Bad Games- The Complete Series

by Jeff Menapace

  “Bitch, please,” Charlie replied.

  Andy smiled, popped in the cassette, and then joined his friend on the floor of Andy’s bedroom, their eyes wide and alive for things to come.

  Arty and Jim seated before the camera, addressing the viewing audience with big grins, as has been their custom in every tape thus far.

  “Hello again, friends,” Arty says. “In today’s segment, we’re going to be doing a follow-up to our debut tape on home invasions. Unlike the previous tape, however, we are going to be far sneakier about our entry and, ultimately, far, FAR sneakier about introducing ourselves.”

  Jim rocks back and forth in his seat. “I fucking love this one. The looks on their faces when we first say hello is…” He closes his eyes. “Is just wonderful.”

  Arty smiles his brother’s way. “Gotta admit I’m a big fan of this one too. Now, the absolute KEY to making this one work all boils down to entry. Assuming you’ve applied the lessons we taught in our previous tape about scouting out a good home in Any Town USA, the trick to making this one work is to obtain entry into that home without being detected. This can be done any number of ways. However, there is one surefire way that has yet to fail me and Jim. Tell them what it is, Jim.”

  Jim leans forward in his seat. “While many dwellings in Any Town USA are woefully lacking in home security, not ALL of them are. If they are the kind of people who leave their doors unlocked at night, then, boom, problem solved; you can move on to phase two. Problem with that, however, is that you’ll have no way of knowing whether they do lock up at night—and this NEEDS to be done at night, friends—until you actually attempt entry. If you get to the back door, only to discover it locked, sure, you can still find a way in—lock picks, glass cutters—but this can be tricky.”

  “Truth,” Arty says. “There’s always a way in—Jim and I once entered someone’s open garage and hid out in their car until they locked up for the night.”

  “Didn’t we bring a deck of cards with us?” Jim asks. “Played poker in their SUV until midnight?”

  Arty laughs. “We sure did. When we were ready, it was simply a matter of exiting the car and strolling on in through the mudroom.”

  Jim grins.

  “While this worked well for us, we don’t necessarily suggest it as your go-to entry,” Arty says. “There was always the chance that someone might have come back out and hopped into the car with us. We would have controlled the situation quickly, of course, but then the game we had planned for that night would have gone to shit, and we would’ve had to go with something else. Fun as we would have made it, when your heart is set on a particular game, it can be a bit of a buzzkill to have to abort it last minute.”

  Jim nods.

  “So…” Arty says. “What is the one surefire way to gain entry undetected that has yet to fail me and Jim thus far? Why, it’s to secure an entry well in advance, so to speak. What do I mean by that, Jim?”

  “Why don’t we just show them, Arty?”

  Cut to a scene of Arty donning a gray workman’s uniform, an ID badge clipped to his shirt, a clipboard in one hand. “Call me the gas man,” he says to the camera with splayed arms and a proud smile.

  Jim hands the camera to Arty, and now an image of Jim wearing the same attire, smiling proudly with arms splayed as Arty’s were. He adds a smarmy pirouette.

  Jim hands the camera back to Arty. “People freak if they think their home might have a gas leak,” Arty says. “Houses have been blown off the face of the earth from such things. Needless to say, it’s a good idea to make sure the home uses gas and not electric first. This will all be done in your initial reconnaissance of the place. Check for a meter along the perimeter of the house. It’s not a difficult spot; it will be in plain sight and accessible for the real gas man to check. As for convincing them that WE’RE the real gas men, it’s been our experience that almost everyone has no clue as to what legit credentials look like. Besides, as we’ve already mentioned, the innocent souls in Any Town USA are trusting to a fault.

  “Now, uniforms can be purchased online, and as far as those credentials go, this can all be done with a simple laminator and a little artwork on your part. Find out the name of their gas provider—there’s actually a meter number helpline you can call; you can find it online—and print the company logo along with a good photo ID—the photos can be done at any place that does passports—and you’re in business. Ready, Bro?”

  Cut to a scene of Arty approaching the front door of a home in the afternoon. The position of the camera tracking Arty makes it clear that once again Jim is wearing the body cam.

  Arty rings the doorbell. A woman, mid-fifties, answers.

  Arty tells her there have been reports of a gas leak in the neighborhood. The woman looks alarmed. Arty smiles and assures her that they’ve already checked her meter, and all appears well, but they need to get inside and check her furnace to be sure. Arty then asks whether she or her husband have smelled anything unusual in their home.

  She tells Arty that she has not, and that her husband is at work but she could call him and ask.

  Arty smiles again and tells her not to bother; they can check right now and be out of her hair in five minutes.

  The woman agrees and steps aside, allowing Arty and Jim entry into her home.

  Cut to a scene in the basement. Arty and Jim are alone, the woman apparently waiting upstairs. The basement has sliding glass doors. Arty points to the doors, looks back at the camera, smiles, and gives a thumbs-up. He goes over and unlocks the sliding glass doors.

  Cut to a scene of Arty and Jim back in the foyer, Arty assuring the woman that there is no leak and that all is well. The woman looks relieved and thanks the two brothers. Arty smiles back, tells her it was their pleasure and to take care.

  Jim’s body cam tracks Arty back outside, where Arty then turns back towards the house and gleefully whispers: “See you sooon…”

  Cut to a scene of Arty and Jim seated in the car before the camera again.

  Arty splays his hands. “Voila,” he says. “Now comes the really fun part.” He looks at his brother. “Jim?”

  Jim pulls a mask out from under his seat and puts it on. It is a rubber Halloween mask of a lunatic grinning with bulbous, wonky eyes and a mouthful of enormous teeth. The lunatic’s skin is a pale white. Jim lets out a maniacal cackle to complete the effect.

  Arty laughs and reaches under his seat, pulling out the very same mask. He too dons it and lets out a similar wail.

  Both men remove their masks.

  “The trick to making this game extra special,” Arty says, “is to wait until the couple is fast asleep, enter their bedroom, stand by their bedside, and simply stare down at them in our masks and wait for them to wake.”

  “And they ALWAYS wake,” Jim says. “We all have that unexplainable feeling of being watched, even while asleep. Like a tap on the shoulder, they always eventually wake.”

  “And then…oh then…” Arty looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes, his face one of unparalleled delight. He brings his gaze back on the camera. “The absolute fear that registers on their faces when they see us looming over them, it’s…there are simply no words to describe how magnificent it is.”

  Jim nods emphatically.

  “You see, anyone can commit a murder,” Arty continues. “But how many can do what we do? Elicit such paralyzing fear? That, my friends, is the true essence of the game. Murder is mere compensation.”

  Jim nods again.

  “So.” Arty claps his hands together once. “After they wake, the rest is up to you, friends. Though Jim and I still believe the day will come when fear alone will stop their hearts during this particular game, that no further action will be necessary. How grand that would be…” He looks away in thought for a moment, clearly visualizing such an occurrence.

  “I can’t wait,” Jim says. “I can’t fucking wait.”

  Arty looks at his watch, then at Jim. “Patience, little brother.”

&n
bsp; Cut to a scene at night, Arty standing outside the sliding glass door of the home they’d visited earlier in the day. Jim is again wearing the body cam; only his detached voice and the movements of his hands and arms are periodically caught on film for the moment. Arty is dressed all in black. In one hand dangles the bulky handheld camera. No sign of the masks they intend to wear yet.

  Arty goes for the sliding glass door and pulls gently on the handle. It yields with a whisper as he opens it a few inches. He turns back to the camera with mock surprise on his face; the door’s unlocked! his face says.

  Jim can be heard chuckling, and Arty quickly raises a finger to his lips to hush him, smiling as he does so.

  Arty slides the glass door open just enough for the two of them to slip inside, turns, and slides it shut after them. Again, the door is whisper quiet back and forth on its track.

  The interior of the basement is nearly black, the moonlight from outside the only source of light, casting a faint blue glow throughout their surroundings that seems impossibly deliberate in its ominousness.

  The click of a flashlight in Arty’s non-camera hand, and the small circle of light is their guide towards and up the basement stairs. They ascend slowly, carefully. Jim’s breathing, quickening with excitement, is the only sound.

  Arty opens the basement door that leads them into the kitchen, it too bathed in blue moonlight from the surrounding windows and another sliding glass door. The lighting is sufficient for Arty to switch off the flashlight.

  Arty turns and leaves the kitchen, Jim’s camera following close behind, the sound of Jim’s breathing quickening with each new step.

  They arrive at the stairs. The lighting is poor here, and Arty is forced to use the flashlight once again, the circle of light guiding their ascent. One of the steps creaks beneath their feet, and they pause, Arty instantly clicking off the light. A moment of silence as they wait with the patience of pythons. Satisfied the creaks of the steps went unheard, they ascend further, eventually reaching the landing.

  The two brothers had a satisfactory blueprint of the basement and the first floor, but the second floor is foreign to them. Very dark, darker than the foyer and stairs, Arty is once again forced to use the flashlight to navigate. The circle of light reveals one long hallway with several open doors on either side, the hallway coming to an end with one final door. It is from this door that the faint sound of a man snoring can be heard.

  The two brothers do not bother with the other doors—their earlier reconnaissance telling them that no one else occupied the home—and head straight for the final door at the end of the hall.

  The door is open a crack. Arty nudges it open a few inches and peers inside. He then turns back to Jim, to the camera, smiles and nods.

  Cut to a scene of both brothers standing at the foot of the bed, the handheld camera Arty was carrying now replacing Jim’s body cam, likely positioned on a nearby dresser. The only light in the room is now coming from the camera on the dresser. It is faint but sufficient to capture any and all action.

  Both brothers pull their masks from their waistbands and put them on. The faint sound of their breathing behind their masks can be heard. The sleeping man and woman do not stir.

  The lunatic faces nod at one another and move into position, each taking a spot at the couple’s bedside, Jim the man’s, Arty’s the woman’s.

  They do precisely as they announced they would and merely loom over their respective targets, doing nothing else but waiting and watching with the pale rubber faces of grotesque lunatics.

  Andy and Charlie looked on with bladder-bursting anticipation. Never had they felt such a need to see something through to its end.

  Only they had to wait a little longer.

  Lost in the throes of the film, they did not register the sounds below of Andy’s mother returning home from her nightly bar crawl. She now pounded on Andy’s locked door, insisting he let her in.

  Andy rushed towards the television, fumbling to shut the VCR off. He managed it the second his mother, having used the sardine can-like emergency key that sat on the wooden ledge above his door frame, above each door in the house (the keys had gone mysteriously missing after Andy had discarded them all to keep his mother’s late-night visits to a minimum, only to have his mother immediately replace them the next day coupled with a knowing warning to her son that they better “not go fucking missing again”), burst into her son’s bedroom, staggering and scowling. And then, upon seeing her son and his friend stunned speechless as they sat in a dark room before a TV that now showed nothing but a blank screen, her scowl became a horribly delighted grin. Drunkenly, she slurred: “Caught you watching some porn, didn’t I, you little perverts?”

  Andy quickly got to his feet and shook his head. “No, Mom—we weren’t watching porn.”

  Still grinning her horrible drunken grin, his mother went on: “Like hell you weren’t. Probably got here right before you hiked your pants up! Is that what you two get up to when I’m away? Jerk off in front of each other, you little queers?”

  Andy hung his head. “No, Mom.”

  “Well, then prove it,” she said. “Prove to me you’re not a little queer, boy. Don’t keep me waiting.” She turned and left for her bedroom.

  Charlie, frozen stiff on the floor since Andy’s mother’s arrival, finally spoke. His voice was soft and weak. “Andy?” was all he said.

  Andy would not look at his friend. “Stay here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just stay here, all right?” He was practically yelling at Charlie now. “And stay here. Don’t move no matter what you…no matter what you hear.” Andy’s voice cracked on the final word.

  “What’s going on, man?”

  Andy finally looked at Charlie. He was trying everything in his power not to cry. “Please,” he said. He was no longer yelling, just pleading with his friend to sit and wait for him and not ask anything more.

  Charlie nodded.

  Andy turned and went into his mother’s room, closing the door behind him. Charlie heard the click of the lock a second after.

  19

  Only Charlie did move. Did listen. His concern for his friend was too great not to. And the noises he heard coming from the other side of the door were almost too shocking to comprehend.

  What to do? Honor his friend’s wish and stay put until he returned, or—?

  Or what, tough guy? Go in there and put a stop to it?

  Why not?

  Because you’re weak.

  No, I’m not. Not anymore.

  Says who? You and your little buddy kill one whore and you think you’re gods all of a sudden? You think shaving your head and doing pushups and drinking weight-gain shakes ’til you barf is gonna change anything? You’ll always be weak. You AND your friend. Always our little bitches.

  These words in his father’s voice.

  Not anymore. Not any-fucking-more.

  No? Haven’t you learned by now? No matter what you do from here on out, we will always own your puny little asses. The damage is done. Kill another whore. Kill a thousand. Put on all the muscle you want. Stand up to bullies at your school. It won’t change a fucking thing. That woman in the next room, the one fucking her OWN SON? You will never be able to shake her. Shake us. We will haunt your fucking dreams until the day you die, you little fairy.

  Not anymore!

  His father’s voice, laughing now: Remember when those boys stripped you bare-ass naked and marched you up and down the school so everyone could see your puny pecker? Remember the next night when your sister had her sleepover?

  Shut up!

  The voice laughing harder: I came into your room and told you I’d give you one chance not to let it happen again? If you could take your old man, here and now, then I wouldn’t strip you myself and drag you downstairs for all your sister’s friends to see?

  SHUT UP!

  Christ, you didn’t even put up a fight. I was a bottle of Jim Beam deep. Could barely stand, and you
still couldn’t put a scratch on me, could you, you little faggot? Oh, and how they laughed at you when I made you give them a show. Your sister too. How they pointed and laughed. Tried to cover yourself with both hands, didn’t you, but I snatched you by the wrists—I could fit BOTH your scrawny wrists into one hand—and jerked your arms overhead. Even flicked you on your puny pecker, didn’t I?

  Deep, deep laughter now. And how you cried. Cried to your mommy, remember? Even called upstairs to her for help? Asking me to stop it? Mommeee…! you cried. She never came, though, did she? And don’t believe for a second it wasn’t because she couldn’t hear, didn’t know what was going on. She didn’t come because she didn’t give a shit, boy. Why would she? Why would either one of us give a shit about a weak little fairy like you? You made us sick.

  SHUT UP!!!

  Good times. Damn good times. So, go ahead and think you can rise above it all, boy. You can’t. You and your little buddy will never be able to rise above what we done to you. The scars we happily put on you are for LIFE. Ain’t nothing gonna change that—ever.

  Charlie hurried downstairs into the Franklins’ kitchen. Grabbed a steak knife, the biggest he could find. Ran back upstairs, went to Andy’s mother’s door and found the emergency key on the frame’s ledge. Picked the lock and opened the door.

  He froze there a moment, the sight before him stopping his march and his incentive like a bullet. Andy’s mother atop her son, her naked back to Charlie, Andy’s eyes shut tight, his head turned away from her on the pillow.

  And then Andy opened his eyes—

  (Jim’s voice now, comforting to Charlie: “We ALL have that unexplainable feeling of being watched…”)

  —and met Charlie’s stunned gaze. Charlie expected his friend to wave a quick hand behind his mother’s back, shooing him away. But he didn’t. Instead, he only stared back at his friend with a look of impossible helplessness and shame.

  His father again: We OWN you. Always will.