let's move forward.

It was a dark night (though the cherry cola had no concept of night) in the middle of winter (though the cherry cola had no concept of winter) when a flu-ridden (though the cherry cola had no concept of influenza or inoculation) Pete, who was Gloria's son, got out of bed to poke around in the refrigerator. As always, he was annoyed that no new food had materialized since the last time he checked. In the Star Wars movies, food materializes in refrigerators all the time, thought Pete, who didn't pay very close attention to the Star Wars movies outside of the swordfights.

As he moved items around, hoping that there might be a previously hidden turkey, he saw, way in the back, the can of cherry cola.

He didn't feel like a soda (or "pop" as some heathens call it) at the moment, so he ended up eating half of a packet of pre-made squeezable guacamole and then went back to bed.

Ha! You thought he was going to drink the cherry cola, didn't you? Psyche! Psyche your gullible little mind! You were reading this, all arrogant and stuff, thinking that you knew exactly what was going to happen, but you were as wrong as a baby in a blender.

I'm sorry. I really didn't mean that. I mean, I did mean that a baby in a blender is wrong—only the most wretched of wretches would try to argue that point—but I didn't intend to bring up dead babies again. Your arrogance distracted me. Once again, I apologize.

The next morning, Pete had a bowl of some sort of cereal that had formerly had "Sugar" in the name and then he drank the cherry cola.

"This is a lot fizzier than usual," he said out loud, even though there was nobody else around, because Pete was better at speaking than thinking.

The cherry cola's rage intensified not only its fizziness, but also its cherry flavor. Usually, upon drinking Gertrude's Soda you had to really concentrate on your tongue to detect the artificial fruit flavor, but this particular drink tasted as if a half-dozen actual cherries had been squeezed into the high fructose corn syrup.

It was incredibly tasty.

Pete drank it all.

Every last drop.

Have you ever tried to get the last drop out of a can of soda? It doesn't really work. No matter how many times you tilt it back and shake it over your mouth, a drop or two is going to be denied you. So Pete took a knife out of the silverware drawer, cut open the can, and licked the inside.

Have you ever enjoyed soda so much that you cut open the can so you could lick the inside? Of course you haven't. Because you know that you'd probably slice open your tongue on the sharp edge and it wouldn't be worth those extra two drops of Mountain Dew, no matter how delicious Mountain Dew may be.

Your takeaway from this? Rage is delicious.

Gloria walked into the kitchen and demanded to know what the [mild expletive deleted] Pete was doing. His answer was difficult to understand because he'd cut off the majority of his tongue.

The cherry cola swirled around angrily in Pete's stomach. There had been a brief moment of light and then it had been plunged back into darkness. And it was a much grosser darkness. Have you ever felt the inside of your stomach? No offense, but it's disgusting.

As he sat with his mother in the hospital waiting room, Pete realized he had to go to the bathroom. So he went into the restroom, unzipped his pants and...

I'm not going to describe this. If you want some deviant descriptions of that sort of thing, you'll have to look elsewhere. Sorry to disappoint, pervo! But feel free to take a good long look at your life and the choices you've made that led you to want to read about that sort of thing.

After Pete flushed, he began to feel a bit queasy because, as mentioned before, he had the flu. So he dropped to his knees, leaned over the toilet bowl and...

I am going to describe the puke, so sensitive readers will want to skip the next paragraph.

Oh, it was a mighty flood of vomit! Cherry cola mixed with chunks of chicken pot pie mixed with cranberry juice mixed with chocolate pudding mixed with a cockroach that had crawled into his mouth while he slept (Fun Fact: 13% of us have a cockroach crawl into our mouths as we sleep each night and we don't even know it) mixed with gum that he'd swallowed six years ago mixed with paste he'd eaten in first grade mixed with one of his kidneys.

"Gaaaahhhhhhh!" he said.

Pete died minutes later. It's a sad thing when somebody under the age of eighteen dies, but millions more people perished after that, so let's not get too mopey about Pete.

Part of the cherry cola flowed through the sewage pipes, enjoying the sensation of being on a water slide (though it was unaware of water slides) though not approving of the liquid that accompanied it. The rest of the cherry cola would remain in the toilet bowl until a kindly janitor flushed it away.

I have been separated from myself! thought the first part of the cherry cola.

But it is as if my power has doubled! thought the second part.

Not only is my power doubled, but I am no longer restricted to the form of the can! Thanks to the properties of liquid, I can become anything I desire! thought the first part.

Whoa! And the accompanying materials are also taking that particular form! So instead of being the size of half of a can of soda, I can control as much of the raw sewage as I want! Hahahahahahaha! thought the second part.

This is the part where I'm going to cheat a bit because even if you want to read about it, I honestly don't want to devote a lot of space to the less appealing bodily fluids. Don't get me wrong, I'm not against all bodily fluids by any stretch of the imagination. Some of them are a source of endless cheer, like mucus. But for the purposes of this narrative, we're going to pretend that the sewer was filled with grape juice.

Everybody in agreement? No? Too bad.

The cherry cola/grape juice rose from the murky depths of the sewer, taking a form that approximated that of Bigfoot, purely by accident.

It took several months for the cherry cola to gain enough control of its new form to climb a ladder, during which time humanity hung around on the streets above in its happily oblivious state. You were probably one of them. Don't you feel silly now? You were sitting around all "La de da, life is just fine," while below you a cherry cola/grape juice creature was learning to climb a ladder. If only you'd known to go down there with a flamethrower, millions of people would not be dead right now.

That's right, I'm blaming you. I'm not saying that you should have been roaming the sewers just in case some sort of rage-filled soda creature took Bigfoot form, but would a little more awareness of your surroundings have been too much to ask?

It climbed the ladder, slid underneath the circular metal lid that stops innocent people from plummeting into the sewer, and stood in the street.

"I live!" it bellowed.

Of course, it had already been alive. The point it was trying to make was now that it was out of the sewer, its quality of life had taken a substantial upswing.

The first living thing it saw was a dog.

But somehow it knew, possibly thanks to Jesus, that nobody would sympathize with a creature who went around killing dogs, so instead it lurched toward the dog's owner.

The woman was eighty-nine years old and for the past seventy years she'd lived with the burden of a youthful indiscretion where she stabbed the wrong man to death. If she'd stabbed the correct man, it still would have been a punishment that far exceeded his crime of flirting with her sister (especially since he was married to her sister), but since it was the wrong man (the room had been dark) she'd had nightmares about it at least every other Thursday. She woke up from these nightmares with dried blood on her hands, but she figured that ignorance was bliss and made a point of avoiding news stories about unsolved murders. So, ultimately, it doesn't make you a bad person if you giggle upon hearing that the cherry cola/grape juice creature snapped her neck.

You should feel bad for the dog, though. After all, it didn't have an owner. Though after a few weeks of wandering the streets, scared and hungry, it was adopted by a newlywed couple who made it out to a safe island, enjoying one of the few happy endings in this tragic apocalyptic situation.

As the old woman fell to the ground, the creature frowned. It felt happy, it just didn't know that smile equals happy and frown equals sad. Killing her had been so easy. Sure, it was because she was old and her bones were brittle, but the creature did not know this and it thought that all living things were easy to kill.

And it wanted to kill all living things.

Because it was angry.

Angry at having been trapped in that cold, dark can for so very long.

Just like you would have been.

Admit it.

It walked down the street, breaking the necks of gawkers left and right. Several people called the police, but each and every one of them made the mistake of saying that the murders were being committed by a living mass of cherry cola and grape juice, so their calls were not taken seriously.

"You've got to help us!" a man shouted into his phone. "There's this thing and it—oh no, it just snapped another neck! It's walking down the street and—argh! Another neck gone! Oh, why won't you send somebody to—gasp, it broke yet another neck! That's seventy-six in all so far! Seventy-seven now! Please, please, please, if you value the sanctity of necks at all, you'll send somebody to—seventy-eight—help us before—seventy-nine—we all die!"

"Calm down, sir," said the 911 operator. "What exactly is snapping the necks?"

"It's cherry cola and grape juice that has somehow transformed into the shape of Sasquatch."

"You lying jerk!" the 911 operator shouted. "Can't you hear yourself? You think I have time to deal with your [harsh expletive deleted]? I should trace your call and go over there and kick your [moderate expletive deleted]! I hope you die! You hear that? I hope you die!"

So contacting the authorities did no good. Fresh corpses lined the streets. The sounds of screams forced many people to turn up the volume of their music.

This is pretty sweet, thought the creature. I'm really enjoying myself.

But this one guy realized that this was finally his opportunity to use his cannon. "Don't shoot the cannon!" people had always told him. "It would be irresponsible!" He'd always grudgingly listened to their advice, but now? You couldn't call somebody irresponsible if they were firing a cannon at something homicidal.

"Step to the left or right, everyone!" he shouted, just before he fired the cannon.

It was a direct hit. The creature exploded into millions of droplets.

Millions of rage-filled droplets.

Millions of rage-filled droplets that could bond with other liquid.

Had it not been pouring rain, things may have turned out quite differently.

You may be wondering why so many people were walking along the street when it was pouring rain, especially the elderly woman walking her dog. Well, I never said they weren't carrying umbrellas, and also the rain had started quickly, so not everybody had a chance to seek shelter.

There was one part where three different cherry cola/grape juice/rain creatures tore this banjo-player apart, limb from limb, but I don't have room to share it because you were so caught up in the whole rain thing. I'm not trying to be antagonistic toward you. I know you have a lot of reading options and it's nice that you chose me as your storyteller, but at the same time, I feel that I'm being needlessly handcuffed to logic. You know that I'm telling the truth because you can look outside and see all of the dead bodies scattered everywhere. You probably lost family members. So I really don't understand why you are getting so caught up in the small, irrelevant details, when my purpose here is to share a high-level record of the end of the world.

Anyway, we now had millions of creatures. The guy with the cannon saw them rise and wished he'd been less irresponsible.

People kept calling 911, but saying that millions of cherry colas were on a rampage sounded even less credible than saying that one of them was on a rampage. One woman realized what was happening, so when she called she said that there were millions of Bigfoots on a rampage instead, but her call was disregarded as well.

There had been six hundred and forty-nine people on the street when the creature first rose from the sewer. Now there were still six hundred and forty-nine people on the street, but they were all deceased.

The Chief of Police was on the fourth floor of a hotel on that street. It doesn't matter why he was there. You can engage in conjecture all you want. If a man isn't having his needs met at home, should he just pretend he has no needs? What would you have him do? This is a serious question. If he tried working it out, but every single night she tried to blame her fractured spine, what was he to do?

After he'd finished having his needs met, he glanced out the window. He was shocked to see hundreds of corpses out there. There'd been only five or six the last time he checked. He quickly shut off the television, with which he'd been pleasuring himself to adult films that he wasn't allowed to watch at home, and called the station.

"If you're calling about cherry cola, I swear I will jab a spork in your throat," said the cop who answered.

"I don't know anything about that, but there are at least three hundred and eighty dead bodies on Main Street!"

"And I suppose you want us to go right out and start cleaning them up? What do you think this is, the sanitation department?"

"No, I want to stop the number of dead bodies from increasing! Three hundred and eighty dead bodies is at least three hundred too many! Send everyone to Main Street! Bring cannons!"

If only the neighboring city hadn't been in the middle of the 23rd annual Cannon Festival, things might have turned out differently. They wheeled dozens of them over, their owners giddily anticipating the opportunity to fire them at living targets without receiving looks of disapproval.

Every time they shot one, the creature burst into millions of droplets, which turned into millions of other creatures. You would think that after the first couple of shots, they'd have figured out what was happening and switched to a different tactic, but they didn't, which is why you shouldn't feel too sorry for humanity, overall.

"We need wet-vacs!" somebody shouted. "Thousands of wet-vacs!"

Gertrude's Wet-Vacs, the company Bernard Sloven had formed after his soda manufacturing company went belly-up, had thousands of unsold wet-vacs in a nearby warehouse. But he wasn't about to let them get all dinged up while battling an apocalyptic menace. "Nobody wants to buy used equipment," he told the President of the United States. "So you can just bite me."

And that was the end. With an insufficient number of wet-vacs available, humans were powerless to defeat what had once been a single can of sub-par cherry cola.

"There's only one way!" shouted a scientist. "We must drink the creatures!"

It was such a ridiculous idea that the scientist deserved his ghastly fate. You did not want to go drinking those things, not after they'd developed a taste for human flesh. It was horrific.

But lots of people had said to themselves, "Hey, he's a scientist, he must know what he's talking about." Which is how thousands of people ended up with murderous cherry cola creatures in their bellies, and which in turn is how thousands of people ended up with murderous cherry cola creatures bursting out of their bellies, Alien-style.

This led to millions of people being scared to drink anything, which led to widespread dehydration. You've got to drink something. It's how your body works. So people began dying of thirst left and right. Bernard Sloven came out with Gertrude's Bottled Water (Guaranteed Cherry Cola Creature-Free!) but he'd lost his trust with the public and few drank it.

Important people started to die. Not just celebrities; people who knew how electricity worked and how to butcher a cow. Without these skills readily available, even more people started to die than the cherry cola creatures tore apart with their carbonated limbs, and many people, even those who'd always had a sunny outlook on life, started to think that the world might be coming to an end.

It got worse when, in a completely unrelated but equally devastating series of events, werewolves started slaughtering people en masse. Many sentient cherry cola deniers had thought the events up to this point were a big government conspiracy, but everybody believed in werewolves. The panic killed more people than the werewolves did, and believe me, those werewolves racked up quite the body count.

Then one of the cherry cola creatures discovered the ocean. This meant that not only did it have an entire ocean full of water with which to merge, it now had jellyfish.

Other countries, like Iceland, had thought they were pretty much safe from all of that nonsense happening in the USA, but now they realized they'd been sorely mistaken. Icelandic scientists who'd taken a pro-jellyfish attitude suddenly discovered that getting stung by a jellyfish hurt like crazy.

Which brings us to present day. Pretty much everyone is dead. That dog on the island is doing okay, but most of humanity's final survivors live in a post-apocalyptic wasteland, foraging for food and trying to hide from the roving gangs of mutants that formed when a nuclear power plant had a meltdown after a jellyfish got wedged in a crucial piece of equipment.

I'm not scared, because I'm an omniscient narrator who doesn't really exist in your plane of existence. No mutants can get me here.

You? Well, you should have quit interrupting me while I was trying to share important information that could have kept you alive in the coming decades. I was going to tell you how to destroy the cherry cola (hint: it rhymes with "bommon mold") but now you're just going to have to figure it out on your own.

Good night, and good luck.

THE EGGMAN FALLETH

Humptin Dumptin, who hated being called "Humpty Dumpty," sat on a stone wall, gazing out at the land beyond the kingdom. It was a very high wall, and he'd heard the whispers of those who suggested that an egg-man should consider a different sitting spot. He didn't care. He knew the risk and accepted it. There were few pleasures in the life of a giant egg, and Humptin would not let fear take away this marvelous view.

He was born to human parents. When his mother laid an egg, his father accused her of infidelity and bestiality, then left in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again. His mother cradled the egg to her bosom and promised her unconditional love to whatever creature might hatch from it. When the egg did not hatch, but rather grew arms and legs and developed a face, she too left in the middle of the night.

The king, a stern but fair ruler, declared Humptin to be a child of everyone in the kingdom, which meant that nobody had to help raise him for more than seven hours. He grew from a small egg to a medium-sized egg to a very large egg. He couldn't contribute much, being an egg, but since he did not eat nor drink nor produce waste, he was not a drain on society.

The wind was beginning to pick up. Humptin reluctantly decided that it was time to leave his perch and find something else to do. Perhaps he could watch cows being milked. Or perhaps he could watch hay being baled. Or he could just walk the cobblestone streets, pretending that nobody was staring at him.

But they always stared at him. He knew they did. Even in his stylish hat, his custom-made shirt, and his delightful pants, everybody stared at the giant egg-man. How could they not? If somebody else in the kingdom had been born with the misfortune of being a walking, talking egg, Humptin knew he would gape at them, too.

A sudden gust of wind blew him off the wall!

He plummeted four stories, shrieking in terror.

"Noooooooooo!" he wailed, as the ground seemed to rush toward him with hostile intent.

Impact.

His white shell broke into dozens of pieces. Yellow, glistening yolk sprayed from the wounds as if in slow motion.

Humptin gaped at his insides in horror. The pain was worse than he could ever have imagined. The pieces of shell with his arms and legs were gone, as was his left eye. His mouth had a horrific crack down the center.

"Help me..." he gasped. "Please help me..."

He'd been warned that he could have a great fall. Why hadn't he listened? Oh, God, why hadn't he listened?'

He just lay there, oozing.

They'd fix him. They had to fix him.

An eternity later, he heard a voice from above: "Humpty Dumpty has fallen from the wall! Open the gates!"

An eternity after that, the gates to the kingdom opened. People began to run outside, soon forming a tight circle around the shattered egg.

"So he does have yolk inside!" said one man. "I'd always wondered!"

"Scrambled or over easy?" said another man, who was glared at by the others and told that it was too soon for such wit.

"I'm dying..." said Humptin. It didn't even sound like his own voice anymore.

"Don't you worry, lad," said a young woman with three teeth. "All the king's horses and all the king's men are on their way. You'll be right as rain in no time."

Humptin stared at her with his remaining eye. What the hell were the king's horses going to do to help him? And why did he need all of the king's men? He only needed the ones with proper medical training.

Moments later, all the king's horses and all the king's men, which was a significant number, emerged from the gate.

Humptin screamed in agony.

"Fools! The horses have trodden upon Mr. Dumpty!" somebody shouted. "He was a lost cause before, but now he's even worse!"

Humptin watched egg white drip off hooves, unable to believe this nightmare was real.

Men and horses continued to accidentally step on his shell exoskeleton. Crack. Crack. Crack. The sound of each crack sent a horrified shiver down Humptin's crushed back.

"That horse is licking up his insides!" said the woman with three teeth. "Make it stop before there's nothing left!"

A knight leaned down and placed an armored hand on Humptin's face. "Humpty, can you hear me?"

"Yes..."

"You're going to be all right. Just stay with us. We've got the best men here, and we'll put you back together, better than ever."

Was it nighttime already, or was his vision going dark?

"So cold..." he said. "So sleepy..."

"Don't you give up!" the knight said. "I don't care how much you want to close your eyes, don't you do it! Don't you dare do it, Humpty Dumpty! We can fix you!"

A horse picked up a large piece of shell in its mouth and wandered off, happily crunching away.

"Get these goddamned horses out of here!" shouted the knight. "Somebody get me some glue! If there's none available, make one of the horses into glue! We're not going to let Humpty Dumpty die!"

But Humptin looked up at the knight. "It's all right," he said, voice barely a whisper. "The pain has already faded. Everything is numb. I'm ready to let go."

"No!"

"Even if you put me back together, I'll never be the same. I'll be horribly disfigured. I'll be a burden on the kingdom. I don't want to live like that."

"You're speaking madness! I vow to all of the gods that we will not let you die!"

"Please," said Humptin. "I'm ready to go. I'm ready."

The crowd gasped and parted as King Tiberius himself walked through the front gate and over to the carnage. The King placed his hand on the knight's shoulder. "It's time to let him go," he said, softly.

The knight nodded. He tried to wipe a tear from his eye, but couldn't get at it through the helmet, so instead he stood up. "You are a brave egg-man, Humpty Dumpty. You die with honor and will be forever remembered."

"Thank you."

And then the darkness overtook Humptin Dumptin, and he was no more.

Though he was dead, all the king's men tried to put him back together again, so his shell could be placed in the kingdom's library as a glorious, if macabre, reminder of the very odd citizen they'd lost.

But they couldn't do it, so they settled for a nursery rhyme in his honor instead.

He will be forever remembered.

R.I.P.

THE STORY OF MY FIRST KISS

"Who did this?" asked Ms. Tyrone, picking up the severed head by the hair. Some drops of blood spattered on her desk as she looked around the classroom.

None of us responded. I noticed Joey trying to stifle a giggle.

"I know you all think these pranks are oh-sooooo-funny, but they're not, and I expect them to stop immediately," Ms. Tyrone informed us in a very stern voice. She held the head up in front of her to examine it more closely. "Who is this? Can anybody identify her?"

Melissa, who sat in the front row, raised her hand.

"Yes, Melissa?"

"It's Daphne Ridge."

"From Mr. Pendleton's class?"

Melissa nodded.

"So one of you decapitated an honors student. Well, class, we're going to sit here until the guilty party confesses. No recess, no lunch, just sitting here with your heads down until I find out who's responsible."

The entire class groaned.

"And if anybody says a word except to fess up, they'll find themselves staying after class. I'm not kidding around." She set Daphne's head back down on her desk. "This is completely unacceptable."

Ms. Tyrone did indeed force us to sit there through lunch and afternoon recess, but at two-thirty she made us take our spelling test. She couldn't keep the entire class after school, I guess, so when the dismissal bell rang we all got to leave.

I caught up with Joey in the hallway, as he quickly walked toward the exit. "Jerk," I said, punching him on the arm.

"What?"

"Why'd you leave the head on Ms. Tyrone's desk?"

"It was funny."

"You're gonna get me in trouble."

"Then you shouldn't be killing people."

"The next time I do, I'm not gonna show you. You know I'll never get that head back, right? You're always doing stuff like this to me."

"You've still got her torso."

"The torso's no fun. First Michael steals her legs, then Adrienne steals her best arm, then Michael's dog steals her other arm, and then you get her head taken away. It's not fair."

"Wahhh wahhh."

I wanted to hit Joey again, but Principal Smith was standing right by the main doors, so I didn't. We walked out of the building and Joey ran over to his bus.

Stupid Joey. He was always doing these pranks. This one time, I was going to try out cannibalism, and I cooked an arm on my dad's grill. I would've gotten in so much trouble if he caught me, but I did it anyway, and I grilled it absolutely perfect on my first try. I invited Joey over, and do you know what he did? He put sugar in the salt shaker, just to be funny. The arm tasted terrible.

Another time, I was going to wear human skin as a mask, and when I had the flesh tanned exactly the way I wanted, he drew a great big mustache on it. With permanent ink. I had to just throw the face away.

I don't know why I was even friends with him. I guess part of the reason is that when you have an uncontrollable desire to kill, a lot of the other kids are mean to you. Joey drove me crazy sometimes, but he never judged me, and he never tattled.

I was pretty mad about Daphne's head, but I had too much homework that evening to go out and claim another victim. I thought about setting the alarm for an hour early so I could get one before school, but that never worked. I always kept hitting the snooze button until it was time to get up for real.

When Joey and I walked into the classroom the next morning, there was another severed head on Ms. Tyrone's desk. "Aw, man," I said.

I knew who did it. Oscar was sitting at his desk, trying not to giggle. I couldn't stand him, because he was a copycat killer. He could never come up with any cool ideas of his own. If I killed somebody with a corkscrew, Oscar would do the same thing the next day. He wouldn't even change the profile of the victim. I didn't recognize the head, but knowing Oscar, she was an honors student.

"I'm going to tell Ms. Tyrone that it was you," I told him.

"You'd better not."

"I am."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean it."

Oscar looked at me carefully, and then his lip began to tremble. "Please don't," he said. Yeah, Oscar wasn't just a copycat, he was a crybaby. I hated him.

Of course, I didn't tell on him, even when Ms. Tyrone made us sit with our heads down most of the morning. She was really mad this time, but there's a code of honor: even if somebody is a whiny little copycat baby like Oscar, you don't tell on him.

After school, I went down to the bus station and killed a vagrant with a pitchfork. (I don't even know why the pitchfork was in the garage. It wasn't like we ever scooped hay with it.) He was light from malnutrition, so I got him into my wheelbarrow and pushed him home along the railroad tracks where not many people could see me.

"What are you gonna do with him?" Joey asked as I lay the vagrant's body out in my backyard.

"Dunno."

"What about something to raise Satan?"

I shook my head. "Satan sucks."

"You could cover him with snakes."

"Why would I do that?"

"It'd be cool."

"No, it wouldn't."

"Then what are you gonna do?"

I shrugged. "Maybe I'll beat him with a hammer and see how much I can flatten him. If I took a piece of gold, I could flatten it out until it filled this whole yard."

"For real?"

"Yeah."

"Let's do that!"

So we did. A corpse doesn't flatten out like gold, though. Some of the organs flattened out okay, I guess, but by the time we gave up the vagrant was "scattered" but not really "flattened."

"That was lame," said Joey.

"Yeah."

Joey picked up a red chunk and threw it at me, just barely missing.

"Stop it," I said.

He grabbed a whole handful of muck and let it fly. Most of it missed, but not all of it.

"I said stop it!"

"Food fight!" he shouted, scooping up as much of the vagrant as he could. Laughing like a complete loser, he ran toward me. I think he was going to dump it all on my head, and I raised the hammer to defend myself, but then Joey slipped on a coil of intestine and hit the ground.

He let out a whimper. "I can't feel my legs."

"That's what you get," I told him.

"No, I mean it. I think I broke my back."

"Too bad for you."

"Call an ambulance."

I figured I had two options. I could call an ambulance, or I could beat him to death with the hammer. I weighed the pros and cons, and then I beat him to death with the hammer.

I got in so much trouble. My mom came home and yelled, and then Dad yelled, and then Joey's mom and dad yelled, and...well, let's just say that the rest of the day was pretty bad for me.

Then I discovered girls, which were way better than killing people. Seriously. When Monica's brother held me down on the ground next to the swing set so that she could kiss me, I barely tried to break free.

And that's the story of my first kiss.

DAD (A TRUE STORY)

Dear Past Self,

You have lots of scars on your wrist.

No, no, don't panic! It's cool! It's because you were trying to rub the tummy of your new cat. He gets mad when you rub his tummy. You will decide the wounds are worth it. That's what you get for naming him Chaos.

Also, Dad died.

When you call him on his sixtieth birthday, he'll complain that he's crossed the line from where people will say "Oh, what a shame; he died so young!" upon his passing to "Well, at least he had a good long life." He'll get another nine years of that good long life. Almost ten. One more month and he would've made it to seventy.

Your stepmom will leave a message saying "call me as soon as you get this." You'll know this isn't good. It's nice to think that maybe there's a billionaire Hollywood producer standing there with her, saying that he wants to purchase the movie rights to your entire backlist if she can get you on the phone ASAP, but that's most likely not the case.

Dad's already had one heart attack. It won't surprise you if she's calling because he's had a second. And so you're not surprised.

The next update will be that Dad's in the hospital, conscious and making inappropriate jokes. None of the doctors or nurses are running around flailing their hands in the air and screaming that all is lost. It's a big deal, of course (there's a reason for the expression "serious as a heart attack") but apparently the vibe is that things are going to be okay.

And then you'll get a call around two in the morning saying that Dad is being rushed into emergency surgery, because he has a bleeding hole in his heart. They're going to sew a tiny patch to it. It will not shock you to hear that having a patch sewn over a bleeding hole in your heart carries a bit of risk. Most likely, he won't survive.

He'll survive.

The next morning, when you board the plane, you'll be feeling okay. The surgery went spectacularly well. You're ready to show up at the hospital and have Dad get mad at you for flying all the way from Florida to Alaska just to hang out in ICU. "Why not fly over here when we could actually do something?" you know he'll say.

So, Past Self, in the future there's this thing called "e-mail." It's really frickin' awesome. It's basically letters that you send through computers, and the recipient gets it instantly. No more stamps! It'll blow your mind. And later you'll be able to send e-mail with a tiny phone that you carry around with you at all times, and if you forget it at home you'll basically have a nervous breakdown. Later still, you'll be able to send e-mail on an airplane. An airplane! You'll be soaring above the clouds and you can still keep in touch with your family and friends!

This means that, in the middle of your flight to Alaska, you'll find out that things have gone bad. Dad's internal organs are failing. When you arrive at the hospital, a nurse will be talking to your stepmom about when it's time to let somebody go. But then...hey, maybe the news isn't so bad!

For the next two-and-a-half weeks, there will be a maddening cycle in Dad's health. A day where, don't get too excited, but things seem to be getting better. Followed by a great day, filled with optimism. And then a terrible day that cancels out all of the progress. Repeat.

The worst day, except the last one, will be the one with two bonus cardiac arrests. There'll be a priest in the room, bible in hand. He's quiet and respectful, but trust me, when Dad has coded twice, you do not want to see a priest hanging around. That's a pretty clear sign that this is the end.

But it's not. The patch on Dad's heart will stay intact through almost twenty minutes of CPR, even though it wasn't really meant to withstand that kind of trauma. Amazing! There's still a road to recovery!

One doctor will keep pushing for a tracheotomy. He's practically doing an infomercial for the wonders of the trach tube. They're easy! They're convenient! They're not like the horror shows you see in the anti-smoking commercials. You'll joke about how this doctor must need one more stamp on his tracheotomy card to get to ten, or else he just really, really, really loves to do them. Eventually, one will be scheduled, but cancelled when he has another bad day. Too much risk of infection.

There's a clumsy nurse. Yes, an actual clumsy nurse. She keeps bumping into the machines that are keeping Dad alive and knocking things off tables. You won't be able to believe this is actually happening. It's funny at the time, but also doesn't do much to lower the overall anxiety level.

Dad will be unconscious and on a ventilator most of the time. But there'll be one morning, late in your Alaska trip, where you'll walk into his ICU room and he'll be sitting upright, fully conscious. Holy crap! The nurse will explain that the ventilator might come out. If it does, and he can breathe on his own, that will be a Godzilla-sized step.

And it does. Dad still won't be able to talk (he has, after all, had a tube jammed down his throat for over two weeks) but a machine is no longer breathing for him. Later that day, somebody will come in and wheel that accursed ventilator right out of the room. This will be the moment you've been waiting for. It's been a rollercoaster ride, but getting rid of that ventilator was the official demarcation between "will get better" and "won't get better."

You'll get your return ticket to Florida, with plans to return to Alaska when Dad's finally out of the hospital. (Things are amazingly awesome, but he's still got a while to hang out in the hospital before he's ready to go home.)

And, in the middle of the night, they'll put the ventilator back in. He'll be sedated and unconscious again. Nobody working at the hospital expects another good day.

Past Self: To you, Dad still seems semi-immortal, but even back then he's made it very clear that he wants quality life, not just life. When Grandma and Grandpa die, he'll reiterate this desire. You'll know exactly where he stands on the issue. So will the rest of the family.

By the time you walk into the formal meeting, you'll already know how it's going to work out. The doctors have said that he is almost certainly going to die. If by some miracle he doesn't, the odds of him, through months of agonizing rehabilitation, getting to a place where he's almost at his minimum benchmark for a quality life are...well, you know how much Dad loves casinos, right? He would never, ever take this bet.

They'll remove the machines, and there's nothing left but to gather and watch the end. It takes about fifteen minutes.

The next evening, you'll fly home. Your connecting flight will be in Chicago, but you'll get there in the middle of the night and all of the places in the airport that sell delicious Chicago hot dogs will be closed. One last little bummer moment.

Anyway, Past Self, I suppose this wasn't what you wanted to hear, but at least I didn't write to you about the state of politics. Trust me, you don't want to know.

I'm aware that I'm ending on a trite, cliché message, but screw it: while he's still around, give Dad another hug for me.

BAD BRATWURST

Klaus tossed the day's receipts onto the counter in disgust. "Disgraceful! Simply disgraceful! We make the greatest bratwurst in Germany, and almost nobody buys it!"

Stefan, Klaus' only employee, stopped sweeping the floor and nodded. "Business is indeed slow. Perhaps, though, the fault lies with our product?"

Klaus slammed the cash drawer shut. "How dare you? I have owned Prechtel Bratwurst for thirty years! Before that, it was owned by my father! Before that, it was owned by my father's cousin, who inherited it from his uncle, who inherited it from his son who died young, who won it in a bet! It has been in the family for thirty-two years! How dare you?"

"I mean no disrespect, sir. But we have sold the same bratwurst for decades. It might be time for a change."

"Blasphemy! You speak blasphemy! I spit upon the idea of changing my recipe!" Klaus spat upon the counter. "People who know good bratwurst know that there is none better than Prechtel Bratwurst! Is it my fault that nobody knows good bratwurst these days? Is it my fault that people's tongues have eroded to the point where they'll happily purchase mediocre bratwurst simply because it's less expensive? I will make no changes! Now clean up my saliva!"

Stefan wiped up the spit with a rag. "Then what will you do? My father was a stubborn man, as was my grandfather, as was my great-grandfather, as was my great-great-grandfather, so it's a personality trait that I share and admire, but are you really so stubborn that you would go out of business rather than adapt?"

Klaus sighed. "Let us pretend, for the sake of argument, that I were to change my recipe. What would you suggest?"

"There are plenty of options. Making them with human flesh, for example."

"What?"

"I'm not saying that it's the best option. It's just one option of many."

"Why would it be your first suggestion? Why start there? Shouldn't it be low on the list? Shouldn't you have proposed a wide variety of ideas before slowly working your way down to human flesh?"

"Or perhaps you could add more nutmeg."

"Human flesh! What a horrific concept! Do you wish us to become murderers, Stefan? Is that what you want? Do you envision a business model in which we lure unsuspecting young women into the store after dark, club them upon the head, and then feed them into the meat grinder?"

"I was just brainstorming."

"But it was your first brainstorm! Your very first! I asked about your hypothetical suggestions for improving business, and you went straight for cannibalism! You've been giving this a lot of thought, haven't you? Admit it!"

Stefan shook his head. "No, no, no, I swear to you, it was a random comment, not meant to be ranked in the order in which it was shared. I don't think it's a very good idea at all. It's morally wrong, carries the risk of imprisonment if our crimes are discovered, and it might make our bratwurst flavorless and gamey."

"I will never serve that sort of product. Hang your head in shame for even letting those words come out of your mouth. Hang it. All the way down."

"What about celebrity endorsements? Didn't Jennifer Lawrence come in here once?"

"Yes, but she purchased nothing. It angered me."

"You wouldn't actually have to club a young woman over the head, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"You're assuming that we'd be the ones to kill the people we used for meat, but that's not necessarily the case. And they wouldn't have to be young women in the prime of their life. There are ways to acquire humans for the grinder without actually doing any of the luring or the clubbing or the dismembering ourselves."

"You've researched this, haven't you?"

"No, sir, I would never do something so evil."

"You've run the numbers! You've created a spreadsheet!"

"No, no, you falsely accuse me! It is not my fault if I absorb information without purposely seeking it! I know the length of the Amazon River. Have I ever sought this fact? I have not. But it was presented to me, and there it remains, lodged in my brain through no fault of my own."

Klaus looked to the heavens. "He compares river length trivia to a sinister plan about feeding human corpse bratwurst to the public! What have I done to deserve this madness? Why can't my life go back to being simple, as it was before my employee started suggesting that we serve human flesh?"

"We will not speak of it again," said Stefan. "My brother works at a fish market, and if Prechtel Bratwurst goes out of business I'm sure he'll allow me to clean fish for him. It is a noble profession, cleaning fish. You can't just cook them with their innards intact. That is disgusting and unsanitary."

"Go home, Stefan," said Klaus. "I will finish sweeping the floor. Go home and regain your sanity. Return tomorrow morning with your mind free of the toxins that have polluted today's thoughts."

Stefan nodded. "Yes, sir. I apologize if I caused offense and discomfort."

Klaus watched Stefan leave the shop. He was a good boy. A hard worker. Klaus supposed that he was entitled to the occasional deranged idea.

Perhaps a celebrity endorsement would work. There had to be a celebrity who had fallen upon hard times and would do it for very little money. Tonight before he went to sleep Klaus would make a list of actors who had not been on television for a while.

The bell above the door tinkled as a tall, thin man walked into the shop. He was dressed entirely in black, from his hat to his boots. "Are you closed?" he asked.

"It is past closing time, yes," said Klaus, "but I will happily sell you a bratwurst or two."

The man smiled. "I am not here to purchase meat. I am here to help you. I have watched your store for several days. That may seem like the behavior of a creepy stalker who means you harm, but I assure you this is not the case."

"You...you have watched my store?"

"Not twenty-four hours a day. Only during business hours, and it's not as if I've been watching from morning until night. It's more like keeping an eye on the place. That's what I should have said in the first place: I have been keeping an eye on your place for several days. That sounds much less creepy. And do you know what I have noticed?"

"What?"

"Insufficient customers!"

"I know this," said Klaus. "I don't need a stranger to walk into my shop and tell me that business is poor."

"And why is business poor?" asked the man. "You have a perfectly fine location. Our great nation has not gone vegan. Your prices are above average but not unreasonable. And according to a random polling of the few customers you do have, your bratwurst is flavorful."

"It's the best bratwurst in Germany!"

"No, but it's pretty good. Your problem is that there's nothing new. Nothing to generate excitement. Nothing to make people say, 'I must drop what I am doing, even if I am bathing my child, and hurry over to Prechtel's before they sell out of their latest bratwurst masterpiece!'"

"Have you been consulting with Stefan?"

The man shook his head. "This is my own observation."

"Then do you come in here just to insult me? To point and laugh? To say, 'Ha ha ha, look at the man whose livelihood is at risk! Soon he will be living on the streets! Perhaps a rat will defecate in his ear as he sleeps! Ha ha ha!'"

"No, my desire is to stop that from happening."

"And how can you do this?"

"I have meat to sell you."

"What kind of meat?"

"Special meat."

"Be more specific."

"The most delicious meat in the land."

"From what animal does this meat originate?"

"Meat so succulent that it melts in your mouth. Meat that will have customers lining up for blocks. Meat that few have ever had the privilege of squeezing between their teeth."

"But what kind?"

"That is a discussion we can postpone until a later date."

"Human flesh?"

The man cleared his throat. "There are elements of this arrangement that don't need to be fully disclosed. Cow meat, pig meat, goat meat...once it goes through the grinder, it doesn't matter if it was a deer or a chimpanzee, right?"

"I do not agree with that."

"My meat is inexpensive and delicious. Satisfaction guaranteed. Your sales will increase by thirty to thirty-five percent in the first week alone."

"Is it human flesh?"

"You talk like a man who is obsessed with the subject. Human flesh this, human flesh that. We've known each other for perhaps four minutes and yet the subject has come up twice already. That's not normal. Let me worry about those inconsequential details; you focus on preparing it into the finest bratwurst in Germany!"

"Human flesh bratwurst."

The man in black was silent for a moment. "Yes. Yes, okay? I'm trying to sell you dead bodies. That's why I'm here. Are you happy now?"

"No, I'm actually less happy."

"Why is this a problem? Are these bodies contributing to society by just lying around? Can a corpse do volunteer work or hold public office? What good do they serve? Are they pleasant to look at? Think of how many things we could store underground if coffins weren't down there taking up so much space. Think of how much fire could be saved each year at our crematoriums, fire that could be used to cook food for the poor."

"Cannibalism is wrong!" Klaus insisted.

"'Cannibalism' is such an ugly word. I prefer to think of it as 'maximizing unconventional dietary resources.'"

"I won't do it! I won't sell that to my customers! Get out of my shop!"

"I understand your reluctance. It's not every day that you are asked to break one of the top five taboos. It's not an issue that has an equal number of supporters on each side. You don't hear people calling for its legalization. To a fundamentally decent person such as yourself, it's as if I walked into your shop and tried to convince you to commit incest."

"That's not at all what it was like."

"Are you sure?" asked the man.

"Very sure. All of my family is dead."

"Ah, so it was as if I was proposing two taboos at once!"

"Leave my store."

"Let me get right to the point. I have six dead bodies in the back of a truck. Do you want to buy them?"

"No!"

"They were all stabbed, so you don't have to worry about any bullets getting caught in your grinder."

"I don't want them!"

"Nobody will come looking for them," the man assured him. "They were killed three towns away."

"Get out of here!"

"None of them were likable. One was rude, one was conceited, one pandered to the lowest common denominator, one was loud, and two were unintelligent. They deserve to be sausage. In fact, I think the loud one may even have said something to that effect before I stabbed him. 'Lo, if I must die this day, please know that my last wish before I expire is to be used in bratwurst, the finest bratwurst in Germany!'"

"Get out of here before I call the police!"

"I'll give you a good price."

"Absolutely not!"

"Please? I've been carting them around for three days. I can't take it any more. I know they're dead but I still hear their haunting laughter whenever I close my eyes. I have to get rid of them. Make the laughter stop. Please, make the laughter stop!"

Klaus grabbed the man by the back of the neck, walked him over to the doorway, and shoved him outside onto the sidewalk. The man put his hands over his ears, presumably to muffle the sound of his laughing victims, and ran off.

How wretched. And how illogical of the man to assume that serving up human flesh in sausage form would increase business. If Klaus purchased some meat and later discovered that it had once been a living, breathing person, he'd be outraged. He'd demand his money back immediately, and tell all of his friends to stay far away.

It was a vile idea. He'd never do it.

Prechtel's Bratwurst was a respectable establishment. Yes, it had been a pit of disease when his father's cousin's uncle's son won it in the bet, but for the past thirty-two years it had sold nothing but the highest quality meat. How dare that man suggest that he taint his reputation of excellence? How dare he? Why, Klaus should throw him into the grinder, just to...

Hmmmm.

No.

It had been a rough day. Klaus couldn't wait to go home, take a bath, and watch some television before bed. In the morning, he'd think of new ways to improve business—ways that did not involve cannibalism.

Klaus walked over to the door, and just as he reached for the light switch, a man stumbled through the doorway. He wore tattered, dirty clothing, had a thick beard, and smelled like body odor mixed with booze mixed with inexpensive cheese.

"Good afternoon, my dear friend!" said the man, extending his arms toward Klaus. Klaus stepped away and avoided the hug. "I am Michael! Do you have any beer? I would like a beer. You sell beer, right? I have no money but I would like to buy a beer."

"My store is closed," said Klaus. "And I do not sell beer."

"Don't sell beer? What insanity is that? Why would you operate a place of business that doesn't sell beer? What if people come in wanting to buy beer? What then? What then?"

Klaus narrowly avoided another hug. "You need to leave."

"Leave?" Michael braced himself against one of the display cases of bratwurst, leaving a dark smudge on the glass. "If I leave, then how will you sell me a beer for no money? It makes no sense! Nothing you say makes sense! You're nonsensical!"

"Clearly you have had enough beer for one night," said Klaus. "I do not allow drunkards in my store. Please leave immediately."

"If I'd had enough beer, why would I seek more? Again, there is no logic to your words! They just float in the air, swirling around in a senseless blur!" Michael suddenly put his hand over his mouth and doubled over.

"Are you going to vomit?" asked Klaus.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Then stand upright."

"I cannot."

"If you vomit on my floor, I assure you, the consequences will be dire."

"I am more than capable of gauging my need to vomit," said Michael. "I'm just resting."

"Rest elsewhere."

Michael stood back up. "I am so very dizzy. And my stomach wages war against me. I'm lucky to be alive. Please, can't you take pity on a poor dying man and give him but a dropper full of alcohol to get him through these next few minutes?"

"I have none! I sell bratwurst!"

"Oh." Michael glanced around the shop. "I guess you do. My mistake. Have you ever had a tragic accident where a drunken man lost a limb in your meat grinder."

"No."

"If you had, would you discard the meat or sell it?"

"Discard it."

"What if business was slow, and nobody would ever know what you'd done? You can get a lot of meat out of an arm. Obviously, I'm not so drunk that I'd accidentally thrust my arm into your grinder, but it's an interesting hypothetical question."

Klaus grabbed Michael's collar so that he could throw him out of the shop, but it tore away and Michael staggered through the swinging door into the back room.

"Stay out of there!" said Klaus, hurrying after him. "Your germs are unwelcome!"

"Is that your meat grinder?" asked Michael.

"No," said Klaus, even though it was.

"What a wonderful contraption. Far better than trying to grind meat with a fork or with your teeth. So this is how bratwurst is made. I'd always thought that it came from a plant."

"A plant?"

"Or maybe just a farm with specially bred pigs. It's not a subject that took up a lot of my thinking time."

Klaus grabbed Michael by the arm, but his entire sleeve tore off.

"Could you show me how it's done?" asked Michael. "Maybe instead of wandering the streets in a drunken haze, I could devote my life to the art of making bratwurst. It's never too late to learn a new skill. I knew a man who became an attorney at the age of ninety-seven! Lost his one and only case, but still. An attorney! At ninety-seven! Have you ever heard of such a thing?"

"I'm going to call the police," said Klaus, walking over to the telephone mounted on the wall. "I've been patient, but I can't have men with your scent in my food preparation area."

"So how does it work?" asked Michael, inspecting the grinder. "Do you put the—ow! Ow! Ow!"

"Get your hand out of there!" Klaus shouted.

"It was an accident! Oh, the agony! The excruciating agony! I must turn the handle to reverse the process! Ow! That makes it hurt even worse! My arm is being ground into bratwurst meat! I cannot stand the pain any longer! Why won't you help me? Why would you let a poor innocent drunkard get his arm ground up like this? You monster! You inhuman beast of a monster!"

Klaus pulled Michael away from the grinder. Blood sprayed everywhere.

"Most of my arm is gone! Why has this happened? Why? What have I done to deserve such a fate? I never in my life imagined that such a vast quantity of pain would be mine for the feeling! The word 'ow' does not come close to encapsulating the sheer volume of unpleasant sensations that are coursing through my body at this moment! And I'm losing a lot of blood! How much blood can the human body gush before it ceases the primary functions of life, such as breathing or a heartbeat?"

"You'll be okay!" Klaus insisted. "I'll call an ambulance!"

"Thank you," said Michael. "Though you were a heartless bastard who denied me beer, I appreciate your offer to...oh, no, I think that if a mere four more fluid ounces squirt out of my wound, I shall...yes, that's it for me."

Michael dropped to the floor, dead.

"No!" Klaus cried. "He can't be dead! Not in my store!"

He crouched down and pressed two of his fingers against Michael's neck. There was no pulse.

Klaus had to call the police. Tell them what had happened. This man might have family that was frantically searching for him.

He stood up. Bloody meat dangled from the grinder, and the metal bowl next to it now had some meat in the bottom.

Human meat.

Free meat.

Klaus stared at it for a moment.

No! He wouldn't do it! There was no possible scenario in which he'd say, "Yes, I certainly am glad that I served up bratwurst made from that drunk man's arm!" It was wrong on every possible level.

In fact, the mere sight of it made him physically ill. He hurried out of the back room so that he could compose himself.

Klaus had seen many horrible things in his life, such as a dolphin getting too close to a helicopter blade, but nothing compared to this. He could never un-see this. Even if he lived to be a hundred years old, and saw thousands of babies get cooked on thousands of skewers, this vision would never disappear.

He cursed the heavens for bringing Michael into his shop.

Then he apologized to the heavens, because Klaus believed in free will, so it really wasn't anybody's fault but Michael's.

Klaus turned toward the swinging door to the back room. "You're a scoundrel, Michael!" he shouted. "A loathsome scoundrel!" Was it evil to speak ill of the dead? Perhaps, but Klaus was too angry to care. "You've made a bad night even worse! I should put the rest of you into that grinder!"

Hmmmm.

No.

Hmmmm.

No.

Hmmmm.

No.

No, no, no.

Klaus would not use the existing ground-up human flesh in his bratwurst. That was his decision, and it was final.

The bell above the door tinkled.

"I really am closed," said Klaus. "I must insist that—!"

"Do not speak," said the man in mauve. "If you speak, I will kill you."

"With what?"

"With the gun in my inside jacket pocket."

"Show me."

The man reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a gun.

"Damn," said Klaus.

"Give me the money in your cash register. Now."

Klaus walked over to the register. "You're going to be very disappointed," he said.

"I told you not to speak."

Klaus opened the cash drawer, removed the bills, and set them on the counter.

"What the hell is this?" asked the man.

"May I speak?"

"Yes."

"It's all of the money I have."

"It can't be."

"It is."

"I heard that you make the best bratwurst in Germany!"

"I do."

"Then how is such low income possible? Did you already send an associate to the bank with a large pile of cash? Am I too late?"

Klaus shook his head. "I can't explain it."

The man scooped up the bills and shoved them into his pocket. "There's more. There has to be more. Where's your safe?"

"I don't have one."

"Liar! Take me to your safe, or I'll shoot you! Have you ever been shot?"

"No."

"Everybody should get shot at least once in their life, to see how it feels. Since you have not had that experience, I can assure you that it feels bad." The man held up his left hand. "Do you see how many fingers I have?"

"Five."

"Well, yes, five. But one of them was shot off and reattached! Do you see that scar?"

"You're wearing gloves."

"Yes. I am. Not a good idea to rob somebody and then leave fingerprints all over the place, right? But if I wasn't wearing gloves, you'd see an ugly scar from where my ring finger was shot off and then reattached. Bullets hurt."

"May I see the scar?"

"It's unsightly."

"That's okay."

"Are you trying to fool me into leaving fingerprints?"

"No," said Klaus. "You won't have to touch anything."

"Are you trying to fool me into setting the gun down so that I can use that hand to pull the glove off my other hand?"

"No."

"If you are, it won't work. I intend to remove the glove with my teeth. The gun will remain in my hand the entire time."

"That's fine."

"Very well." The man bit down on the tip of the middle finger of his glove, slowly tugged it off, then spat it onto the counter. "See?" he asked, holding up his hand.

"That's one grotesque scar."

"Isn't it, though? If I'd known it was going to be that bad, I wouldn't have shot off my own finger."

"You shot off your own finger?"

The man nodded.

"On purpose?"

The man nodded again. "As I said, everybody should experience a gunshot at least once in their life."

"Seems a bit mentally ill."

"I'm not going to lie to you. I'm on a lot of medication. Enough pills to stop me from shooting off more fingers, although not enough pills to stop me from robbing stores and showing off my scar to strangers."

"Well, you were right," said Klaus. "The scar was very unsightly."

The man picked up his glove, then frowned. "Getting it back on with my teeth is going to be more difficult than taking it off."

"Maybe you should put the gun down and use your other hand."

"Wretched trickster! Do not assume that I am a fool, for I am the opposite of a fool."

"A loof?"

"What?"

"Never mind. I considered not saying it, but then I said it anyway and regretted it."

"Oh, I get it. 'Loof' is 'fool' backwards. Mildly clever." The man waved the gun in Klaus' face. "Don't assume that just because I've made several references to my finger, that it is your finger I intend to puncture with my bullet. It is your head. And though even a mediocre surgeon can reattach a finger with a quality needle and sufficient thread, only the finest surgeons in the land can reattach a brain after it gets shot out of your skull!"

"Please," said Klaus. "Just take your money and go."

"Take me to your safe."

"I said I don't have one."

"Liar! Everybody has a safe! Where else would you store your turpentine?"

"You're confusing me."

"You can't just have turpentine sitting out for some youngster to drink, but yet you can't not have turpentine. Therefore, you have a safe in which to store it. A safe that, I'm confident, also contains money. Take me to your safe!"

"I have no safe! You'll just have to kill me!"

"Then, with your permission, I will!" The man pointed the gun at Klaus' forehead and pulled the trigger.

The man really needed his medication. With it, he was a jolly fellow who fed stray kittens, went to nursing homes to visit elderly people he didn't even know, and cheerfully donated organs to those in need. Without it, he robbed store owners at gunpoint, and if he'd been off of his medication for too long, he occasionally forgot which side of the gun you were supposed to point at somebody if you wanted to kill them.

The bullet went right between his eyes. This was good for Klaus, because there's nothing worse than watching somebody shoot themself through their own eye. If you've never witnessed this, pray that you do not. It is truly nasty. A bullet going between the eyes, though still stomach churning, is a significantly less disturbing sight.

The man's body dropped to the floor.

Klaus hurried over to check his pulse, even though he knew that seventy percent of people who are shot point-blank through the forehead do not survive. Several chunks of brain were next to his head, reducing his likelihood of survival even further, but Klaus still pressed his fingers to his neck.

No pulse. The robber was dead.

There were two human corpses in his shop! Thirty years he had owned Prechtel Bratwurst, and in not one of those three decades had there ever been a dead human on his floor. Now he had two in the same night! The same hour! The same ten-minute interval!

If he averaged it out, that was one dead body every fifteen years, which wasn't so bad, but still...

He had to call the police before there was a third!

But...but what would the police say? It was odd that a man had ground up his own arm in a meat grinder, and then another man shot himself in the face. "This all seems very suspicious," the police officer might say, looking stern as he wrote in his notebook. "Are you sure there was no foul play involved?"

"None, sir," Klaus would say. "I found the whole thing as bizarre as you do."

"A man grinding up his own arm challenges my suspension of disbelief all by itself," the officer might say. "If that were the only grisly event of this evening, I'd still raise at least one of my eyebrows in a questioning manner. When you add a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the forehead into the mix, well, I think you can understand why I might be wondering if you are, in fact, a raging homicidal maniac."

"I understand your reluctance to believe me," Klaus would say. "And I assure you that I will fully cooperate with your investigation, so that—"

"He's got a gun!" a woman passing the shop might shout.

Klaus would feel a sudden panic. "What? No, this isn't a gun, it's a—"

"I meant the officer. He's supposed to have a gun, I know. It just tickled me to see it. I enjoy guns." The woman would smile and continue on her way.

"He's got a gun!" another woman passing the shop might shout.

Klaus would feel another sudden panic. "What? No, this isn't a gun, it's a—"

"Put the gun down!" the officer would shout, grabbing his own gun from its holster and pointing it (the proper way) at Klaus.

"It's not a gun! It's my fingers! See? I unconsciously formed them into the shape of a gun, but it's just my fingers!"

But the officer, still unnerved by the horrors he'd seen in Klaus' shop, would open fire. The first bullet would hit Klaus right between the eyes, making the other five bullets that tore into his body irrelevant.

What an awful way to die.

Klaus couldn't call the police.

He'd hide the bodies. Clean up his shop. Remove all evidence that the two men had ever been there. Who would come looking for a drunk or a robber? Nobody. As long as he didn't leave a severed arm or something lying around, Klaus would be safe.

But what could he do with the remains...?

Klaus looked at his grinder.

No.

His grinder seemed to look back at him, as if to say, This is what I was meant to do.

What would he do with the bones?

That settled it. If he had to get rid of the bones anyway, there was no reason to grind up the meat. He'd just have to find a place to dump the bodies.

Wait! Eighteen years ago he'd received a bone grinder as a birthday present and never used it for anything! It was still in one of the cabinets!

Klaus hurried over to the cabinet and looked inside. There it was, with the red bow still on top. A BoneGrinder 3000XL. A gift from his late wife. Had she known this day would come?

And so Klaus spent the entire night stripping the meat off of the dead bodies, grinding it up, and then grinding up the bones. The bone meal he flushed down the toilet, even though it would make fine fertilizer for his garden at home.

The meat, he kept.

He wasn't sure why. It should go down the toilet as well. He justified it by telling himself that the police would investigate such a high increase in his water bill, and so he should save the meat to be flushed at a later date.

He put the meat in plastic tubs and then put the tubs into the refrigerator. But he did not add seasoning. Not even a single grain of salt.

Klaus had just finished putting the men's clothing into a garbage bag when the bell above the front door tinkled. "I have come up with a solution to our problems!" Stefan announced.

"Is that so?" asked Klaus, tying up the bag.

Stefan nodded. "We will dye the bratwurst different colors for different holidays."

"No," said Klaus.

"Why not?"

"Because it is a silly idea. People do not want artificially colored meat. People want their stool to look the same after they eat sausage as it did before."

"I spent hours coming up with that idea!"

"Then they were hours poorly spent."

"I'll try to think of something else," said Stefan. "You look exhausted. Didn't you sleep well?"

"What are you implying?" asked Klaus. "Are you suggesting that I had a reason not to sleep well? Is that what you are suggesting and implying?"

"Last night we were talking about your shop's inevitable collapse, so I thought it might have weighed heavily upon your mind as you lay in bed."

"Oh. Yes, that is fair, and it is indeed the reason I look so tired today. An excellent observation on your part."

"Are you wearing the same clothes?"

"Yes. I slept in them. At home."

"Is that blood on them?"

"Yes, but it is the blood of cows and pigs. There's nothing sinister about cow and pig blood in a shop that sells meat, is there?"

"You're acting peculiar," said Stefan.

"Burn in hell."

"And that overreaction is also peculiar."

Klaus sighed. "I apologize. I did have a sleepless night, and I'm irritable. You've done nothing wrong."

"And my idea about coloring the—?"

"Still stupid."

A young man dressed entirely in lavender walked into the shop. "Hello," he said, "I'm here to purchase one of your delicious sausages, which I will cook up and eat for my breakfast this very morning!"

"Excellent," said Klaus. "We have a wide selection available for you."

The man peered through the display case. "This is indeed a fine selection. I can see at least three or four that suit my needs."

"Which of them shall I wrap up for you?"

"Perhaps I should buy fifty. Make a feast for fifty of my closest friends! Or sixty! No, sixty would be unwieldy, but fifty would be perfect! That is what I shall do: purchase fifty sausages to cook up and serve to fifty of my closest friends!"

"That is a splendid idea," said Klaus. "And I will sell you fifty for the price of forty-five!"

"Delightful! I would like..." The man looked through the display case for nearly a minute. "Do you have any 'special' ones?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know." The man winked. "Special ones."

"Special how?"

"You know."

"With food coloring for the holidays?"

"No, no. Special."

"Spicy?"

"No."

"Exceptionally lean?"

"No."

"Unusually shaped?"

"No."

"Then I don't know what you mean."

"Pork is fine, and so is beef, and so is chicken and lamb and all of the other animals that one generally consumes, but sometimes it's good to stray from the obvious choices, if you know what I mean."

"Are you saying that you want to buy bratwurst made out of humans?"

The man's eyes widened. "What?"

"Is that what you're asking me?"

"I was talking about ostrich, or alligator, or meerkat! What sort of savage would eat his own kind? You disgust me, sir!"

"I apologize for the misunderstanding," said Klaus.

"That said, how do I know it's not tasty? My immediate reaction is revulsion, but that was my reaction to raw oysters, and now I gulp them down by the bucketful. Ended up in the hospital once. 'Too many raw oysters,' the doctor told me. So I went back to revulsion. Still, if you could sell me fifty for the price of forty-two..."

"I don't want to sell you even one human flesh bratwurst, much less fifty," said Klaus. "It was a misunderstanding."

"Well, now you've put the idea in my head and I'm struggling to get it out. How do you think it would taste? It would depend on the person, I suppose. A morbidly obese human would taste much different than a slender, starving one. What kind is in your bratwurst?"

"None! I have no humans in my bratwurst!"

"Oh, sure you do. Are they athletic? Inactive? Stressed out? I hear that anxiety makes the flesh more tender, although I've never tried it for myself."

"We really don't have any," Stefan told the man. "I proposed the idea yesterday evening and he reacted in a very negative manner."

"I see." The man shrugged. "Well, it is a ghastly crime against God's will, so I'm not going to pout. Though I wish you hadn't brought it up at all. It's like asking a child if they want ice cream and then informing them that no ice cream is available."

"We do have bratwurst, though," Klaus assured him.

"What I meant was, it's like asking a child if they want chocolate ice cream, and then informing them that only vanilla is available."

"I hardly think you can compare chocolate ice cream to human flesh," said Klaus.

"Then let me revise again. It's like asking a child if they want unicorn ice cream, a flavor they never thought they could experience, and when they say yes, you say, I'm sorry, we have no unicorn, but here's some vanilla."

"Unicorns don't exist."

"Fine. It's like asking a child if they want human flesh ice cream, and then offering them vanilla! It's a cruel tease!"

"I apologize," said Klaus. "Which varieties would you like from our actual inventory?"

"I don't think I want any. Here I was, all set to purchase fifty of them, but my tastes have changed since I first entered your shop. I have evolved as a man. How can I justify such a large generic purchase after being tantalized with the thrill of forbidden discovery?"

"Sir," said Stefan, "I assure you, if we had the product that causes your salivary glands to spew so aggressively, we would sell it to you. But we do not."

"I'd buy fifty for the price of fifty-two."

"We have none."

"Fifty for the price of fifty-four."

"Sir, we cannot sell what we do not have."

"Fifty for the price of...well, fifty for the price of fifty-four is the best I can do, but technically it should be fifty for the price of fifty, so that's still a very generous offer."

"Look, my employer is not going to sell you human flesh bratwurst, and that's final!" said Stefan. "You can purchase from our existing stock, or you can leave! I don't mean to be rude, but most customers would have taken the hint about us not offering cannibalism opportunities minutes ago!"

"Very well," said the man. "I will take my business elsewhere. Perhaps Anton's Bratwurst sells—"

"Nobody sells it!" Stefan shouted. "It's simply not a product you'll find in any bratwurst shop! It's not done in polite society! Human beings were not meant to eat other human beings! They were meant to eat non-talking animals! Even if we had human bratwurst in the back, we wouldn't sell it to you now, because your attitude is shameful! What kind of man are you? It's bad enough when a self-centered man tries to pressure a young lady into parting with articles of clothing, but here you are trying to pressure an old man into committing an act so ghastly that unpleasant songs would be written about him if it were discovered!"

"I'm not an old man," said Klaus.

"Comparatively, you are. You're older than the two of us put together. That wasn't an insult. I meant it in a way that was completely respectful of the wisdom you've acquired in your long life."

"If you two are going to bicker, I'm leaving," said the man. "That sort of thing makes me uncomfortable."

"No!" said Klaus. "Don't leave. I'll be...I'll be right back. Stefan, make sure he doesn't leave."

"Using physical restraint?"

"No, conversation."

"Ah. Okay."

Klaus hurried into the back room. He opened the refrigerator and gazed at those tubs of meat that he was going to simply flush down the toilet. Such a waste.

Was it right that those two men died for nothing?

Would they really want their bodies to be flushed away like fecal matter?

Wouldn't they rather be eaten?

Of course, if they were eaten, they'd later be flushed down the toilet as fecal matter, so that line of reasoning didn't work.

Klaus tried to put himself in the position of a drunken man who'd accidentally ground up his arm. Would he want his flesh to be made into something delicious and served to a satisfied customer, or would he want it to be disposed of like mildew-laden refuse?

The meat in his refrigerator could make fifty people very happy.

Wasn't the happiness of fifty people worth it?

What if one of the fifty people was a starving young child, a child who had no nourishment of which to speak, a child whose cries kept its mother awake at night, and this one bite of bratwurst could feed the child and give its mother a glorious eight hours of sleep? Who knew what that mother might accomplish after waking up so refreshed? She could cure a disease!

This scenario seemed unlikely.

If Klaus didn't take drastic measures, he'd go out of business. That much was certain.

He was not a killer. Their blood was on his hands in a literal sense but not a figurative sense. He had done nothing wrong, if you excluded grinding up the dead bodies so they wouldn't be discovered by the authorities.

Why shouldn't he sell the meat?

What was the downside?

What if God was trying to send a message? "Hey, Klaus, I'm here to help you out with your new business plan. Go on, sell the meat! I made it tasty just for you!"

No.

But...?

Maybe.

But...?

No.

What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do? What should he do?

Klaus made his decision.

He would not sell human flesh bratwurst.

If the man took his business elsewhere, fine. Klaus could live with that. He would not compromise his deep-rooted morals. When he looked in the mirror, he would gaze into the eyes of somebody who refused to make cannibalism accessible to his customers.

Klaus pushed through the swinging door, prepared to offer the man fifty regular sausages for the price of forty-two.

The man lay facedown on the floor. Stefan pulled a knife out of the back of the man's head.

"Don't be mad," said Stefan, standing up.

"What have you done?"

"It was an accident."

"You stabbed him in the back of the head by accident?"

"Well, no, I stabbed him on purpose. But I didn't think he'd die, so that part was an accident."

"Why would you murder a customer?"

"He was rude! Oh, so very rude! Do you know what he said after you left?"

"What?"

"I can't say it. It's too rude."

"Say it!"

"He said..." Stefan frowned. "Now that I'm replaying the conversation in my mind, it may not have been as rude as I thought. His words are irrelevant. What matters is that he's dead."

"Oh, God!"

"We should probably lock the front door."

Klaus locked the door and drew the curtains. "Why would you do this, Stefan? Why? You'll be the end of us!"

"It was a moment of rage! You can't help moments of rage! If you'd been in the room when he said those innocuous things, you might have violently overreacted just like me!"

"This is disastrous!"

"It's not my fault that a knife was lying on the counter, waiting to be slammed into his skull. How could I resist? I'm not a monk!"

"But there was no knife on the counter. I keep them all in the back room. No reputable place of business would leave knives on their front counter. That's where the customers lean!"

Stefan scratched uncomfortably at the back of his neck. "Oh? I'm pretty sure that's where the knife was."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Never."

"Did you bring a knife into the shop with you?"

"Of course not. Where would I hide it?"

"Why are you wearing that jacket when it's so warm outside?"

"Exactly what are you accusing me of, sir?"

"I'm accusing you of sneaking a knife into my shop for the express purpose of stabbing a customer to death!"

Stefan let out a nervous chuckle. "That's silly. What happened, I assume, is that I was so dedicated to my work that I brought home a knife without even realizing it. Why, I probably had it with me all night. I'm lucky I didn't poke myself with it. Or maybe I did and was blaming the leg pain on ant bites."

"And your explanation for the jacket?"

"I have a hideous rash, sir. A rash far too hideous to be hidden by clothing alone. Without a jacket to cover it, you would have gasped in revulsion and sent me home to apply a balm to my skin, but I'm too loyal of an employee to abandon you like that."

"Just admit that you brought in a knife and stabbed him on purpose!"

"Okay. That's what I did. Sorry."

"I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

Stefan knelt back down next to the corpse. "My apologies."

"That was kind of weird," said Klaus. "I shouldn't have asked you to do it. But I'm in a state of shock! You have committed the heinous act of murder right here in my shop!"

"May I explain?"

"Please do."

"I truly believe that the only way to save Prechtel's Bratwurst is to make your product out of humans. People want to try cannibalism. It has replaced body piercing as the hot new fad. I knew that you'd never actually kill somebody, nor would you ever be so fortunate as to come into possession of a dead body by pure coincidence, so I killed that rude customer while you weren't looking. Now that he's dead, why not make bratwurst out of him? Seriously, why not? Can you give me one good reason?"

"I've never heard of that fad."

"Well, you are, as I said before, fairly old."

"Murderer!"

"One reason. Give me one good reason and I'll take it all back."

"How can you take it all back? He's dead!"

"That's how confident I am that you can't give me even one good reason."

"Here's a reason: it's against the law."

"Yes," said Stefan. "All right, that is indeed one good reason, and I'll also concede that you were correct in saying that I can't take back my act of violence. But isn't there also a law against serving bratwurst that's mostly rat hair?"

"Yes. There is."

"And...?"

"And I don't serve bratwurst that's mostly rat hair."

"You don't?"

"Of course not."

"What about that one time?"

"What one time?"

"No, wait, I'm thinking of a different bratwurst place. Oh, it was gross to bite into that one, believe me. But are you saying that you've never broken the law? What about speeding?"

"Are you comparing speeding to cannibalism?"

"No, but it's a crime, right?"

"Yes."

"So there's precedent. But you wouldn't even be the cannibal here. If somebody gets pulled over for speeding, is it the fault of the automobile manufacturer?"

"No."

"Then if you're making bratwurst out of dead humans, it's not your fault if people purchase and eat them, is it?"

"Are you suggesting," Klaus asked, "that I would sell bratwurst that I had not tasted for myself?"

"Well..."

"How dare you? You have to taste your own product to make sure that the texture and the blend of seasonings is correct! Do you truly believe that I would take no measures to ensure quality control? If I'm going to have so little pride in my craft, why not just saw off somebody's arm and put it in the display case?"

"An arm is not a bratwurst," said Stefan.

"You are a disgrace to the profession. The very idea! Of course I'd eat a human flesh bratwurst if I were selling it to the public!"

"Does this mean you're considering the idea?"

"No!"

"A man lies dead at our feet. He probably had a wife and multiple children. Shouldn't their loss mean something?"

"If I stabbed your mother to death, would it make you feel better if I ate her?"

"Don't threaten my mother!"

"This was hypothetical."

"Oh. Actually, yes. Yes, it would. I would be angry at you, naturally, but my sorrow would be a fraction of a percentage point less if I knew that she'd at least provided somebody with a fine meal."

"I don't believe you."

"Look, he's dead and there's nothing either of us can do without studying to become a necromancer, so why not take advantage of the situation?"

"You killed him for nothing!"

"I killed him for our business!"

"Our business didn't need him!"

"How can you say that?"

"Because there were already two dead bodies in the refrigerator!"

"Oh, shit," said Stefan.

"Two men died in here last night. I ground up their bodies and stored them in plastic tubs."

Stefan was silent for a long moment before he spoke. "I wish I'd known that. I wouldn't have stabbed the other man in the head."

"You're a monster!"

Stefan shook his head. "No, a monster would have killed him just to watch him bleed, or to receive orgasmic pleasure from the sound of his shrieks. I did it to help you. Why didn't you tell me you had human meat in the refrigerator?"

"You would have pressured me to make it into bratwurst!"

"So?"

"What do you mean, so? How many times have I said that I don't want to make bratwurst out of human flesh?"

"A lot. Far more than most people would say that sort of thing."

"Then leave me alone!"

"This is for your own good!"

"I can't take it anymore!" shouted Klaus, grabbing the knife. "Everywhere I turn it's 'cannibal' this and 'cannibal' that! If I wanted that lifestyle I'd have moved to South America to live in the jungle with some cannibals! I can't take it anymore!"

"Just to clarify," said Stefan, backing away, "you're swinging that knife to punctuate your points and not because you mean to stab me, right?"

"I'm swinging this knife because I've gone mad!"

"Homicidal mad, or twitchy mad?"

"I don't know yet! Did you know that I used to be a miner? And one time there was a cave-in, and six of us were trapped down there for days, and we began to starve, and we drew straws to see who would donate his arm to sate our hunger, and Frank lost, and we removed his arm with a pickaxe, and, yes, it took far more swings to get the job done than it should have, but we were exhausted and the pickaxe was dull, but when the other men cooked that arm with a lighter, do you know what I did?"

"Ate it?"

"No! I did the exact opposite. I refused to eat it. Even while I was starving and watching everybody else cheerfully gnaw away, and even while Frank was assuring me that he was okay with it and having a couple of nibbles himself, I knew deep in my heart that it was disgusting. And at that moment I vowed that I would neither eat nor sell food that is disgusting."

Stefan nodded. "I see your point, sir. And I'm sorry that I tried to steer you off the path you'd chosen. It will never happen again."

"Thank you."

"No more pressure."

"I appreciate that."

"Not even a bit."

"I am grateful."

"I keep emphasizing that point in hopes that you'll stop swinging the knife."

"Such things are out of my control now."

"Could you at least swing it a bit less wildly?"

"Sadly, no."

The blade slashed across Stefan's neck. His eyes widened and he clutched at his throat as blood squirted between his fingers. He dropped to his knees.

"I am sorry," said Klaus. "You were a hard working employee. In the end, though, I cannot forgive you for stabbing a customer in the head. How do you know he wouldn't have eventually changed his mind and decided to buy fifty standard sausages?"

"If you...sell my...meat...I'll know...you're...a..." Stefan fell onto his side. "...hypocrite."

Klaus placed two fingers on Stefan's neck to check his pulse.

"I'm still...moving around..." said Stefan.

"I know. Just getting my fingers in place."

Soon there was no pulse. Stefan was dead.

Klaus wept.

"All my life I've tried to do the right thing," he said, wiping away his tears as he dismembered the bodies. "I've never harmed anyone except cattle and swine, and always followed the path of peace and kindness. But if the circumstances of my life keep leading me toward the sale of bratwurst made from my fellow man, is it wrong to deny my destiny? Is God sending me a sign?"

And God spoke to Klaus.

"None of this was me," He said. "If you want to start selling human flesh in your shop, that's your free will, but it's all on you."

Klaus wasn't sure if he was really hearing God or if it was just a voice in his head since he'd gone insane. Probably a voice. It didn't matter; it hadn't been very helpful.

What should he do?

There was a knock at the door.

"Go away!" Klaus shouted. "We're closed!"

"But I'm here to talk to you about the importance of reusing our natural resources!"

"Come back tomorrow!"

Klaus sat on the floor for a while, lost in thought. Then he decided that his time spent lost in thought would be more productive if he worked while he was thinking, so he carried the body parts into the back room and began to grind up the flesh and bones.

The meat did not smell good.

What seasoning would one use on human flesh?

Pepper, certainly. Perhaps some garlic. Maybe a dash of cinnamon.

What was he thinking?

Certainly he wasn't actually considering this, was he?

Was he...?

* * *

"I'm bored with plain and ordinary bratwurst," said the first customer of the day. "Do you have anything new and exciting?"

Klaus smiled. "I have a brand new recipe that I'm sure you'll enjoy. Would you like a sample?"

The customer nodded with great enthusiasm.

Klaus handed him a slice of bratwurst on a toothpick. The customer popped it into his mouth and chewed.

"What do you think?" Klaus asked.

The customer began to chew more slowly. "What...what is this?"

"Do you like the flavor?"

"It's like nothing I've ever...it's...I'm sorry, it's really, really bad. I don't even want to swallow it. Is there somewhere I can spit? Please? It's an emergency."

"But it's the newest fad! It's human flesh!"

"Human flesh?" The customer spat it out onto the display case and began scraping his tongue with his index finger.

"That's impolite."

"Argh! Ugh! How could you do such a thing? Why would you offer me such an abomination? Argh! Ugh! I never imagined when I woke up this morning that today I'd become a cannibal! Argh! Ugh! Why, God, why? This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me! Argh! Ugh! I'll never visit this store again! Human flesh! I've tasted human flesh! I'll never be the same!"

The customer ran screaming out of the shop.

Klaus smiled. He'd been kidding. The bratwurst he'd given to the customer was not made from any of his victims. It was simply regular bratwurst with too much salt.

He'd flushed all of the human meat down the toilet. Not a single sausage was made from it.

He was an insane murderer, and his business was doomed, and the police would probably come looking for at least one of the four corpses, and his back hurt. But Klaus had not promoted cannibalism, and for now, that was enough.

STORY NOTES

"The Tipping Point"

I had to start this collection off with some crazy violence, right? I didn't want to make too blatant of a social/political point with this story, so while I'm not a huge fan of "What do YOU, the reader, think is happening?" I tried to leave it open to interpretation. I'm also more optimistic than the story; though we're seeing a lot of truly wretched behavior without consequences, I think that if the Tipping Point happened right now, it would be on the side of the good guys. My collections Gleefully Macabre Tales and Dead Clown Barbecue both opened with tales involving bad things happening to animals, so I hope the animal lovers appreciate that this time I only endangered a human baby.

"Nails"

When I was a kid, I was fascinated by this old picture of a guy who held the world record for the longest fingernails. I loved the way they curled around, and had my own ambition to have nails of such magnificent length. My mom, being a total killjoy, forbid me to spend the next several years growing fingernails that would essentially prevent me from using my hands for any constructive purpose. But she told me that when she was a kid, she'd heard about a guy whose fingernails grew right through his hand, and to emulate his glory, she'd kept her fingernails pressed against her palm. (It didn't work.) Somehow, the idea of fingernails growing out of control stuck with me for about four decades before finally becoming this story.

"Stumps"

I have to admit, if I were offered a shot at eternal life with the disclaimer that there was no magical healing, I'd probably take it and just try to be very, very, very careful. I would not, however, sacrifice somebody else to gain my eternal life, because that's a dick move.

"John Henry, The Steel Drivin' Man"

This story was written for an anthology called Out of Tune, edited by Jonathan Maberry, where authors picked a folk ballad and wrote a dark tale based on it. It took a lot of Internet research to settle on the actual song, but once I selected "The Ballad of John Henry" and came up with the central joke of the story, the words flowed like molten steel. However, when I write something that's on the high end of my silliness scale, there's always the worry that the editor is going to respond with "What the hell were you thinking?!? This anthology pays professional rates and THIS is what you're sending me?!?" Fortunately, Jonathan Maberry either loved the story or fears me enough to say that he loved it.

"Fair Trade"

This is sort of a weird companion piece to my story "A Flawed Fantasy." I'd make a lot more money if I'd write stories where this sort of behavior worked out well for all of the participants.

"Chiggers"

I started writing this as a fairly standard "nature on a rampage" story, where a group of characters were trapped inside a small building while vicious blood-sucking chiggers tried to kill them. I liked the characters, but decided that I didn't really have any good ideas for how they'd stay in danger throughout a longer piece. So I got rid of the supporting characters and changed the nature of the chigger threat. Yes, the setup was always meant to be the beginning of a bug story, even though it could've been the start of an awesome crime novel.

"Cry"

I can't remember why I started to write about a guy rubbing habanero peppers into his eyes to make himself cry, and from paragraph to paragraph I had no idea where this story was headed. Sometimes that leads to dead ends (I am most definitely not one of those authors who finishes everything he starts), and sometimes, as with this story, it leads to very odd places.

"The Fierce Stabbing and Subsequent Post-Death Vengeance of Scooter Brown"

I have a fondness for writing jokes that are stretched out to the breaking point. (Ask the editor of my young adult novels.) This story has the rhythm of sketch comedy, which made it a lot of fun to write, though it was indeed meant to be a short story and not a performance piece. Would it work as well with actors reading it out loud? I dunno. It's been a looooooong time since I was in a creative writing class, but I enjoy knowing that somebody would have complained about it being told entirely through dialogue.

"It's Bath Time!"

I sent this story to Horror Library Volume 5 as "It's Bath Time!" The editor asked if I'd change the title to "Bath Time." We ultimately kept the exclamation point but dropped "It's." But I like "It's Bath Time!" more than "Bath Time!" and in the realm of my own short story collections I am KING, so the original title has been reinstated. (Though I actually originally called it "Down The Drain.")

"Alien Face"

I'd like to turn this story into a novel. Maybe someday I will. (Probably not.) When I was a kid, I had a pug. The classified ad said "Looks like E.T." Now, my pug didn't really look like E.T., but it was certainly a weird-looking dog, especially back in the '80s when pugs weren't as ubiquitous in popular culture as they are today. But I made up lyrics for "Alien Face" to the tune of "Baby Face" to sing to my dog:

Alien face.

You've got the weirdest little alien face.

You look like you just came from outer space.

Alien face.

This led to the term "alien face" being stuck in my brain for years and years and years, which eventually led to the idea for this story.

"Apocalypse of the Yard Gnome"

This was originally written for an anthology called Yard Gnomes of the Apocalypse that was never published. It's not that easy to come up with a story for a yard gnome of the apocalypse when you know there are a bunch of other authors also coming up with ideas for stories about yard gnomes of the apocalypse.

"Dead Bigfoot on the Lawn"

Another story written with the "Let's just see where this takes me!" process. It really was supposed to be about trying to dispose of a real Bigfoot and not a guy in a Bigfoot costume. I have a joke that has never made it into a book where kids are on their way to Disneyland, and instead of saying "We're gonna see Mickey! We're gonna see Mickey!" they keep saying "We're gonna see an actor in a Mickey costume! We're gonna see an actor in a Mickey costume!" Now that I've squandered that joke here, I'm sure my next novel will offer the perfect opportunity to use it.

"Gross-Out: The Return"

I dunno, maybe I should leave this one out of the collection...

"Deformed Son"

I enjoy figuring out the order of stories in a collection. There are several elements involved, one of which is that more divisive stories (such as "One of Them" from Gleefully Macabre Tales or "Rough Draft" from Dead Clown Barbecue) tend to go into the second half. One of my test readers despises this story. I'm pretty damned fond of it, but admittedly, the whole point is that it's an unsatisfactory resolution. Not something I'd use to open the collection.

"The Origin of Slashy"

I was once on a "Humor in Horror" panel at a convention (I'm on this panel at every convention) and the moderator asked if there was any subject matter that's off-limits for humor. One of the other panelists said, "Rape is never funny under any circumstances." I'm not one to argue with fellow panelists, so I didn't say anything, but somebody in the audience raised their hand and said, "But Jeff Strand, you had a funny rape scene in your story 'Sex Potion #147!'" Yes, I did. It's a goofy scene where the (unsuccessful) rapist carries around his own severed penis in a jar. There was no real need to worry about triggering anybody.

"The Origin of Slashy" was different, because though it's sort of a dark humor story, it was important that it be...well, tasteful is the wrong word, but it had to treat the subject in an appropriate manner. Clearly this was not meant to be a serious exploration of post-rape trauma, but I was always aware of the balancing act of writing an entertaining story about something that was most definitely not inherently funny.

"Secret Message (Decoded)"

It hadn't occurred to me to include this one at first. Gleefully Macabre Tales was originally published as a hardcover, at a time when there was no guarantee that another edition would ever come out. Instead of making people write in their expensive limited edition collector's item, or transcribe the story before they decoded it, I made it a little easier by offering to send a copy that cryptogram enthusiasts could print out. As I was finalizing the table of contents for Everything Has Teeth, I got a request for the printable version, and suddenly decided that the time was right to share the decoded story with the world.

"The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried To Destroy the World"

Many of my short stories are published by small presses, in obscure venues. This story, which appeared in the anthology Anything But Zombies, was published by Simon & Schuster. Simon & Schuster! A story about cherry cola coming to life! Admit how awesome that is. Admit it!!!

"The Eggman Falleth"

I've always found Humpty Dumpty to be creepy as hell. I don't know why; I mean, what could be less threatening than a giant egg-man? "Rrrawwwrrr! I'm the evil Humpty Dumpty! I'm going to—oh, shit, you cracked me." Not only is he physically unthreatening, but the poor guy just wants to sit on a wall, bothering nobody. So I can't explain why he has fueled so many nightmares, but if I woke up in the middle of the night and had to choose between a chainsaw-wielding psychopath standing at the foot of my bed and Humpty Dumpty, I'm going for the psychopath.

"The Story of My First Kiss"

This story was inspired by the one time I brought a severed head into school as a practical joke. No, wait, I'm thinking of "The Story of My First Kiss" from Everything Has Teeth. I was terrible at practical jokes. I'd do things like put a fake ice cube with a fly in it in somebody's drink, but then keep saying "How's your Pepsi? Are you enjoying your Pepsi? Have you looked at your Pepsi recently?"

"Dad (A True Story)"

As the title indicates, this is a true story. It was a hellish, depressing time...but a lot of it was legitimately funny. It really did seem like one of the doctors was practicing for an infomercial on the wonders of a tracheotomy, and there really was a clumsy nurse. I was planning to use this material in a fictional piece, because "writing from the heart about tragic moments in my life" isn't really my thing, but I decided to try something different.

"Bad Bratwurst"

So Keith Minnion of White Noise Press wanted to publish a new chapbook by me. (He'd previously done Funny Stories of Scary Sex.) I said yes, because that's what I'll always say to Keith. 3000-6000 words.

Then I got an e-mail from a German publisher, asking for a short story to include in a magazine. No pay, but a reprint was fine. Being in a German magazine was cool enough for me to overlook the lack of pay (after all, it was a reprint) so I said yes. The publisher said, great, the story needs to be 9000-10,000 words.

ME: Wait, what??? 9000-10,000 words? Seriously???

Yes, seriously. Now this is the point where, if this were a book of writing advice, I'd suggest that the proper route was to respond with "Ha ha! Bite me!" Instead, I just pouted a little, and figured I could sell it to somebody else later. Then: inspiration! I e-mailed Keith and asked if he was cool with my chapbook story also being published in a German-language edition (maybe before, maybe after; I didn't know), and what was the absolute maximum length we could pack in there?

He was totally cool with it, and 8000 words.

The version included here is the 9228-word version, so if you own the chapbook, feel free to do a line-by-line comparison!

CREDITS

"The Tipping Point," "Chiggers," "Alien Face," "Dead Bigfoot on the Lawn," "Gross-Out: The Return," "The Eggman Falleth," and "Dad (A True Story)" are previously unpublished.

"Nails." Dead Harvest. 2014.

"Stumps." Fear the Reaper. 2013.

"John Henry, the Steel Drivin' Man." Out of Tune. 2014.

"Fair Trade." Splatterpunk Zine. 2012.

"Cry." Blood Rites. 2013.

"The Fierce Stabbing and Post-Death Vengeance of Scooter Brown." Piercing the Darkness. 2014.

"It's Bath Time!" Horror Library, Volume 5. 2013.

"Apocalypse of the Lawn Gnome." The Horror Zine. 2016.

"Deformed Son." Aghast Vol. 1. 2015.

"The Origin of Slashy." Corrupts Absolutely. 2012.

"Secret Message (Decoded)." Published as a cryptogram in Gleefully Macabre Tales. 2008.

"The Sentient Cherry Cola That Tried to Destroy the World." Anything But Zombies. 2015.

"The Story of My First Kiss." The Horror Zine. 2011.

"Bad Bratwurst." White Noise Press chapbook. 2015.

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Books By Jeff Strand

Bring Her Back. A tale of revenge and madness.

Sick House. A home invasion from beyond the grave.

How You Ruined My Life (Young Adult). Sixteen-year-old Rod has a pretty cool life until his cousin Blake moves in and slowly destroys everything he holds dear.

Everything Has Teeth. A third collection of short tales of horror and macabre comedy.

An Apocalypse of Our Own. Can the Friend Zone survive the end of the world?

Stranger Things Have Happened (Young Adult). Teenager Marcus Millian III is determined to be one of the greatest magicians who ever lived. Can he make a live shark disappear from a tank?

Cyclops Road. When newly widowed Evan Portin gives a woman named Harriett a ride out of town, she says she's on a cross-country journey to slay a Cyclops. Is she crazy, or...?

Blister. While on vacation, cartoonist Jason Tray meets the town legend, a hideously disfigured woman who lives in a shed.

The Greatest Zombie Movie Ever (Young Adult). Three best friends with more passion than talent try to make the ultimate zombie epic.

Kumquat. A road trip comedy about TV, hot dogs, death, and obscure fruit.

I Have a Bad Feeling About This (Young Adult). Geeky, non-athletic Henry Lambert is sent to survival camp, which is bad enough before the trio of murderous thugs show up.

Pressure. What if your best friend was a killer...and he wanted you to be just like him? Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

Dweller. The lifetime story of a boy and his monster. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Novel.

A Bad Day For Voodoo. A young adult horror/comedy about why sticking pins in a voodoo doll of your history teacher isn't always the best idea. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Young Adult Novel.

Dead Clown Barbecue. A collection of demented stories about severed noses, ventriloquist dummies, giant-sized vampires, sibling stabbings, and lots of other messed-up stuff.

Dead Clown Barbecue Expansion Pack. A few more stories for those who couldn't get enough.

Wolf Hunt. Two thugs for hire. One beautiful woman. And one vicious frickin' werewolf.

Wolf Hunt 2. New wolf. Same George and Lou.

The Sinister Mr. Corpse. The feel-good zombie novel of the year.

Benjamin's Parasite. A rather disgusting action/horror/comedy about why getting infected with a ghastly parasite is unpleasant.

Fangboy. A dark and demented fairy tale for adults.

Kutter. A serial killer finds a Boston terrier, and it might just make him into a better person.

Faint of Heart. To get her kidnapped husband back, Melody has to relive her husband's nightmarish weekend, step-by-step...and survive.

Mandibles. Giant killer ants wreaking havoc in the big city!

Stalking You Now. A twisty-turny thriller soon to be the feature film Mindy Has To Die.

Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary). First in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Single White Psychopath Seeks Same. Second in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Casket For Sale (Only Used Once). Third in the Andrew Mayhem series.

Lost Homicidal Maniac (Answers to "Shirley"). Fourth in the Andrew Mayhem series.

The Andrew Mayhem Collection. All four novels for one low price!

Suckers (with JA Konrath). Andrew Mayhem meets Harry McGlade. Which one will prove to be more incompetent?

Gleefully Macabre Tales. A collection of thirty-two demented tales. Bram Stoker Award nominee for Best Collection.

Elrod McBugle on the Loose. A comedy for kids (and adults who were warped as kids).

The Haunted Forest Tour (with Jim Moore). The greatest theme park attraction in the world! Take a completely safe ride through an actual haunted forest! Just hope that your tram doesn't break down, because this forest is PACKED with monsters...

Draculas (with JA Konrath, Blake Crouch, and F. Paul Wilson). An outbreak of feral vampires in a secluded hospital. This one isn't much like Twilight.

For information on all of these books, visit Jeff Strand's more-or-less official website at http://www.jeffstrand.com