SLClimer - Rumours of the Grotesque

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

  Hoarsely, she uttered my name: “Kathy."

  "Doreen?"

  "Please forgive us."

  "Save your strength,” I said, desperately trying to get up. “I'm sure help will be here soon."

  "It's too late. Please say you forgive us, please, before we die."

  "I forgive you."

  "Thank you.” In the reflection of the huge window overlooking the garden, I could see Doreen smile and close her eyes. As I stared at her image, I felt sympathy for the first time. Then, in the distance, I saw the children run across the garden.

  Disintegration

  "You're the one to blame for your mama leavin’ me,” he said, pulling off his shirt. “You look just like her and that ol’ husband of hers. Every time I see you, I see him. And I see her."

  He approached me, stinking of whiskey, and I prayed he'd stop hitting me. I struggled to stay away from him, but he grabbed my hair. I knew better than to hit back or fight.

  "You can't even wrestle, you loser!” He wrapped his furry, putrid forearm under my chin and squeezed. “Punk! Tell me again, where she's at!"

  "She's dead! She's dead!” I wailed.

  "That's right, she's dead, that bitch!” Releasing me, I scrambled to the couch.

  He looked at me, grinning. “I like it when you say she's dead."

  "You like it because you did it to her,” I sneered and pushed my hair out of my eyes.

  He laughed and found his bottle of booze. “Yeah, you know I did it, and I know, but the court thinks it was suicide."

  He was momentarily distracted by the television, and I took that opportunity to bolt for the door. He laughed and took a swig of whiskey.

  "Go ahead, punk. Go ahead and get high—just like your mother!"

  —Just like your mother—just like your mother—the words bounced around my scattered brain as I stumbled carelessly down the rotting porch. I wasn't like her; I wasn't dead.

  I ran around the back of the trailer that rested among others like tombstones in a military cemetery. Hunks of auto remains littered the area, disintegrating in the cool autumn air.

  I walked down to the junk pile behind my stepfather's deteriorating single-wide. I climbed through an old pickup truck and sat in the torn seat.

  "Charlie?” I called. “Charlie?"

  I felt the familiar snag of Charlie's small claws on my pants as he climbed from beneath the seat and swiftly up my body. His white fur rubbed across my neck, and he shoved his pink nose into my ear. I picked up the rat and snuggled his face to mine.

  After a few minutes, I put him on the dashboard and pulled a joint from my shirt pocket. Charlie wandered around as I lit the jib and took several hits. Smoke coated my lungs and seeped slowly through my teeth and nostrils. I calmed down significantly, and as the world slowed, I took another drag.

  Hours passed before I dared enter the trailer again. He lay sleeping—passed out—on the living room floor. I crept through the trailer, hoping to make it to bed before he woke up and saw me. He stirred and I froze like a statue, but he saw me.

  "You tryin’ to sneak in, son?” He was too drunk to get up. “I ought to kick yer ass. Don't think I didn't see ya out there with that fucking rat. I ought to kill both you sons of bitches. Kill both ... you.... “He fell asleep again.

  I looked at that snoring, drunk pig. I could kill him so easily right now. I could take the lamp, or his bowling ball, and smash his skull into a billion pieces. But I was too afraid, convinced he would find a way to get even from beyond the grave. I ran to my room and locked the door.

  * * * *

  Things had been quiet all day. He had kept clear of me and even went out of his way to be cordial. But he was too quiet, and he smiled too much. It was at times like this I feared him most because I knew the volcano simmered.

  "Hey, loser,” he said with a grin. “Do me a favor; go down to the junk pile, and bring me a few tomatoes out of my garden. I'm going to make me a sandwich."

  Without a second thought, and always welcoming a chance to leave the trailer, I went down to the old truck. The garden was a weed-infested jumble of wild tomatoes and pumpkins that had seen better days. I stepped through the knee-high weeds, carefully scanning for ripe tomatoes. As I reached to pick one that was round and full, I noticed a patch of snow-white fur lying in the nearby scrub. My heart sank.

  "Charlie?” I knelt by the rat, crushed and half-buried in the garden.

  I felt lost and scared as I looked at Charlie. Suddenly, hopelessness shook me to my soul. I couldn't go on; I couldn't endure another day. The sight of Charlie made me want to die.

  Curiously beautiful, fan-like mushrooms had taken root in his dead flesh. Their woody surfaces were ridged and seeped clear liquid. Charlie could have only been dead two days at the most, but his body was nearly flat and empty. The mushrooms seemed to have completely depleted his innards, growing and feeding until all sustenance was spent. Perhaps they were poisonous? I hoped so.

  Blindly, I reached for the mushrooms, began pulling them from Charlie's body, shoved them into my mouth, and quickly swallowed. Although the clear liquid clung to my tongue and burned the roof of my mouth, it wasn't painful. I smelled roses and lilacs. My eyes started to cloud up, itch, and run. I hoped for death, but instead it seemed I was getting high.

  These were no ordinary mushrooms, nor were they natural psychotropic mushrooms. It was rapturous and frightening all in the same instant. I saw colors, smelled fabulous fragrances, and my skin tingled as if it was leaping off my body. The high was so clear, my senses blossomed all at once, and I could feel myself spinning. I couldn't tell which way was up and fell to the ground, landing on the tomatoes. Seeds exploded out of their skins and onto my shirt.

  As I lay in the garden, I heard my stepfather screaming, unrecognizably. When I didn't answer, he came into the garden, picked me up by my shirt, shook me, dropped me to the ground, and kicked me twice—once in the head and once in the thigh. Yet, I felt nothing.

  The high wore off quickly. I began to recognize his words. He said Charlie's name as he grabbed some tomatoes off a nearby vine. He taunted and laughed, joking about Charlie's death.

  "Charlie!” I yelled as I got up off the ground. “You killed Charlie!” Remnants of the intense high made me stumble.

  Locating a rusted piece of pipe, I rushed my stepfather. He was startled by my quickness. I hit him across the temple, and he stumbled, spilling the tomatoes as he fell. I stood over the dazed man, hitting him over and over again. He couldn't get up; my blows came too fast, too furiously.

  With great effort, I stopped. Blood poured from wounds all over his head, and his eyes were closed. I knelt to feel his neck for a pulse; he was still alive.

  Suddenly, I found myself craving the mushrooms. I took a small piece from Charlie's nearby corpse and chewed it. Again, the taste filled me with ecstasy. But it was different than before.

  I put the pipe on the ground and took my stepfather's feet. I pulled him from the garden, then carefully propped him against the rotting, disintegrating truck.

  In the cab there was old, relatively strong rope. I retrieved my pipe from the garden. I punched several holes in the truck's thin, rusty fenders, two feet to the left and right of my stepfather's bleeding body.

  He was stirring, as was the drug in my veins. I tied one end of the rope to his left wrist, threaded it through the hole, and pulled. His left arm rose in the air, pinned against the fender. Then, I tied the rope to the cab. As I tied his right hand, my stepfather's head rolled to one side, and his eyes opened through a constant stream of blood.

  "What are you doing? Get me to the hospital, you little fucker.” His words now slurred together badly.

  I pulled his right hand into place and tied off the rope. “Shut up.” I grabbed my pipe and straddled him. “You're not so tough now, are you, big man?"

  "I'm bleeding. Let me up."

  "No, I'm afraid Charlie wouldn't like that.” I sat on my stepfather's chest, and he sighed painfu
lly. “Guess I'm not such a lightweight after all.” I took the rusty pipe in both hands and rammed it against his neck, snapping the cartilage as I pushed harder and harder. He whined pathetically, but couldn't speak anymore. I could see the pain on his face, and he whistled when he breathed, sounding like birds or flutes.

  I got off of his chest. “I'm not going to kill you; I'm going to let Charlie's buddies do it. They're hungry, you know. They like blood.” He wheezed a feeble protest and his hands twisted weakly. “Stop squirming and say goodbye, stepdad."

  I stepped away and took my trusty pipe in hand, preparing to hit him once again. I held the pipe high over my head, but hesitated. Tied up like an animal, he wasn't awake anymore. I took his wrist in my hands and searched for a pulse. There was a beat, but it was meager. I had done enough. Tossing the pipe aside, I headed off toward the trailer. But before I left, I gathered more mushrooms.

  * * * *

  I had been afraid to go down to the truck. I knew what I would find, and I prayed no one else found my stepfather first. The last two days were the most pleasant in recent memory. I ate his food, drank his beer, destroyed his things, and ate my mushrooms. He couldn't hurt me anymore.

  I wouldn't have dared to go down to the truck so soon, but the mushrooms had become an obsession. I had never noticed or enjoyed the smell of flowers before; now I craved their aroma. Soon, I had eaten all the mushrooms and needed to harvest more. As I approached the junk pile, I suddenly became afraid of going on the other side. I remembered what I did, but it seemed like a dream. Finally, I summoned the courage to go around the rusty hulk.

  As I looked down on my stepfather's body, at first, I thought it wasn't him. He was severely decomposed and portions of his head had been chewed away by rats. But they couldn't have caused this degree of disintegration. Standing nearly a foot high on his chest, enormous ridges of mushrooms covered his body, forming beautiful patterns and shapes. My stepfather looked like an eerie Chinese party lantern carved out of cork. Mushrooms covered every limb; they were bursting from beneath his clothing. The bones in his hands were no longer ridged, and his arms hung like cooked pasta in the tight ropes.

  I reached for a piece of the fungus. After briefly chewing a piece, I felt the burn and smelled the flowers again. I smiled as I started picking off pieces of the truffles.

  Requiem in Bluegrass

  He rides in a large, monster-wheeled truck along Interstate 40 near Nashville. He prefers the quiet rural roads, uncluttered with cars and travelers. On the radio, he listens to bluegrass. He enjoys songs with mandolins. The roads hum to him; they do the singing.

  He loves the roads, especially at night. Sometimes an animal steps onto the hot, southern pavement, its eyes glowing iridescent yellow in the truck's high beams. The animal freezes.

  He targets the eyes like an eagle. Using the truck as a gun, he swoops down to splatter the animal across the road. Sometimes he turns around and goes back to the spot. He likes to see the pavement turn red.

  The bluegrass plays and the highway sings. He drives and drives. In the distance, he sees a pair of hazard lights flashing and wonders if it is a person changing a tire. The hazards are tilted, one flashing slightly higher than its partner, as if the car is up on a jack. His high beams hit the reflectors of the disabled car ahead, and in his headlights a man kneels facing the road, working feverishly on the rear tire.

  The man shows no signs of getting up. He accelerates, pushing the gas pedal to the floor. In the car ahead, two children look out the rear window. They see the monster-wheeled truck, but their father discounts them with a wave of his hand. Screaming, they pound the back glass, and the truck howls like a charging bull.

  The truck slams into the car without mercy, gouging the paint with teeth and bone. The children scream as their father's blood splatters across the steaming asphalt. The momentum of the accident slings his body across the middle of the road.

  He's filled with thrilling emotions. He brings the monster-wheeled truck to a screaming, rubber-burning halt and makes a U-turn on the deserted highway as heat lightning reaches like fingers in the distant sky and the highway sings in low baritone.

  He returns to the car, which still sits on the jack. The hazards slice into the humid night. A night bird calls, singing harmony with the highway. The truck slows before a lump of clothing strewn about fifteen feet from the disabled car. The high beams reflect off the clothing, beige with shocks of fresh red. He steps down from the monster-wheeled truck, proceeds to the fallen man, and kneels. The man's body was horribly ripped by the chrome bumpers of the monster-wheeled truck. The truck struck him in the shoulders, hooking and dragging him fifteen feet or more. The pavement acts like sandpaper against naked skin. From a pocket in his blue work shirt, he pulls out a pair of latex gloves. With digits thinly wrapped in clear rubber, he fingers through the corpse's wallet, carefully removing the driver's license.

  The pavement is red in the high beams—he likes that. As he walks back to the truck, he remembers the children. Back in the truck the bluegrass plays, and soon the highway sings again. He turns the enormous truck around, aiming at the car on the jack. A chorus joins the bluegrass as he throttles the beast. The truck bolts forward, and he zeroes in on the driver's side door.

  The car is nothing but a mouse in the bull's path. The truck rams the car, sending it teetering on the edge of a deep, vertical ditch. It hesitates for a moment, long enough for the children to scream. Then, the car tumbles over the ditch's edge; the top instantly collapses under the weight of the vehicle.

  He turns the truck from the carnage and listens to the hum of his lonely songstress.

  * * * *

  He is alone in his small, narrow mobile home. A puppy plays at his feet. He likes the dog, to some it could be called love. He almost never hurts the puppy; he calls him Jessie. Jessie looks like a fireman's dog and has black and white spots and funny floppy ears. Sometimes, Jessie misbehaves, and he punishes the dog with a coat hanger.

  He remembers when he first found Jessie. He was working on the telephone lines near the Forked Deer River bridge. A car came speeding over the hill, and as it passed, the driver pitched a cloth laundry bag over the concrete railing. He watched the sack plummet into the muddy river. He saw the bag squirm before sinking. He scrambled to the shore, and with a long stick, snagged the sack before it disappeared entirely. He pulled it to shore. Upon opening it, he found five puppies; four were already dead and the last one was quickly fading. He rescued the pup and buried the others.

  He watches television and waits for the morning paper. It is almost time to sleep. Soon, he sees what he's waiting for. The reporter is with a camera crew at the site of last night's hit-and-run. The newsman reports that police suspect the dead man is another victim of the Interstate killer, the fifth discovered along local highways in the past two weeks. Police say they have evidence linking all five killings. They say two children were crushed to death in the accident.

  He looks at the driver's license before putting it in a shoe box. He treasures the identity of the victims; he has them all. Suddenly, he hears the newspaper slam into the side of the trailer. He places the shoe box inside an exposed heating vent, secures the cover, and goes to the door.

  "C'mon, Jessie,” he says. “Time to go potty."

  As he opens the metal storm door into the bright light, the screen squeaks. Jessie scoots past his legs and starts to sniff around the lilac bushes up near the trailer.

  He looks across to the next lot over. Down the length of the neighbors’ double-wide to the grassy patch in the back, clothes hang on the line to dry, and wasps flirt with blooming vines.

  A boy, maybe five or six, plays with Jessie who has crossed into the neighbors’ lot. He kneels by the puppy who is licking him feverishly. They both fall over in the yard. His attention turns to the young woman coming around the corner of the trailer. The first thing he notices is the bruise on her forearm.

  "Hi,” she says, “I'm sorry if my son got in y
our way.” Her Southern accent is very rich, thicker than his own.

  "He didn't do anything wrong. It's all right."

  She introduces herself, but he doesn't pay attention. Instead he notices the wicker basket full of white linen.

  "I love the smell of sheets dried on the line,” he says.

  "Me too. I hate the smell of a dryer."

  He looks at the bruise on her arm, then at her son playing with Jessie. His eyes wander to the clothes in the basket. Then, he looks at the wasps flirting with the blooming vines. Their wings sound like the highway when it sings. Suddenly, the woman's husband yells out the window. He yells to come take care of the baby. Fearfully, she hides her arm with the clothes basket.

  "I'd better go get that baby,” she says.

  He calls Jessie and walks over to his own trailer. Just as he is going inside, her husband yells again, accompanied by the sound of something crashing, maybe pots and pans. He closes the door.