by A. R. Braun
Lyle stuck his hands in the air; he’d been prepared for this. What did he care?
After all, how many men were as lucky as Magic Johnson?
***
In the parish sheriff’s jail, Lyle had taken the county medical director’s test for HIV. That had been six months ago. Now he wished for death . . . and the test results.
For Christ’s sake, I already took the test, the jack-offs.
He rolled over in his cell, a closet of a place with just a bed, a sink, and a toilet. He was currently sans a roommate, and he awaited trial.
The guard walked up, opened the cell, and took him to a drab room without windows. The doctor walked in, frowning and shaking his head. He took a seat at the table. Lyle looked up from his clasped hands.
The doc’ sighed. “They made a mistake in Illinois.”
Blind panic crept into his brain like electricity, a foreboding of disaster. “What?”
“You were so worried that your life was ruined, you didn't get a second opinion? With STD tests, there’s always a chance for false positives. You tested negative for AIDS or even HIV.” He sighed. “You’re STD-free.”
Lyle tried to wrap his mind around that. He couldn’t.
“And there’s even worse news, but I’m not the person to tell you that part.”
Lyle pounded on the table with his fists. “What? What?” he screamed.
The guard hauled him to his feet and muscled him back to his cell.
***
Lyle had racked his brain trying to figure out what the “worse news” could be, but couldn’t figure it out . . . until a visitor came to see him. He shook his head and followed the guard, just knowing it was his father coming to say, “I told you so.”
A fetching woman with long red hair, a huge rack, and lips pumped with Botox smiled at him through the glass. He sat down and picked up the phone and listened. His heart sank.
“Well, well, well,” she said. “Looks like you’re the one rotting in jail, and I got away with everything.”
He trembled. “No,” he mumbled. “It can’t be.”
She chuckled, a deviant look in her eyes, then whispered, “Yeah, it’s me. You killed my sister. Thanks, she was annoying. You know how many times my parents asked me why I couldn’t be like my twin sis’? And she was always prettier. You know those features were natural?
“You did me a real favor, Lyle.”
He uttered a primal scream at the top of his lungs as he stood. “Guard, it’s her, Cali North! Arrest her! This is the woman that killed her kid in Illinois.”
Cali cackled like a witch. “If they even bother to look at my I.D., it says ‘Sheila Walker.’ ”
She was right; they didn’t do a damned thing to her. When the guards grabbed Lyle, Cali feigned a frightened visage, her mouth gaping and her eyes goggling. Give the girl the Oscar.
Lyle screamed about Cali the whole way back to his cell, but nobody heard. No one ever would hear, he realized. She’d really gotten away with it, and he’d killed an innocent woman. How would he live with himself? He thought about his buddy, Terry, the Satanist, a free bird. Life couldn’t be this cruel, a real-life night terror, or could it? Wasn’t this the age of darkness?
After all, in these last days of the apostasy, justice was too good to be true, also.
You’re Always Faithful When You’re Dead
The rain fell in sheets, mercilessly pounding the windows, much like McCullen Razor’s conscience attacked his mind. He couldn’t have been more conflicted. In the end, McCullen had gotten what he’d wanted, but regretted the insidious means to an end. Police sirens wailed, every dog in the neighborhood barked at once, and cat wars raged on the fences, much like the battle inside his head. He and the love of his life, they were a match made in hell.
At least his baby was back. The little woman was taking a powder. She did that more and more these days, for death didn’t become her.
The incessant pounding on the door broke his train of thought.
McCullen got up and yanked the door open to find Leela, his co-worker at Rock of Ages, a head shop disguised as a music store. He’d invited her over before he’d become the dark pimp. When he’d pitied her. When he’d had a trace of morality.
She was a stringy brunette, a wisp of a girl really, so starved her skin pulled taut on her bones until it was fit to shriek. Lonely Leela, along with her purity—her disguised fear to live—disgusted him more than ever. She waved, but McCullen wasn’t much of a waver.
Leela wasn’t without her feminine wiles, however. Unbeknownst to her, she’d recently gained a lusty edge. As usual, she wore a deep V-neck sweater that, while not too revealing, still showed her desirable neck and her cream-colored shoulder. Missing was her silver cross necklace emphasizing her cleavage. Thankfully, she’d forgotten to wear the holy symbol.
Leela flashed him a movie-star smile as she held out a Manhattan Bagel bag. He bet she hadn’t touched the food inside; neither would he.
“I came by to cheer you up, Mac’,” she said. “Have you still got the blues?”
“You read my mind.” McCullen chuckled. “I suppose I should thank you for the bagels.”
“No need,” she answered. “Can I come in?”
He gesticulated inside. “Entrer.”
Leela gave a sheepish smile and followed him. She sat on the couch. She pulled her raincoat and rain bonnet off, then yanked her sweater’s sleeves over her hands. Now both shoulders showed.
McCullen fought the urge to salivate. He fell into a chair and slumped with no regard for posture. He threw the bagels onto the coffee table. She could shove ‘em, as far as he was concerned.
Ironic, how Leela-the-twig always devoured most of the pizza at work. Ah, youth. Or was that the only time she could eat, the misery-laden spinster that she was? McCullen wrinkled his nose at her old-lady perfume, probably her mother’s. She still lived at home, how pathetic. It’s why he’d felt sorry for her before.
“So, how are you?” Leela asked.
McCullen snorted. “In a way, I’ve never been better, and in another way, I’ve never been worse.”
“You poor thing. You’re glad she’s gone, but you miss her.” She sighed. “Is there any way I can help?”
“There is one thing you can do: be here for . . . um, me.”
Leela nodded. Shivering, she hugged herself. “It’s freezing in here.”
McCullen lit a joint. “Baby likes it that way.” He coughed from the bitter smoke. He solved that problem by taking another hit. His spirits rose higher.
Leela looked at him with sad eyes. “Oh, Mac’, do you miss her so much you’re telling yourself she’s still alive? Or did you finally find a new girlfriend?”
McCullen snickered. “In a couple minutes, you’ll find out.”
Leela regarded him intently. “You’re not on smack again, are you?”
“If it was only that simple.”
Leela rose and sat on the arm of his chair, pulling his long bangs out of his eyes. “Now, Mac’, you’ve got to quit mourning her. Claire was an uber-slut. She fucked your band members behind your back, as well as every guy at the store. I don’t know if she told you that, but she did.”
“Yeah, but . . .” He arched an eyebrow. “. . . she knew what to do in bed—unlike some people.”
A shadow passed over Leela’s face, and she looked at her shoes.
McCullen said, “Hey, Lee’, you know I didn’t mean that.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” But her sad eyes looked away.
“I’m desperate,” he added.
“You always are,” she answered.
“Besides,” McCullen continued, “you’re always faithful when you’re dead.”
Leela bounded to her feet. “I’ve about had it with this shit. You’re insulting me, and you’re not makin’ sense.” She furrowed her brow. “And I don’t like the way you’re lookin’ at me.”
“Relax. I’m not gonna rape you.”
She lo
oked at him sideways. “Are you sure?”
McCullen laughed. “You know I’d never hurt you. And, believe me, you’re the last one I’d wanna get with.”
Leela became shifty-eyed. “Oh, thanks.” She looked upward, jerking her head around and sniffing. “Is that chamomile tea?”
McCullen laughed as he inhaled the scent, both enchanting and sickening at the same time. “Claire’s specialty, although she’s lost her love for the concoction.”
Leela blanched. “Have you gone crazy?”
He sighed. “Probably, but not certifiable.”
“Then why are you acting like your late girlfriend’s alive?”
McCullen shrugged. “She isn’t, but she is.”
“You’re not keeping her body here, are you?”
“In a sense.” He turned around. “Babe! Get out here!”
Out of the kitchen Claire moved, six months dead of a heart attack caused by the side effects of the medicines she took for AIDS: Sustiva, Ziagen, Norvir, Fuzeon, Isentress, rinse and repeat till you fall off your feet. She didn’t walk as much as glide over to a speechless Leela. Claire’s blond hair—like spilling lemonade—was matted to her head so that one could spot her ears.
“Let me explain before you faint,” McCullen said. “You know my newest song, ‘My Dead Lover’?”
Leela nodded.
“I wrote it about my girl here,” he continued.
Claire held out the mug. “Take it. Someone’s gotta drink this crap.”
McCullen smiled. “I love that ethereal echo in her voice. I’m gonna use it on the new Hellspawn album.”
Taking deep breaths, Leela grasped the cup, then visibly shuddered when she touched Claire’s hand. “You’re . . . so cold.”
“It’s a welcome change,” McCullen added. “She got clemency from hell.”
“I . . . I thought . . . that song was . . . a gimmick,” Leela seemed to struggle to say.
McCullen stared at her, and Claire followed his lead.
Leela shook her head as if to shake off what she must’ve thought a surreal situation. “This isn’t happening.” Walleyed, she couldn’t turn her gaze from McCullen’s girl.
“Let me show you my new digs.” Claire took her arm.
“Uh, no. I can’t stay.” Leela shook her off. “My, um, mother’s in the hospital. I’ve gotta get going.” She set the tea on the coffee table with a trembling hand and grabbed her raincoat and bonnet.
“Aw, what a shame.”
McCullen snatched up the tea and took a sip, then rose. He winced and spat it into a potted plant that hung from the ceiling. The drink had the flavor of bug juice. “I always knew that had to taste like shit. Give me a Bloody Mary any day.”
“Too many women named Mary in the Bible,” Claire said. “You ever notice that?”
He laughed. “I know, right? Mary the mother of Jesus, Mary Magdalene, and the other Mary. They were comin’ out of the fuckin’ woodwork.”
“God’s got no imagination.”
“You got that right, babe.”
Having donned her raincoat and bonnet, Leela amused him with her wide eyes as she jerked her head back and forth as if she was watching a tennis match.
“Lee’,” Claire said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. It’ll help you understand, hmm?”
This time, McCullen and Claire each took one of Leela’s arms.
“I said I have to go!” She shook them off. “Leave me alone, you . . . you spooks!”
Leela broke into a run for the door.
With speed not afforded to a human, Claire cut her off before Leela realized she was there, so that she bumped into her.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Claire said.
Leela’s head recoiled. “How . . . What?”
“Sorry, friend.” McCullen also stood in front of her, knowing he seemed to have come out of nowhere. He leaned into her. “But I’m not standin’ up for some chick I’d practically have to kidnap to get a date from, as well as one that doesn’t know what to do once she’s on the date. I like nice girls that can be bad when I want ‘em to be . . . like Claire here.”
McCullen ignored her pleas and whimpers as they dragged her down the circular stairs of the cheaply built, Northern Manhattan brownstone. With no light, Leela probably wondered if they were leading her down to hell itself.
“Let me go!” Leela groaned and grunted. Her bonnet came off. “You won’t get away with this,” she cried in a trembling voice.
“You’d be surprised at what we can get away with,” McCullen answered.
Leela wept. “Please don’t kill me. I’ll do anything you want. Take my money—anything.”
McCullen thought the best answer to that would be silence. He flicked his lighter and lit the black candles encased in ebony upside-down-cross sconces. These illuminated the red walls, along with the eerie contents: arachnids and insects.
Now Leela’s eyes were fit to pop out. “What the fuck?”
As she stood before what looked like a red panic button in the wall, Claire shushed her. “Stop being so mousy.” She pushed the button. A coffin on rollers, a handy apparatus built by McCullen, slid out until it acted as a table between him and, on the other side, Claire and Leela.
His mechanical hobbyist guidebook lay on the floor. McCullen kicked it out of the way and gave the coffin a couple of slaps. “This is where we sleep.”
“It’s one of the conditions,” Claire added.
“The spiders and beetles are a bit of a bitch,” McCullen continued, “not to mention the rats, but once you get used to them, well . . .”
“There’s a TV room on the other side if we can’t sleep,” Claire added.
Leela shook her head vehemently. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Claire’s face beamed as she turned to McCullen. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. That gothic black pen you buried me with, the one with pentagrams and upside-down crosses? In hell, I lent it to Susan Adkins, and she won Satan’s annual writing contest.”
McCullen grinned. “Please tell me it was horror.”
Claire held her hands out. “What else?”
“Have you both gone crazy?” Leela yelled. “Pens can’t follow you to hell! And Susan Adkins? What? One of the Manson girls?”
“You’re not down there in the buff, like in heaven. You bring your clothes, you bring your pen.” Claire winked at McCullen. “I guess you can take it with you.” She eyed Leela. “And Susan died in 2009. Of course she’s down there. Brain cancer, then Faustian repentance—the simulacrum of faith—bah.”
Nonplussed, Leela looked with pleading eyes at McCullen, but he wasn’t going to help her.
Claire reached upward and took Leela’s cheeks in her hands. “Ignore him. This is between us.” Claire opened her mouth widely, showing her maw of serrated teeth, a full set, not two fangs like in a horror movie.
Leela trembled so badly McCullen thought she’d have a seizure.
“There’s something I have to do to stay on earth.” Claire hurled her through a black door that opened on a small bathroom. “I have to feed.”
Leela slid the rest of the way home and bonked her head on the toilet lid.
“Ooh, hawt,” McCullen said. “Can I watch?”
Claire shrugged. “Sure, lover.” She swaggered across the bathroom and stood over Leela. McCullen pulled the door shut behind him. It closed with a snick.
Leela bounded to her feet and ran for the door. “Oh, noooooooooo!”
With supernal speed, Claire launched herself at Leela and dug her claws into the back of her neck. She yanked her backward and shoved her face in the toilet. McCullen remembered making a deposit he hadn’t flushed last night—a bloody number one—and when Claire pulled her out, Leela gasped for air, gagged, and threw up, then screamed like the damned.
McCullen leaned his head back and barked laughter.
Leela rose and put her hand over the back of her neck to try to stop the blood flow, but failed.
&n
bsp; Claire ripped Leela’s right arm off, then enlarged her mouth and placed her lips over the wound. Claire sucked the blood down her throat as Leela shrieked with saucer eyes. One would think she was siphoning jet fuel. She looked at her man out of the corner of her eye, as if glad he was watching. That always turned him on.
“Catch,” McCullen said.
Claire pulled from her with a smacking sound and dropped the arm. She caught his switch, stuck it in Leela’s eye, and broke off the blade. Blood and ichor poured from the ruined eyeball. Claire knelt like a postulate and bathed in the gore. Leela grunted as well as screamed, slid in a pool of her own blood, and fell, sitting down hard. She wheezed, trying to catch her breath.
Giggling like a schoolgirl, Claire bent down and stuck Leela’s jugular vein with the broken blade, then held her mouth up to the wound like a child sipping from a water fountain at a school in hell.
Claire ripped Leela’s still-beating heart out and held it in front of her eyes. “See? See? Bye-bye, said the spider to the fly!”
The life drained out of Leela’s goggle eye.
“A horrid existence, a wretched death, her strength but a bluff,” McCullen sang. “My dead, not-woman-enough muff.”
And, with that, he’d composed a new song for Hellspawn.
***
McCullen’s jaws might as well have been glued on Leela’s headless and skinless torso—all that was left of her—as he sucked out the few remaining drops of blood.
Literally dressed to kill, Claire fancied human face masks and skin suits.
He’d had to bear Claire turning him, but at least she’d become faithful. McCullen’s blood wasn’t any worse than another man’s. To fuck each other with nosferatu teeth, much hotter than merely taking a victim, she’d had to make him a creature, like her. Hell, he’d always been too pale anyway. And, like so many men, he didn’t consider it cheating for Claire to be with another woman, but every man’s dream.
You’re always faithful when you’re dead.
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