by A. R. Braun
INSANITY
A. R. Braun
Copyright © 2009, 2010, 2011, 2014 A. R. Braun
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Cover graphic: © Debbie Bright. TheCoverCollection.com
Contents
Foreword
The Green Man
Love Your Neighbors to Death
The Annunaki
You’ll Be Their Food
Economic Crash
Cult
Six-Word Horror Story
Beyond the Sideshow
The Social Nutwork
The World Can’t Take It
When Computers Attack
Insight or Perception?
Simulacrum at the Sanctuary
Changing Times
The Sacrifice in the Trunk
Scelerophobia
Fanatical Farce
Animals From the Beyond
The Loner
Six-Word Horror Story, No. 2
Too Good to Be True
You’re Always Faithful When You’re Dead
Foreward
The million-dollar question: Why self-publishing?
The answer by now should be obvious: because agents and editors are clueless. Unless you’re trendy, you can’t get arrested as far as representation. Agents don’t want talent, they want way-past-overdone, douchey vampires and zombies, plus remaking every movie ever made instead of publishing a good, original novel and making a film out of that. (Don’t think they don’t have ties to the movie industry, because they do, and some of them rep’ screenplays.)
The magazine editors are just as bad. Used to be, in the 80s and early 90s, that short-story ‘zines were loaded with talent. I bought every issue of Chillers mag’, featuring not only short stories by up-and-coming authors, but also articles about now unheard-of horror films like Evilspeak, Without Warning, and Mother’s Day (not the remake of the latter). Every tale enthralled me, and the talent never waned while the magazine was still in business. Unfortunately, Chillers is now defunct.
Today, with magazines like Shroud, Shock Totem, and One Buck Horror, you’re lucky to get one good story per ‘zine. The quality is down the toilet, yet they feel they have the right to tell great authors that their tales weren’t good enough to make the cut. Well, that’s funny, since I couldn’t even get through your sample copy, because it’s crap. What do they know? Apparently, not much, because the professional writing community gave every publication and award possible to authors who write garbage, like Alethea Kontis and Al Sarrantonio. I only liked one tale in the latter’s short-story book Toybox, and I’ve yet to admire any of Kontis’s fairy crap.
I once dealt with an editor of an audio horror ‘zine who rejected everything I sent him, even though he’d contacted me and had admitted I could write. I assertively argued for my stories and eventually found that the guy hadn’t even heard of 1973’s The Wicker Man. Really? You call yourself a horror editor, and you’ve never seen that classic? Seriously?
And then there are the “professional” reviewers: chickenshits, the whole bunch. Right from the start when my first negative review came out after the D.O.A. anthology had been released, I knew the source was two guys—or a gal—who’d never been laid and live in their parents’ basements. It’s the same in this profession as in others: if you can’t do, teach . . . or review. I remember a critiquer telling me a certain part of the D.O.A. piece scared him so badly it made him say “Oh, Jesus!” out loud. Those are the readers that matter, the true fans; therefore, it’s much better to get reviews from real people on Amazon, Goodreads, personal blogs, and whatnot than to get slammed by someone who’s never had a life and is taking it out on me.
In summary, these people don’t know what they’re doing. Having said that, here’s another short-story book full of unpublished tales, but if they weren’t top notch, I would’ve scrapped them. I got rid of half of my tales because they weren’t quality enough to send them out to the world.
And you can trust this “publisher.” I’m not only a horror author, but also a true fan of the genre.—A. R. Braun, April 2014.
The Green Man
On a dark night of the soul, Farmer Trent dreamed vividly.
Something green moved toward him from the forest area. At first it was a blob, but before long he made out a man running toward him. The creature had light-green skin and was adorned in nothing but cornhusks sown together for a girdle. His eyes glowed eerily in his sockets. Trent didn’t go for horror films because they gave him nightmares—he preferred westerns—but here was the nightmare anyway. He threw his shock of black hair out of his eyes and saw the phantom clearly as the latter skidded to a stop, making Trent tremble in his sleeveless flannel, jeans, and work boots. The curio had to be seven feet tall, for he towered over him. Trent longed to run to his tractor and drive away from the hexing vision.
Just as he was about to bolt, the monstrosity stuck out his right arm, palm-up, like a traffic cop.
Anxiety gripped Trent like talons. “W-w-what are you?”
The monstrosity smiled with corn-colored teeth. “I am the Green Man.” He had a husky, bass voice as if he was in one of the Southern Baptist quartets his father had listened to when Trent was a boy. “I understand you have a problem with your crops.”
Trent was scared shitless, but he put on a charade of courage and decided to hear the strange man out. “Y-yes . . . I suppose I do; g-go on.”
“You need not fear me. I have the answer to your problem.”
“What problem?”
The Green Man pointed at him with his huge finger. “I know you can’t afford to employ hired hands. The work is too much for you to do alone. You eventually want to become an actor, and are still young enough to do it. With that farmer’s tan, handsome face, and strong build, you would succeed. But you have to start somewhere, or your family will cut you off. And not only will you not have enough money for CalArts, but also you won’t even have enough cash for bus fair to California.
“Yet there is a way to succeed.”
Trent nodded, accepting the idea that the grotesquerie meant him no harm, but with reservations. “How?” He didn’t want to know the answer, wishing to wake from this metaphysical reality.
“I represent a figure in the old religion predating Christianity, the only answer to fulfilling your dreams.”
“B-but my family is Southern Baptist, always has been, always will be,” Trent spoke in a quasi-southern drawl.
The Green Man cocked his eerie head. “You think I don’t know that? But you must forsake your faith and return to Lugh and Brigit, the god and goddess who together make up the deity you were destined to worship, the god that will give you prosperity in your work.”
“Goddess? You mean like those girls I pick up at the bar?”
“Much more; the monotheists worship the goddess and know she’s a deity, bigger and more powerful than a woman. And the polytheists, who are what you must become, know Lugh is not Satan, which was your next question.”
Trent was nonplussed. Well, color me amazed. That was my next question. He kept listening, hoping his impas
se would soon be over.
The Green Man said, “Listen to me, and not just with your ears! I represent the expedient sacrifice in the old religion to appease the goddess Brigit, and Lugh, the sun god. Then your crops will be plenteous, but you still must work hard harvesting in the fall, and I mean put in overtime. I represent the king of a Celtic tribe, a Druid leader, who must be sacrificed and put into the earth so I may undergo transformation into the growth of your crops.”
Trent winced. “A sacrifice? Are you nuts? There’s no king around here! This is America! We have a president, but—”
“Silence!” The Green Man scowled. “Just listen! Tomahawk, Illinois does not have a king, but it has a mayor. HE must be the sacrifice.”
Trent shook so badly he thought his wobbly legs would give out.
He attempted silent lucidity, forcing himself to wake, and it worked. Covered with sweat, he sat up straight with stealth. “Man! That must have been bad meat in the chicken fried steak, or bad beer.” After he was up and around for a while, the bank called, saying that they couldn’t put off the foreclosure any longer—as Trent made another excuse—and when he tried to call his father, he hung up on him.
The next evening, the nightmare came again. The Green Man’s presence didn’t haunt him any less. He listened to the creature’s plan once more and this time found the strength to rebut.
“I can’t kill anybody, and even if I was gonna, how would I arrange a meeting with the mayor? Better yet, how could I get him alone?”
The Green Man’s eyes widened more. “You must trick him into coming to your farm. It is here you must slay him, either by burning him in a bonfire or beheading him with a blade. He must be buried into the earth where your crops have been planted. Then he will be transformed into a successful harvest.”
“What in the devil?”
“No devil! I told you that!”
Trent became so frightened he had to sit on the ground to keep from falling. He drew in a few deep breaths. “And when the police come? What then?” He pronounced it pole-ees.
“The old gods will be with you: Brigit, the goddess of agriculture and fertility; and Lugh, the god of the sun. You’ll tell the police the mayor dined here and then you dropped him off in town.”
“But murder in cold blood, is that necessary? Isn’t there another way?”
The Green Man frowned. “If there were another way, would I be here? I’m offering you prosperity that you haven’t seen since your father was healthy enough to run this farm.”
Trent nodded. “This is true. I’m broker than a damn joker! But how do I know you’re not some bad chicken fried steak, or a bad chicken pot pie?”
The ominous man furrowed his brow and crossed his arms. “Brigit—the goddess of livestock—will bring you a deer, a fattened doe, lying dead in one of your fields, covered by the mist of the dew as you set out to do your work this morning. Then you’ll know what I say is true. Heretofore, you have not hearkened unto my words. I warn you—hearken now—or lose your farm and all hopes of making your dream come true!
“I have done all I can. I must go.”
The Green Man sank slowly into the earth, his wide eyes piercing Trent’s soul until he was under the soil.
Trent awoke. It was his normal wake-up time of four in the morning. He dressed, ate breakfast, showered, and let his black lab, Trixie, outside. Trent set out to the tractor to search the bean fields, part of him hoping he’d find no deer.
***
Trent shoved it into high gear, Trixie running alongside the tractor. When he approached the first bean field, to Trent’s amazement, something lay there that stuck out—an animal with a yellow hide. He hopped off the tractor after killing the engine and ran over to the interloper.
It was a freshly killed doe, caressed by the morning dew.
A fierce wind overcame the field, and the scent of the putrid carcass wafted over to him. The leaves ruffled louder than he’d ever heard. Trent looked up at the sun, seeming to watch him, without a cloud in sight. It was blazingly bright.
Then he knew what he had to do.
***
Trent hurried to the Tomahawk Public Library.
I need some info on Celtic mythology.
The small business only had two computers, and teenagers were already milking them for all they were worth. He approached the scrawny male librarian—Trent stifling his laughter—and asked if they had any material on his subject. The Don Knotts clone fetched a reference book and handed it to him, a tome called The Encyclopedia of Wicca and Witchcraft.
Trent sat in one of the chairs in the reading section and perused the material. He found what the Green Man said was true. The druids sacrificed the king for the growth of their crops. He could hardly believe his eyes, and ignored the stares of the children, probably wondering what the hell Farmer Trent was doing not only in the library, but also reading a book. He offered a soliloquy, sotto voce:
“My God, I’ve gotta kill the king.”
***
Upon arriving home, Trent left a message with his father. He claimed he’d been renewed within and was getting up at midnight and working harder than ever—Trent’s plan to reap the most plentiful harvest in family history. He knew the man who’d spawned him late in life had connections and knocked around with the mayor. At five o’clock, his father returned his call.
“He-llo,” Trent answered, trying to sound chipper.
“Trent,” his father said in his high-pitched, decrepit-sounding voice. “You called?”
“Oh yeah, did ya get my dinger-doo?” Trent laughed.
“Quit trying to sound cornpone. This is Illinois! And yes, I got your message. How do I know you’re serious, though?”
“Well . . . I kind of have to be, Daddy, or I’ll lose everything, right?”
“This is true. You’re in danger, Son, and I hope to hell you’re being honest. What’s this about a plan?”
“Well. . . .” Trent fidgeted as he psyched himself up for the paramount speech of his life. “If I’m gonna keep the bank off my back, I might need a little help. I keep getting up at midnight and I’ll collapse from lack of sleep. I wanna speak with the mayor. You’re friends with him, right?”
“The mayor? What do you think that’ll do for you?”
“If I can get him to contribute enough money to hire some help around here, I’ll become a hardcore democrat and head his campaign for re-election, becoming his success story. Nobody loves a happy ending like the American people, and what’s cheerier than a Midwestern farmer getting back on his feet?”
His father paused as if deep in thought. “You better not embarrass me, or you’ll continue to be disowned. You’ve never made a go of the farm before.”
“I know, Daddy, but I promise, if you’ll help me get an appointment with him, I won’t let you down. You’ll be the proudest father in the Midwest.”
His dad paused again. “Richard and I are lodge brothers. Getting up at midnight, huh, Son?”
“Yes, sir, earlier than you ever got up in your life.”
“Not really, there was the time I had the abdominal angina.”
Trent cringed.
“Tell you what, I’ll call him and talk him into meeting with you, but you have to be there fifteen minutes early, or no deal.”
“I promise I’ll be there a half-hour early. How’s that?”
“I hope you’re serious. I don’t want to see you go down, Son.”
Trent pulled on a beer. “Me neither. I mean, me either. I won’t let you down.”
“All right, I’ll call him then. Stay by the phone for about a half-hour.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s Friday night. Are you sure you won’t run off to the saloon?”
Trent blew cigarette smoke through his nose. “Not tonight, Dad. I’m as serious as a mayor running for re-election, pardon the pun.”
“All right, I’ll see what I can do. Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
&
nbsp; Trent waited by the phone; his father was correct, however. He was almost out of liquor, and whiskey was calling his name.
***
After waiting anyway for thirty-three minutes, he mused over the dream. It didn’t seem real. Trent didn’t want to kill anyone, but it felt right, and he’d seen the evidence. Frowning at the yellow family rotary phone and the ancient gold wallpaper with stripes in his living room, he lay down on the ramshackle brown couch covered with vinyl. Trixie came up and stuck her nose in his crotch, and he wrestled with her. The lab’s stinky breath made him wince.
Just as he was about to give up, the phone rang at forty past the hour.
He answered it. All Trent could think of was that young Tomahawk pussy sitting in the hillbilly bar, listening to Alan Jackson and just waiting for a Double XL to buy her a drink. Success was beckoning, though, so he pushed the thought aside and focused on the task at hand.
“Now listen,” his father said, “I got you an appointment with Richard—Mayor Shineshank to you—at 11:00 a.m. on Monday morning. If you let me down, that’s it. Don’t call me again.”
Trent rose. “You did? Sweet Momma of God. . . . That’s great, Daddy! I’ll be there at ten-thirty with bells on. I can’t thank you enough! I’ll make you proud, don’t you worry.”
“Well, I sure as hell hope so. Now if you’re going to get up at midnight, you’d better get to bed, if you’re not lying. It’s a quarter till six.”
“Daddy, I’m sitting here in my pajamas as we speak.” He wore biballs and an old flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, plus a pair of work boots.
“All right—hey, I’m damn glad you’re making a turnaround. Goodnight, Son.”
“Goodnight, Daddy. Watch out for them bedbugs now.” He cursed himself for the drawl again as he hung up, but chuckled a little. “My God, this is really happening!” He stubbed out his cigarette and rushed through the door to his brown Chevy truck—with a horn that played “Dixieland”—and headed for a bar on the outskirts of town.
On the way, he saw the damndest thing. It was a full moon, and the face of the Wiccan god he now called Heathcliff dominated the orb. After studying up on the occult, Trent had learned one could name the god and goddess combined anything one wanted. Heathcliff manifested himself in a way Trent could understand—an old cowboy type. The god wore a ten-gallon hat.