65 Proof

by Jack Kilborn

  But Robert just kept on screaming, and I finally had to hit him over the head to shut him up. I guess he wasn’t THE ONE after all.

  I stripped off his clothes and tied him up and used the long scissors to snip his vocal chords. Then I looked over his trim body and decided what I wanted to eat first. I plugged in the electric saw and built a fire in the pit to heat the cauterizing iron.

  I didn’t want Robert to bleed to death. That wouldn’t be right. I couldn’t ingest his strength then. And he looks strong enough to be able to feed me for a loooooooooong time.

  This is an old one, written in college. I like to joke than in school, I majored in Budweiser. Which may have been the reason I got Cs in my creative writing classes. Out of the hundreds of short stories I wrote in my teens and twenties, only a handful were actually readable. This is one of the readable ones. Barely.

  My Grandpa is eighty-seven years old, which Mom says is really old but I know that people can live to a hundred because I saw it on T.V. Grandpa is in a wheelchair because he had a stroke, and he can’t move one side of his body even though he tries real hard. Most of the time he’s parked in front of the big window in my Mom and Dad’s room, looking out at the woods in our back yard. We own a lot of the woods, but I’m still not allowed to play there by myself because my Mom says the environment is very different from Chicago, where we used to live, and I might get attacked by a bear. We’ve been here for two months, and I haven’t seen a bear yet. Neither has Grandpa, and he spends all of his time looking out the window, so if anyone would have seen a bear it would have been him.

  Grandpa came to live with us a long time ago, when I was a little kid. Right after Grandma died. I don’t remember Grandma because I was too small, but my Mom has pictures of her holding me. He had the stroke a few years ago, and Mom says it made him crazy. Dad says he isn’t crazy, he just likes to kid around sometimes. I really don’t have an opinion because I’m not around him much and he spends all his time in my Mom and Dad’s room, staring out the window. Grandpa says nature is more educational than watching T.V. I think it’s boring.

  I don’t have to go to school because it’s summer. My new best friend is Marty Phipps, who lives about half a mile up the dirt road, and I like to play at his house because his mom lets us go in the woods. My old best friend was Vincey Jackson. I liked Vincey more than Marty, but I don’t see Vincey a lot because he lives in Illinois and I’m in Oregon. But Marty is okay. We’re building a tree house and we’re going to start a club, but we won’t let Marty’s younger brother join because he’s too young and just a baby.

  I was putting on my shoes to go to Marty’s when Grandpa called me. Grandpa never calls me. If he needs something he calls my mother. So I went to see Grandpa in my Mom and Dad’s room, and he was pointing out the window.

  “Do you see him, Joey? Do you see him?”

  I looked out the window and saw nothing special. Just the woods.

  “Ain’t it magnificent? Ain’t it, Joey?”

  Grandpa was kind of smiling, but he couldn’t smile all the way because one side of his face wouldn’t move, so instead it looked creepy.

  I shook my head and said I didn’t see anything.

  “Well, it’s a bald eagle, son! Circling up there! Plain as day!”

  I looked out and didn’t see anything in the sky at all. But maybe Grandpa had better eyesight than me or something, so I said that I saw it, and I left. Grandpa was starting to drool, and Dad says that he can’t help it but I know that only babies drool, and adults shouldn’t, and that makes me feel bad. Then I went to Marty Phipps’ house to play.

  The next day, Grandpa called me in again. He was looking out the window with my Dad’s binoculars.

  “Come here, Joey. You can see him so close you can count his feathers!”

  Grandpa gave me the binoculars and I looked up at the sky and really tried to see the eagle but didn’t see anything at all.

  “Do you see him, Joey?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Look at him go!”

  Mom told me to be nice to Grandpa because when you have a stroke sometimes you see things that aren’t really there. I once told Marty Phipp and he said there were no eagles around here, and that Grandpa was crazy. I hit him and he started to cry, but we’re friends again now.

  I gave Grandpa the binoculars and went over to Marty Phipp’s house so we could draw the plans for our tree house.

  The next day Grandpa called me again, and wanted me to look at the eagle. He called me again the next day. And the next day. I never saw an eagle, but once I saw a bunch of ducks flying across the sky. Grandpa said the eagle was higher up than the ducks. I didn’t see it.

  One day when Grandpa called me, he was shaking. I thought he wanted me to look at the eagle again, so I said I saw it. But instead Grandpa grabbed my arm and held on tight.

  “The knife! The knife, Joey! Biggest knife I ever seen!”

  I got scared and yelled for Mom, who tried to calm Grandpa down. But Grandpa kept screaming.

  “He was carrying a head! A head! The knife!”

  Mom pulled me away from Grandpa and called the doctor, and two men came and took Grandpa and my mom away in an ambulance. I was over at Marty Phipp’s house. He said again that my Grandpa was crazy and I hit him again and we got in a fight but Mrs. Phipp stopped us and we made Rice Crispy treats. I stayed the night at Marty’s, and I had bad dreams about Grandpa grabbing me and not letting go.

  The next day, Mom and Dad came back from the doctor and told me Grandpa wouldn’t be coming home for a while. He was in a special hospital. It didn’t bother me at all because I never was close with Grandpa and I was too busy building the club house with Marty Phipp. We went out in the woods to find a good tree. We walked for a while when we got to a creek and then we followed the creek for a while when we saw the shed.

  It was a small shed, and it looked like no one had used it for a long time, and Marty said it was great because we could use the wood to build our club house. So we went to the shed and it was really old. I could break the wood just by pushing it. Marty wanted to stand on top so I let him get on my shoulders and he got on and then fell through the roof.

  I didn’t know what to do. I went in the shed and Marty was on the floor and he wasn’t moving. I shook him and yelled his name but he wouldn’t wake up. So I ran back along the creek to get my Mom. I was running and running and I looked up in the sky through a break in the trees and I saw something. So I stopped and I squinted in the sun and there it was. An eagle. Circling around the tops of the trees.

  Then I began to run again, but I tripped over a human head, and then a very large and dirty man jumped out of the trees and came at me with a knife.

  The biggest knife I ever seen.

  It’s no secret I’m a huge F. Paul Wilson fan. When we were both invited into the Blood Lite anthology, I asked him if he would like to collaborate on a funny horror short. He graciously agreed, and we produced this slapstick bit of schtick. It was a lot of fun to write.

  “We’re dead! We’re freakin’ dead!”

  Mick Brady, known by the criminal underground of Arkham, Pennsylvania as “Mick the Mick,” held a shaking fist in front of Willie Corrigan’s face. Willie recoiled like a dog accustomed to being kicked.

  “I’m sorry, Mick!”

  Mick the Mick raised his arm and realized that smacking Willie wasn’t going to help their situation. He smacked him anyway, a punch to the gut that made the larger man double over and grunt like a pig.

  “Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my hernia! You know I got a bulge there!”

  Mick the Mick grabbed a shock of Willie’s greasy brown hair and jerked back his head so they were staring eye-to-eye.

  “What do you think Nate the Nose is going to do to us when he finds out we lost his shit? We’re both going to be eating San Francisco Hot Dogs, Willie.”

  Willie’s eyes got wide. Apparently the idea of having his dick cut off, boiled, and fed to him on a bun wit
h a side of fries was several times worse than a whack to the hernia.

  “We’ll…we’ll tell him the truth. Maybe he’ll understand.”

  “You want to tell the biggest mobster in the state that your Nana used a key of uncut Columbian to make a pound cake?”

  “It was an accident,” Willie whined. “She thought it was flour. Hey, is that a spider on the wall? Spiders give me the creeps, Mick. Why do they need eight legs? Other bugs only got six.”

  Mick the Mick realized that hitting Willie again wouldn’t help anything. He hit him anyway, a slap across his face that echoed off the concrete floor and walls of Willie’s basement.

  “Jesus, Mick! You hit me in my bad tooth! You know I got a cavity there!”

  Mick the Mick was considering where he would belt his friend next, even though it wasn’t doing either of them any good, when he heard the basement door open.

  “You boys playing nice down there?”

  “Yes, Nana,” Willie called up the stairs. He nudged Mick the Mick and whispered, “Tell Nana yes.”

  Mick the Mick rolled his eyes, but managed to say, “Yes, Nana.”

  “Would you like some pound cake? It didn’t turn out very well for some reason, but Bruno seems to like it.”

  Bruno was Willie’s dog, an elderly beagle. He tore down the basement stairs, ran eighteen quick laps around Mick the Mick and Willie, and then barreled, full-speed, face-first into the wall, knocking himself out. Mick the Mick watched as the dog’s tiny chest rose and fell with the speed of a weed wacker.

  “No thanks, Nana,” Mick the Mick said.

  “It’s on the counter, if you want any. Good night, boys.”

  “Night, Nana,” they answered in unison.

  Mick the Mick wondered how the hell they could get out of this mess. Maybe there was some way to separate the coke from the cake, using chemicals and stuff. But they wouldn’t be able to do it themselves. That meant telling Nate the Nose, which meant San Francisco Hot Dogs. In his twenty-four years since birth, Mick the Mick had grown very attached to his penis. He’d miss it something awful.

  “We could sell the cake,” Willie said.

  “You think someone is going to pay sixty thousand bucks for a pound cake?”

  “It’s just an idea.”

  “It’s a stupid idea, Willie. No junkie is going to snort baked goods. Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “So what should we do? I — hey, did you hear if the Phillies won? Phillies got more legs than a spider. And you know what? They catch flies too! That’s a joke, Mick.”

  “Shaddup. I need to think.”

  Mick the Mick couldn’t think of anything, so he punched Willie again, even though it didn’t solve anything.

  “Jesus, Mick! You hit my kidney! You know I got a stone there!”

  Mick the Mick walked away, rubbing his temples, willing an idea to come.

  “That one really hurt, Mick.”

  Mick the Mick shushed him.

  “I mean it. I’m gonna be pissing red for a week.”

  “Quiet, Willie. Lemme think.”

  “It looks like cherry Kool-Aid. And it burns, Mick. Burns like fire.”

  Mick the Mick snapped his fingers. Fire.

  “That’s it, Willie. Fire. Your house is insured, right?”

  “I guess so. Hey, do you think there’s any pizza left? I like pepperoni. That’s a fun word to say. Pepperoni. It rhymes with lonely. You think pepperoni gets lonely, Mick?”

  To help Willie focus, Mick the Mick kicked him in his bum leg, even though it really didn’t help him focus much.

  “Jesus, Mick! You know I got gout!”

  “Pay attention, Willie. We burn down the house, collect the insurance, and pay off Nate the Nose.”

  Willie rubbed his shin, wincing.

  “But where’s Nana supposed to live, Mick?”

  “I hear the Miskatonic Nursing Home is a lot nicer, now that they arrested the guy who was making all the old people wear dog collars.”

  “I can’t put Nana in a nursing home, Mick!”

  “Would you rather be munching on your vein sausage? Nate the Nose makes you eat the whole thing, or else you also get served a side of meatballs.”

  Willie folded his arms. “I won’t do it. And I won’t let you do it.”

  Mick the Mick took aim and punched Willie in his bad knee, where he had the metal pins, even though it did nothing to fix their problem.

  “Jesus, Mick! You hit me in the…”

  “Woof!”

  Bruno the beagle sprang to his feet, ran sixteen laps around the men, then tore up the stairs.

  “Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Get off the counter! You’ve had enough pound cake!”

  Mick the Mick put his face in his hands, very close to tears. The last time he cried was ten years ago, when Nate the Nose ordered him to break his mother’s thumbs because she was late with a loan payment. When he tried, Mom had stabbed Mick the Mick with a meat thermometer. That hurt, but not as much as a wiener-ectomy would.

  “Maybe we can leave town,” Willie said, putting a hand on Mick the Mick’s shoulder.

  That left Willie’s kidney exposed. Mick the Mick took advantage, even though it didn’t help their situation.

  Willie fell to his knees. Bruno the beagle tore down the stairs, straddled Willie’s calf, and began to hump so fast his little doggie hips were a blur.

  Mick the Mick began searching the basement for something flammable. As it often happened in life, arson was really the only way out. He found a can of paint thinner on a dusty metal shelf and worked the top with his thumbnail.

  “Mick, no!”

  Mick couldn’t get it open. He tried his teeth.

  “You can’t burn my house down, Mick! All my stuff is here! Like my comics! We used to collect comics when we were kids, Mick! Don’t you remember?”

  Willie reached for a box, dug out a torn copy of Amazing Spiderman #146, and traced his finger up and down Scorpion’s tail in a way that made Mick the Mick uncomfortable. So he reached out and slapped Willie’s bad tooth. Willie dropped the comic and curled up fetal, and Bruno the beagle abandoned the calf for the loftier possibilities of Willie’s head.

  Mick managed to pop the top on the can, and he began to sprinkle mineral spirits on some bags labeled Precious Photos & Memories.

  Willie moaned something unintelligible through closed lips — he was probably afraid to open his mouth until he disengaged Bruno the beagle.

  “Mmphp-muummph-mooeoemmum!”

  “We don’t have a choice, Willie. The only way out of this is fire. Beautiful, cleansing fire. If there’s money left over, we’ll bribe the orderlies so Nana doesn’t get abused. At least not as much as the others.”

  “Mick!” Willie cried. It came out “Mibb!” because Bruno the beagle had taken advantage. Willie gagged, shoving the dog away. Bruno the beagle ran around Willie seven times then flew up the stairs.

  “Bruno!” they heard Nana chide. “Naughty dog! Not when we have company over!”

  Willie hacked and spit, then sat up.

  “A heist, Mick. We could do a heist.”

  “No way,” Mick the Mick said. “Remember what happened to Jimmy the Spleen? Tried to knock over a WaMu in Pittsburgh. Cops shot his ass off. His whole ass. You want one of them creepy poop bags hanging on your belt?”

  Willie wiped a sleeve across his tongue. “Not a bank, Mick. The Arkham Museum.”

  “The museum?”

  “They got all kinds of expensive old stuff. And it ain’t guarded at night. I bet we could break in there, get away with all sorts of pricey antiques. I think they got like a T-rex skull. That could be worth a million bucks. If I had a million bucks, I’d buy some scuba gear, so I could go deep diving on shipwrecks and try to find some treasure so I could be rich.”

  Mick the Mick rolled his eyes.

  “You think Tommy the Fence is going to buy a T-rex skull? How we even gonna get it out of there, Willie? You gonna put it in your pocket?
”

  “They got other stuff too, Mick. Maybe gold and gems and stamps.”

  “I got a stamp for you.”

  “Jesus, Mick! My toe! You know I got that infected ingrown!”

  Mick the Mick was ready to offer seconds, but he stopped mid-stomp.

  “You ever been to the Museum, Willie?”

  “Course not. You?”

  “Nah.”

  But maybe it wasn’t a totally suck-awful idea.

  “What about the alarms?”

  “We can get past those, Mick. No problem. Hey, you think I need a haircut? If I look up, I can see my bangs.”

  Willie did just that. Mick the Mick stared at the cardboard boxes, soaked with paint thinner. He wanted to light them up, watch them burn. But insurance took forever. There were investigations, forms to fill out, waiting periods.

  But if they went to the museum and pinched something small and expensive, chances are they could turn it around in a day or two. The faster they could pay off Nate the Nose, the safer Little Mick and the Twins were.

  “Okay, Willie. We’ll give it a try. But if it don’t work, we torch Nana’s house. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  Mick the Mick extended his hand. Willie reached for it, leaving his hernia bulge unprotected. Now that they had a plan, it served absolutely no purpose to hit Willie again.

  He hit him anyway.

  “I don’t like it in here, Mick.” Willie said as they entered the great central hall of the Arkham Pennsylvania Museum of Natural History and Baseball Cards.

  Mick the Mick gave him a look, which was pretty useless since Willie couldn’t see his face and he couldn’t see Willie’s. The only things they could see were whatever lay at the end of their flashlight beams.

  Getting in had been a walk. Literally. The front doors were unlocked. And no alarm. Really weird. Unless the museum had stopped locking up because nobody ever came here. Mick the Mick had lived in Arkham all his life and never met anyone who’d ever come here except on a class trip. Made a kind of sense then to not bother with locks. Nobody came during the day when the lights were on, so why would anyone want to come when the lights were out?