by D. M. Guay
It was Chef! His body was bent backward, his ankles touching the back of his head. The poor guy had literally been snapped in half. He looked like a crumpled up Ken doll owned by a sadistic four-year-old. I didn't know how he was still alive or still moving. His feet schlepped up and down like he was trying to walk. His hands reached out and around, trying to find something to grab on to.
Uuuuuuhhhh. Uuuuuuuhhhh. Uuuuuuhhhh. Uuuuuuuhhhh.
Chef moaned. My heart kickstarted up to a thousand beats a minute.
“Oh, my God! Call an ambulance!” I screamed. “Call 911! What are you waiting for?”
DeeDee looked at me, her eyebrows wrinkled together, confused. Faust poked Chef with his cane.
“Oh dear.” Faust surveyed the suffering Chef. “I think we might need a replacement.”
“What are you waiting for?” I said. “Look at him. He needs help! What's wrong with you?”
How could Faust be so cold? Oh right. He's the DEVIL. Chef grabbed and clawed at the cradle of slippery guts all around him, accidentally knocking off his sunglasses.
Chef looked at me. I looked at him. His eyes. They were...He was... Gulp. The ice-cold fingers of No. Fucking. Way. skipped down my spine. “JESUS CHRIST!”
Yep. I screamed, and Chef responded by trying to pull himself closer to me. He came up with a fistful of monster guts instead. He sniffed them, then took a big bite. He chewed and grunted like octopus guts were the best burger he'd ever eaten.
My knees got weak. My head spun. “Chef. He's a...” I backed away.
Faust reached out for me, but DeeDee stopped him. “Give him a few minutes to process this. I don't think he knew.”
I stumbled out the front door onto the sidewalk, where I immediately bent over and straight-up hot vomited right into the handicapped parking spot. I steadied myself, hands on my knees. I took some deep breaths and told myself to stay calm. Eventually, my saliva glands dialed down from full-on barf mode to something close to normal. I sat down on the curb and looked up at the sky as I tried to wrap my head around it all. “This can't be happening.”
Something bumped into my thigh. It was angel eight ball. He was covered in slime, and a chunk of his plastic eight was missing. “I need to take my brain out and give it a shower,” angel eight ball said. “Once you've been in the gut of a hell spider, there's no going back. You can't unsee that.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
He sat there next to me for a few minutes, silent, as we both came to grips with the night. We watched the sky lighten from pure black to royal blue as dawn approached.
“Thanks for trying to save me.” His anemic red squirt wasn't particularly effective, but I appreciated the effort.
“Just doing my job.” The triangle turned. “When I met you, I never dreamed you'd live up to your gaming handle. AwesomeDemonButtKicker98? Ha. No way, I said. But now you can wear that name with pride. You sure showed me. Good work. Which reminds me, what'd you get for it?”
“What?”
His triangle turned. “Your bonus. You know, hazard pay? What did Faust give you?”
“Oh.” I pulled the fancy red envelope out of my pocket. It was bent and damp, but otherwise fine. I broke the wax seal. “Looks like a bunch of papers.”
“Well? Come on,” angel eight ball said. “Don't leave me hanging.”
I opened the papers and smoothed them out. They were...bills? My student loan statement. A printout of my bursar's account at community college. “Wait, what?”
I looked at the papers, the balances, over and over, because I didn't believe what I was seeing. Faust had paid off all of my debts. Every single one. Student loans? Gone. There was even a money order for my Mom, for the full cost of the semester of community college I'd messed up. There was a Venmo receipt for the two grand in back rent I owed Simone. He'd also paid my car insurance for two full years. There was the two grand in cash I'd left in my (presumably destroyed) locker earlier tonight. Then, an iPhone slid out of the envelope. There was a receipt taped to the back. He'd paid for the phone and three years of service.
I closed my eyes and projectile cried for a minute. Seriously. Tears shot straight out of my eyeballs at ninety-degree angles. This wasn't a cheek-dribbling whimper. These were straight-up bullet tears. I was debt free. I had a working, insured car. I had money and a phone. I was FREEEEEEEEEE!
A warm feeling simmered up and filled me. For the first time in a long time, I felt relieved, like my life was finally on an upswing. I'd made it. I did it! Everything was going to be okay for once. I had a clean slate. I could start making a life. I could only go up from here.
“I'm so happy,” I whimpered. It wasn't particularly manly, but dude, debt free! “No more Demon Mart, no more gate, no more giant spiders. I'm outta here. I quit!”
Eight ball's triangle turned. “Uh, you can't quit.”
“Oh yes, I can, and I am. Effective right now.”
“Nope. Sorry,” eight ball said. “You made a deal with God.”
“What?”
“You said, and I quote: 'Jesus, if you're listening. If you get me through this, I promise I will get my life together. I'll do whatever you ask, whatever it takes. Pinkie swear.'”
“Yeah? So?”
“Well, the G-man was listening, and he says he wants you to keep working here. That's what he's asking you to do. I thought you knew. You didn't get His text? I can forward you my copy if you want.”
“What? Hell no! I'm out. I quit. It's over.”
“No, it isn't. God answered the prayer, now you have to pay up. That's how it works.”
“No, it doesn't. Prayers are wishes, not legally binding contracts. Everyone knows that.”
“Uh, no. They're binding agreements. Trust me,” eight ball said. “And you pinkie swore. That's serious business.”
“You're full of crap. That's not true.” I admit I was whine-arguing, my frustration amplified by emotional rawness and sheer exhaustion. And, you know, I didn't want a kids' toy to steal this moment of unfettered joy from me. I didn't get a lot of joy, overall.
“Which one of us works in heaven? Oh, yeah. That would be me,” angel eight ball said. “Deal's a deal. He could have let the spider eat you, you know.”
“Shut up,” I said.
“I don't make the rules. But trust me, you better keep your promise,” he said. “Nothing good happens to people who renege on deals with God. Or the devil, just FYI. And don't forget you promised you'd do cardio, too.”
I was contemplating kicking the angel eight ball clean across the parking lot when Kevin, now about the size of a house cat, scrambled outside. “Heads up, kid. The cleaning crew's here, so you need to skedaddle. You don't want to be anywhere near 'em when they're eating. They're like sharks. They kick into full feeding frenzy mode real fast. Plus, as fat and juicy as you are, you sticking around would be like waving prime rib in front of a camp of rabid hobos.”
“What?” My head was still reeling from the stupid eight ball, so nothing Kevin said really computed. “Cleaning crew? Eating?”
“Aw, crap. Here they come.” Kevin pointed out at the lot. “Head home now, kid.”
A small crowd had gathered under the neon sign. Not a crowd so much as a group. A dozen men in matching tan coveralls, wearing the same weird dog collar and dark sunglasses that Chef always wore, were ambling slowly toward the front door. They moved together like a poorly managed herd. Some shuffled. Others had their arms out, reaching. Every one of them moaned.
Uuuuuuhhhh. Uuuuuuuhhh.
Aaaaaaaaaaahh. Uuuuuuhh. Aaaaaaaaaahh.
This was the cleaning crew? Why was Kevin so worried about what they were going to eat?
Don't answer that. Deep down, I already knew. I just didn't like the answer. The moans. The slow, stiff walk. No. No way. This couldn't be happening. The sublime joy of being debt free dissipated. My legs turned to jelly. My mind reeled.
“They're—? And, Chef. He's a—”
No, they couldn't be. The
y didn't exist. They weren't real. That was fiction, all made up.
“Yeah. Yeah. They're all zombies, kid.” Kevin shrugged. “You still haven't read your employee manual, have you?”
Thank you so so much for reading. The adventure continues in Monster Burger and Hell for the Holidays.
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Book Sausage
“What the hell is up with the title on this page?”
Yeah, yeah. I know you're thinking that. Well, twist my arm, and I'll tell you. You know that old adage: No one wants to know how the sausage is made? I disagree. Sometimes, you just really really HAVE TO KNOW what unholy substance was ground up to make your meat. Or in this case, your book. That's why I'm pulling the curtain back, so you can see how this author killed, chopped, molded, and stuffed all of her life tidbits into the book you hold in your hands right now.
Oh, good. You're still here! Cue the misty smoke and the soft-focus lens while I flashback to the summer of 1981. My sister and I had just watched the Salem's Lot television miniseries with our mom. I was six years old, and yes, probably too young to handle reruns of a legit scary vampire television series. The sun had just set. My sister turned out the light. Our bedroom plunged into darkness. Suddenly, we hear a noise. Something is scratching at the window. Then, we hear a voice. A whisper. “Open the window.” Scratch. Scratch. “Open the window.”
My sister hops into my bed. We hold on to each other, terrified. Scratch. Scratch. “Open the window.”
I'm nearly pooping my pants at this point because this had totally just happened in Salem's Lot. You know that scene when Mark Petrie's best friend Danny Glick, who'd been murdered in the woods, returned from the dead as a vampire and wanted to eat him? A face comes into view in the darkness. My sister and I scream. “AAAAAAHHH!”
That's when the vampire outside our window began to laugh hysterically. It was my Mom. Scaring us out of our minds, because she thought it was hilarious. (She still does, FYI.)
And that, my friends, is the moment I understood the power of horror fiction, and I became a true fan. Now, before you dis my Mom, please know that she is the sweetest lady on two legs, a mild-mannered (now retired) Catholic school teacher who spends her days playing pickleball and bringing meals to friends with cancer. She also happens to be the person who took me to the movies to see The Thing, Fright Night, Creepshow, Poltergeist, Pet Sematary, Return of the Living Dead, The Fog, Nightmare on Elm Street, Halloween...The list goes on. In true 1970s parent style, she didn't think twice about watching R-rated horror movies with her kids, because that's what she liked, and you share what you like with your children. (Thankfully, I was too young for the theater when The Exorcist came out. My sister's still traumatized.)
Without my Mom, this book wouldn't exist because the 24/7 Demon Mart series is an homage to my lifelong love of horror movies and novels. (Stephen King was the only fiction on the bookshelf at our house in the 1980s. Thanks, Mom.) This book, in particular, is inspired by one of my family's all-time favorites: Evil Dead 2. Like DeeDee, I have watched that movie at least a hundred times, and was totally amped when Ash Vs Evil Dead hit Starz. Yes, I DO believe Bruce Campbell is a national treasure! Evil Dead fans probably noticed the tributes to the series included in this book. Henrietta Getley, the elderly oracle, is named after Henrietta, the basement hag in Evil Dead 2. Her last name is stolen from Ed Getley, who is the blond guy with the epic mullet (and Annie's boyfriend) in that same film. He becomes a hair-eating deadite. Of course, DeeDee's “Hail to the carbs” salute is a nod to Bruce Campbell's epic line in Army of Darkness. Do I even have to say it? Yes, I do. “Hail to the king, baby.”
Okay, before you think this is all one hundred percent Evil Dead, don't forget there are plenty of Lovecraftian hell beasties trying to take over the world here. And this book is definitely inspired by all of those Lovecraft critters I have encountered on the written page and on screens large and small. In obvious places (Yes, I tried to play the Call of Cthulhu video game. Dude. What was up with that?) like from Lovecraft novels directly, and honestly, from many many B-grade movies, including Stuart Gordon's Reanimator and From Beyond. (I met Gordon once when he was a guest at a 24-hour horror movie marathon in Columbus, Ohio. My movie marathon buddy Brian's claim to fame was that he stood next to Gordon as they both peed in their respective urinals in the men's room. Just putting that out there.)
Now you're probably asking, “Okay, I get the horror part, but why a convenience store? Why the beer cave?”
Because it's hilarious. Duh. And because I'm an alcoholic who buys a lot of beer at corner stores. Just kidding. (Okay. Busted. I'm kind of kidding.) The truth is that I worked the graveyard shift at a convenience store in Portland, Oregon, for six months in the mid-1990s. That experience was ripe for storytelling. The truth of that job was almost as strange as the fiction.
I was young and very very broke, and naive enough to think nothing bad could possibly happen to a 19-year-old girl working alone all night in a corner store filled with beer, smokes and cash. When I took the job, my district manager—who looked, no coincidence, like Ricky the day manager, who yes, if you must know, is the spitting image of Ricky Smith in Better Off Dead—said flat out: “Are you sure you want to do this? Everything bad you've ever heard about working in a convenience store is true.”
Um. Yeah. And I still took the job. Maybe it was the extra 25 cents an hour over minimum wage the company gave me as “hazard pay.” Oh, I remember. I took the job because I was so so so so broke.
While no actual demons, succubus, or hell beasts ever did step out of my beer cave, something about the store, glowing neon in the night, lured in an odd assortment of humans. Some odd in a delightful way, others, not so much.
Bob the Doughnut Guy was one of the good ones, and yes he was a real guy. Named Bob, with the same physical description. He delivered doughnuts to my store every morning around five a.m. He always stayed to chat, and he became my first friend in Oregon. He was like a dad to me, inviting me over for cookouts with his family and helping me fix my car, at a time when I was young, broke and very far from home. I don't know if he's still alive, but if you're out there dude, thanks a lot.
Lottery Larry, who I will manage to sneak into this series at some point, came in every night as well. He was a shy, middle-aged hermit who'd come in for an hour every evening to chat while he blew through about fifty bucks in scratch-off lottery tickets. I think he hung around for the company because he sure wasn't winning all of his money back. I'm pretty sure I was the only other human he saw regularly.
I met some nice people at that job, but don't be fooled. It wasn't all Top Ramen and roses. Yes, I was robbed at gunpoint. But I have to give my robber some props: He had good manners. As I emptied the register, he said, “I'm sorry about this. I'm having a rough time.” Sure, he was pointing a gun at me, but that guy still should win the award for most polite armed robber. (Note to all you robbers out there: The employee manual—yes, I did read mine—says we have to give you the money if you ask for it, so you don't need the gun. Leave the weapon at home and save us all some stress, okay?) Interesting tidbit: I've only had a gun pulled on me twice in my life, and strangely, both times, the perp apologized. Weird, right?
Another one of my regulars was a gruff elderly man with nipple-high polyester pants, orthopedic shoes and a cane who came in around midnight every night to peruse the rack of porno mags. Unfortunately for me, our rack was located behind the counter, so I had to stand there and hand the magazines to customers. This guy, well, he magically always wanted one off the bottom shelf, so I had to bend over to get them. Ahem. Yeah. You see where I'm going with this, right? He bought a magazine every fourth night, maybe, but he sure did make me bend over a lot. He always wanted the ones on the bottom, you feel me? That man, with his three-inch-thick coke-bottle glass
es, didn't even try to hide his prurient interest. He looked at my thighs like they were Slim Jims, and he hadn't eaten for a week. Leg Show was his favorite, by the way. I'm five feet nine. Maybe I was his own, personal free-of-charge leg-show.
He wasn't the only customer who viewed me as a corner store sex goddess, guardian of the Natural Lite beer cases, waiting in the glow of the fluorescent-white lights for the right knight to ravage me.
One night, I was slipping the 40s into the chutes, loading up the reach-in beer cooler, when the phone rang. I answered. The man on the other end was a regular customer. He sounded desperate and being naive and young, I was worried about him. We had what seemed to be a normal conversation—until he told me he had been masturbating the entire time we'd been on the phone. Sigh. I hung up on him, spurning his advances. Duh. Come on, boys, this is not how you woo a lady. Read the room. He started coming by the shop, “hanging out” when I was alone in the middle of the night. He asked me out, many times. I told him no. The situation dialed up to eleven when his mother found out. Her intervention didn't quite go the way any of us expected. She started coming into the store every night during my shift to berate me loudly in front of customers, yelling that I “must be a lesbian because I wouldn't date her son.” Her son the phone masturbator. Her son the stalker. Who somehow thought he had a romantic claim on me because he'd come in to buy Olde English 40s three times a week. Neither of them would stop. They did this to me every single night until I quit and moved nearly three thousand miles away to New Orleans. (And why yes, if you must know I actually attended the sold-out WWF show in New Orleans in March of 1999. I was ringside, and rumor is you can see me and my “Hey Rock, Cook This” (with an arrow pointing at me) sign in the broadcast.)
But, by far the most intense interaction was a man who came in late one night saying he wanted to kill himself, and that I needed to talk him out of it. He was hysterical, clearly having some sort of manic episode. I honestly didn't know what to do. He was visibly unstable, acting erratically, and I was alone with him. The street and sidewalk outside were empty, deserted. It was three a.m. I called my manager; he called the police. When the cruiser pulled up in the parking lot, the guy grabbed a spork out of the relish dish by the hot dog station, put it to his wrist and threatened to kill himself, right then, with a spork. The police calmed him down and drove him home. The next night, those same cops came in for sodas and told me it wasn't the first time they'd intervened. Apparently, he'd once been found in public in only his undies, with a suicide note pinned to the front of his briefs. Dude. Poor guy! If he's still out there, I hope he got the help he needed.