What Price Gory?

by West, Terry M.

  It was Trevor’s turn. He bent over and grabbed his knees, panting like a dog in mad heat. He held up a finger, begging for a moment. “Just… please…”

  “Take your time,” Cohn said generously. “I have all of eternity.”

  Trevor knew the killing blow was near, and he didn’t think he would be able to fend it off. But if he were going down, he had to be honest. He had to be honest with himself and Cohn. He straightened himself up.

  “I’m sorry, Andy,” Trevor said. It wasn’t a ploy. It was begrudgingly sincere.

  “Why?” Andy asked, dubiously.

  “I shouldn’t have belittled you or your contributions. It was wrong of me. I envied you, I guess. I envied your position. You’ve accomplished so much,” Trevor said, and it made him feel a little lighter. Not better, per se, as death was close. But hopefully he could leave some of that karmic junk behind and go unfettered into the light; be it from the glow of hell or the shining halo of the angels.

  Cohn pondered on this. “Thank you, Trevor. I really appreciate what you just said. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that you had me looking over my shoulder. You were the only one who ever came close to me. I loved your work. It’s a shame, really. We should have been friends. Brothers, even.”

  “Why weren’t we?” Trevor wondered, but he knew. He was just prolonging what little time he had.

  Cohn grinned, letting his opponent have the respite. “Neither one of us has ever played nicely with others. I may have had that whole good guy image thing going, but I’m as flawed as you. I just hide it better. We’re petty tyrants, Trevor. We don’t want to see better work than we can offer, and we will tear it down, given the chance. Why do you think I’m here trying to drown your legacy? You’re a threat, Trevor. Your prose is magnificent and inspired. It transcends the genre. And that’s why I have to put my boot on your throat.”

  “Thank you,” Trevor said, more flattered now and less occupied with his imminent demise. “Your horrors are dreadful, and I say this in a kind way. I never realized the depths of your darkness. Bravo.”

  Cohn gave Trevor that little pretentious nod actors use to vaguely regard praise, as if it’s no big deal; it’s what they do. “Thank you. You honor me, sir. But I have to admit, I even scare myself sometimes.”

  Trevor nodded, and then something lit up his brain. It had to do with what Cohn had just said… I even scare myself, sometimes. And then it came to Trevor, and he prayed there was enough fight left in him. He had been handling this all wrong. He had been using his own imagination against Cohn. What was it Cohn had been telling him earlier? About horror writers exercising deep-rooted dark desires and violent fantasies?

  Horror writers wrote about their own fears. They wrote about what was deeply disturbing to them. They drove the demons out, like Cohn had said. But these were personal demons; they were weights on the soul that had to be lifted and hoisted upon someone else. They were little curses to be placed upon the readers, who would now have to carry the horror, and hopefully pass it on like an infectious disease.

  If he wanted to rattle Cohn, he had to use Cohn’s imagination. So now he looked for something to use. He wasn’t Cohn’s friend, but he had been something even more intimate; he had been Cohn’s enemy. And he had studied his foe well.

  Even in his current state it came to him relatively easily, as most things did. Naomi Cohn. Cohn’s mother, Naomi, had passed away five years earlier. Cohn went into a long seclusion, re-emerging eventually with Mother’s Cold Embrace, a blockbuster novel about a seven year-old boy tormented by nightmares of his dead mother.

  Trevor was sure that the book had even been dedicated to Naomi. He had a copy. He wondered if Andy would allow him to verify. And though Andy had been very accommodating about the piss breaks, he doubted it. Trevor did recall that Andy had been very close to his mother throughout his fame. He could even imagine what Naomi looked like, which meant she must have glowed a little in Cohn’s light. So Trevor now staked his life and fame on this gamble.

  He thought of the cruelest thing he could imagine, and decided it was time to end this.

  “I’m ready, Andy,” Trevor said, preparing himself for what would be his final blow, regardless.

  “Take your best shot,” Cohn said smugly.

  Trevor’s play called for two images. His first was of a deceased woman in a coffin that looked close enough to Cohn’s mother; Trevor could tell by the confusion in Cohn’s eye. The second image was of Cohn himself, naked and manic. Trevor’s imagination needed no exertion on this one. This freshly harvested Cohn drooled. An evil lust possessed his eyes. He stared with depraved longing at the dead woman.

  “Heh… what… what are you doing, Trevor?” the real Cohn muttered, wetting his lips and smiling uncomfortably.

  “What I have to, Andy,” Trevor replied, orchestrating the scene further.

  The imagined Cohn bayed at an invisible moon, spraying spittle all over the dead woman. He reached with lecherous hands toward the corpse.

  “Stop… stop it…” Cohn whispered, his eyes growing murky. He wanted to turn away, but the rules compelled him to watch.

  The dead woman opened her dull grey eyes, and welcomed the son who was following his erection. He descended hungrily upon her. She raked at his back as he climbed into the coffin. They kissed, passionately.

  “Stop!” Cohn cried, falling to his knees and shielding his eyes. “You bastard! You fucking bastard!”

  The scene immediately disappeared.

  Trevor watched as Cohn wept. He felt like a true fiend; his lust fed and guilt waiting on the step. But he had won, even if it had taken a low blow to gain that victory. He watched as a flood of fear, loathing and renewed grief overcame the previous king of horror.

  “Andy, I’m…” Trevor stammered. A sudden crowd of emotions circled him… relief, satisfaction, joy, sorrow; they competed for his affection.

  “Congratulations,” Cohn offered, wiping his moist face with an open palm. “You win.”

  As Cohn began to fade away, he added grimly, “You poor, poor son of a bitch.”

  Trevor’s empty robe, which he would soon feed to the fireplace, fell to the floor.

  Trevor walked to the sofa and sat. He was exhausted and empty and he did not feel much like a champion, at the moment. But he did feel like a survivor.

  The phone rang. It captured Trevor’s attention on the fifth ring. He walked slowly to the phone and answered it, knowing who it was and what it was regarding before he even brought it to his ear.

  It was Mitch.

  “Pamela Cohn called me. You have your quote.”

  ***

  Two years had passed since the night of the contest. Trevor sat at his desk, staring at an empty computer screen. He needed a visit from his dark muse. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a copy of his fourth novel, The Generic Horror Novel. The title and his proposed back cover description of Including: one hero, one villain and a monster that would like to eat them both had sent his editors into fits. But that glorious ego of Trevor’s had won, and the title, at least, had stuck. His editors shouldn’t have worried, though. His book had climbed up the bestsellers list and it hadn’t budged from the number one spot for weeks. Above the title and by-line, a blurb read:

  “Three cheers for the new king of horror! Trevor Hughes surpasses everyone in the market… including me!”-Andy Cohn

  Trevor’s fame had grown and his name had traveled further than even he could have imagined, and he could imagine pretty heavily. So now he had even more to live up to and he couldn’t come up with a new idea to save his life. He glanced out of the window and beyond the security gates, looking outside for inspiration.

  It was a breezy and sunny day. A young mother pushed a baby stroller down the sidewalk.

  (…you’ll never see the beauty in things again…)

  Trevor’s fingers danced across the keyboard, producing a tentative title: The Infant Killer (?). No. It was too unsophisticated and obvious. The
title would need to be catchy, smooth and smart. Like its author.

  (…this malignancy builds inside of you…)

  The title could be danced with, later. Trevor attempted an opening line:

  ‘The cloaked creature made its way through the moonlit park, a three month old baby sleeping soundly in the beast’s gnarled, life-taking hands…’

  Trevor paused and looked it over. It needed to put its face on. But he had worked with uglier, and he was sure something special could grow out of this; in his capable hands, of course.

  (…only good for the photo on dust jackets...)

  He screamed and clutched at his face, which suddenly felt on fire. The misery instantly prompted tears from him. Trevor leapt up and stumbled to the restroom, drunk with pain. He went through his medicine cabinet, looking for the pain pills his doctor had prescribed. The bottle was empty.

  (…you have to peel it off and accept what you are…)

  Trevor wept softly. With black-stained hands trembling from the anguish, he covered the thin jagged line of broken flesh under his chin.

  SPECIAL SNEAK PREVIEW

  CECIL & BUBBA MEET THE THANG

  By Terry M. West

  Now Available!

  (AUTHOR’S NOTE: The events of this story take place the very next night after CECIL & BUBBA MEET A SUCCUBUS)

  Cecil perched the severed head on the counter near the register. He looked to his daddy for approval.

  Reginald McGee was a slighter and hunched older version of his son. There was no mistaking the lineage between the two. They both had rugged dark features that cleaned up pretty nicely if there were women to impress.

  Reginald adjusted his glasses and squinted at the horror in Cecil’s hands. “Nah. Don’t like it there. Put it back near the oil cans.”

  Cecil took the fake rubber head, a screaming and bleeding visage with rolled up eyes and a bloody neck stump, and placed it back on the shelf where they kept a selection of motor oil.

  “I like it there,” Reginald decided, taking a plastic bowl and filling it with bagged candy. “Now, don’t be stingy when those trick-or-treaters show up. You’re representing McGee’s Gas, Garage and 24 Hour Convenience Center. And don’t let your fat friend eat all this candy himself when he gets here.”

  “Daddy, why do I have to work the late shift tonight?” Cecil whined. The small but wiry son of Reginald McGee dug a hand with dirty fingernails into the candy bowl. “It’s Halloween.”

  Reginald slapped Cecil’s hand out of the bowl. “You’re working tonight because my other employees are family men and have kids, Cecil. It wouldn’t be fair to throw the shift at them.”

  Cecil tilted the baseball cap off of his thick and greasy black hair and scratched his head. “But I’m your son. How are these guys ever gonna work for me if you treat me like a peon?”

  Reginald’s eyes peeked over his glasses at Cecil. “What’s that you say?”

  “Well, you ain’t getting any younger, Daddy. I figured I’d be running the show, one day; being your first born son and all,” Cecil said, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest as he spoke.

  Reginald motioned to the stool behind the register. “Sit down, boy. We need to talk.”

  Cecil took the seat and Reginald shrugged off his dirty windbreaker and draped it over his arm. He then took off his favorite fishing hat; minding the lures as he did so. Reginald put the hat on the counter and ran a hand through his silver hair. He stared at his boy. Cecil had Reginald’s eyes, and they stared back at his father’s old face. It made this chore even sadder for Cecil’s father.

  Reginald had been set to leave for the night. He had a fishing trip early in the morning and there wouldn’t be too many trips left this year with winter coming. But this talk with his offspring was long overdue; because things definitely needed to be clarified and addressed.

  “I am going to start this off by saying that I love you, Cecil.”

  Cecil nodded uncomfortably. Whenever his daddy professed love, things usually went to hell pretty quickly. “I love you too, Daddy,” Cecil said, suspiciously.

  “Son, you will never, ever be in charge of this business,” Reginald said flat out.

  “What? How can you say that?” Cecil said. He was nothing but stunned.

  Reginald sighed. He didn’t want to inflict this type of pain on his boy, but the lid was pried off of it now. It was something that needed freeing.

  “You have been nothing to me but a disappointment,” Reginald continued. “You have no ambition, shame or drive. Your work is shabby and has to be triple checked. None of your co-workers likes you much. I’ve lost some quality employees because of my loyalty to you. You have never excelled at anything your entire life. I can’t recall a single moment of pride given to me by you. And what really bothers me the most about all of this is how oblivious you are to the monumental failure you call your life. I find you a disgusting thing, most of the time. You have the moral values of an alley cat. You seldom bathe. You are something lowly and not deserving of respect. The very sight of you sickens me more often than not. You are my greatest mistake, and I apologize to the world for fostering you upon it.”

  Cecil strained to keep from crying like a baby. When he could finally speak, he said, “So, why do you keep me on here, then?”

  “Every village needs its idiot, I guess,” Reginald said coldly.

  “Damn,” Cecil said, reeling from the remark. He could feel hot tears boiling behind his sockets. “I quit being your responsibility at eighteen, man. So just fire me, if I put you off that much.”

  “I promised your mama on her deathbed that I would take care of you,” Reginald explained. He took off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirt. “You are a thirty-year-old child, and I resent spending so much of the little time I have left on your care and well being. But, like I said, I promised your mama. You are my burden.”

  Cecil’s eyes finally betrayed him and he counted the tears as the least of his humiliation that night. “Damn, man. Don’t spare my feelings now.”

  “Your sister is going to get the garage when I step down or die,” Reginald informed his son. He returned the glasses to his face and refocused his solemn attention on Cecil.

  “Janie gets the business?” Cecil scoffed. “But what does she know about the business?”

  “Your sister is smart, industrious and she has blessed me with two grandsons and two granddaughters. She’s a hell of a lot more deserving, Cecil,” Reginald insisted.

  “So, she’s in and I’m out.”

  Reginald nodded. “Yes. But don’t worry. You will always have a job here. It’s in my will, and your sister will respect my wishes. You’ll always have family here to work under. When I am gone, there will be your sister. Then, who knows? Maybe you’ll work for your nieces and nephews. I just hope you don’t weigh them down. You have a tendency to do that.”

  Cecil looked at his father. Reginald’s face was made of tired stone. Cecil wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and die.

  “I know these are harsh words, Cecil,” Reginald said, putting his windbreaker and hat back on. “I have hoped and prayed for you and I have pushed and threatened you but you’re thick-headed, son. It’s just not getting through. And I think we’re both too old and set to see a positive change in the matter.”

  Reginald walked to the entrance of the mini store and paused. He turned back to Cecil. “Son, this estimation of you would have died with me and I would have let you live your life like the blissful idiot you are. But believing you have it in you to run this place? It’s just foolish thinking on your part. You have to see that.”

  Cecil wiped his face dry and scowled sadly. “Yeah, okay. The message is received; loud and clear. Your thick-headed idiot of a son gets it now, Daddy. You hate me.”

  “No. That ain’t the case. I love you with all my heart. I’m just not very fond of you is all,” Reginald admitted, turning to leave.

  His father froze at the door, and Cecil could tell the man
was searching for something else to say. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t undo the heartbreak, or hurt Cecil any more than he had already been hurt. Cecil would never see his Daddy in the same light again. He would always feel like the albatross; the cross to bear.

  “Have a happy Halloween, Cecil,” Reginald finally managed for a farewell. He didn’t look back as he left the store.

  Cecil sat there silently on the stool.

  After a few minutes, a couple of trick-or-treaters in their early teens came into the store. One was dressed as a pirate and they other wore a ninja turtle costume.

  “Trick or treat!” they announced, encouraged by the homemade sign on the building’s window that told them to come inside for free candy.