Date: 2019-05-23 00:00:00+00:00
Description: WHAT SECRETS LIE WITHIN THE FLESH? Brutus and Tommy pick up dead bodies for a living it's a grim but interesting business to, say the least. Their normally nasty gig suddenly transitions into something even more disturbing than usual when they pick up a recently murdered stiff that's been stewing in the blazing Arizona heat just a bit too long. They soon find out this isn't just any ordinary cadaver, this corpse has a dark, horrific secret... A shocking, repulsive, detail oriented odyssey that practically puts you on the coroner's cold definitive slab. You always hear that it's what's on the i
Publisher: Independently published

DIE TOMMY
Aron Beauregard
Maggot Press

Copyright © 2019 Aron Beauregard

All rights reserved.
ISBN: 9781099388040

Cover & Interior Art Copyright © 2019 Andriy Dankovych

Bone Saw Art Copyright © 2019 Katherine Burns

Edited by Laura Wilkinson

Maggot Press
Coventry, Rhode Island

WARNING
This book contains scenes and subject matter that are disgusting and disturbing, easily offended people are not the intended audience.

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DEADICATION

This book is dedicated to anyone who’s had sick thoughts and molded them into something they love. Anyone who’s been fascinated with the disturbing and diabolic and has a passion for horrifying.

Also, for Katie. I wrote this book by your side. Thank you for supporting me and pushing me to publish my work. I love you infinitely.

Lastly, to Christopher James Snodgrass as one of the events in his life started the concept for this book. I’ll let you guess which one.

“It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.”

- Marcus Aurelius

Die Tommy

Brutus wiped the waterfall of sweat from his brow with a dirty napkin and tossed it into the console. It was almost one hundred and twenty degrees outside but it felt like one hundred and fifty. The shabby, all-white van was a tired one but its rusted axel squealed onward. The body had more dings than a bellhop and the faded red font that was barely stuck to the vehicle’s side doors read: Maricopa County Coroner.

The sad vehicle sputtered its way along, struggling to continue up the steep tar hill while the beaming sun lasered through the windshield. Brutus’s accuracy behind the wheel was starting to feel a little untrustworthy as the blistering rays continued obstructing his vision.

He raised a hand, attempting to gain a better vantage point, but concealing the center of the universe is no simple task. It sure as hell wasn’t the center of his universe… it was beginning to feel like just another nuisance or aggravation.

Fantastical thoughts began to overpower his reality. The wheels were spinning slowly as he drifted, plunging further into his own mental inventions. The grandiose daydreams weren’t uncommon. With the kind of nasty gig Brutus was involved in, he often tried to leverage whatever form of escape he could.

He envisioned himself in a muscular bearded form. A physique that seemed a far-flung reach for a past his prime potbellied man whose face was completely dominated by a permanent five o’clock shadow. In the buff, cooler appearance, he was clad in toga-like garments as if he was some sort of ancient Greek god. He pictured himself swatting away the barren planets around him in an annoyed manner. Clearing the way to blowing out the sun as forcefully as a candle on a birthday cake.

It was one of his self-seeking moments where his immediate comfort—even if only for just for a few hours—easily outweighed the dependency of the entire globe’s existence. He wouldn’t feel too terrible snuffing out the cynical smirks of a predominantly nefarious world populous. Brutus’s morbid and melancholy experiences had left him to believe that he was on a planet crawling with creeps and freaks.

“Creeps...” Brutus muttered to himself.

“What’s that?” Tommy asked while fumbling for the air conditioning knob.

“Give it up, you know that shit’s broke.”

“What? That’s bogus, man, still? That asshole said it would be fixed!”

“This shouldn’t be a shocker, kid, there’s a lot you could learn from repetition.”

“How can he have us out in this type of heat with no AC? This freaking pleather is melting my skin. We need to call the Better Business Bureau or something…”

“The Better Business Bureau is for customer complaints…”

“You know what I mean.”

“Personally, I’d rather just not talk about it.”

“Whatever, fine.” Tommy reached out to twist the radio knob and tune it in.

“That’s broke now too.”

Tommy exhaled the kind of sigh that spelled deep agitation. Not just for the topic at hand, but it appeared to be for something else. Something that was clearly gnawing at him, amplifying his uncharacteristically short temper.

“You ever think about having kids?” Tommy inquired.

“I’m not built for that life, you know that,” Brutus replied, eyeing him like he should already damn well know the answer.

Tommy was just a talker, he couldn’t help it. He was the sort of happy-go-lucky fella that people seemed to naturally gravitate toward and relish in their conversations with. His tall, clean-cut frame and tactfully toned body blended with his welcoming personality made his pheromones magnetic to most.

It wasn’t essential for him to be the life of the party, but he surely could be without completely stealing the spotlight. In most people’s eyes, he was an easy guy to root for.

In contrast, Brutus was hard-boiled after years of loneliness. His bitter reserve really wasn’t anything personal against Tommy. For the most part, he liked the kid. More than anything, his state of mind while in his presence derived from underlying jealousy. The simple comforts in life that Tommy reaped without strain were simply no longer attainable for Brutus.

After spending so much time with a single individual, Brutus had inspected all of Tommy’s dimensions and, in turn, unintentionally triggered a similar scrutiny on himself. An examination that pushed some harsh revelations forth—ones that were so sobering that they sliced through his hangover.

Seeing and hearing how his partner’s love had blossomed so beautifully and effortlessly was a constant pounding hammer of depression for Brutus. The incessant beating of the drum was an always screaming reminder of the slew of past prospects that had fallen by the wayside.

But he had no one to blame it on but himself and his ever-lurking, always-famished demons. He always felt their menacing companionship, constantly teething on him, suckling the black nutrients of his failures and the unmerry-go-round of indecencies he braised within.

He’d chosen the bottle over the handful of women that had seen his potential. The ones that had believed in him and appreciated the sweetness and reverence he would treat them with. The refreshing humor and decency that he could offer them when he was clearheaded.

A few of them were so captivated that they would have probably stayed through the worst of his debauchery, but he knew that wasn’t fair. When he drank, things could get ugly and even, on occasion, treacherous. His one grace in the face of adversity was his selflessness. If it reached a level where he'd become a danger to a lover, he’d cut ties altogether and spare them the burden.

He’d awoken on too many occasions with no recollection of prior events. A revelation that left him with an unsettled, guilty feeling. He almost felt evil at times. He never had the urge to be violent but had exited blackouts to find furniture flipped, plates smashed, and walls and doors destroyed. The breadcrumb trail of disturbing behavior eclipsed his overall benevolence.

For unknown reasons, the women of his past never seemed to mention his actions during the blank rages. They instead just avoided the topic altogether, which almost felt more uncomfortable than talking about it. Maybe the women all had some kind of universal pity for him.

Patching up the horsehair plaster in his depressing apartment and painting over it each time these incidents occurred was humiliating. The eyes of the witness upon him, judging him, watching him attempt to hide his pathetic weaknesses by using materials that most obtain to improve their home. The materials symbolized quite a different definition in his realm.

Although he no longer advanced on the other sex or relationships, the smell of wet paint still made him sick. It was a time machine for trauma, pulling him back to those awful mornings. Back to a place he didn’t want to remember—one that held many good memories but a majority that were far too dangerous to toy with.

Brutus sometimes wondered why he drank. Was there ever a good reason? The non-blackout mornings were a different breed of creature. He’d wake up hollow with the fragmented recollections of his devious doppelgänger stirring about his mind. Either version was no way to live, toxic to the touch, but it was the only way he knew .

It was always a struggle to decide whether the demon was genetic or self-conjured. He was hard-pressed to decide which of the two would make him feel any better about the situation. He still wasn’t convinced that mattered at all.

He thought of his father as a human sponge, absorbing liquid to capacity. Not just any liquid though, he soaked in inordinate amounts of poison nearly non-stop. He drank like he was getting paid to, not like he was paying. Not only was he paying, but sadly, everyone else was too.

Brutus had no choice but to mature rapidly after his mother’s passing. She had been the glue for so long, the one who had kept his father from unraveling for as long as he could recall. It was a good run they had, but once his mother died, so did his father’s sobriety.

The constant carousing continued for what seemed like every day as Brutus came of age. He could recall all the draining no-win conversations and endless nights. The babble never ceased and seemed impossible to pacify. It was always just a matter of time until he found something to be pissed off about. He was born to raise hell, not a son.

Maybe that was what spawned the self-loathing and his own personal disgust; finding himself at the bottom of the bottle when he’d promised himself he’d never be like him. Now, every time he peeked at his reflection, he could see it. His old man clinging to him like a monkey on his back. It was as clear as day—the same dreary and weathered look his father wore had leeched itself onto him. The sickening disease had meshed with the discolored scar tissue that his father’s beatings had left upon him.

The deep, unmolested hatred that had begun brewing inside him eventually started to trickle forth concepts of a more sinister nature. Before long, the innocent and humble ideology Brutus began his adolescence with had become clouded. He knew that if he didn’t leave then and never look back, he had the potential to do something irrational, something life-altering.

His response was all a culmination of the countless perverted facets that peppered his relationship with his father. It was most certainly the reason they never spoke once he’d saved enough to move to the city. Yet still, he wondered how long it might be until he got the phone call.

In his business, you couldn’t avoid thinking about it. What was the end of the road for many was just the beginning for Brutus. Would he attend the funeral or still cling to his grudge? Even more ironic and unnerving, would he be the one who was called upon to pick up his father?

“I’m feeling the pressure,” Tommy mumbled, interrupting his train of thought. “Deirdre won’t stop talking about her biological clock. I just keep hearing this imaginary ticking in my head. I’m starting to wonder if it’s even imaginary anymore. I’m scared to go home at night, she’s basically raping me right when I get in the door. Before I can say a fuckin’ word, my pants are around my ankles.”

“Don’t sound like the worst problem to have,” Brutus countered. He laughed to himself feeling somewhat disgusted.

“But it isn’t me she really wants or cares about. The motivation behind it is selfish. She’s not doing it to please me, she just wants my seed. She won’t stop talking about babies. We see so much sick shit every day, I’m just sayin’ that it’d be nice to go home for once and not feel the pressure.”

“If I was you, I’d enjoy the ride. Make the most of it. Pussy ain’t exactly knockin’ down the door for everyone. You sound ungrateful, just enjoy the ride now because it don’t last forever.”

“Yeah, but I wanna enjoy other rides too, like my Camaro. A Camaro ain’t exactly a family-friendly vehicle. Am I supposed to trade that in for a minivan? I sure as shit can’t afford both with what that fuckin’ penny pincher is paying us. So, I’ll be in this van all day at work and then the one with the kid? I’ll be in a van twenty-four-seven! Is it my destiny to be van man? It’s just not my style. This whole thing is a domino effect. You knock one over, then fifty more go.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say. Also, I don’t really give a shit, I’m a single, isolated, 49-year-old man. I don’t even have a dog. I’m not sure what captivating wisdom you’re expecting me to bestow to you right now.”

“You must’ve been in this spot at some point, right? Even when you were younger?”

Brutus looked up at himself in the rearview, tracing over his thoughts with a subtle pain plaguing him. The rehashing of grim events, heartbreak, and shame.

“If you get a good one, you hold onto her. Sometimes you have to step into their shoes. It’s more important that you can comprehend all she’s feelin’ than what you are feelin’ inside. Sometimes, if you love someone, you have to take one for the team. Deirdre is a good one but you should already know that. Maybe you doing something to make her happy once a day ain’t the worst thing in the world.”

“But it’s not just about her, Brew, it’s about both of us. I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”

“I gave you what I had. It’s too fuckin’ hot for this shit now. Let’s just agree to disagree and enjoy this pathetic breeze.”

The odd couple locked eyes briefly before slowly breaking their focus away from each other in silence. Tommy submitted and the pair sat speechless while they listened to the clanging of what sounded like a loose catalytic converter grill.

66 Palm Avenue 11:18 AM

The noisy metallic rattling coasted around the corner as the abused van approached the house. Brutus and Tommy immediately took in an image that they were all too familiar with. A handful of police officers were scattered outside the house, establishing the crime scene perimeter with the standard bumble bee tape-line. They maintained order, warding off intrusive reporters and the clusters of nosy neighbors.

As the swarm of busy-bodies let their jaw hinges chatter like nutcrackers on Christmas, the juicy gossip spread rapidly. It wormed its way through the assemblage almost as quickly as the unease. Their interest was at a crowning. Each one of the pedestrians was just clamoring for any detail they could attain as to what kind of commotion could warrant such a police presence. Something nasty no doubt, they could assume that much.

By now though, Brutus and Tommy were both well aware that something in the human spirit just pushes us toward the darkness. They’d discussed it in grave detail before. When someone gets hitched or their kid graduates from school, those shining moments were cherished. At the time, they are beating like a dead horse and celebrated to exhaustion. All those blissful events were what any normal person claimed to look forward to, or at least that’s what they’d portray on the outside. But on the inside, it’s quite a different story. On the inside, there is an instinct that’s much more wicked, something few people would even admit to. Under those deep layers, there was a thirst for horror, an obsession with chaos and the inexplicable. An urge to wonder why people do the fucked-up things they inevitably do.

Something to chat about at the watercooler. People to point the finger at that are sicker and more depraved than they are. That way, society can feel a tad better about their own indecencies—at least in comparison to the rest. It was a trivial victory but a victory nevertheless.

Tommy had given Brutus two examples that came to his mind one day and asked which he felt was more intriguing:

1. You’ve attended your second cousin’s wedding, and out of the chicken or fish dinner selections, you’ve gone with the Atlantic cod.

2. You’ve discovered that after over a decade of seemingly ordinary on the outside behavior, your neighbor, Frank, has found out that his wife had some concealed infidelities. In turn, he’s removed each one of her toenails individually and sawed her head off. The body was left dissolving in a bathtub of acid, while her decapitated head is set on a stick in the front yard for the neighborhood children to throw rocks at …

After Tommy posed the question, he asked, “Well, there’s nothing more exciting than that, is there?”

Brutus knew the answer was a depressing one but he was right. Even more sobering than the outcome of their little moralistic game of choice was when Tommy revealed that each of those selections were plucked directly from events in his own life. The evil is always too close for comfort.

The morbid curiosity concept had grown so foreign to the duo that had already seen it all. One individual’s whole lifetime of horrors was their typical day at the office. The most nightmarish life events of random strangers were squeezed of the gruesome and vile details and encapsulated into daily doses for them. And they both had to take that pill every day that they decided to put their uniforms on.

It all just seemed so mundane to them now, as basic as a walk to the corner store. Except they weren’t getting groceries or cigarettes like normal people. They were collecting fear, shock, and disgust. As they closed in on the disordered scene, they felt nothing. The van came to a halt, and as Brutus parked, they remained tongue-tied until Tommy unloosened the knot as he so often did.

“I think this is it, Brew.”

Brutus threw the old shitbox into park and popped his door open. Tommy always seemed to reiterate everything that was already painfully obvious. It was a personality flaw that he didn’t notice. His endless disgorging of completely useless information went right up Brutus’s ass. He’d explained the issue to be a pet-peeve of his many times that, at this point, a roll of the eyes was all he could output.

It didn’t seem like he did it intentionally, but it irked him nonetheless. The best he could do was ignore him in an effort toward civility. They could be like husband and wife going back and forth, arguing for literally no reason. That’s what happens when you’re stuck in an uncomfortable confined area with another guy and it’s as hot as fresh shit outside. Even though he didn’t want to, he held back.

Tommy wasn’t a bad kid, just not exactly the brightest bulb on the fucking runway. Brutus had grown over time to view his personality like poison ivy. He was annoying, nagging, and hard to get rid of. In spite of his shortcomings, he was still a decent kid, a fact that helped Brutus grind his teeth for the greater good.

They exited the vehicle and headed for the house. En route, they could overhear a reporter speaking to a man from the neighborhood. The slender, well-kept young professional positioned her bulbous microphone a few inches below her chin and spoke excitedly.

“And how long did you know her for?” the stylish blonde asked, reversing the mic to a twenty-something-year-old muscular Latino in extraordinarily long shorts and a wife-beater.

“I don’t know. Two, maybe three year? I mean, she was nice lady, never no problem with her. You know she… she’s type of lady you bring to mom,” he said in broken English as a man popped into the frame behind him, waving while mouthing, “Hi, Mom!”

“One day, my boy, Pedro, he crash his bike into the, the, how you call it... how you say… the water pump?”

His woman interjects, “The hydrant!”

“Si correcto. Yes, the hydrant, and she, she take him inside for help him. She nice, very nice lady. Musta be good reason why she do this. Maybe someone try to hurt her,” the man remarked, defensive of his neighbor.

Brutus pulled his focus away from the man, having heard it all before. “She was the nicest person. I can’t imagine her doing that,” or “he seemed like he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

It was all bullshit. He knew by now, deep down inside, that everyone had it in them. The human potential for violence, the capacity for destruction. From the little old lady at the end of the street to the teenage metal-head. They could stab you, shoot you, poison you, strangle you, or push you down the stairs. The method depended on the person, no matter how weak or fit you were. He’d seen people find a way.

It could be someone you knew for years or never knew at all. It could be self-inflicted. It was all just a matter of a trigger. Any moment, the evil could rear its ugly head. Many people couldn’t fathom just how ugly it got from an intimate perspective but there comes a point where some of the unluckier souls find out.

Tommy closed the back doors of the van and followed up behind him. He wiped the drops of perspiration from his forehead and removed his dollar store shades, clipping them to the neck of his bio-suit. He had a lengthy black bag folded in half on the gurney as he rolled it over the dry gravel. A small dust cloud carried off behind them while they advanced to the residence.

Brutus nodded and flashed some credentials at the officer posted by the front door. The officer took a small sidestep, making room for them to enter while avoiding any discussion. When they popped the door, it hit them like a sledgehammer to the guts. A nauseating, sweltering heatwave.

It was like a fucking oven inside the house. An oven cooking month-old flesh. Breakfast was rumbling. It must’ve looked like a fountain of cracked eggs and ground meat bubbling over repeatedly. They simultaneously slapped their hands over their mouths and noses.

“Jesus Christ, how the fuck do they not have AC? How can you survive in this heat without it?! This is insane, absolutely insane,” Tommy spewed out through his hand.

“It’s hell,” Brutus concurred.

They were more than accustomed, borderline immune, to the smell of death and decay, but the situation at hand was unprecedented. They both froze trying to hold the nutrients down. Brutus freed an arm, extending it toward Tommy with the palm open.

“Gimmie the Vicks,” Brutus demanded. He was hoping to rub a little under his nose to help combat the smell.

“I think it’s umm…” Tommy stammered, half-heartedly searching his suit pockets.

“Where’s the God damn Vicks?!” Brutus moaned, showing his impatience.

“I left it at the lab,” Tommy confessed.

Brutus locked eyes with him as the simplest means of relaying his fury. He wanted to say something but his rage was crippling. “I give you one fuckin’ job, literally just one and you find a way to fuck it up.”

“C’mon, Brew, when do we ever use that shit? How was I supposed to know we’d need it now?”

“It’s not every day that it’s a hundred and twenty fucking degrees out! How did you think it would be in here!?” Brutus barked through his hand .

“I don’t know, man. I thought they’d have a fucking AC, okay? I didn’t think these people were retarded. You know you can’t live around here without—”

“Shut the fuck up. If you know what’s good for you, you would listen to me, just this once,” Brutus interrupted.

He awaited his compliance before finally turning his back on him. They quickly worked their way further into the house and approached one of the masked officers in the kitchen.

“Excuse me, sir, where is the deceased at?” Brutus asked.

“Back bedroom,” the sweaty officer replied, pointing them in the direction.

“You don’t happen to have another mask by any chance?” The officer looked at Brutus like he was an idiot, not willing to dignify his inquiry with a response. “I figured not...”

Once they got a few yards away from the guy, Tommy cupped his hand over his mouth and aimed at Brutus, “These fuckin’ guys are really charming today, huh?”

“If you expect anyone to be pleasant in this hellhole, you’re out of your mind. We could skip the formalities altogether if you just did your job,” Brutus rebutted, defending them while still a bit chapped about Tommy’s oversight.

The sweaty duo headed down the hallway until they reached a sky-blue door with chipped paint and a rusted handle. A winged cockroach scurried into the vintage skeleton keyhole just before Brutus grabbed hold of the knob. He twisted it slowly, dragging the hinge out, creating a certain level of interesting but unintended drama.

The door creaked open, revealing a dingy and dark resting area. The chamber had a unique sort of gloom that hung in the air, an odd gray that just seemed to weigh on one’s soul upon entry. It was like the depression that stewed there for so long could be felt naturally without the crutch of any senses.

The paranormal feeling burrowed deep into the men before they even could even begin to comprehend the heinous visuals or foulest of aromas that would dance up their nostrils. The scent had escalated even further in intensity.

Their panoramic view started at the bed. Even discounting the pools of blood and brain matter that were strewn about the mattress sheets and comforter, you could notice a filthiness that had been there before the horror. When you’ve done business with death on a regular basis, for over a decade, it’s not the gore and mayhem that stand out anymore. It’s the little things. The various idiosyncrasies and quirks of people’s lives that still truly resonated. It struck Brutus that neither of them cared enough about themselves, or each other, to even keep a clean mattress. Maybe it was because he could relate.

His assessment continued on to the toppled TV, seizuring through a spider-webbed screen beside the credenza. A trail of blood on the grimy rug continued past the smashed glass and led his gaze to conclude by the open window.

A naked and morbidly obese middle-aged male sat slumped against the chipped wall with a deranged frown cast upon his face. The man’s head was oversized and stretched to a level of distortion that felt hallucinogenic. They could have only wished what they were witnessing was a façade .

The boiling heat had made a horrible mess even more putrid. A deep red decomposition fluid had exited his nasal cavity and made its way down his sternum. The ooze blended with an irregular greenish fluid caked around his mouth and chin area. With gravity’s hand, the river rounded over his potbelly and down to his groin.

The flies had found their haven, planting an enormous larva shrine within his wounds. His final moments were clearly ingrained in his expression and captured such carnage that it was almost as disturbing as the ultra-violence that surrounded them. This sort of window into one’s final moments was the type that shouldn’t be seen.

There was no off switch afterward with this one. Too petrifying for the living, a closed casket seemed appropriate and a courtesy to anyone still breathing. This wasn’t a Mr. Potato head type situation… The most talented reconstructive surgeon didn’t have a prayer with the big man. There were just too many issues there to count.

A dry wind blew the window drape, causing it to flutter above the exposed crushed brains that topped the stiff’s cranium. It stirred up a sizable brigade of flies which immediately tornadoed toward them. They both quickly took a step back, trying to shield themselves.

“This is something else. You ever seen anything like this?” Tommy asked.

“Yeah,” Brutus remarked in a short, unproud fashion.

“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely, we have a cadaver to collect,” said a voice projecting sharply from behind them.

The men turned to see Alester standing just outside of the doorway sporting a mischievous smile. His curly thinning hair was moist to the touch and curved around his moderately-sized brown-frame bifocals. The short-sleeve white collar shirt he was wearing was overlapped by a smoky gray tie bearing the face of a salivating wolf.

“Where have you fellas been? They wanted tubby outta here over an hour ago. I had to come down and see what all the trouble was. With this heat, we could have ourselves a real soup on our hands here now…”

“The traffic on 40 was insane, boss. This heat has people acting nuts,” Tommy replied as Alester walked over to the appalling carcass and crouched down without kneeling.

“I guess someone should have told him that. Apparently, he didn’t get the memo!” Alester laughed.

“You know, I bet if he would have just invested in a quality air conditioning unit, this whole mess could’ve been avoided. It’s so hot, I left my ass on the car seat coming in here. This goddamn heat could drive anyone over the edge. Yup, that’s why I’ve got over 20,000 BTUs flowing through our house. I’m not taking any chances. If Linette woke up one day and that temperature gauge was setting records and maybe she was on the rag… well, I guess I’m just trying to say this could be any of us if we’re not careful…” Alester warned.

Tommy smirked and Brutus remained stoic as usual. Alester watched the tiny beads of perspiration fall off the tip of his nose and mix into the fibers on the gross rug.

“You alright?” Alester asked, taking note of his unpleasant demeanor.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Well, why the face?”

“It’s just not funny to me. The guy is gone, he’s sitting there rotting. I think we should show him some respect is all.”

“He just can’t relate because he don’t got a woman in his life,” Tommy jabbed.

“Is that right, Brew?” Alester asked, raising to his feet and inching closer to him.

“Well, that’s just plain ridiculous. A geyser of charm like yourself should be beating them off with a stick! Matter of fact, I think I have a girl back at the shop that’s just dying to meet someone like you!” Alester and Tommy ran with a chorus of laughter.

“You better watch out though, I hear she’s a real cold-hearted bitch!” Alester continued piling on. There were no words that were inappropriate in his mind.

“Alright, alright, let’s get this shit over with,” Brutus calmly demanded.

Alester settled down and strutted back over to where he entered. “Right, I will let you boys get to it,” Alester replied, looking down at his gold watch. “I should be back at the lab in a couple of hours, which should give you more than enough time to transport our friend here.”

“Later,” Tommy said.

As Alester disappeared, Tommy looked over at Brutus. Sweat continued to flow from his pores in a way that resembled a 7-Eleven rotisserie hotdog. He pulled another napkin from his suit’s back pocket and wiped himself off, while Tommy laid out and expanded the body bag.

“I’ll get his legs and you can get the arms, okay?” Tommy asked.

“Whatever,” Brutus replied with more than a hint of discontent.

“Look, I was just joking about the girlfriend thing.”

“I don’t care.”

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s even all worth it,” Tommy pondered aloud.

Switching into his Deirdre imitation voice, he began his rant, “Well, I don’t have time to keep waiting for you. We need to try now. I have needs, and as a woman, you promised me and I need a child. A screaming little bag of shit that will restrict us from all of life’s pleasures. Blah, blah, blah,” he continued, melding back to his normal tone. “So, maybe you’re right, maybe you’re the smart one,” he conceded.

“I just wanna get this done so we can get the fuck out of here. Pull his damn legs now,” Brutus instructed, ignoring the conversation.

Tommy grabbed the big man by his ankles and slowly tugged him forward until his slouch folded and his body fell horizontally on the stained carpet.

The careless and lazy tactic resulted in the man’s busted cranium smacking hard against the floor, causing a second blizzard of flies to scurry out of him and a cutlet-sized piece of brain matter to dislodge. Brutus moved in and grabbed him by the wrists.

“Okay, on three, we lift this big bastard over to the bag. You ready?” He watched Tommy nod, then took a deep breath in through his mouth. “Okay, one… two… three!”

In one swift motion, as they had done so many times before, they both lifted with their knees. Except this time, when they elevated him to about a foot off the ground, the skin from the back of his skull running down his spine and ending at his anus gave way.

A fast, stomach-churning, unnatural ripping noise invaded their eardrums as the slimy mammoth body was set free from its casing. It spilled out onto the floor and a tsunami of fatty white tissues poured over the unused shriveled muscles. The freed blubber traced over all the slick branches of wet blood vessels in disgusting fashion.

The tension and weight of the man’s body, in addition to the atmosphere, had created a perfect storm. One that completely de-gloved the whole body and left Brutus and Tommy holding a runny, stretched skin suit. It was a scene that looked like it was plucked out of a sadist’s violent nightmare—if anyone had seen it, they’d have needed to pinch themselves.

The sudden release of the weight caught them by surprise and made both men rise faster than anticipated. Tommy took a short blind step backward that caused the ball of his foot to land squarely on top of the chunk of dislodged frontal lobe.

He catapulted head-first into the stiff and his face thrust into a sticky white lard pile jiggling atop the man’s stomach. On pure uncontrollable bodily instinct, Tommy’s initial facial submersion reflex was to gasp for air. Deprived of choice, his mouth and nose sucked in the greasy rotting blubber. A few salty shots worth roller-coastered their way down his windpipe. He could feel it all seeping down into his orifices—an indescribable horrifying wetness.

His eyes closed just a little too late before initially bracing for the mess. A sensation of a gummy, yet somewhat grainy texture, delving toward his retinas was all he could focus on. That and his choking, he continued gagging as he gasped for air like he’d just shot up from the abyss of a bottomless pond.

He quickly pulled himself out of the lard pool and let out a bellow that was suffocated by a river of vomit that erupted out, piling all over the obese man’s stomach. The contents of one man’s guts enveloping the exterior of another. This backwards portrait was abhorrent enough to ruffle anyone’s appetite.

It was obvious that Brutus was able to attest directly to the notion as he leaned over the trashcan beside the dresser and commenced his own upheaval. Milky, thick bursts of chunks blew all over the rim of the can and side of the dresser. He closed his mouth and placed a fist near his lips as if trying to force the remaining inventory back down… to no avail.

The second wave was even heartier but a bit more accurate thankfully, as it landed on top of the garbage and slightly condensed the overall height. Tommy tried to wipe the flab off his face between spurts but much of it still remained.

Neither man could seem to stop, returning each other’s best shots like some sort of bulimic boxing match and the lightweights were getting lighter. In fact, they each became so drained that they were now only dry heaving even after their abdomens had been purged of all bile.

The acidic greenish-yellow liquid ran from Brutus’s quivering lips down to the butt of his chubby chin. He wiped off the sickening soul patch with the cuff of his sleeve and looked at Tommy. “It’s time to go.”

Coroner’s Lab 1:37 PM

Alester sat behind his desk sifting through a box that contained an entire lovely rainbow of colored pencils. Still pondering, he rolled his fingers over them until he slowed on the arctic lime. His hand hovered directly above like a UFO determining if its abductee was worthy. His fingers moved down and grazed over the glossy wooden stick he’d had his eye on. He pinched the body and elevated it from the rest like a prize won in a claw machine.

A thick adult coloring book sat positioned in front of him and spread wide, bearing a partially completed picture. The image the good doctor had selected to apply color to was of a centaur resting his hooves beside a group of busty ladies with exaggerated features.

They were feeding him grapes by the bunch while he laid leisurely. Alester scribbled neatly within the lines of the fruit bundle, applying an even distribution of artic lime across them.

“Yes, that’s right… feed that beast. Lest he discover a different variety of hunger…” Alester remarked to himself.

The door suddenly swung open and Brutus entered the room, approaching his desk, “Body’s on the slab. I’m heading out.”

“Wait! Just a second… before you go, let me ask you something,” Alester commanded, but in a friendly way while never taking his gaze off the grapes.

Brutus rolled his eyes upward and let out a small huff. “What now?”

“My pencil collection has much in common with this metropolis we live in. We have so much diversity here. I mean, look at this box, it holds nearly endless possibilities. Combination upon combination, much like our wonderful city, tons of different colors and histories. Maybe it doesn’t precisely parallel my assortment but it comes pretty damn close. But even though all the colors are different, they are all still pencils. Just like we are all still humans.”

Alester’s tone was oozing with sincerity, as if he was inaugurating some momentous concept. He raised up his utensil once again and looked at Brutus. He set his thumbs in the center of the pencil and used his trigger fingers to bow the instrument from each end. The sound of wood cracking slowly emanated from it until a fierce snap let off at the climax.

“And just like that, they can all snap, quite similar to people really. More importantly, unlike these instruments, we are all the same on the inside. Well, except for that one weird mongoloid hunchback you brought in last month… but that was something else entirely. Regardless! No matter how we appear externally, we mirror each other in more ways than we can count.” Alester finished, turning the coloring book in Brutus’s direction.

“And just look at how beautiful things can be when we work together in unison.”

“Are you finished?” Brutus pleaded.

“Why do I even talk to you? You don’t give a shit about social sciences. Where’s Tommy? He’s a bit more open-minded than you, sir.”

“He had to go home. He got sick.”

“What do you mean sick? What happened to him?”

“Nothing really, he just… saw something that upset him. You’ll understand when you see the body.”

“Well, he better get his shit together quickly, I can’t have either of you missing any time right now. You know this first month of summer is when the suicides come. Everyone thinks it’s winter, every single study you read, but you and I both know that’s bullshit. It’s like clockwork. I mean, if Vegas had odds on it, you and I could make a killing,” he snickered slyly, reaching for an open folder on his desk.

He looked down at the paperwork, pointing to a line typed out within it. “Richard Slender… How ironic. Doesn’t really sound like a fat guy’s name, does it?”

Brutus’s House 11:58 PM

Brutus opened another bottle of whiskey while local news anchors jabbered on and on in the background. He put the bottle to his lips and let the half remaining mouthful slide its way down his esophagus. Polishing off a little over a half bottle of Wild Turkey probably wasn’t the best idea that he’d had in a while, but it seemed practical enough. Besides, he didn’t have a damn thing better on his agenda.

More importantly, he needed a way to get the vision of the fat man’s skin ripping expunged from his archives. He kept hearing it like a broken record of repetition—the rotten lax coating tearing from top to bottom, not to mention what followed. All that spoiled white filling, streaming out everywhere like a human water main.

Something separated this encounter from all the others. He’d always been comfortable with seeing the most repugnant shit and able to corral any emotional attachment, but this incident was different. Not only was it the most rancid scent (bordering on inhuman) that Brutus had ever encountered, he’d also had to watch Tommy dive into the dead man’s guts head-first and swim in his fats.

He’d never witnessed anything so gnarly. He knew Tommy was fucked up… he had to be. He was gagging and puking all the way home. Even nearly an hour after they’d left the scene, he was still trembling and queasy. Brutus argued with him and debated taking him to the hospital but Tommy promptly shot down that suggestion between convulsions.

The two of them weren’t the best of friends but they undeniably cared for one another. When Brutus didn’t have anywhere to be on the holidays, Tommy and Deirdre always made it a point to force him over. They always had a place set with all succulent holiday trimmings to warm his belly. They were the closest thing that he had to family anymore.

They would usually even get him a gift for his birthday. As much of a mosquito vibe Tommy could give, Brutus felt horrible about what had happened to him. He didn’t plan to just drop him off like that. It probably shocked Deirdre all to hell to see him in that kind of state, but he had to respect Tommy’s wishes.

The drunker he got, the more these thoughts dug deeper into his sad splintered psyche. In a desperate attempt to lure distraction his way, he turned up the volume on the remote control. He threw back a few additional monster swigs and exhaled. His vain attempt was abruptly thwarted, causing him to begin to wonder if a welcome disruption might ever stop eluding him.

There on his outdated television stood the same slender blonde reporter from outside of the Palm Avenue murder scene. This wasn’t the sort of girl that one could easily forget. Her sexy full lips were a unique shade of jam, blackberry possibly. Maybe it was finally starting to work?

She was providing all sorts of details in her reporting but all Brutus was fixated on were her hypnotic lips moving up and down. She might as well be speaking Chinese, he thought, because the message didn’t matter.

Ugh, Chinese. That’s what he’d had for dinner late last night and most likely regurgitated for breakfast beside the fat dead man. How long did it take to digest food fully anyway? Does it make a difference if you go right to sleep? He wasn’t thinking about lips anymore.

“The victim’s wife has been very open with her statements. Her attorneys have conveyed a swift message of innocence, pointing out that Mrs. Slender has no history of violence, drugs, or criminal record to speak of. And from what our sources have confirmed, all of that is accurate, Jean,” the bombshell blonde stated.

“Then it certainly begs the question what could have possibly caused her to erupt like this?” the anchor begged.

“So far, all indications are that she’s sticking to her initial claim of self-defense. She explained to authorities that she awoke in the morning to the victim, Richard Slender, trying to strangle her. She says his hands were clamped tightly around her throat, obstructing her airflow until she nearly went unconscious.”

“And what information is there about Mr. Slender? Would he have had any motive to hurt his wife? Was there any history of psychological issues or had his mental health been evaluated?”

“Well, that is one of the more bizarre aspects of the odd case, Jean. According to his immediate family, his medical records were spotless and, additionally, their relationship was admired by those who knew them best. While both sides of the family don’t appear to agree on everything, they seem to agree on that much. All of that points to the lone anomaly in this tragedy thus far, which is what Mrs. Slender referred to as ‘a shift’ in her husband’s behavior. WBRN was able to obtain exclusive, on-record comments and while she wouldn’t go into detail on exactly what her husband’s outlandish conduct was, she did offer that his attitude change seemed to have directly coincided with his reassignment to a new project at work. Richard Slender worked for Brinemax Corporation, which, as we’ve covered in the past, is no stranger to controversy. She was hauled off from the scene there so we couldn’t get any further details on the project itself or further speculation on how or why this devastating tragedy came about.”

“And has Brinemax made comment or responded to these allegations?”

“They’ve elected not to comment on the allegations, but have released a statement saying that ‘we’re saddened to discover that one of our most tenured and valued employees has been taken under such horrific circumstances. We sincerely hope our justice system will ensure that the culprit is given appropriate sentencing for their crime. We want to extend our deepest condolences to the family of the victim and hope they find strength during this difficult time, as well as our fellow associates who are all now heartbroken over this grim news.’ But I will add, and it’s certainly important to note, that with the litigations only recently concluding in the wrongful death lawsuit of former Brinemax employee, Kenneth Mandle, it appears that once again, the controversial alternative medicine company may now find themselves restarting the entire process with yet another strange claim to address.”

“Wow, that’s just unbelievable and I want to say that my heart certainly bleeds for that poor family.”

The television control dropped out of Brutus’s lubricated hand just as the whiskey bottle tipped and spilled out onto his already soiled rug. The snoring commenced as he sluggishly slouched over and passed out.

Coroner’s Office 9:03 AM

Alester stood over the fat bastard while wearing a pair of clear plastic glasses and his baggy blue scrubs. A blood-soaked rubber apron was his last exterior layer. The corpse’s flesh from groin to collar had parted like the red sea for Moses, and just like in Exodus, an Israeli stood behind. Alester mounted him menacingly with the rib cutter as he half tucked it under a gargantuan bone.

“Jesus Christ! This ain’t no fuckin’ chicken wing here,” Alester griped.

He mustered some extra strength before the chest bone finally broke, echoing a thunderous crack throughout the spacious room. A bit spent, he dropped the slimed rib cutters to the tray while exhaling a deep sigh of relief. His white latex fingers curled in between the corpse’s rib cage, gripping his chest plate. He gave a stiff tug and popped it upward like the hood of a car.

“Bingo!”

Brutus pushed the cold metal door with the clear circular window open and entered the examination room.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Alester said with a sly smile while setting the bloodied bones aside. “Do you remember how I was literally telling you that its suicide season? Well, it turns out we have a new customer.”

“Shit, what’s the situation look like?” Brutus questioned.

“Middle-aged male that swallowed a shotgun. I guess this is where they get the term biting the bullet… never really dawned on me until now. Strange, I’ve seen plenty of heads blown off. Maybe I’m getting old?”

“Sounds like another Rockstar to me, boss.” Tommy cracked, cutting in as he sluggishly pushed through the doors.

Tommy appeared a little different than usual. His skin color almost seemed to have turned a lighter shade of peach in contrast to the mild bronze tone that normally covered him. His hair was left uncharacteristically greasy and undone while a slight bagginess dangled like hammocks under his eyes. His shade of deep purple looked painful in appearance—the fresh bruising painted around the puffiness. Lastly, he filled his normal attire just a tad fuller than he did previously.

“What’s the address?” Brutus asked, still examining Tommy from his peripheral.

“Ha-ha, yes, Tommy. A real Rockstar, another Kurt Cobain,” Alester agreed, sounding genuinely amused.

Alester shoved one hand into the fat man’s chest cavity and swiveled around before plunging in with a second that grasped a pristine chrome scalpel.

“What’s the damn address, Alester?” Brutus repeated, a little more sternly .

“It’s on the corkboard in the hallway where it always is,” Alester sneered.

“Let’s roll then, Tommy,” Brutus instructed, heading straight for the door. Tommy nodded and followed, they exited briskly to the sound of Alester’s scalpel slicing into the necrotic tissue. He burrowed deep into the chest cavity with increasing aggression.

Alester looked up from the butchered body to see that both men had vanished and quickly switched his focus back to the cadaver. When his carving concluded, he removed his cutting hand and laid the scalpel back onto the tray.

His other hand raised back out of the cavity as well, holding what resembled a heart. Except it was much grander than the standard human dimensions and had a stream of foul greenish liquid drizzling outward from the rosy quartet of valves.

The neon seafoam rivers felt like they were gushing more fluid than possible for the organ to contain. Alester looked at the outright absurdity with amazement—or maybe it was excitement. He then placed his gooey glove onto the sink faucet and twisted it open.

549 Draper Street 10:21 AM

They arrived at a house that was the sore spot of a seemingly already undesirable block. At least the scene was quieter than the last, maybe these folks weren’t as friendly or conversational. The character of the home’s exterior certainly gave off the impression that the occupants were more reclusive. The vegetation that encompassed the property provided a privacy and isolation that suffocated the house from the foundation up.

Enormous sheets of jade ivy blanketed the majority of the windows, making the dark single-family home seem as if it had a pulse. A faint one, but alive nonetheless. Curtains shrouded all of the structure’s windows, obstructing the occupants from looking outside, but it was more like their true purpose was to hide what was happening inside.

Brutus killed the ignition and glanced over at Tommy. He noticed a tired yet strangely pleased look trapped in his eyes. He still felt some concern for his mental well-being because of what transpired the previous day but his joyful aura almost made it seem unnecessary to care.

Normally, Brutus did not do emotional talks. He was the type of man you never saw cry over people’s personal shit. He was a throwback to when men were just stern-faced machines whose sole purpose was to go to work and provide a living for themselves or their families.

It’s not that he didn’t care, he just wasn’t equipped with the tools to fix these sorts of problems, therefore, he’d just rather not know. But there are exceptions to every rule and all perceived internal limitations.

“How are you doing, Tommy?” he asked but received no response. Tommy stayed seated in an autopilot, dreamy sort of state. “Everything go alright last night? I was a little worried about you to be honest,” Brutus offered a rare confession.

“Good as gold, no need to worry,” he replied.

“And how’s Deirdre doing?” Brutus continued, really making the effort.

“Deirdre…” Tommy said to himself, staring into oblivion.

“Was she okay when she saw you like that?” The queries were becoming more uncomfortable with each further extension of his silence. “I just felt bad dropping you off still feeling sick an—”

“I said I’m fucking fine,” Tommy spat out with a newfound coldness solidifying his words.

His tone took Brutus by surprise. Tommy was easily the more social of the two. Usually, if Brutus had anything to say, he was ready to give him thirty detailed perspectives. As happy as he was to not have to hear his mouth, he couldn’t help but feel like something was off .

“I’m happy as a pig in shit. I just need to go get in the shit. You know what I mean?” he said, now elevating to a warmer tone.

Suddenly, Tommy slapped both hands to his head, applying firm pressure. His eyes closed and screams rushed out of him. His head fluttered strangely while he pushed fiercely on his temples and the wild groans continued to flee.

“Tommy, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Brutus stammered out, taken aback.

Tommy started to reel his torment back in until he was at a simmer again. He removed his hands from his head, revealing a baffled look.

“I’m fine. Just got a really bad headache is all…” he replied while popping the door open and stumbling out lightheadedly.

Brutus lingered for another moment, still a little weirded out by the colorful range he was showcasing so indifferently. He was seeing a new side of Tommy, one that he’d failed to see for all the years he’d known him. He had an eeriness about him that was inexplicable.

He didn’t know what was wrong, but there was undoubtedly a fresh issue at hand. His attitude had drastically shifted. Brutus fashioned himself a miserable prick so maybe he was just finally sick of his shit. That’s what he hoped, but not what he believed. Brutus reached into the back of the van to grab the body bag and exited the vehicle.

Tommy would usually man the gurney, but for some reason, he’d neglected the task. Brutus decided not to call him out on it considering the recent odd tension between them. He headed to the back of the van and rolled it out himself. Once the wheels touched onto the dirt, a sweaty officer tapped his shoulder.

“There’s no way you’re getting that thing inside,” he explained with a look of revulsion gushing from his pores.

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say Martha Stewart couldn’t save this fuckin’ place.”

“Jesus, I just can’t catch a break,” Brutus complained defeatedly.

“You and me both,” the cop agreed before leaving his side.

Brutus proceeded forward, taking his advice to heart. They reached the entryway and pushed the door about halfway open before it jammed. Brutus leaned his shoulder into it a few times until his senses submitted to the idea that it would never open to its designed range. He was going to need to work with it, not against it.

The smell of mold, rotting food, and ripened feces overpowered them as they slipped through the half-cracked opening. As their boots landed on the interior, they found themselves struggling to save balance on the knolls and pits of junk spread unevenly over the whole living room.

It was the accumulation of nothingness—items that bore no relevance or usability in their current state. The recliner and love seat were at iceberg status. Their majorities buried almost completely up to the top headrests.

They were submerged under everything from soiled clothing to empty product boxes, outdated magazines, and putrid paper plates harboring timeworn wilting food.

“Let’s make this quick,” Brutus muttered .

“Yeah,” Tommy agreed lethargically.

They trudged onward through the sea of unpleasantness until they were directed toward the kitchen by an officer bagging what looked to be pill bottles into evidence. The kitchen was by far the most disorganized area they had ever encountered in any house. The entire space was riddled with bags of trash that were integrated with random loose waste. There wasn’t the tiniest sliver of reprieve amongst the hoard or horror.

Collective piles of spoiled vegetables were sat nestled against shriveled larva-covered meat and buddied with empty and half-filled bottles of unusual colored fluids. Boxes packed full of bedding and knick-knacks meshed with enough dishes, pots, and pans to feed a starving army.

So much had amassed that a mountain-like rim rounded the entire dining area. They would need to ascend the towering hill of debris before they could reach the small pit on the other side, where they were told the deceased was located.

They treaded forward choosing their footing carefully, crawling over the thick soggy garbage heaps like a duo of adept mountaineers.

“Fucking piece of shit hoarder,” Tommy scoffed angrily.

Nearing the apex, they were able to peek over into the cove and see the upper half of the fridge and stovetop. Excited by their progress, they churned through the filth harder, knowing they were approaching the peak.

A few ticks later, they were able to hoist themselves over the heap and into a sitting position perched at the top. The angle gave them a bird’s eye view and better idea of what they would be dealing with.

An empty chair covered in blood spatter was placed near the grease-caked stove holding an overflowing ashtray and a piece of paper that looked to contain some final scribbles from the deceased.

The body was leaning on the chair and the fridge was tipped sideways from a sitting position. The deep red tissues and top of the skull were blown all over the fridge, creating a pattern that you might see in shitty abstract paintings. A few teeth had been projected with such impact that they could be visibly seen lodged in the steel door.

The dead man’s face was unrecognizable. From the Adam’s apple up, it was just a jumble of muscle, plasma, and bone hanging like rags and old shredded cloth. He was an unsolvable puzzle of gore and grime.

Tommy rumbled down the hill and extended an arm out toward the counter where a box of cigarettes sat with a Bic sticking out. He slid one of the elongated 100s from the pack slowly while simultaneously snatching the lighter. The flame lit the smoke right up and he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs to capacity. Brutus trailed down behind him until he reached the small clearing.

“What a shit show,” Brutus grumbled while beginning to lay out the body bag.

Tommy was staring down at the brown chair saturated in mostly dry crusted blood. He picked the note off the scarlet drenched seatback.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Brutus asked as Tommy unfolded the paper and pulled it closer to have a look.

“You can’t, just be touching the evidence. You shouldn’t be smoking that either, this is a potential crime scene,” Brutus asserted softly.

“Yeah, well, I think the cops would’ve taken this if they thought it was a crime scene… besides, don’t you wanna know why?” Tommy questioned.

“It’s not for us to know.”

Tommy looked back down at the letter while clearing his throat as if he was just moments away from singing in a Broadway Musical.

“Ahem. It has taken me a long time to find the courage to escape. Escape this horrible place where no one stays faithful. Where love can’t be found and instead every human is brimming with lust and a belief that the grass is greener on the other side. Well, I can tell you it’s not. It always seems that way but when you dig a little deeper and get under the soil, you’ll realize it’s just another lawn with a rotten, maggot-laced piece of roadkill buried beneath.

What deceptive, attractive surfaces we all project. We’re really all just insect food and I’m ready for the flies to feast. I have nothing left to offer, no woman will want me. I’m broken. I’m defective. I know I’m not alone here but I can’t help but feel separated from society. I’m at the end of the road and I see a light shining. I just can’t tell if it’s fire or not. I’m sorry, Diana, forgive me. Love, Nathan.”

Tommy flicked his cigarette at the destroyed body and crooned, “What a fucking dork.”

“Okay, you’ve depressed the shit out of both of us now, are you happy yet?” Brutus asked, aggravated.

Tommy continued to stare at the letter blankly like some boundless epiphany had been dropped on his lap. Brutus stretched his arm and snapped his fingers in front of Tommy’s face, clearly fed up with his shit.

“Yo, Tommy! Wake the fuck up! I got places to be, I don’t have all day to sit here while you stare off into spa—”

Tommy’s arm shot up in a flash, interrupting Brutus’s speech. His dirty hand fastened around his partner’s chunky wrist, exhibiting a sudden and staggering strength. He was shell-shocked—for as long as he’d known him, Tommy had never come close to displaying such aggression or power. Things were changing and his lone friend seemed like he was getting more fucked up by the second. This was the same guy that couldn’t even do twenty push-ups, yet now he was somehow latched onto Brutus and in complete control of his dominant arm.

“Keep your fucking hand out of my face! We’re gonna stay here for as long as I goddamn please and there ain’t shit that you can do about it, okay?!” Tommy shouted back.

“Let me go!” Brutus commanded, trying to break free of his death grip.

“Or what?!”

“Don’t make me do—”

The argument was cut short by a faint noise that sounded like a voice from a few yards away. The two men gradually disengaged each other, a bit startled by what their ears had picked up.

Brutus massaged his wrist and turned his attention to the area where the noise came from. Tommy had already started in that direction…

He came around the side of a large standing locker surrounded by rubbish, stacked as high as a basketball player. There was a small cubby area propped up with bedding where a number of blankets were piled and overlapping.

“What is it?” Brutus inquired .

Tommy removed the blankets revealing a tiny baby girl no more than four or five months old. She spat up a creamy drool all over herself. The baby was covered in red pus-filled bumps, some had already burst and secreted blood. It was a sight that would sicken the most seasoned mortician, but when Tommy looked at her, he felt nothing.

Dozens of bed bugs found comfort upon her, nesting where she lay and on her tender pale skin—children feeding off the children. She looked up toward Tommy, need festering in her eyes and running out in her tears. She begged him.

A blankness remained slated over his face before contorting to contempt. It was as if his previous standards had been suppressed and his morals had matured with malevolence.

She opened her mouth like she was about to let out another howl, but before a sound could escape, Tommy quickly grabbed a wad of mushy trash from the pile beside her bed.

“Tommy, what the hell is it?” Brutus asked.

He shoved the clump down deep into her tiny throat until she was forced to pause. He then threw the covers back over her and snatched a filthy doll from beside the “cradle.” He stepped out from behind the locker and aimed the doll at Brutus before tugging a short string hanging out of its back.

“I’m going to grow up and be just like my daddy,” the doll boasted.

Tommy looked over at the crumpled heap of expired humanity near the fridge and snickered ruthlessly. Tommy looked back over to Brutus and his mug of disappointment seemingly at ease again, “I think we found the culprit.”

Brutus had about as much of Tommy as he could handle for a day. He grabbed the cadaver by the wrists and waited. Tommy got the hint and slowly walked over and grabbed the legs. They silently dropped the body into the bag and began the haul back over the garbage.

Brutus's House 10:37 PM

Brutus rushed into the apartment and headed straight for the bathroom door. The pastrami sandwich he inhaled for lunch was weighing down on him like a salty meat dumbbell in his gut. It had greased his digestive track and clearly overstayed its welcome. Just as he entered, he realized that the cozy porcelain fixture was in desperate need of a rub down. It was a little too rugged for even his barrel-bottom standards. He exited the bathroom with extreme motive and returned with two sheets of paper towel.

He wiped off the rim, clearing a light beard of pubic hair and incrusted yellow stain-age from his throne. Brutus dropped the toilet seat down with the quickness and promptly began to unzip himself. Straining grunts of agony meshed with heavy breathing while his anus began to pulsate before slowly opening like a flower in bloom.

Suddenly, the telephone rang out from the living room. The skull-piercing noise bulled its way right through his focus. "Of course, the one moment I have to myself," he cried, unsurprised by the annoyance. The phone rang another five times, utterly ruining his concentration and relief before the answering machine finally kicked on.

"Hi, you've reached Brutus Pascone, I'm not home right now but if you leave me a message, I’ll give you a call back," said the recording in an unenthusiastic and deflated voice.

A concerned sobbing female—who he quickly identified as Deirdre—rambled on, snatching up his attention. When he heard her voice and the grief contained within it, his heart sank. It sank so far into his guts, he might have shit it out if he still had the ability to concentrate. He could tell it was serious. What the fuck is Tommy up to now?

"Brutus, it’s Deirdre. I'm sorry for calling so late and so randomly... it's just... Tommy has been acting really strange lately. Like right now, it's almost eleven and he's still not home. We've been married six years now and… and he's never missed dinner, not even once. And he… he looks swollen or something. Did he get hurt? He keeps holding his head like he is, but he won’t tell me anything. Last night, he was saying things that just, they just didn't make any sense. Then when I asked him what he was talking about, he got angry. Scary angry. I don’t want to get into the details but I’ve never seen him like this, he’s never made me feel unsafe before. It’s just… it’s not him, something’s off. I don't know... I don't know why I'm calling y—” she said, cutting out. “I think that’s him. Forget I said anything… I’ve gotta go."

He heard a final click of the receiver before the message ended. Brutus couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Maybe Tommy was traumatized from the whole ordeal with the fat man. It wasn’t just her he seemed different to.

Brutus was also having issues pushing the images from the ordeal out of his mind. He knew that Tommy was certainly acting moodier than he'd ever seen him before. His fuse was shorter and he was more argumentative, but at the same time, he couldn't really just call her and tell her all the gory details of their encounters. Maybe Tommy was trying to deal with it in his own way? Who was he to reveal an outlandish situation like the one they’d both endured?

As he completed his thought, the large loaf finished pinching and slid down the side of the oval bowl. The density drop-shot it from one side of the water to the other like a CliffsNotes version of Christopher Columbus's legendary journey.

Finally feeling the relief, weight minimized, Brutus smiled as he reached for the toilet paper. His hand felt only the stiff cardboard skeleton that would be present after a thousand sheets and the horror began to set in.

549 Draper Street 12:36 AM

The thick black air had a humid dampness that trickled about the decaying nightshades graved by the old railing. Tommy stared expressionlessly at the partly open fence creaking back and forth, possessed by the warm gust. His head had now mushroomed another half-inch or so since the morning and a murky greenish fluid was leaking from his ear canals. He felt the leakage leaving him constantly but his mind didn’t question it.

Drips dribbled downward, discoloring the shoulders of his t-shirt. The house looked like a life support patient would in a hospital, wrapped in tape with windows into the abyss.

He dragged himself sloppily through the gate and up the lonesome walkway. As he staggered to the door, he used the aged wood to brace himself with his forearm against the doorframe. He raised his left hand, clenching tightly to the instrument of violence.

The moonlight reflected off the oversized blade’s unstained parts before gravity pulled down a chunk of gore that was dangling on the tip. It slid leisurely down the shaft until it reached his fingers, coating the bulk of steel in crimson.

He started at the bottom of the door and worked his way up, slicing and smearing the crime tape. Twisting the knob, he felt restriction—a stop almost as sharp as his knife’s edge.

More fury overcame him as he realized the lock attempted to prevent him from gaining entry. Almost instantaneously, he plowed his puffed shoulder into the oak. It didn’t budge at first but a barrage of shoulder shots soon blended his animalistic grunts and a loud cracking noise.

Sensing the old but sturdy door’s defeat, Tommy stepped back and sized up his boot with the handle. He unloaded with superhuman force. The door shot open, smashing into a wall of garbage behind it.

He stepped over the threshold, inhaling the foul air in deeply. The savagery of his mindset could be understood by a blind man. He wiped a jade drool from his lips, unveiling a smile that looked as if it were snatched from the face of Swamp Thing. He was listening intently.

He loomed about the entryway before he continued into the kitchen. He listened for another moment, brandishing composure that seemed like a distant memory when he heard it. A weak coughing and gagging like a tiny famished dog choking on a bone.

He quickly snapped back into focus and vaulted up the pile. Once mounted, he slid down the other side. He set his feet back in the minuscule cleared area near the fridge and reminisced. As he stared at the brains and teeth still stuck to it, he reread the bits of the suicide note he recalled in his head. What deceptive, attractive surfaces we all project …

His thoughts were interrupted by the quiet choking again. Emphasis shifting, he walked back around the vintage rusty locker. His vision aimed at the area where his memories drew an image of the filthy cradle. His eyes sifted through the black, finally adjusting to the gloom.

The faint white blanket swayed about, creating the facade that a tiny ghost was stuck in the garbage. Tommy removed the sheet and tossed it aside revealing the still-alive baby struggling to not become the illusion it had portrayed moments prior.

“Diana,” Tommy growled.

He wrapped his bulging fingers around the malnourished, third-world-looking child and hoisted her up. Bed bugs fell back down to the cradle, drunk off excess. He wrapped his arm around the girl’s torso and squeezed tightly, pinning her to his chest.

The vice grip hold put pressure upon the fragile frame that caused a handful of the large whiteheads to erupt. A thick pale pus launched on and around him, while at the same time, dislodging the trash Tommy had stuffed in her mouth earlier.

What seemed like it would surely be a final bloodcurdling shriek was made absolute when Tommy placed his other hand on the girl’s head and twisted effortlessly until it reached a complete one-eighty. Faced in a position that made living impossible, death was the only option.

She looked like a broken doll when he raised the blood-caked blade around to what would normally be the back of the head. Instead, he found it stretched the length of her mouth as he slid it in carefully, sawing back and forth.

The blood that the pests had neglected flooded out hot; a wet waterfall over his arm down to the floor. He stopped a few slices into the brain stem and dislodged the knife, sandwiched between spine-bone and flesh.

He turned the girl around, finding her face warped in the most perverse manner, resting just above her backside. Her mouth opening expanded to an absurd proportion. He bopped with her in his arms gently in a soothing way, maybe like a father would, and watched the top of the head flap backward, up and down. It was almost like she was talking to him. Tears welled up in his eyes. “You’re perfect. You’re a pretty girl for me,” he whispered.

Brutus’s House 12:54 AM

The flicker and blue hue of the TV danced over the walls and parts of the battered old bastards’ body. On his side, stretched the length of the couch, he lay immobilized and snoring obnoxiously.

A manly collection of bottles and bagged snacks surrounded his resting area, topped off with a few sticky stag mags. He was old-school. Fuck the internet, he just wanted a solid image to use the ol’ imagination to and he could conjure up a few scenarios that would make these online porn kings green with envy.

Brutus let out a phlegmy thunderous cough which inadvertently awoke him. He looked around the room before shielding his eyes from the glow of the TV. As he repositioned himself, his bowels bent and pinched. His beer belly twitched just prior to ripping ass in a way that felt like his insides were being sucked out.

This emitted such a foul odor that he literally stunk himself out. He took a moment to check his shorts. The potential return to his slumber would not be possible for a few moments, and rather than torture himself, he decided to get a drink.

The cottonmouth stretched from his tongue to his uvula. That drunken half hungover kind of desert scape was unmistakable and all too familiar.

He rose to his feet, nose crinkled, and walked toward the faint nightlight in the kitchen. He reached out, grasped the fridge handle, and pulled it toward him. The piercing interior light broke free through the crack, spreading across the room the more he opened it. He squinted and refocused his eyes, only to reveal an impossible sight.

Deirdre’s severed head sat facing him, eyes rolled up to the heavens. Her tongue dangled out, blood running and still fresh. It coated a bag of apples underneath, creating a small puddle through gridded shelving. The surprise was so stiffening that Brutus felt as if rigor mortis had found him in life.

He peered backwards, jaw agape and quivering. At the other end of the room, a faint breeze beside an opened window left the drapes swaying. A noise from the fridge startled him, pulling his attention back away from what was most likely an entry point.

In what could only be described as a macabre miracle, Deirdre’s mouth started to dance and contort until the tremored noises and mumblings formed a sentence.

“We’ll see how you like it,” the head finally spat out with a mouthful of blood.

Suddenly, from behind Brutus, emerging out of the nothingness, a clear plastic bag surrounded his head tightly. He fought for oxygen as a blood-soaked knife ascended above him and was swiftly driven down, blasting through his sternum.

As it crushed through the bone and meat, it worked its way toward his organs. The hand rocked the massive blade back and forth with added pressure as red started to fill the plastic bag, sucking against his lips and nostrils.

Looking through the bloodied plastic made him feel like he was trapped inside a dark room. He watched Deirdre’s head begin to shake the fridge as it started to laugh at him.

Brutus ripped open his eyes and sprung up from the couch. He found himself standing upright and then looked behind him with haste. The beads of sweat were bucketing from his pores as he wiped his face with his forearm.

“Jesus, fuck,” he said aloud.

He dropped back down onto the couch, this time seated, trying to calm his breathing. Relief finally came over him in a comforting wave. He wasn’t used to those types of extreme night terrors. He might have remembered one or two dreams a month if any, so this recent activity was quite out of the ordinary. “Seemed so real,” he whispered, turning his head.

The room was unlit all but for the flicker of a red number one on his answering machine. He had already heard the message but he couldn’t help feeling a sense of panic for her. Even before his nightmare, it just seemed unusual for her to call him. In fact, he had never received any call from her, ever. He felt a certain duty, almost guilt, now that was nagging him to respond. He grabbed his watch off the coffee table and glanced at the time.

1:32 AM seemed like a ludicrous hour to call another man’s wife for any reason. He felt that it was necessary given the scenario, but was still fraught with apprehension .

Maybe it was because he was still drunk, or maybe seeing human life get shit on every day was finally making him care about it a little more than most people. He was probably just being overly precautious, but what if he wasn’t?

Never one to make a bold move, he picked up the mustard-toned phone, stretching the kinked cord as he placed it to his ear. He dialed the number and listened closely. After the three long rings, the receiver answered. He could hear breathing and a bit of static in the background while he waited for a voice.

“Hello?” Brutus finally initiated. “Deirdre? Is everything alright?” The line went dead, cutting out abruptly. The violent crash of the phone colliding with the receiver was the last thing he was able to hear

Coroner’s Office 9:51 AM

“Where is he, goddammit?” Alester barked, standing in his office ruffling through folders of paperwork.

“I don’t know. I told you he hasn’t seemed right lately, he even looks off,” Brutus replied.

“Right, wrong, sick, dead, I don’t give a shit. We have a triple fatality cluster fuck of a car wreck on the East Side and I need to get started on them now. If I get stuck here this weekend, I’m going to have to cancel our reservations in La Jolla and Linette is gonna have my balls.”

Brutus shrugged, tuning Alester out and glanced up at the TV in the background. The stunning blonde reporter was back following up on her odd story again.

The fat man’s picture was pasted on the television screen, except he didn’t look all that fat in the photo. Must have been a long time ago , he reasoned. That theory seemed to crumble as he started to listen more.

“She has entered a plea of not guilty, again citing her husband’s rapid weight gain as a contributing factor to his unusual behavior shift,” the blonde reported .

“I still have to notify the next of kin on the suicide too,” Alester continued.

Brutus half-listened, more focused on the report. He couldn’t help but notice an eerie similarity with Tommy’s behavior. Maybe her neighbors were right. Maybe she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Could she be innocent? If she was, what did that mean for Tommy?

“And by the day of his murder, he was all but unrecognizable both physically and mentally.”

“But, Laura, isn’t it true that many are still questioning the overall brutality of the murder?” the studio anchor inquired.

“Right, Jean, self-defense cases typically don’t see a person killed this horrifically, but Mrs. Slender claims she’d hit him numerous times and he wouldn’t go down. She described his power as… inhuman,” the blonde confirmed.

“Fuck it, you and I will just do it now,” Alester commanded.

“Do what?” Brutus asked.

“It’s time to pick up the bodies.”

Moon Valley Park 11:01 AM

The girl had a young, unforgettable face—one that embodied both promise and potential. Her beauty was captivating. There were probably a hundred girls at school that would have switched places with her and never looked back. She dressed modestly and relaxed as any fourteen-year-old should.

She was wearing a white t-shirt with a cartoon cheeseburger on the front, short blue jeans, and sneakers the shade of smoke. A special kind of glow emanated from her that bubbled her appeal and no doubt made her parents proud. Her cat eyeglasses were the perfect accent for her innocence. She was born for compliments, with a wholesome and welcoming posture.

The day was another scorcher. An ozone alert had been issued by the news earlier that morning to warn of the record-setting heat that was set to transpire. The sweat was already accumulating behind her armpits and knee caps; irritating her skin.

She continued to walk through the brush before stopping near two trees about seven feet apart from each other. Contemplation caused her to stare down at the dirt solemnly. She stood for a moment before removing her backpack and placing it by the roots of the tree.

She sat down in the dirt and pulled off her sneakers and socks, placing them neatly beside the bag. Unzipping a side pocket, she grabbed a nail clipper and began to methodically trim her toenails. Once completed, she continued onto her fingernails.

After amassing a small pile of dead cells, she stood up and removed her phone from her tiny pocket. She wedged it between the thick wishbone trunk sprouting from the other tree that was a few feet away.

The area was just dense enough to provide her some seclusion. The bright sunlight shone through the trees but she was mostly shielded from the rays. There was a certain peaceful silence there that didn’t come often in the noisy city that bred her.

She licked her lips and activated the live stream on her cell phone. The stream was focused on the tree in front of her, where her belongings laid.

She turned back, walking to her pouch and shuffled through it for a moment before locating a small glass container filled with electric orange nail polish. She started to apply paint to her nails judiciously until they were all covered with a flawless precision. Then she blew on them softly a few times.

Once the nails had dried, she turned back and opened her pack again. This time, she extracted a sizable length of coarse, wiry rope. She tried stringing it over the tree once but lacked the strength and accuracy to make it over the high branch.

It fell back and landed on her head before dropping to the ground. She picked it back up, and on her second attempt, successfully rounded the branch. She looped a slipknot and slid it up the rope, securing it to the tree firmly.

She climbed up carefully and took a seat within the tree’s leafy limbs while still in the wide-angle camera view. She retrieved a marker from her pocket and calculated. Eyeballing her measurement, she marked an area of the line with a black sharpie. Over a period of a few minutes, while referencing a small pocket guide, she manufactured a noose with macabre magnificence. A cruel contrivance that no adolescent soul should be able to conjure so soundly.

She descended the tree, pulling down on the rope with all of her might and checking the security. Her sizing was specific. The rope ended about six feet off the ground, which the audience, by this point, probably assumed was right where she wanted it.

Realizing the work was done, she jumped to the ground. The dirt around her kicked up into the wind as she looked to the lens, her straight shiny hair obstructing most of her face from the viewers.

She stood looking forward at the camera stream and began disrobing. She took off each garment and folded it carefully before placing it beside her sneakers. She stood confidently as bare as when she entered this world. Her hands stayed by her hips until she dragged the hair obscuring her face aside, letting her eyes lock onto the camera.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t be better,” she said, allowing a minute to lapse.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted. I’ll never be good enough, so this is just the way it has to be. I’ll see you around,” the girl said in a low monotone voice .

She then swiftly spidered her way up the tree trunk, clinging to each branch until she sat with her bare skin only inches away from the rope she’d knotted around the tree. She slowly tugged the weathered rope, reeling it all the way up toward her. Then, without hesitation, she tightened the noose around her throat firmly and erected. An epic tremble ran through her frail body.

As she stepped off the branch, a last moment of reluctance called her back, causing her barefoot to slip awkwardly. The side of her head smashed violently, clipping the thick wooden arm on the way down. Her body quickly pivoted back in the other direction—the force jerked her figure savagely but didn’t kill her.

Bleeding from just above her brow, her eyes swelled behind cracked glasses. She sounded like a punctured raft as the remaining air agonizingly hissed out. She was just a moment away from sinking. The eighty pounds of perfection was no more.

Autopsy Room 1:36 PM

Brutus hoisted the last body onto the metal table, gasping for air. He wasn’t getting any younger and these stiffs weren’t getting any lighter. The humidity was draining him, leaving a thorough sogginess on his outfit. He felt dehydrated and weary but had other questions on his mind which were more pressing than his thirst.

Alester was cleaning his tools in a sink near the wall feverishly. A painfully vain attempt to make up for lost time in the day.

“So, what’s the deal with the big guy?” Brutus hollered at him.

“I don’t know, we just brought these in. I’m not a mind reader,” Alester replied smugly.

“No, not him. The fat guy from a few days ago. The one who lost his skin…”

“I think it was pretty obvious. He was beaten to death. You saw what I saw.”

“You didn’t find anything strange about it?”

“The only thing strange was that his morbid obesity didn’t kill him before his wife did. I would think Colonel Sanders to be a much likelier suspect.”

“Right, but have you heard what they’re saying? A week or so ago, he wasn’t even fat. How could someone blow up like that so quickly? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Could’ve maybe been a thyroid issue that just came to light. I don’t know. We don’t examine people’s metabolism here, Brutus, just what killed them.”

“The news is saying that it mighta had something to do with the supplement company downtown where he worked. They have a few alternative medical facilities in the city.”

“Oh, the news is saying! Forgive me, let’s close the case on this one.”

“What about that green shit that was all over his mouth? That was normal too, I guess?”

“Probably just bile.”

“I didn’t see any vomit.”

“Let me give you a small piece of advice. My grandfather once told me to only believe half of what you hear on the radio, half of what you read in the paper, and half of what you see on television.”

Alester turned toward Brutus, eyebrows wrinkled. Before he could continue the soapbox pitch, his cell phone began to buzz on the table. He wiped off his hands and then answered.

“Yeah… Jesus, where? Alright.” He ended the call quickly and looked up at Brutus. “You’re gonna hate me.”

Moon Valley Park 2:11 PM

Brutus pulled the van up near the squad cars and parked it. He hopped out with a bag, in no mood to squander time. He approached the officer a few paces from where he had parked while downing a bottle of water. His attempt to ward off the vicious heat and stay hydrated seemed futile.

“Where is she?” Brutus asked.

The officer responded to him by pointing into the woods. “About a half-mile in,” he said, removing some chewing gum from his pocket.

“A half-mile? There’s no way to get a vehicle in there?”

“Afraid not, if that was the case, we’d already have her out here for you, bud.”

The disappointment was all too expected but still didn’t upset him any less. Brutus returned to the van and popped the back doors open. He slowly rolled out the gurney, sweat beading profusely.

Trudging forward, he continued out into the woods for what seemed like an eternity. When he arrived at the tree, he noticed the cut rope still hanging. It swung back and forth gently in the uncomfortable breeze.

The young girl’s nude body lay on the ground with a sort of bottomless fear leeched onto her expression. It was hardly surprising that she would acquire that emotion just prior to delving head-first into the peak of uncertainty.

He was perspiring so generously, it was hard to think. His brain was so fried and stress-filled that considering the child’s death didn’t add much weight. He felt scummy thinking it, but was pleased that her body wouldn’t be heavy.

The mental and physical fatigue were jousting for first place, but the race had ended long ago. He laid the bag down and gingerly slid the girl inside. After zipping her up, he elevated her body up onto the gurney and buckled her in.

Excitement coursed throughout him when the van finally appeared in his line of vision. He quickly loaded her in and drove off without looking back. He gassed it a bit more than he normally would, itching for a speedier path to controlled temperatures.

As the drive progressed, he found himself glancing in the side mirrors over and over. There was a car on his ass a little more aggressively than a typical driver. He took a right, they took a right… he went straight, they went straight. It could be a coincidence, but more often than not, to Brutus’s glum experience, there were no coincidences with shit like this. There was just that bad thing that was around every corner waiting to happen.

He decided he didn’t give a fuck and ventured onward, knowing he was only a few blocks away from the lab. As he turned the final corner, he noticed they were still there. The car followed him into the parking lot, pulling into a space only a few feet away from his.

He exited the van and peered into the car discreetly, trying not to make eye contact. He could see a middle-aged man at the wheel, clearly distraught. The woman riding shotgun’s eyes were messy, her wet cheeks flustered with dread.

She blew her nose into a wad of used tissue before cracking the car door. Brutus continued to the back of the van nonchalantly as if they weren’t there. Before he could grab the handle, the pair descended on him. In a cracking tone, struggling to mollify her hysteria, the woman questioned him.

“Excuse me, sir, are you the one that has my… my… daughter?” she struggled.

Brutus stood frozen and dumbfounded, unsure how exactly to respond. He knew he would need to tread cautiously. His typical heavy-handed tactics weren’t equipped for this kind of conversation. For once, he wished Alester was around.

Being a man of few words with minimal experience in delicate situations didn’t help him. He couldn’t even shoot the shit with the dentist, let alone a grieving parent. He prayed this was the final card in the loaded hand he’d been dealt this week.

“You still have her in the back here, don’t you?” she continued through the sobs while pointing at the van’s square windows.

“I… I’m sorry. I’m just bringing her here to the examiner,” Brutus replied, not knowing what else he could possibly say.

“Why, so he can fucking cut her open!?” she yelled, suddenly shifting gears and rearing an ugly temper.

Brutus’s eyes gaped wide, caught off guard, a hotness flushed under the skin of his face.

“We need to see her. We need to see her one more time! Let me see her one more time before you butcher her!” she raged, stepping closer toward him.

Her husband seemed to have been all too familiar with this ugly side of her. He was a mess himself, a constant stream of tears plummeting down his cheeks. Amid the snot sniffing, however, he still seemed to have a firmer grip than his wife. He reached out and grabbed her arm gently.

“Honey, please, he’s only just trying to do his jo—” he said attempting to reason with her before being shouted over.

“Arnold, I don’t give a shit!” she said in full-on agitation, ripping her arm from his hold. “I need to see her! I need her!” she cried hysterically.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, what’s all the commotion over here?” A voice said from around the side of the van.

Tommy rounded the corner, sporting an oily crown of matted down hair. He looked like he hadn’t showered in weeks but ate nine meals a day. Disturbingly swollen, he parked himself beside Brutus. His fat wasn’t the solid sort, it was the bloated, blubbery skin-stretching variety. His face looked like he just went twelve rounds and lost. Bad.

The woman looked up at him exhausted, likely dehydrated from shedding so many tears throughout her strenuous day. Her speech was noticeably weakened as she struggled to repeat herself again.

“I need to see my daughter,” she said, bordering on defeat.

“Well, I think we can accommodate that,” Tommy concurred, starting to open up the van.

“Tommy, we can’t,” Brutus said sternly .

“Like hell, we can’t,” Tommy barked, looking at him, malice sealing his pupils.

He rolled out the gurney and stopped halfway. The body was at a slanted angle but the straps held her in place.

“It’s illegal,” Brutus whispered, trying to reason one final time.

Tommy paid no attention and unfastened the first of four straps that bound her to the gurney. Her parents leaned closer, holding a certain horror, knowing that no parents were meant to see what they were about to.

He pulled the zipper down to the second buckle, which was just below the girl’s breasts. His hand shadowed over her nipple as he intentionally made contact on the way back up to her neck.

She bore a ghostly skin shade made more evident in contrast to the dry red river that ran down her brow. Her eyes still protruded outward in a cartoonish fashion, bloodshot to shit. But the most obvious visual everyone’s attention must have darted to first, was the severe bruising and upturning of the flesh surrounding her neck.

The old rugged rope had done a number on her. The meat deep underneath ripped up, mixing with outer layers of frayed skin like how the darkest of soil surfaces from freshly tilled ground.

“Whoa, is this your daughter?” Tommy looked back at the couple.

He clenched his fingers around the girl’s fleshy neck in a strangling gesture and pulled her slightly up off the gurney toward him, continuing to examine.

“This is a pretty girl you got here. I’d say beautiful, even,” he continued as the destroyed woman’s weeping accelerated to an uncontrollable pitch.

Tommy was still squeezing the fuck out of her neck when he propped her head up, almost as if she was looking her parents’ way. Then the head fell in different directions a few times before he was able to balance the cracked neck bone.

Since rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet, Tommy noticed she was quite puppet-like. He bobbed her head up and down a few times and began to speak, lips hardened like a ventriloquist’s might be.

“I love my mommy and I miss her. My daddy is nice too. It’s nice of them to come and visit me before I go to hell,” he said, looking back with a friendly smile.

The woman screeched, eyes brimming with shock and revulsion. She had taken all she could handle. It was like her soul was snatched from her frame when she fainted. Her limp body abruptly fell backward, right into her sobbing husband.

He alertly grabbed her just before she hit the scorched tar beneath them. Brutus stepped over, similarly stunned, and tried to help the man get her back to her feet again.

“You get the fuck away from her! God damn you! Stay away from us!” the man screamed before lifting her immobilized body into his arms.

He brought her back to the vehicle and sat her in the passenger seat. His emotions overrun with disgust boiling inside him literally to the point of overflow. An expression of sickness laminated him as he turned from his wife.

His cheeks puffed twice right before suppressing—or maybe swallowing—it back down. Then he slammed the doors and peeled rubber just prior to the car rocketing out of the parking lot. It was as if he didn’t know what to do at this juncture, except run as fast as he could.

Brutus stared at Tommy in disbelief, trying to decide if what just happened could be real. Tommy looked back at the girl silently for a moment before returning to Brutus.

“This girl. She looks a lot like Deirdre. Don’t you think?” Tommy asked.

Coroner’s Office 3:12 PM

Alester sat slouched at his desk, filling out a death certificate prudently. His penmanship was marvelous, something that was mainly overlooked and under-appreciated in the current day’s text-infested society.

As he completed what appeared to be the final stroke, the door whipped open and banged against the frame. The suddenness caused him to jump as fright nipped him. His pen rocked and black ink smeared, blemishing the excellence. Brutus stormed in with a sense of urgency, fueled by terror.

“What the hell is wrong with you!? Don’t you knock!?” he scolded Brutus in a fit of pique.

“Tommy just showed that girl’s body to her fucking parents in the parking lot. I’m telling you, he ain’t right! He’s completely flipped his shit!” Brutus exclaimed.

“What?! What are you talking about? Why would he do that?” Alester asked.

“The family asked me to see it. I told them we couldn’t but then he just showed up. He unzipped her and was talking in her fucking voice to the family. ”

“Shit. Last thing we need is a lawsuit. Where is he?”

“He’s in the autopsy room preparing the body.”

“Oh good, I’m still going to need help getting these done before the weekend. I’m sorry to call on you in such short notice but I need you to stay tonight too so we can bang these out.”

“ARE YOU FUCKING DEAF!? Did you not just hear what I said? He’s not right! He’s swollen up like a freak show attraction ever since we picked up that fat fuck that you claim there was nothing wrong with! He’s acting like a maniac! You’re lying, Alester, you’re a goddamn liar.”

“Stop with the conspiracies, Brutus! I don’t need this shit right now! These bodies have to get finished! If Tommy has a little PTSD, he’s just gonna have to work through it! Just like you’re gonna have to work through it.”

“Fuck you, you can get through it by yourself,” Brutus said, turning his back on him.

As he left Alester’s office, he was feeling the weighty pressure mounting and piling, escalating to an unmanageable pinnacle. After retreating to the parking lot, he hopped back into the van, twisting the key forward in the ignition.

The only words he continued to hear in his head were, “This girl. She looks a lot like Deirdre. Don’t you think?” He floored it in reverse and whipped out of the lot, nearly colliding with a sparkling, jet black 2017 Lincoln Continental.

Brinemax Corporation 2:44 PM

Irene sat in her roomy hexagon-shaped glass office, illuminated by the warm sunlight on the twenty-third-floor downtown. Behind her stretching, L-shaped mahogany desk, she sat cross-legged twirling a Montblanc ballpoint pen. Her writing utensil alone could feed a family for a month. She scribbled down a quick note into her pad.

“Yes, Mr. Stone. I’ll leave immediately,” she responded just before hanging up the landline.

Next, she removed a small key from her Burberry handbag and inserted it into the bottom desk drawer. After popping the lock, she extracted a thick yellow envelope and placed it in the inside pocket of her Giorgio Armani business suit.

The affluent perfectionist reeked of class and professionalism. She rose up from her desk, quickly locking the drawer and collected the note. She trotted over to the wall-mounted full-length mirror and gave herself a look from toes to nose.

Her dirty blonde ponytail was wound tight and flawlessly fashioned back. Her obsessive tendencies would not allow a single hair out of place. She nudged her tortoise styled black eyeglasses up from her nose tip before leaving the office.

Her heels clicked against the concrete as she advanced toward a black Lincoln Continental in the front of the parking lot. The car’s tags were quite different from the sunny Arizona desert backdrop that most people in the city displayed. The black plates were outlined by a fine gold trim that made them appear especially regal. She sat down in the car and entered the address from the note into the GPS. Once it was displaying and locked on, she placed the folded note back into her handbag.

After following the route and managing around the dreary traffic, the destination was on her right. She flicked her turn signal and pulled into the parking lot.

Once she straightened, a large white van bulleting out nearly collided with her head-on. She slammed the brakes and swerved right, leaning on the horn with displeasure.

“Are you crazy!?” she cursed, paused in the lot as the van flew out into the street, paying no attention to her grievances.

“What the hell is wrong with people?” she muttered to herself.

She loaded the GPS history and cleared all records before shutting it down. Then she pulled the car back over and parked a few rows from the front door of the…

Coroner’s Office 3:20 PM

Alester departed his office, quickly making his way to the autopsy room. While in the hallway, he noticed a rather odd man standing in the lobby. His blue work shirt and pants seemed worn and unwashed. He had the glass vending machine’s face completely unlocked and opened.

“Hey!” Alester yelled toward the man, hastily approaching him. The man turned around slowly. A foolish, glazed over look suctioned to his eyeballs. Alester squinted at his name tag before addressing him.

“Ah, Stanley, is it? Well, listen, Stanley, I’m not sure if you’re a big patterns guy but you should take notice that this machine never has enough Reese’s. You think you could put a little extra in there, being that it’s clearly the most popular item?”

He looked at him like God had just spoken. Unsure how to address him, he began to stammer, “M-Mr. Campbell, really, he likes for me to put the candies in all the machines, sir.”

“What I’m telling you is that we don’t eat the fucking Paydays here or the M&Ms with peanuts. That stuff is useless here. Can’t you just…” Alester stopped, noticing everything he seemed to say just floated over ‘ol Stanley’s simple head. He’d have been better off talking to the machine itself.

He gave up on the conversation—if you could call it that—and headed for the autopsy room. Upon entry, he noticed Tommy standing over the empty table. He looked sick. Physically and maybe mentally as well, Alester thought. He studied him for a moment, taking notice of his untidy, blubbery new appearance.

“I thought you were preparing the body, where did she go?” he questioned.

“Everyone is in the morgue,” Tommy replied.

Confused, Alester walked over to the sink where his utensil tray was. “Why is she in the morgue? We don’t have time to waste, Tommy.”

He turned on the water and picked up a stained skull chisel. He then grabbed a brush and built the bristles up with suds. After some polishing, he rinsed it in the sink and wiped it down thoroughly with a small cotton towel.

“You know, what you did with that family out there, it’s illegal. It could even get us sued.”

Tommy stared vacantly at the table, remaining in the same position.

“Is everything alright? I know you were probably trying to help those people, but there are certain things in this profession—”

A box from above the entrance doors began to ring, emitting a buzzing noise that blared over the dialogue. Alester dropped the chisel on the table and headed for the door.

“I’ll be right back, just have the body ready when I return,” he ordered, entering the main lobby of the office. He noticed a well-dressed woman with a tightly wound hairstyle standing near the front desk.

“No secretary?” she inquired.

“Well, we don’t get too many visitors. The ones we do get couldn’t lift a finger. I tend to manage the office’s affairs here.” He smiled and she returned it right back. “And how can I help a striking woman such as yourself?”

“I’m here on behalf of Mr. Stone. My name’s Irene Grimes.” Alester glanced down at the badge near her waist. The plastic protector held a model-worthy picture of her, topped with a black font with gold trim that read “Brinemax Corp.”

“Oh, of course!” he exclaimed, extending his arm out to shake her hand. She timidly grabbed hold of him, accepting his introduction.

“Alester Schultz. I didn’t know he was sending anyone. My apologies, let us convene in my office.” He loosened his grip and turned, making a welcoming gesture, “Please, right this way.”

He led her down the hall to the wooden office door with the glass window that lettered his name and opened it for her. “Please, have a seat,” he politely offered. He then locked the door behind them before plopping down in his brown leather chair.

“Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Ms. Grimes?”

Irene reached back into her business suit to retrieve the envelope. She removed the surrounding elastic and began to unfold it. “Mr. Stone has another payment for you. For your most recent work.”

Alester stretched out toward her, grinning ear to ear. Just as his hand closed in, she jerked the envelope out of reach. “But first, I need to hear your analysis.”

Alester’s expression deflated to a more serious state. “Well, of course, Ms. Grimes. This victim shared some similarities to Kenneth Mandle. The glycerol levels and fatty acids continued to double daily since he was exposed. Strangely, this time, the supplement seems to have, in addition, affected the internal organs. They grew to unprecedented proportions. The man’s heart was almost twice the size of a normal human’s.”

“So, what are you saying exactly?”

“I’m saying your miracle diet supplement is having reverse effects. It’s not shedding off pounds, it’s multiplying them and at breakneck speed, I might add. The organs create a new thorn in your side. I would hypothesize that since all of the other organs were enlarged, that the brain probably was too.”

“Why didn’t you examine it?”

“Because Mr. Slender’s wife bashed it in! Don’t you watch the local news, Ms. Grimes? Apparently, your product is producing some bad apples as of late.”

“I see.”

“Then you understand this man literally outgrew his own cranium. I mean, talk about getting a big head,” he snickered.

“Please continue.”

“His tissues reached a point where they were pinned against each other, trying to blister out of his skull. This more than likely explains the erratic behavior, or at least attributed to it. The talking nonsense, trying to kill his wife, etcetera…”

“You will need to include this in your report to Mr. Stone.”

“Should I just write that whoever gave the green light on your latest pilot is on the hot seat?” he joked .

Irene counted out the cash quickly, lacking the amusement Alester seemed to generate for himself.

“You really don’t have a sense of humor, do you? You know, in this field, it’s an absolute must. Otherwise, you might just go a little mad,” he said, embodying a slight look of derangement.

He watched her looked up at him and cracked a tiny smile. “Oh, one other thing that we’ve yet to discuss,” Alester said as if a memory just popped into his head. “The people at your lab said this nasty sickness wasn’t transferrable, yet, one of my associates seems to be developing symptoms.”

“That’s not possible, Mr. Schultz,” Irene replied assertively.

“Now, you’re sure about that?” Alester asked, reaching into his desk drawer and removing a small revolver. He put his hand back into the drawer and placed a box of ammo on the desk in front of him.

“You wouldn’t lie to me about this, would you?” he inquired, menacingly loading the gun bullet by bullet.

“The lab has already analyzed all airborne scenarios; we’ve spent tens of thousands on testing.”

“Then why do I have an employee that is starting to look like the Stay-Puft fucking marshmallow man, Ms. Grimes!?” Alester shouted, spinning the revolver’s cylinder shut.

Irene’s eyes filled with terror and the difficult realization that she hadn’t understood just how unpredictable Alester was.

“The… the only way it can transfer is… is if you ingest it. So, unless he—”

“I’m not gonna be bullied around by some fucking corporate pussy!” he screamed, pointing the gun at her head. “Some piece of shit, hot-shot businessman that’s afraid to do the wet work! I’ve worked too damn hard, you hear me!?” Irene nodded her head, agreeing to anything in hopes of ending his tirade.

“If I lose an employee, I better have a double payment next time! You understand?” he yelled with all of his might, saliva flying from his lips onto her face.

“Yes! Mr. Schultz, I promise you, you have my word,” she said choppily through a tremoring voice.

“Because you know, Ms. Grimes. Good help is just so hard to find these days,” he explained with a grin, calming himself. “Have you ever had to interview someone? Judging by your attire, I’d say yes. It’s a lot of work and, ugh, character judgement upfront and I’m… frankly, I’m just not cut out for it. You see, I’m a man of trust. Meaning, if I trust you, I trust you. But if you betray me… well, you seem like a smart woman.”

Alester ripped the money from her hands callously and set the gun back down in the drawer. “There won’t be any need for violence now. I feel like you have a better grasp of our arrangement,” he said, walking toward the door and unlocking it before facing back to her. “You’re free to go now.”

Irene cautiously rose from the chair, keeping her eyes on Alester. When she got close enough, he opened the door for her.

“Chivalry is not dead.” Alester held out his arm and began signaling ladies first.

When the door opened, a hulking flab-ridden figure stood tall before her. Only backlit from the light shining through the front of the office. His milky white empty eyes floated in the air.

A look of imbalance was stenciled vaguely across his bloated mug. The greenish liquid Alester enjoyed mischaracterizing now departed from all of his visible orifices. The madness had resurfaced and perhaps exploded.

Alester’s unofficial diagnosis had now come to light firsthand. His head pulsated and cracked as blood streamed down the sides of his skull. His enlarged lobes were no doubt the root of the building pressure, splitting his cranium.

The butchery happened so fast that she didn’t even have a moment to prepare. His speed was phenomenal, mirroring the reports, it was practically inhuman. His arm sprang up and came down, death gripping the gun-like handle of the wide-bladed bone saw.

It pierced into the back of her right eye socket, hooking on part of the optic nerve. As he continued raking down diagonally, it fully popped the orb out of its housing and ran the cut over her lips, stopping just at the tip of her jawbone.

He then quickly grabbed the back of her ponytail and forced her face forward into the saw as his other hand thrust it back up. The vicious motion and the blunt force made for a horrific combination. The serrated blade tore right through her skin, causing her face to ribbon in two lengthy raining paths.

Irene fell back into a wet heap behind Alester’s desk, too confused and destroyed to scream.

“I told you, goddammit! He’s gone sour!” Alester yelled at Irene. Alester raced toward Irene’s direction but was quickly stonewalled. Tommy’s overstuffed forearm was swinging toward him like an enraged gorilla during feeding time.

The clothesline type blow carried such potency that when it landed on Alester’s Adam’s apple, a thunderous crunch of his shattering thyroid cartilage followed. The stack of hundred-dollar bills flew up around the whole room, fluttering through the air like a gangster rap music video.

He hit the floor quickly gasping for air, feeling the spiky shards stabbing into his vocal cords with each wheeze. He wrapped his hand around his throat in a desperate attempt to troubleshoot his voice box and open his breathing channel to a more comfortable size. The triage was short-lived as the butt of Tommy’s knife handle came down on his temple, cold-cocking him.

He took a moment to study the lifeless body of his supervisor before wrapping his colossal fingers around Alester’s ankle. He elevated the ankle to a position where his Achilles sat just below the saw blade and began cutting. Once at the ankle’s midpoint, he dropped the leg and dislodged the saw.

He quickly took hold of the other leg, burrowing the saw sloppily, deeper and deeper. Blood sprayed out everywhere down the walls of the office and over the currency. The crimson smears coating the dirty cash made the phrase blood money all too literal.

A deafening pop erupted from behind him followed by a wall-mounted picture crashing down to the floor. Jagged glass surrounded the photo of Alester smiling sheepishly beside his stunning, stern-faced wife at a sunny boating dock.

The cracked image was enough to draw in Tommy’s unhinged focus momentarily. After a second roaring shot let off and blew a plum-sized hole in the wall beside his head, he relinquished his hold and turned backwards.

Irene held herself up on the desk, aiming the smoking revolver wildly. Her bloodshot eye dangled down like a red cherry from a tree discharging an unnatural glaze. Her business suit was now burgundy as the face wounds had left her blood-drenched. A box of bullets spilled out all over the desk as the lead rolled about in front of her.

Desperation and tears filled her functioning eye as she tried to bridge herself and steady her arm while Tommy inched closer. She squeezed down on the trigger, finally landing a slug up by his shoulder.

When it entered his flesh, it took a violent turn upward toward his collar bone, causing it to spear out of his skin. Tommy let out a grunt, symbolizing that he could still feel pain and causing him to drop the bone saw. A gurgling noise blurted out, followed by the dismissal of more greenish fluid from his mouth.

Irene gained a small measure of adrenaline after landing the first shot which fueled her decision to quickly let off two more rounds and go for the kill. The first bullet found its way into the nautical oil painting behind Tommy as he continued edging closer.

The second left the barrel accidentally, almost right after she cocked the hammer back, sending a shot downward into Alester’s spine while his crumpled frame still laid unconscious.

Unfazed, she mustered the last of her strength in aligning the revolver parallel with his eye level. The shot ripped out, tracing the surface of Tommy’s cheek and blowing more than half of his ear clean off his head.

He expelled another grunt, but that didn’t stop him. His stalker-like steps continued indolently as if he needn’t rush and foresaw an unavoidable endgame.

He stepped forward once again and Irene raised the gun directly to his head. He was at point-blank range and brandished the most fiendish of smiles. She readied herself as best she could to take a man’s life, something that no one should have to do.

Her muscles tightened and she grimaced as she pulled the trigger. This time was much different than the prior shots. All that could be heard was a soft click from the empty cylinder and the thudding of Irene’s heart accelerating. She was the personification of dread.

She gave up closing her good eye and tightening her other socket as Tommy’s filthy hands got closer. The thumb on his left hand pushed into her good eye socket with a herculean pressure, causing her eye to disappear behind a flood of gore. He removed his thumb from the cavity, leaving behind a crater of moist mush and clasped his other hand around her throat.

In a concluding swift motion, he elevated her off the ground, sling-shotting her through the glass window of Alester’s partially open office door. As she broke through the glass head-first, her petite neck descended rapidly.

Her throat meshed into the razor-like remains that angled upwards, followed by her arm scraping over it. She lay motionless, arched over the jagged window frame as her blood flooded downward, repainting the wood and forming a pool below.

Tommy, still breathing heavily, looked back at Alester, bloody and incapacitated. His condition was worsening by the moment as his mangled physique looked beyond repair.

“You ready, boss? You know, we still got a lot of work to do still, right?

Tommy’s House 4:20 PM

Brutus pulled directly into Tommy’s dirt driveway, blocking in Deirdre’s car. He raced up to the front door and gave three brutish pounds in between the small rectangles of frosted glass. “Deirdre?” Brutus yelled before pausing for a moment to listen.

Still no response, and with the heat wearing on his patience, he instinctively grabbed for the door handle. He turned it and cautiously pushed it open, surprised to find that it wasn’t locked. “Deirdre? Hello? Is everything alright?”

He stepped in through the door and felt his heart sink. He was bombarded with an all too familiar smell. A smell he shouldn’t ever have to witness off the clock. “Deirdre, it’s Brutus,” he begged for an answer that his senses already had told him he wasn’t going to get.

His body began to tremble, a fear of the uncertain running laps through his mind. He ventured forward into the mudroom past a few pairs of shoes and an umbrella, stepping up toward a second door. From his prior encounters and holiday parties, he knew the door led to the living room. He wondered how his life might change once he entered that room again. An unnerving anxiety shook him to the core.

If he found what he feared and envisioned, what might the repercussions be? How does something this sinister end? His anxiety would not be subdued, but all of his questions were about to be answered.

Enlightened by evil, he now knew some sights were so depraved that you couldn’t even dream them up or randomly encounter them in a nightmare. The scene was the most gruesome and bizarre sight he had ever witnessed—on the job, in life, or imagination.

Deirdre sat at the couch’s center, wearing nothing but violence. The gash at her mouth started at one ear and led to the other, going deep down into the brainstem. Her breasts were a disturbing shade of dark ruby, like two radiant fleshy fireballs. Her legs had been spread like a gymnast, extending to each arm of the couch. She was contorted in a most unnatural manner, positioned in a way that would require the hips to have been dislocated like how you would twist off a drumstick from a rotisserie chicken, except they were still attached.

Her pussy was ripped open to about the size of a duckpin bowling ball and two tiny filthy feet and a torn-up soiled diaper dangled out, absent of any movement.

The bugs that had been crawling all over the child had now migrated to Deirdre. Her skin was overrun with a rash and the aggressive mouths of the vile pests. The thought that they were traveling inside, based on the placement of the baby, made him shudder.

It was different than before; he couldn’t even count how many murder scenes he’d pulled clean-up duty at throughout his career. Knowing the person, speaking with that person just a short while ago, made it surreal. Never would there be anything that scarred him so profoundly. At least that’s what he hoped.

The disturbing finality of Deirdre’s earthly journey splattered around him was not what she deserved. She had accumulated too much good karma to have this sickening portrait be her final. When the crime scene photographer flashed his bulb, this atrocity is what people would remember.

Brutus tried to push the tragedy out of his mind for a moment and think about what came next—the domino effect as Tommy so often liked to label it as. He quickly picked up the phone and dialed Alester. After a pair of voicemail prompts, he knew he had to get to the office. Fast.

Coroner’s Lab 5:11 PM

When Brutus approached Alester’s office, he knew Tommy had been there. Irene was still ripped to shreds and arched over the door just as Tommy had left her. He looked down into the puddle of blood beneath her mangled body and took notice of the drenched Brinemax ID card. The eye-catching black and gold font always sparkled.

He peered into the office over the body and saw plasma plastered everywhere. The walls, floor, and even the ceiling. Countless hundred-dollar bills covered in wet flesh and blood. Brutus only had a GED but it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together on this one.

“That son of a bitch,” Brutus muttered, adrenaline beginning to surge.

Where is he? he wondered as he tiptoed carefully. He looked all the way down the dark hall thinking knew the answer.

The shiny silver doors of the autopsy room were beckoning. He knew whatever laid beyond them was something terrible but he had to face it. He had to put an end to the greed and madness that orbited him without end. He had to complete his horrific odyssey.

Autopsy Room 5:19 PM

Alester awoke to warm blinding lights shining from above. Is this heaven? he wondered. Must be some sort of mistake. He knew the sinister deeds that his name was attached to in life would not bring him somewhere bright and pleasant afterward.

He was fine with that; he knew the rules. He thoughtfully chose and internally embraced his selfish indulgence. Taking a mouthwatering cutthroat culture over a path of humble kindness. Besides, who knew if it was all true anyway?

Why waste your whole life being good for an uncertain payoff when you could be a total shit and live the high life? The gamble didn’t seem too especially sensible and the indulgence within his immorality was leaps and bounds more tempting to him. An odd mixture of happiness and confusion swirled in his mind. Did quality control somehow let one slip through the cracks?

He opened his mouth and tried to call out to God, but only a muffled humming noise came out. The sharp pain in his throat brought him to the more realistic understanding—the fact that he wasn’t dead.

He tried to move but his legs didn’t work. His arms had some usability still but were clamped down with restraints. His body was so weak, he might not have even been able to move unhindered.

The light above began to shift, switching to an angle that no longer impeded his vision. A familiar and distended eccentric face bearing a drool saturated grin loomed over him.

The image was like hearing your death sentence in the morning and having it carried out before lunch. He wanted to scream but couldn’t. His throat just squirmed and agony filled his eyes.

He tilted his head down toward his chest where the light was now aimed. Damp, raw meat encompassed his whole abdomen up to the top of his sternum. His skin was peeled up and spread horizontally like a newly pitched camping tent.

Stunned, he laid watching his exposed slimy muscle glimmer in the white light. He couldn’t help but be intrigued at the sight of his own innards. He had seen countless others, but never had the thought of inspecting his own ever crossed his mind.

An uncanny calm and acceptance stormed over him as he comprehended that he was seeing something most never would. That calm rapidly turned to fright when he heard the vibrating saw activate.

Tommy’s grimy hands choked the metal handle as the serrated half-moon spun so quickly, it turned full. The twisting steel neared his body, inching further along, building a hellish sense of anticipation.

His terror spiked as the blade bore into him, an upsetting gurgling noise left his lips. Red sprayed all over Tommy’s Neanderthal-like face as he giggled with enthusiasm. It didn’t seem like he knew why he was happy, he just was.

It ran through the meat convincingly just as it was designed to. Once he crafted the slit above his abs to about the circumference of the tool, he turned it forward and shoved it in.

He inserted it so deep, the device began to stutter and hesitate like an eggbeater spinning in drying cement. After a moment, he let the madness settle and watched the random quivers that drove through his mashed frame.

He set the saw down and reached for the freshly-polished rib cutters. Spreading the jaws wide, he moved forward until the teeth of the cutters softly bit down on his bottom rib. His widened flabby arms pulled the handles back toward each other, the cracking of bone echoed sadistically over Alester’s pleas.

Tommy’s obtuse skull continued throbbing more aggressively as he applied additional pressure to the next rib. His remolded dome had drastically devolved from the normalcy of standard human physiology. The skull had transformed into a gruesomely grooved violent landscape. It was like his insidious thoughts were bubbling over and manifesting in the physical form. The devil was inside him but it was through no fault of his own. He was the victim of a rare misfortune.

His possession was brought on by untouchable powers and enabled by the materialistic man that lay before him. The minuscule fragment of him that was still Tommy, for once, agreed with the darkness… and the pair was in no mood for mercy.

Alester’s eyelids flickered up and down as he winced in anguish. He knew there was almost no chance of survival so he found himself praying for a swifter death. Tears raced down the sides of his head as Tommy continued clamping down on the second rib.

“That’s enough,” a voice said firmly from behind. The carnage paused momentarily and Tommy snapped his head back. His eyes scanned the gloomy autopsy room but it was empty. He quickly turned back to Alester again, ready to carry on with the pain Olympics.

“Your girlfriend’s dead, Tommy. You destroyed her,” the voice said. He removed the rib cutters and stepped toward the entryway. The metal door stood still and no one was visible through the embedded oval windows.

“It’s not your fault, but it’s gotta stop. You’re sick. You’re fucking sick, kid,” the voice continued.

Tommy stared at the small speaker above the double doors. It was evident the voice was rattling him as he’d started to tremble uncontrollably. The fat in his arms wiggled like dancing Jell-O.

“It’s not your fault… but you have to die, Tommy.”

The speaker system cut out with some crackling and feedback as Tommy raised the shears with fury. He smashed into the oval window, shattering it and sending the door swinging. He barreled down the hall back to his handmade mess in Alester’s office.

He pushed the door open fiercely, flinging Irene’s lifeless corpse to the ground. The intercom receiver lay sideways on the desk, all by its lonesome.

He walked back to the hallway and looked the other direction to the morgue. The door was slightly ajar with a cold steam eerily floating out. It was poetic in a way how this room of death was calling to him .

When Tommy entered the room, he saw five bodies covered in sheets on the icy metal tables. Through the cold haze, he also noticed one of the dozen or so steel mounted storage cases on the left wall was open with a pair of toe-tagged feet protruding.

Tommy leisurely stepped up to the first body, grasping the clean white sheet and tugged it down. He revealed a middle-aged man with his face split open like the two halves had divorced. He moved onto the next sheet, pulling it off more impatiently.

A dead boy about seven years old with his chest caved in. Now rushing toward the third, he ripped the sheet off. The teenage girl who hanged herself in Moon Valley Park.

He decisively raised the shears and spun around toward the fourth body and drove them through the chest with tremendous force. The body did not move.

Suddenly, the fifth sheet shot up like a ghost propelled it. The right arm and the body rising in chorus, gripping the blood-splattered revolver. The linen slid down, revealing Brutus with a look of confidence and angst.

Before Tommy could dislodge the cutters, Brutus let off the shot that entered through his left cheek and flew out the top right, shattering his rear molar. The gruesome exit wound blew his jaw apart and left it hanging sideways like a cow chewing grass.

The impact of the shot vaulted him backward and he stumbled near the open refrigeration unit. He fell downward beside the tagged foot sticking out of the door. The stiffened toes dug into the gore pool where his chin was formerly housed.

Seeing his opportunity, Brutus rushed to the heavy metal door, cocking it back then launching it forward with all of his might. It smashed into Tommy’s skull, pinning it between the steel outlining and the unforgiving door. His skull bubbled further, the red running rapidly while his face lost consciousness.

Brutus—exhausted mentally and physically—dug deep and pushed himself. He pulled the door back again and swung it even harder. This time, the top split open and volleyed chunks up with such velocity that they stuck to the ceiling.

When he pulled the door back again, it took some additional effort. Tommy’s head was creased into it, so infused that Brutus had to peel his face off before readying it one more time.

Tommy looked up at him and raised his hand. He tried to communicate, but that was easier said than done without a mouth. His tongue flicked about like a fish out of water. Brutus gazed at him, thinking the sight of a tongue was rather disturbing when there are no lips or teeth around it.

“Bbbbbbbbbbbbeeeeeeeeeewwwwwww!” Tommy pleaded.

“Gotta finish up here, Tommy,” Brutus replied, swinging the door once again.

His skull erupted brains, blood, and bone exploding like the kind of piñata Ed Gein would’ve patented. The mess flew every which way as Tommy’s body went limp. He hung partially in the air—head still pinned in the doorframe.

Brutus stepped back from the destruction and felt a new sickness come over him. A nauseous dizziness suffocated him as he sidestepped, trying to prevent himself from fainting. He stumbled forward toward the exposed dead boy that lay stiffly on the chilly silver table .

He tried to keep from vomiting but the watery, acidic soup launched forward anyway. The robust stream was enough to fill half of the young boy’s potholed chest before Brutus could corral himself. He looked up at the dead boy’s face and his opaque, lost eyes stared back.

“Sorry,” he mustered exhaustedly. He dragged himself out of the morgue and back down the hall.

When he entered the autopsy room, he saw Alester still buckled down, wiggling like a shredded worm. He looked at Brutus like a woman who had just been proposed to. Tears of happiness gushed while he tried to speak out to him but muffled gargling was all he could produce.

Brutus stood there motionless, wearing an obvious look of contemplation like he was listening to a debate in his head. Alester’s joy began to dry, his pathetic weasel-like smile folding.

After another few seconds passed, he was staring a hole through Brutus, yelling inaudible commands. Brutus didn’t need to hear him to know what he was saying. He had heard it all before, so many times, but this time was different. He had made his decision.

“Hey, I just came in to let you know this is my last day,” Brutus explained, watching Alester’s pain and relief morph into frenzy. His sour soul’s mangled vehicle began to flail about powerlessly.

“And Tommy. Tommy’s dead. So, you might have some hiring to do soon if you wanna make your trip this weekend.”

Brutus turned back to the metal doors that he had gone through so many times over the years, while Alester spewed distorted curses at him. “I think I’m gonna go grab a beer now. ”

As he departed the building solemnly, he could feel a dark weight being lifted off of him. The sun shined a little brighter than it had been earlier. He wiped some blood and regurgitation off of his chin and looked up at the hot yellow sky.

“Asshole.”

8
MONTHS
LATER

Alester’s House 6:18 PM

Linette sat by the pool soaking in the final rays of the day. Her sexy slim figure wore a creamy tan. Any red-blooded heterosexual would be salivating and playing out detailed fantasies after a glance in her direction. She was just a little thick in all the right places.

Her cell began to buzz on the table beside her. She lifted her oversized sunglasses momentarily and read the caller ID. Marcus was the name that stretched across her phone’s wide screen.

“Hello there,” she said

“Why aren’t you here yet? You know I have to have you,” Marcus replied.

She switched the phone to the other ear and turned her head, looking back towards the screened-in patio. “I have to wait for the nurse to finish checking him. It shouldn’t be much longer,” she whispered.

“I don’t understand why you still stay with him. We could have so much more fun if you didn’t.”

“Well, I don’t expect you to understand. After all, I’m not with you for your brains. We’ve been over this, you already know his case is coming up. With what he had to endure, the settlement will be ridiculous. That’s money for both of us to play with. I’m sure you’ll be thankful you restrained your jealousies when we are laying on a beach in Aruba.”

“It’s just weird.”

“What are you afraid of? Jesus, his dick doesn’t even work.” She watched the nurse exit the patio and head in her direction. “I have to go. I’ll call you soon.”

She quickly ended the call and stood up from her cozy lawn chair. “Mrs. Schultz, we are all set. He is doing great, everything is still healing just as expected. I just emptied his colostomy bag so he should be set for a while. I’m going to head out now if there’s nothing else you need.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed with a well-concealed, counterfeit joy oozing from her.

“Thank you again, Anna. I’ll see you soon then. Drive safe!”

The nurse exited through the side door at the back of the property while Linette strutted back to the patio. As she entered the living room, she took a brief look around before having a seat on the sofa. Laying across the couch, she stretched her soft, shiny legs.

“Alester? Where are you?” she called out, listening for a response that never arrived.

Suddenly, a faint hum began to swell like the type you would hear from a refrigerated vending machine. Closer and closer, it moved until it was almost right on top of her.

A bulky high-tech wheelchair rounded the corner into the living room. Alester’s twisted frame lay back crookedly on the expensive, luxurious cushions while his arm fiddled with a small keyboard. He looked like a broken man because he was.

His throat had been wrapped in white bandaging, while his face held a suspended grimace. Both of his feet sat lifelessly propped up on the leg rests, his body withered from lack of movement.

He looked at his wife raising his puny arm and began typing with his pinky finger. After some chatter on the keys, a machinelike, detached voice projected through a small speaker mounted on the sidearm.

“WHERE WERE YOU?” he asked.

“I was just outside by the pool getting a little sun.”

“I DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU LEAVE ME ALONE WITH HER.”

“Well, now that your check-up is done and we know you’re doing good, I’m going to take a quick trip to the store.”

“WHAT STORE? I’M NOT GOOD, I’M THE FURTHEST THING FROM GOOD.”

“Just DSW.”

“YOU DON’T NEED ANY MORE FUCKING SHOES. YOU BUY SHOES EVERY OTHER DAY. I’M HUNGRY.” As his monotone voice echoed, he wished his vocalizations had an option to yell at people.

She stood up and grabbed the dress that was laid over the ottoman and threw it over her bathing suit. Without a response, she slipped on her sandals and grabbed her purse.

She snagged the remote and turned on the television. As she approached Alester, she set the control beside his hand and kissed him softly on the forehead like you would a special child.

“I’ll make sure I bring you something home soon,” she replied sweetly.

“I’M HUNGRY NOW, DAMMIT. ”

She opened the door and looked back for a quick moment. “Don’t worry, I won’t be long.”

She closed the door and walked up to her BMW. As she backed out of the driveway, she passed a black 2017 Lincoln Continental parked by the curb. The car had a familiar black license plate and gold trim.

Alester flipped through the channels until he landed on TBS. After a Planters commercial, Death Wish 3 returned. Bronson had just shot a purse snatcher from long range—he would be the first of many, of course. The sunset reflected into the television screen when, suddenly, Alester saw the outline of a suited, shadowy figure behind him.

Using the chair control, he whipped himself around alertly. An enormous man stood about six and a half feet tall, a little too well-dressed for the Arizona heat. The man tightened his black leather gloves and said nothing. His stoic expression had a cold chill.

“WHO ARE YOU!? WHY ARE YOU HERE!?” Alester begged the shadowy man.

The man ripped out the cord that fed into the speaker on Alester’s artificial voice box. He continued to make noises and petition for clemency, but the man did not seem like the bartering type. That became more evident to Alester as he reached into his suit and removed a long sharp measure of piano wire that he began to tighten around his fingers.

There’s nothing else to read here...

SPIN THE BOTTLE
A SECRET STORY
BY ARON BEAUREGARD

Marty couldn’t believe he’d been invited to the get-together. The echelon of personality at the party seemed a bit out of his social pecking order. The idea that they’d all been bragging about playing spin the bottle was one that he was both excited and afraid for. He’d never kissed a girl before but the envy that grinded around his innards might soon disappear. It would all come down to luck—the spin of a tubular piece of glass.

His heart was racing and ready to fall for the first girl that would accept him. He wore his coolest t-shirt and jeans to the gathering and even stole some of his father’s cologne. The three girls and two other boys that made up the circle were typically the crowd that didn’t acknowledge his blimp on the radar.

Greg and Donnie sat to his left while Mary, Jessica, and Shelly were all on his right. He’d looked over each of the girls in the school yearbook before he’d arrived. He was frozen for hours ogling their plump, succulent lips and imagining them pressed against his own.

Of all the different personalities, Shelly was probably the one he had the best shot with. She wasn’t exactly the homecoming queen with her thick glasses, braces, and acne. Metal-mouth wasn’t wife material but she might be able to help him get his feet wet. He was tired of hearing every guy at school boast about locking lips and twisting tongues, tonight was one step closer to normalcy.

“Man, you smell like my fuckin’ uncle, what is that?” Donnie sneered.

“Old Spice…” Marty replied self-consciously.

“Gross, and nice Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, doofus, no one watches that anymore.”

“What was that noise?” Shelly asked skittishly.

“Probably the dog, I told you my parents are gone for at least a couple of hours, stop being such a wuss, Shelly,” Jessica scorned as she grabbed hold of the empty coke bottle laying on the tan carpet.

“Yeah, let’s get started,” Greg agreed, anxiously rubbing his dirty fingers.

“Okay, Mary, you go first!” Jessica slid the bottle in front of her friend quickly.

“What? No way, I’m not going first! Shelly, you go!”

“Nope, I drew your name randomly from this hat, fair and square,” she confirmed, putting down a Minnesota Twins cap filled with papers that included every name but hers.

“UGH! FINE,” she did it quickly like pulling off a Band-Aid. Before another word was said, the sparkling glass was twisting like a windmill.

Marty’s heart was pounding and his palms were sweating as it slowed, looking like it was only seconds away from landing on him. It would have if Mary didn’t stick her hand in and nudge it forward a tad, causing it to fall on Donnie instead. If he wasn’t so painfully shy, he’d have called her out, but would that really even benefit him? Clearly, if she was moving it, even if she did make out with him, it wouldn’t be because she wanted to.

Everyone in the room except for Marty cheered and let out woos of encouragement. His discomfort grew as he watched them enjoy the exchange—a moment that should have been his, a moment he’d been robbed of. He was upset but still believed he could get a shot with Shelly. There was still a chance.

Jessica drew the remaining names one by one but they all conveniently never landed on Marty. Whether it was just plain bad luck or a slip of the hand, Donnie, Greg, Mary, and Jessica had all spun and made out with each other twice a piece. The last spinners were Shelly and Marty now. Hopefully, the awkward evening was finally about to pay off for him.

As Shelly twirled the bottle, it seemed like it was rotating for an eternity. Then it happened, just as he’d pictured it; the bottle pointed toward him. Before it completely slowed, Shelly nudged it maybe a little too hard as it ended up landing on Mary. “Whoaaaaa! This should be good,” the boys chimed in, rubbing their hands together.

Marty’s face got redder with rage as he looked on, watching them lick each other without hesitation. Ugly Shelly—the one that was so unattractive she had no choice but to want him—had rejected him. She had chosen to be with another girl instead of him. They were all having fun. They were all laughing so hard. As much as the rage had flourished inside of him, he knew he still got his spin and he needed to make it count.

“Hold on, I’ll be back in a second,” Jessica stood up and left the room momentarily. She returned quickly with her massive loving and friendly dog, Apollo. The Boxer was giant and slobbery, she called him over to sit beside her and he obeyed the command to a tee.

Marty knew what they wanted to happen now, they never intended to treat him as an equal. Clearly, they saw him as another species based on the trap he now realized they set for him. The group were all staring at him, cold as ice when he spoke, “I don’t want my spin, I’m not going to take it.”

“Like hell you aren’t,” Jessica snarled, “everyone spins, even fucking losers like you, Marty.”

“Yeah, what are you some kind of faggot? Spin the bottle, bitch, or I promise you’re gonna regret what happens next,” Mary ordered.

“Just do it, Marty,” Shelly added.

Marty looked over at Donnie and Greg who sat in silence. Their faces seemed shocked like they had no idea that this would be happening. They enjoyed ragging on the kid as much as anyone but gave the impression that what the girls were setting up for seemed a little harsh. Donnie stood up and Greg followed his lead, “This is stupid, we’re getting out of here. Marty, you wanna come with us?”

Marty was ready to take the out with them and picked himself up, but Jessica was on her feet even before him. She slapped him across the face, knocking him backwards. “He’s not going anywhere until he spins. You two can get the fuck out of here now!”

Her shrill screaming motivated the pair’s confused departure, she locked the door behind them and took her seat in the circle once again. The dog growled, its agitation emerging as the events escalated. “SPIN. THE. BOTTLE.”

Marty crawled back to the circle and let his shaking hand reach out and cup around the body of the object. He gave it a gentle, defeated spin, and as luck would have it, the spout landed on Apollo. The trio of nefarious females grinned in succession while the weight of their mean menacing glares added to the unwavering, pulse-pounding pressure.

“Kiss him,” Jessica instructed.

“Who, the dog?” Marty couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Yes, idiot, the dog! Do it now, or I can make him feel like you’re trying to hurt us, and trust me, Apollo is VERY protective.”

He felt trapped, tears were welling up in his eyes. The girls that were supposed to give him his first kiss were making him cry. He couldn’t control himself. He begged for mercy but there was none being offered. Jessica shrieked again, showing her control as she caused Apollo to administer a second growl. “Do it now, or I’ll tell him to bite your nose off!”

Apollo was full-on barking at him now as the other girls sprinkled their laughter in the background. Marty’s guts sunk down as a legitimate fear for his life expanded within him. He didn’t want to go near the dog, but he would be attacked if he didn’t. In his mind, there was no other choice but to run. When he bolted for the door, Jessica shrieked and sent her minion to follow.

As Marty rushed to unlock the door, the dog burrowed its teeth into his thigh. Somehow, he was able to get the door open and shake off the mutt’s bite. He ran for the front door and straight outside, the belligerent barks breathing down his neck. He turned back to see the dog nipping at his heels, a sudsy psychotic froth flying from his jaws with each new attempt.

When Marty turned his head back around, it was already too late, his momentum put him in front of the truck. The grill of the wide-load smashed into his head and cracked his cranium, in addition to shattering his right leg. Jessica let out a quiet whistle and Apollo slipped back into the house unnoticed. From the window, the girls gawked at poor Marty as he laid unconscious and convulsing in a pool of his own fluids. They didn’t call for help. Instead, they watched the disaster, taking it in like one would a movie. They were saddened when eventually his mangled body was collected by the paramedics and rushed to the hospital.

***

The morning session when Marty’s attitude started to shift began no different than any other. Marty sat down in the tight but comfortable “quiet room” that his special needs teacher, Mrs. Gentry, had championed for. Part of her pitch was to offer the students a specific space where they could be detached from the yelling and noise pollution that the collection of other children constantly bred, for at least a few minutes a day. She wanted to offer the students that were showing more progress a block of time dedicated to their individual development.

She smiled at Marty, more than content with his progression. It took nearly two years for him to recover from the accident. He’d been left with brain damage and a mutilated leg that caused him to limp with each step that he took. Marty was never able to return to school with his peers, instead, he was regulated to a class for the disabled. Due to the severity of his head trauma, he lost a good portion of his memory which included basic vocabulary and personal memories that were not limited to but included the lead up to the day of his life-altering trauma.

No light was ever shed on the part the girls played in his horrific injuries. They all washed their hands of the incident. They all forgot about Marty and instead focused on their picturesque suburbanite maturations. Meanwhile, mangled Marty was anything but himself. He was regulated to a cramped, sweaty, and frenzied classroom. His parents wanted the best for him and thought the school gave him the best chance at making a rebound. It wasn’t the best place, but outside of the unrealistic concept of home-schooling, it was the only place.

Despite environmental limitations, indifferent teachers, and distracting students, Marty had gradually learned to read again. Each day, there were different words he was mastering and actually starting to understand again. While many of the teachers simply acted like they were “trying” for eight hours and then collected a paycheck, Marty was fortunate enough to garner the attention of Mrs. Gentry.

She’d had a short stint at Marty’s middle school as a teacher’s aide before transitioning to the special needs building. She’d heard rumors about the poor conditions, and at her own expense, decided to try and make a difference. In a regime of negligence, she offered a faint glimmer of hope to the knotted minds being mentored at the facility.

Mrs. Gentry was shocked when she first crossed paths with Marty. She remembered him from their middle school days as a highly intelligent, kind, but shy child. He was an excellent writer. Someone who, in her eyes, had a bright future. Now he was trapped in a muddle of random thoughts and prattle. Still, despite having been through a train-wreck, she still believed he had potential and saw it as her duty to find the means to squeeze it out of him.

After months of prodding his feeble concentration and analyzing his reactions, Mrs. Gentry had finally broken through. Much of their progress stemmed from repetition and patience. She showed Marty a series of cue cards with a variety of words each day. As he remembered more, she organized the sessions beginning with ones he’d already relearned and then ended by integrating a couple of new words.

The first dozen cards Mrs. Gentry showed Marty he recited without issue. He rattled off the entire string with textbook pronunciation as fast as she could show them to him: “Dice, lamp, cap, nose, bell, handle, end, wake, red, juice, hose, list.”

“Wonderful job, Marty! That was perfect! Okay, now are you ready for a couple of new words?” Marty nodded his head languidly. “Okay, I’m not going to give any hints, I’m going to let you try for yourself now,” she said while flipping the first card toward him.

The first card read: BOTTLE. Immediately, a series of images ran through his mind—girls laughing, a dog growling, a Coke bottle spinning. He paused, unable to respond until Mrs. Gentry broke his trance, “Marty, is everything alright? I know this is a tough one, but do you want to give it a try?”

“Ba-Ba-Bottle...”

“Very good! You got that on the first try!”

She flashed the next one even quicker, trying to avoid a break in momentum. The card read: KISS. A look of stupor overcame him, his eyes glazed over with saltwater and his lower lip shook up and down wildly. More recollections infested his damaged mind—the bottle spinning, the girls kissing, the dog biting, the brakes screeching…

“I-I want my kiss!” Marty screamed, shooting saliva off his gums.

Mrs. Gentry was taken aback by the boy’s tone and aggression. In all the time she’d spent with Marty, he’d never displayed the slightest hint of anger or discontent. He was always level-headed, obedient, and kind. She’d never been nervous around him before but found her chest thumping, “Marty, I’m sure your mom will give you a kiss when she picks you up from school later, okay?”

He stood up as the words went in one ear and out the other and he descended onto her, puckering his lips like he’d seen the girls do in his flashbacks. Marty’s volatile state gave his teacher no choice but to try and fight him off. She pushed into his chest, putting a little space between her and his slobbering speech-hole. When he still kept coming, out of fear, she slapped him across the face.

More visions exploded in Marty’s head—Jessica slapping him across the face violently, running out of the house numbered 22, the white-painted letters of the street sign, the Mack truck. All Marty could see was Jessica’s cold and entertained scowl, belittling him, mocking him, laughing at him.

***

The following night on the news, it was reported that authorities had discovered the bloody and battered corpse of Louise Gentry. She’d been strangled and stuffed inside a seldom-used broom closet at her place of employment. The news ran a second story back to back about three young girls reported to have never returned home from a night out. Police speculated that the crimes might be connected on the count of Marty Collins—the last person to see Mrs. Gentry alive—being missing still.

While the police couldn’t release all of the details to the public, they had found a link in the disappearances. In each instance, the potential victims’ house had been burgled. School photos of vanished children had been stolen, plucked right from the picture frames in the homes of their frightened families.

After the stories had run dozens of times, all the leads finally went dead. The police were left with a set of bizarre circumstances that seemed to make a whole lot of sense. Not until summer vacation ended and the students returned to school again.

When the doors opened on the first day, those entering faced a trio of messy photos that had been suspended in the main hall. Their eyeballs were scribbled out and faces were slashed, but upon closer examination, it would be noted that the crumpled portraits were those of the missing girls. And more realistic than any photograph could hope to be were the crimson rings of skin and connective tissue that had been stapled so the flesh overlaid the mouths of each child.

The slow running red was still warm when the investigators arrived. They concluded that the flesh rings were comprised of upper and lower lip tissue that had been detached. Pulled off sadistically is what they speculated.

Donnie and Greg made their way through the commotion before the crime scene had been secured. As teachers directed their students away from the gory scene, they both stood stoically looking on at the monstrous karma manifested before them. They were part-disgusted at what they were observing and part-disgusted by the memories and immediate aftermath of that nasty night they played spin the bottle. Just like before, they stayed quiet about the events they’d witnessed and took a small shred of comfort in knowing that Marty must have got his first kiss.

It didn’t take a heap of hard-nosed detective work on the part of the investigators to wonder who the mutilated flesh might belong to. Their pictures were literally hanging right in front of them. However, it did seem that their theories would never evolve into anything more than their initial assumptions and speculation because both Marty and the girls were never seen again.

About The Autho r

Aron Beauregard

Aron lives in Rhode Island with his fantastic, soon to be wife, Katie. He works on the Evil Examined Podcast and website when he’s not writing his macabre tales or terror and violence. He’s created a horror universe in which his mind lives and his characters (if not murdered in horrific fashion) may sometimes overlap into different stories, if anyone is paying attention that is. He’s just finished his third book “The Slob,” and is in the process of writing his vile Halloween slasher “Scary Bastard.”

Books By This Author

TRY THE NEW CAND Y

TASTE A NEW HORROR

An imbecilic man is taken advantage of for decades before finally considering an act of sweet revenge. A single, soon-to-be mother experiences a bizarre sequence of events triggered by her artificial insemination. A budding teenager comes along to house sit with his poor excuse for a father, only to find out the house has some disturbing secrets. A newly married couple enjoys testing the limits of extreme and gets access to a special museum exhibit that is not quite finished. The limits of reality are tested as a man dives deep into a new unexplained internet website that can seemingly create people out of thin air. Two girls head out to the club to celebrate turning 21, only to encounter some nightlife they couldn’t have imagined.

Your misery awaits…

THE SLOB

SOME STAINS DO NOT COME OUT...

Raised in a household that was so filthy, it was stomach spilling, Vera has become a neat-freak. Her obsession with cleanliness sprouts the concept that her skills can be put to use in a unique way. In an effort to generate some income for her and her disabled husband, Daniel, just prior to the birth of their first child, she takes aim at the booming door to door sales business of the late 80s. All is going well until she arrives at the steps of a house she wished she never had. The steps of an evil that brings back the ghastly memories she so desperately tried to wash away.

Nothing will prepare you for the nastiness, disorder, and uncleansable horror brought forth by... The Slob.

SCARY BASTARD

Evil Has Found a New Friend…

What does a child killer, hopeful special effects artist, duo of budding teen psychopaths, student-screwing teacher, and a mutated maniac with his lower jaw missing have in common?

They're all out this Halloween.

How will their paths cross? Who's killing who? Can anyone survive the bloodbath or are they all destined to drown in a pool of warm red? This slasher nightmare gives you a seat beside the killer, but don't get too comfortable, there's a Scary Bastard on the loose...

PIZZA FAC E

GET YOUR SLICE OF THE PIE BEFORE EVERYONE DIES!

What if you were the cock of the walk in high school? Worshipped by all for your flawless appearance and arrogant persona, until you woke up one morning to find that your once pristine skin had been stolen and replaced with a pus-oozing malformed flesh-scape? What if shadows were given a will of their own? What if the family dog stumbled upon a new class of bizarre and highly aggressive animals? What if there was a way to still physically be with a loved one after they passed on? What if the plants around us found a different kind of solace in the affection we display?

Find out the answers in Pizza Face.

DARK ASSEMBLY

TAKE PRIDE IN YOUR DYSFUNCTION

This assembly of putrid tales will drag you into the darkest regions of humanity. It will push extremes and test the mental moral boundaries of those who choose to participate. Meet a woman who carries a dead baby in her womb that she believes will somehow find life again. Join two teenage psychopaths as they bring hell to the suburbs on Devil's Night. Follow a child of the streets that finally steered away from a life of crime, only to be drawn back by a bizarre new drug. Take part in a gruesome and nefarious ritual that can restore one's innocence, or worm your way into the dark web beside a sadistic pedophile with a bottomless desire to kill and fuck.

How should you feel after digesting these admittedly obscene and repulsive stories? Ask yourself if enjoying them makes you a horrible person or if hating them somehow justifies your journey into this storm of violence and perversion. For the sick and willing, please join in our Dark Assembly…

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Die Tommy
- 66 Palm Avenue 11:18 AM
- Coroner’s Lab 1:37 PM
- Brutus’s House 11:58 PM
- Coroner’s Office 9:03 AM
- 549 Draper Street 10:21 AM
- Brutus's House 10:37 PM
- 549 Draper Street 12:36 AM
- Brutus’s House 12:54 AM
- Coroner’s Office 9:51 AM
- Moon Valley Park 11:01 AM
- Autopsy Room 1:36 PM
- Moon Valley Park 2:11 PM
- Coroner’s Office 3:12 PM
- Brinemax Corporation 2:44 PM
- Coroner’s Office 3:20 PM
- Tommy’s House 4:20 PM
- Coroner’s Lab 5:11 PM
- Autopsy Room 5:19 PM
- 8
- Alester’s House 6:18 PM
- There’s nothing else to read here...
- About The Author
- Books By This Author