SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque

by Rumours of the Grotesque (v1. 0) [lit]

  The bedroom door opened, and Mrs. Waymouth entered with a diminutive white-haired man. “This is Father James."

  Father James immediately crossed himself. “What evil has come to this child?"

  Vera recoiled like a vampire in the rays of dawn. “Get him out of here."

  "She fears me,” the priest whispered to Mrs. Waymouth. “Fear me, devil!"

  Ed looked on as the priest approached. He took a few notes on the adjustment form before addressing the good Father.

  "I'm Ed Cooper from Mystical Insurance Corporation.” The priest only gave him courteous acknowledgment. “Can you verify that this is possession by the devil?"

  Father James looked at him like he was the possessed one. “This isn't a game or a joke. This poor child is indeed possessed."

  "Yes, but by what?"

  "By what? By what?” Vera laughed mockingly.

  Her face began to twist and contort. Vulgar amounts of slick black hair sprouted, forming a perfect Duck's Ass pompadour haircut. Thick mats of hair punched out of her face as sideburns filled in, and her jowls filled with fat.

  "I'm the King,” she said as the wounds on her face split open from the tension squeezing it.

  "You know that's going to leave an ugly scar,” Ed said like a smart-ass. “I really don't think you know who you are."

  "Damn you, non-believer,” the distorted imitation of Elvis snapped. “Come here, priest."

  "In God's name, I command you devil begone!” Father James shouted ineffectually as an unseen hand drew him closer to the bed. “By all that is holy, I command you to leave this child."

  He fumbled with a small bottle of holy water and splashed it towards Vera in the chair. A few drops hit her skin, causing painful blisters to appear on contact. Then, Vera's invisible hand shook the feeble old man until he dropped the bottle, spilling half of it onto the afghan at the woman's feet. Carefully masked by the commotion, Ed swiftly retrieved the bottle that rolled near him.

  "Keep your filthy water off of me!” Vera screamed. “This is what we do to your kind in Hell!"

  The mildly whimsical image of Elvis melted into a darkly sinister facade. Vera's skin, nearly at the breaking point, buckled and wrinkled as her mouth distended until it nearly rested upon her chest. Then, from within her mouth, a grisly pair of spindly arms reached forth. Squirming in the palm of each hand was a tongue, pointed and barbed. The hands punctured the priest's abdomen with surgical precision and dug in deep until they were buried past the elbows.

  Father James’ body suffered great, soundless seizures as the hands moved deeper. Ed could see an outline of the hands moving gruesomely beneath the old man's skin. Knuckles pressed up against the flesh of his neck from the inside, and a swirl of one of the tongues trailed below an ear. In the corner of the room, Mrs. Waymouth shrieked at the spectacle. The priest was being eaten from the inside out.

  Then, as suddenly as the attack began, Father James’ body slumped lifelessly in the unseen grip. Whatever had a hold of him let go. The empty shell of the priest, splattered with leftover shreds of meat and veins, fell to the floor. The hands still protruded from Vera's foul, cavernous mouth. Both tongues twirled, cleaning the hands before they disappeared back down inside her gullet.

  Ed didn't know what to think or how to act in the wake of the carnage. He felt urine soaking his pants as Vera's face returned to the pre-Elvis state. He took the bottle of holy water and drank it down quickly.

  "Oh,” she said with disappointed sarcasm, “now you've gone and ruined yourself. I can't eat you now."

  Ed stared at the priest's body; his chest and stomach were literally ripped open and empty. The tongues had removed every organ, every vein, and every ounce of juice.

  She wasn't entertaining his obstinence any longer. “Do you still doubt who I am?"

  Somewhere beyond his panic and fear, the insurance adjuster that shared his mind spoke out: “You still haven't said who you are.” He took out the Mystical Insurance Paranormal Adjustment Manual. “Do you answer to any of these names: Satan..."

  "Yes."

  "Lucifer."

  "Yes."

  "Mephistopheles."

  "Ditto."

  "Beelzebub."

  "Affirmative."

  "Old Scratch."

  "Scratch me a winner."

  "Old Nick."

  "That's me."

  "The Archfiend."

  "Ooh, haven't heard that in awhile."

  "Moloch."

  "Me, too."

  "Monarch of Hell."

  "Yes."

  Ed Cooper exhaustibly lowered the book. “You said you were all of these entities."

  "That's because I am evil incarnate.” Vera grinned, meat of the priest still stuck between her teeth.

  "Mrs. Waymouth,” Ed turned to address the woman, but she was splayed out on the floor. “Mrs. Waymouth!"

  "Fear not, she's not dead. She fainted,” Vera said.

  Ed turned back to the twisted creature in the chair, his sly brain working among raging emotions of fear and shock. “Look, I need for you to say your name so I can finish my paperwork. I don't give a shit if you keep Vera Waymouth or Althea Waymouth. I'm not here to save them, only my job. Just give me your name, and I'll get out of here."

  Ed looked at Vera, or whatever was inside Vera. As it thought, laughing and grinning, Ed quickly went through the claim form. He had written in nine of the ten questions, and so far it wasn't looking good for Mystical Insurance. Each clause had been satisfied on the form, only one more to go.

  "My name,” Vera began, “is Nergal."

  "Nergal?” Ed repeated. “That wasn't on any of the lists."

  Ed noticed Mrs. Waymouth was waking up. “What's happening?"

  Flipping swiftly through the handbook, Ed victoriously found the name Nergal. “Mrs. Waymouth, your daughter is possessed by the Sumerian god of war, destruction, and pestilence known as Nergal. Section 4, paragraph 23 of your policy states the possessee must be inhabited by a Christian demon or devil. Vera is possessed by a non-Christian devil. You purchased the Christian-only policy instead of the Universal Damnation Comprehensive Policy. Therefore, Mystical Insurance will have to deny your claim."

  "Deny my claim!” screamed the woman.

  "I'm sorry,” Ed reached for his coat and the rest of his papers, “there's nothing I can do."

  "Nothing you can do!” She picked up a baseball bat that was resting in the corner.

  Vera laughed her guttural demon cackle before spouting a string of ancient Sumerian sentences.

  "Damn you to Hell!” Mrs. Waymouth took a swing at Ed with the bat.

  Ed ducked just in time as the Louisville Slugger obliterated a table top full of family photos. He dodged another blow while making his way to the door. All the while, Vera laughed, shouting more Sumerian words.

  She chased Ed to the stairway. “You're just as bad as that thing in that room!"

  Ed stopped and turned, hoping to quell the woman's fury. “Now, Mrs. Waymouth..."

  She wasn't interested in any more of his insurance bullshit, and she hit him squarely in the forehead with the bat. Tumbling backward, Ed fell down the flight of stairs, breaking bones and ripping skin before crashing into the far wall. As Ed came to a screeching halt, headfirst, into the landing on the floor below, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Lounging in the warm sunshine of New Orleans, Ed wiped condensation from his hurricane with a starched, white cloth napkin. His neck was the only thing that still bothered him, and in one more week he wouldn't have to wear the brace anymore. He watched all the beautiful girls lounging poolside at the luxurious resort where he went to recuperate, and in the distance he could hear the horns of ships heading from the Mississippi out into the gulf.

  Everyone wins the lottery once in their lives. Some meet the perfect mate, others have a great job and education, and some win lawsuits. Ed just knew his turn was coming, and he was so happy he was right. He took a sip of
his hurricane and lit a Camel.

  He wondered what Mrs. Waymouth's lottery was or would be. She was in jail, and Vera was in some institution still babbling ancient Sumerian. He didn't care, though; he didn't have to. The sunshine felt so good against his face. Ed took a deep drag on his cigarette, and a wedge of ash formed on the tip. He tapped the ashes into the breast-shaped ashtray on the white metal table next to his lounge chair. He had to keep that as a friendly memento of all the events that led up to his personal windfall. What shyster wouldn't?

  His memory was still vague about that spring day in Memphis when he went to see Mrs. Althea Waymouth and her daughter Vera. The doctors said he might never regain total memory of that day. That was fine with him, because there was one thing he did remember. Never again would he question the existence of the devil. He'd seen it for himself, and in a strange way, Satan had made him a rich, rich man. Mystical had a worker's compensation policy, and Mrs. Waymouth had homeowner's insurance and plenty in savings.

  Ed still couldn't decide what his windfall really was. It could have been the initial firing from Mutual Insurance or going out to see Mrs. Waymouth. It could be a slow lottery win, he thought while taking another puff of his Camel, or the big win could have been knowing a good lawyer. That was one thing Ed had—a good lawyer.

  The Magnificent Nothing

  ACT 1

  "Nametag, nametag.” His nervous brown eyes flitted across the table filled with pre-printed nametags and table markers. “Ah, here it is."

  With fine nimble fingers, Joey Normknuckle reached for his name, the name he used to be known by ten years ago in high school. Smiling, Joey turned to his wife, the beautiful and equally-famous supermodel known only as Misha. To the world he wasn't Joey Normknuckle, butt of bitter high school jokes and bullies, he was The Dragon, comedian supreme and magician extraordinare. He'd taken so many years of utter shit from everyone in school that he was almost afraid to return to the campus he loathed so much. But it was his turn to glow, to shine above the has-been football stars of high school and the popular girls who had enjoyed breaking his tender heart.

  Joey Normknuckle couldn't help it if he had had to wear glasses thicker than the beakers he used to play with in chemistry. Nor could he help the sheer size of his nose for which the popular high school joke was Joey Normknuckle could inhale Chris Farley with just the right nostril. It's surprising what plastic surgeons and laser eye surgery can do, he thought as he looked at his reflection in the mirrored memories-of-prom decorations.

  Linden High School hadn't changed at all, and it truly resembled one of the many dances or proms of long ago that he didn't attend. He surely helped decorate, and he even performed at a few as the Amazing Joey Normknuckle. The only thing he got then was laughs and more ridicule.

  The memories surfaced as he continued to scan the nametags for two specific people: Laura McAllister and Scotty Frank. They were the primary instigators in his high school trauma, and all the other kids just fell in line behind the two most popular people in high school. The nametags were still on the table. Good, Joey thought as he ran a hand through his shiny black, designer hair, I got here first.

  "Well, ready to sit down, Misha?"

  "I'd love to.” She gave him a loving kiss on the cheek.

  As the supercouple walked through the high school toward the decorated gym, the crowd of his former classmates parted. Joey and Misha were above them, almost myths in the community. Joey had even agreed to give a small performance for the evening after the awards were given out. He didn't care about the silly trophies dolled out for “Best Couple,” “Most Changed,” and “Most Accomplished.” Joey knew he'd get them all simply because no one else from Linden High had been on Letterman six times, sold out Radio City Music Hall, had specials on HBO, or won four Emmy awards.

  Former classmates rushed Joey and Misha, begging for a kind word. There were a few who deserved them, but most of them were petty, mean people who had caused him such pain. Joey courteously appeased some of them and ruefully ignored others. Misha simply looked down her long elegant nose at them all, saying more with one glance than he could in a two-hour monologue.

  Some of the bitterness drifted away as Joey reveled in the attention. Should he be forgiving? After all, kids could be so cruel. He had Misha and he was rich, wasn't that enough? Flashbulbs went off in their face as former classmates snapped pictures of the famous couple. No, it would never be enough.

  Joey and Misha endured the burst of attention, which soon faded as the night progressed.

  They found their table, situated directly in front of the podium and stage, and sat. As Misha continued to cast her condescending disapproval on most of the little rats fawning over them, Joey carefully considered the stage's setup. His equipment had already been placed exactly where he wanted it. Joey's assistant, Conroy, mulled around the portable stage making last-minute preparations for the performance. Joey made mental notes of the curtains, how many steps it was from the lock boxes used in his two most famous tricks, and where Conroy had stashed all the sharp implements needed for the show.

  Just then, Joey felt a rush of air from the entranceway. It wasn't a physical breeze, but one of pent-up malice and revenge. Turning, he saw Scotty Frank and Laura McAllister entering. Only now, they shared the last name of Frank, two children, and a lovely home in the suburbs. Misha saw them as well and knew who they were in an instant. These were the two people who had hurt her Joey more than anyone else in the world. She put on a smile that had graced countless magazine covers and runway shows as the Franks made their way to the front of the room.

  The place card to Misha's left was for Mr. and Mrs. Scott Frank. As Scott approached, Laura hanging on him like the cheerleader she once was, Joey's nerves flared. Here was Scotty, the man who once had beaten him up, dumped a Coke on his head, and smeared his glasses with dog shit. Vivid memories of Laura's atrocities returned as well. She had asked Joey to take her out, only to stand him up as everyone watched from a distance. Then they had all laughed and laughed and laughed. Joey Normknuckle didn't laugh.

  ACT 2

  Joey and Misha stood to greet their tablemates, but the golden couple of years past didn't seem as intimidated as Joey would have liked. Scott Frank had aged well, his shoulders were still broad and impressive, and his hair had just a touch of gray perfectly distributed throughout. Laura was still beautiful and petite, but was nothing compared to Misha.

  "Joey?” Scott uttered. “Joey Normknuckle?” A broad, friendly smile consumed his face as he reached out to shake the comedian's hand.

  "Scott, how've you been?” The words were cordial and cold.

  "Not too bad, but not as well as you obviously.” Scott ogled Misha.

  "Thanks,” Joey said, realizing his wife was being objectified. “I'd like you to meet my wife, Misha."

  "It's a pleasure,” Scott said clumsily. “I saw your cover onSports Illustrated ."

  "Thank you.” Misha's voice was a dramatic purr touched with European flavor.

  Although Laura tried, she couldn't completely mask her envy. “It's nice to meet you, I'm Laura Frank."

  "I've heard all about both of you.” Misha's supple mouth cut with a double-edge.

  Nervously, Scott retracted his hand and looked for their place marker. “I think we're sharing the table with you."

  "Yes,” Misha said, “right here next to me, Scott."

  The Franks moved to their seats. Laura attempted to sit by Misha, but the supermodel pulled the former quarterback to the seat. Joey looked on, pleased as his extraordinary wife threw gasoline on Laura's smoldering jealousy.

  "So what have you been up to all these years?” Joey asked Scott.

  "Well, I went to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship, but had to drop off the team for health reasons."

  "My mom told me that you had a heart attack or something?” Joey swirled his glass of water thoughtfully and took a sip.

  Scott reluctantly acknowledged the flawed hea
rt hiding in his deceptively well-built body. “Yeah, I had a murmur that turned out to be more of a defect than a murmur. I had a small heart attack during the Citrus Bowl and had to leave the team."

  "Now that you mention it, I do remember watching that game on TV. Man, they stopped the game and all the cameras zoomed in on you as they carted you off the field on a stretcher."

  "You remember more than I do,” Scott quietly added.

  Laura suddenly spoke up, “But he got his degree and now works for General Motors."

  "Oh, that's nice,” Misha condescended. “I was talking with Madonna a couple of weeks ago, she's from Detroit you know, and we were discussing...” Misha paused to think, “...I can't remember what the topic was."