Acting quickly, Miles thrust the machete, punching the blade under its chin. He twisted the blade, tunneling a trough inside its elongated skull. Syrupy heat spilled down his hands, coating them in the murky glop. Spasms rocked the creature. Its violent shakes and colossal weight made it impossible for Miles to hold the creature up. He released the hilt and quickly backed away, letting the imp collapse. It landed on its side with a massive wallop, the hilt protruding from under its chin like a blocky pendent, a wedge of the blade poking through the top of its skull. A cloud of dust puffed out from under its body. The colors inside its skin flickered before burning out. There was a sound like thin ice cracking before the creature shattered.
The machete thumped to the ground.
Miles flung blood off his hands, and wiped the rest on his pants. He grabbed the machete off the ground, rubbing the imp dust adhered to the blade against his pants. He hurried back to the bag, grabbed it, and stood up.
He was ready to move on, but noticed the woman standing between two parked cars ahead of him. Hip jutting out, her hand rested on its curve. It was hard for him to see her face with her back against the flashy lights. But, he knew she wasn’t a customer from how much she resembled the greeter. And, he also knew, even before she spoke, he was in trouble.
“You are the boy we’ve been waiting for,” she said.
Miles took a deep breath, hoping to calm his pounding heart. He exhaled in a fluttery gust. “I am?”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“What’s yours?”
“Monica.”
Before she’d finished pronouncing her name, Miles charged. He swung the machete, saw the blade heading right for her neck, but there was no impact. The machete continued to soar, twirling him around as if missing a baseball pitch.
Monica stood in front of him still, but now she was where Miles had been before he’d ran at her.
“Oh…shit…”
It was as if she’d evaporated and rematerialized behind him. Could they do that? Hoffman had never said so.
Monica laughed. “It’s okay, baby-cakes. I won’t hold that against you. Come on inside. Your friends are waiting.”
“Have you hurt them?”
“Not at all. They’re part of the show tonight, and before it’s over, they will join us.” Another wicked laugh.
“I don’t think so.”
“Such strong bravery in such a small body.” Monica took a step closer. The shadows slipped away, revealing a pretty face, sweet and almost innocent. “Allow me to be your first.”
Miles felt an involuntary tingle in his penis. He wanted to punch himself in the balls to keep it from reacting to her sardonic flirtation.
He felt a smile forming. “You wouldn’t be my first. I’ve killed a lot of you already.”
Monica’s face dropped into a sneer. “You wretched little heathen! I will flay the skin from your bones and watch as insects feast on the meat!”
“I’ve had people take my lunch money scare me more than you do!”
Monica snarled. Miles raised the machete, ready to strike. Then she bent over, keeping her feet flat, and putting her hands on the ground. Her head dropped low, her dark hair draping her face like a curtain.
Her skin began to pop and crinkle as moist whispers rippled her shirt.
Chapter Twenty-eight
If anyone had noticed Karen and Hoffman were tied to their chairs with itchy rope, they’d given no indication. The room was quickly filling with a fresh batch of nymph fodder. For the first half hour, Karen had tried warning them. She’d screamed what the place really was, and what would happen to them if they stayed. Finally, Hoffman had stopped her.
“It’s no use,” he’d said. “I don’t think it matters to them anymore. They want this.”
At first, Karen was stunned by Hoffman’s statement. After she’d given it some thought, she’d come to agree with him. Deep down, the people here had probably always known. Just like Danny and Rosco. Even knowing the risk involved, they’d still come. She thought even she and Andy had known, too.
“Why not just kill us?”
Hoffman looked at her. “They want us to surrender ourselves to them.”
“It didn’t work before, why do they think it will now.”
“Because they’ll make it work.”
Karen had no idea what that would entail, but she wouldn’t give in. “Where do you think they’re keeping Andy?”
“I told you already, it’s pointless…”
“Don’t give me that pointless bullshit. Where is he?”
“Probably somewhere in the lair.”
“Isn’t this the lair?”
“No. It’s—”
“Underground.”
“Yes.”
“The caves?”
“The burrows, but yes. You know how a slug leaves a slimy trail behind it?”
“I hate slugs.”
“The queen leaves a trail of slime behind her underground. It hardens into a sparkly substance.”
“Like the imps?”
“Very similar, yes. If we could get free, we might have a shot at finding him through one of those tunnels.”
“But, you have no idea which one.”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Karen studied Hoffman. She saw something in him that wasn’t there before. In the short time she’d known the man, she was already convinced she’d never see it in him. And, yet, there it was. It had taken his posture from him, the verve from his eye. The comforting strength that had seemed to radiate from him.
Defeat. Hoffman had lost all hope.
“Have you given up on Miles?” she asked.
“I would never give up on Miles. But, I’m afraid he might not have been able to overcome whatever obstacle was put in his way.”
****
Miles stared in wide-eyed fright as Monica’s shirt split up the middle of her back. The skin came through the tattered garment, hardened into bumpy ridges. Pink moss budded from the uneven peaks. Where her rump had been, two points ripped through her shorts. The back of her head cracked in half, parting the black hair like a book being opened. Points protruded from both sides. Gooey red strings connected the sharp tips together.
A mouth! The back of Monica’s head had parted like the snappers of a Venus flytrap.
Her legs bent, as did the arms that were now being handled as another pair of legs. Miles realized what she was about to do right before it happened.
She sprang.
Dropping to the ground, Miles barely avoided the bound. He hopped to the bag, keeping the machete angled out. Monica landed with a galloping thump. She skidded in the dirt and spun around. She was already coming back before Miles could grab the bag.
“Crap!”
He hurled himself out of the way, hitting the ground with his chest first. Monica crashed into the Mustang’s door. Before she could grab him, he scooted underneath the car. It was a tight fit.
Monica lowered her backwards head and slammed against the lower section of the car, trying to cram her head through the small gap between the undercarriage and ground.
Miles could hear the constant snap of her jaws, like two planks of wood clapping together.
With no other plans coming to mind, Miles screamed.
****
“He’s a tough kid,” said Karen. “I think he’ll surprise us.”
“I’m sure he will.” Hoffman sighed. “Sometimes I regret getting him into this mess. But, I have enjoyed his company.”
“And, I’m sure he’s enjoyed yours. You’re a good team.”
“I suppose we are,” said Hoffman, smiling.
“Can I ask you something?”
Hoffman nodded. “Sure.”
“Why the car?”
“What?”
“You could have picked something a little less conspicuous, couldn’t you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then why that car?”
“My Chevelle
?”
“Yes. Seems like if you were going to be hunting down monsters you’d want something big and menacing, like a tank.”
Hoffman smiled. “I could have gone the bigger route, like an SUV. But, the reason I chose a Chevelle is very simple, but the most important of all.”
“And that is…?”
“It looks cool.”
Karen laughed. Five minutes ago she couldn’t have been convinced she’d ever find humor again, but she guffawed until her side cramped.
The laughter died when she spotted Alexia approaching. She’d shed the plaid pants and was in her work clothes—nude. Karen prepared herself for Alexia and was surprised when she bypassed their table on her way to the stage. She stepped up onto the platform, and got behind the chrome body microphone stand.
“Hello sinners!”
The crowd hooted and cheered.
“You have come on a very special night. Before we kick things into gear, we will start things off with a pre-show! See these two sitting right here in the front?” A few grunts of answers. “They would rather The Skin Show be shut down!”
Boos filled the room. Karen felt somebody’s drink splash against her back. She tensed at the cold booze dripping down her.
“Now, now, be nice,” said Alexia. “We’re not here to hate them; we’re here to change their minds!”
The entire crowd didn’t cheer, but there was definitely more approval than not.
Alexia pointed at Hoffman. “This man here has been destroying Skin Shows all over. Just like Saul was to the Christians, he is to us. But, just like Jesus, we forgive him and we will convert him. He will become one of us, and will serve us, just like all of you! I told you tonight’s a special night. Victoria will make a rare appearance for our first show of the evening. She will guide this lost man to the pleasures that only we can offer. Yes, he will fight, oh will he ever fight. But, his resistance will only succeed in wasting his strength. Tonight, you will watch this non-believer, this hater of us, come to accept us, to love us just like each of you!”
The crowd erupted in hollers and whistles, claps and stomping feet. Karen feared they might break into a riot. Alexia watched them from the stage, a proud smirk on her face. She grabbed her breasts, squeezing them.
The crowd went nuts.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Miles gripped handfuls of grass as if he might fall. Monica paced back and forth alongside the car. All he could see were her hands and feet through the gap, going one way, then coming back. He’d been tempted to slide out the other side, but he was convinced she was quicker than him. No doubt she’d catch him before he got very far.
The machete was useless to him under here. He didn’t have the room he needed to stab with any vigor. He might be able to swing at her, but he doubted the force would be strong enough to do any damage.
The bag was up by the front wheel. He could see a piece of it poking out from behind the tire. He wanted to grab it and pull it under the car with him, but it was probably too big and would give him a fight. By then, Monica would have noticed and taken it away. So far, she hadn’t paid the bag any attention. Or she was waiting for him to make a grab for it so she could get him. Either way, it might as well have been on the moon. He couldn’t use it.
So, where did that leave him?
Screwed.
Maybe not. There had to be something he could do.
As it was right now, she was waiting on his move. Patiently. She’d probably wait all night if he allowed it. Before long, someone else would come by. Most likely an imp, and if enough of them gathered together, they could turn the car over and pull him out.
He needed to do something, and fast.
****
Two nymphs untied Hoffman from the chair, but kept his wrists bound together in front of him. Karen recognized the one with long bangs as Ginger, the opening act from last night. The other had been here last night as well, serving drinks before becoming a molded piece of that nymph totem. She didn’t know her name, but she couldn’t forget the face.
Karen had thought about screaming at them to stop, or trying to kick them. She knew there was no point. She’d only look stupid in front of all these people. Give them something to laugh it.
The crowd shuffled closer, getting a better view of the show about to commence. Even the servants—nymphs—had stopped the ruse of serving drinks, and the customers, so they could watch. Gathered around Karen, they stood in a huddle, ready for action. Barely any of them gave her even a fleeting glance, and those who did, acted as if they didn’t care she was tied up against her will.
“She’s tied up,” Karen heard a woman say.
A man shushed her.
“Don’t do that to me,” she said. “Look at her arms.”
“So.”
“She’s tied in the chair.”
“Maybe she likes it.”
Karen craned her neck, trying to get a glimpse of whoever was talking about her. She saw a blonde, hair cut short in the back but lengthy in the front. She looked to be around Karen’s age, pretty, but obviously uncomfortable being here from the way she stood in a tense pose, eyes flashing around the room timidly. The man—probably her husband—was sipping from a mixed drink. He was much shorter and pudgier than his companion, bald on top with a closely-cropped horseshoe of hair around his dome.
Blondie glanced at Karen and quickly looked away.
“She’s looking at me,” Blondie told her husband.
“So what, Heather? What do you want me to do about it?”
“Dammit Harold, I don’t think she wants to be tied up like that.”
“Just ignore her, Heather. I don’t want to get involved.”
Asshole.
Customers began to cheer. Karen turned away from Heather and her dimwitted husband to see the front. Alexia was finishing up strapping Hoffman down to the heart-shaped bed. They’d removed his heavy coat at some point before lying him down. It was now a black wrinkled heap on the stage floor. Without it, Hoffman looked so small and thin.
And old.
I’ve got to get loose! I’ve got to help him!
She knew she wouldn’t get far, if she made an attempt for the stage. She had Alexia and Ginger to deal with. What would likely happen, though, the customers would stop her before she even got close.
Karen was still going to try.
Turning her head, she saw Heather watching her, concern creasing her brow. Karen motioned with her head for Heather to come over there in two quick thrusts. Heather’s eyes widened, then she looked at Harold to see if he’d noticed. Eyes glued on the stage, Harold hadn’t noticed a thing.
Karen mouthed: Please help me.
Biting down on her bottom lip, Heather looked conflicted. And scared. Karen couldn’t blame her for it. She wondered how she’d react if the roles were reversed.
Karen caught the chalky scent of the stage fog a moment before seeing it curling over her, spreading to a thin haze.
The room went crazy with whistles and applause.
“Oh no…” Karen faced the stage. A swirling wall of fog blocked almost everything. She recognized its pink spill from last night. Victoria was coming. “Shit.”
Behind the vaporous neon curtain, a form sloughed into shape. A woman’s shape. Karen recognized it right away as Victoria’s lean but shapely body. The fog parted like drapes and there she was, on her knees next to Hoffman on the bed. Naked and slightly damp, she looked as if she was air-drying after a shower. Her large breasts were hanging close enough to Hoffman’s mouth that he could have kissed them. Her hands rubbed slow circles on his chest. Alexia and Ginger stood off to the side, watching as their hands roamed their bodies.
The crowd exploded into ovations at the sight of her. The rumbles of approval spread through them.
Victoria spoke. Even without the aid of the microphone, her voice overpowered the indistinct chatter of the audience. “We have come to this moment, my lovers, when we persuade our enemy to become our friend.” He
r hand slid under his belt, diving into his pants. Karen saw the stroking movements of her hand behind the fabric.
Hoffman screwed his eyes shut, grinding his teeth. Fighting it.
Come on, Hoffman. Hang in there!
“There you go!” cried a drunken man from the crowd. “Hand job his ass!”
Others laughed nervously, as if they were afraid of making too much noise.
“I ask that you do not blame him for his actions,” Victoria continued. “But, to forgive him, and when he accepts me, you will accept him.”
With her free hand, she grabbed the belt, and started to tug the tongue through the clasp. She wasn’t wasting any time getting started, but Karen was wasting plenty by watching.
Whipping her head around as far as she could, she found Heather. No longer staring at Karen, her eyes were locked on the stage. A hand was pressed to the heavily exposed cleavage through her wispy shirt, fingers kneading. It looked as if she was starting to fall into the rhythm of the crowd.
Karen couldn’t let that happen.
She threw up a leg, waving her foot. Heather didn’t notice. The second time, Karen used both feet, waggling her legs eagerly. The chair leaned back, almost toppling over, but she caught herself.
Heather noticed Karen’s wild dancing movements. Karen put her legs down, leaning to the side, and mouthing her pleas of help.
Finally, Heather came.
Chapter Thirty
Miles scooted away from Monica’s grabbing hand. Her fingers got his shirt in a tight grip. Yanking his arm, the shirt ripped, leaving a scrap of fabric in her hand. Roaring in frustration, Monica started to pull her hand out from under the car.
Miles lunged, gripping her wrist with both hands before she could get away. It was a painful position, contorting his body almost into a crescent. But, he made it work. He knew he couldn’t keep this going for long, but he wouldn’t have to. His idea was to piss her off enough to screw up.
What am I doing? This is stupid!
Stupid as it was, it was all he had.
The Skin Show Page 24