Dead Clown Barbecue

by Strand, Jeff

  I touched the severed nose again, holding my index finger on the tip for two seconds rather than one. Still felt real.

  That was a legitimate nose on my dining room table.

  Having confirmed its authenticity, I now had four different questions to answer: Whose nose was it, who put it there, why would they do such a bizarre thing, and what should I do with it?

  The first question would be simple enough to answer. I couldn't remember ever having seen a noseless person walking around the city, and so if I saw one within, say, the next two weeks, I could be pretty much assured that he or she was the previous owner.

  The second question was somewhat more challenging. I knew that the general answer to who'd left the nose was "a sociopath," but I wasn't on speaking terms with any sociopaths that I knew about. I mentally ran down my list of acquaintances and couldn't think of any who seemed capable of mutilation. I had an uneasy relationship with Preston, who lived in the apartment directly below me, yet his crimes were limited to stealing my mail and cheating at Scrabble, Monopoly, and Pictionary.

  Third question: why would they do such a bizarre thing? I had no idea. Prior head injury?

  The most important question was, what to do with it? I certainly wasn't going to leave it on my dining room table. My first instinct was to just throw it away, but what if I needed it as evidence later? Or what if the sociopath was enraged that I'd rejected his or her gift? It had to have been left on my best plate for a reason, and until I knew what that was, I shouldn't be disposing of anything.

  Where to put it? It would rot, right? I couldn't have a rotting nose smelling up my . . .

  Smelling up. That was pretty funny. I didn't laugh, because I was still too stressed out over the situation, but I did enjoy a small inner chuckle.

  Obviously, it had to go in my refrigerator. I wasn't very comfortable with the idea of having a body part next to my food and drink, yet what else could I do? Purchase a small refrigerator specifically for this purpose? That would be madness. Unless the motive for this whole scheme was to sell portable refrigerators, which I very much doubted, there'd be nothing to gain from spending the money.

  I'd simply have to make sure it was securely wrapped and didn't come into contact with my edibles. Everything would be okay. It wasn't as if I ever staggered into the kitchen in the middle of the night and popped a random object into my mouth.

  Good lord, what if I was meant to eat the — no, no, that was ridiculous.

  I needed to get it out of my sight. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and unspooled about a dozen sheets. I picked up the nose with the towel, rolled it up tight, stuffed the whole wad of paper towel into a plastic baggie, sealed it up, and put it in the crisper of my refrigerator.

  Done.

  I spent the rest of the evening sitting in my easy chair, lost in thought, but the mysteries of the day remained riddles wrapped in enigmas garnished with puzzles when I fell asleep.

  * * *

  When I returned home from work the next day, there was a severed ear on my table.

  A left ear, not that it mattered.

  This was even more distressing. Not necessarily because an ear was more upsetting than a nose, but rather due to the cumulative effect of finding a second body part so soon after the first. I paced around my apartment, heart racing, pulse pounding, breath heaving, sweat glands spraying. I could be in mortal danger. The culprit could still be here. I had to call the police.

  I picked up my phone and dialed 911, then hung up before it could connect.

  Was this truly an emergency?

  Yes. Yes, it was. I dialed again.

  "911 emergency," the woman on the other end informed me.

  "I need help," I said. "There's a severed ear on my table."

  "Is it your ear, sir?"

  "No. I'm not sure whose it is."

  "Does it have any identifying characteristics, like an earring?"

  I glanced at the ear. "It's pierced, I think, but there's no earring."

  "And how long has this ear been on your table?"

  "Since I got home."

  "And when was that?"

  "About two minutes ago."

  "And your address?"

  "417 Skylar Way, Apartment 230."

  "Okay, sir, we'll have an officer dispatched as soon as possible. Don't touch the ear."

  "I won't."

  I hung up, feeling a little bit better.

  I wondered if the police would question the fact that I'd put the nose in my crisper. I knew I should probably tell them about it, in case a victim turned up with a missing ear and a missing nose and the police wanted to know where the nose went, but, in retrospect, it made me look kind of ghoulish. Maybe I should take it out and drop it on the floor or something and pretend that I hadn't noticed it.

  Maybe calling the police was a mistake. Maybe I should call them back and explain that I'd been mistaken, that it was just an ear-shaped piece of pizza crust.

  No. I'd done nothing wrong. Or nothing illegal, anyway. Not letting the police investigate was a good way for this situation to spiral out of control into a web of insanity, and I didn't need any webs of insanity in my life right now. I'd let the police come, explain what happened, and hope for the best.

  I did a thorough search of my apartment and was pleased to find it devoid of sociopaths.

  Three hours later, the police still hadn't arrived.

  I didn't want to disturb them if they were out catching stabbers or something, but I didn't think my problem was that insignificant. I decided to call them back.

  "911 emergency."

  "Hi. I called about the cut-off ear earlier."

  "Yes, sir. You're in the queue."

  "Is there a lot going on tonight?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Oh. Thank you, then."

  I hung up. I guessed I couldn't expect this to be a top priority. For all I knew, somebody else found a pair of severed legs in their washing machine.

  By bedtime, the police still hadn't arrived.

  I decided that if the authorities weren't overly concerned, then I shouldn't be, either. I put the ear in the same baggie as the nose, then went to bed and drifted into a restful slumber.

  * * *

  When I returned home from work the next evening, there were no new surprises waiting on my dining room table. I have to admit that I was almost a little disappointed. There wasn't much going on in my life, and at least these body parts gave me something to ponder.

  Was the culprit taking a vacation day, or had I seen the last of his efforts?

  Most curious indeed. I'd just have to wait and see.

  * * *

  About an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

  It was not, however, the police, unless the police had taken to dressing like shady individuals. I couldn't recall ever having seen a pair of men who looked quite that sinister, and this was through the peephole. You have to be extremely sinister to look sinister through a peephole.

  They were both tall and wore black leather jackets. One was completely bald, while the other had long brown hair that hung past his shoulders. I couldn't see if they were carrying guns, but they seemed like the kind of people who would be.

  The bald one knocked again.

  "We know you're there," he said, softly enough that I knew he meant "right there on the other side of the door" and not "in the apartment in general."

  I wasn't very much inclined to let them in, but they'd already demonstrated that they could get into my apartment without my permission, so it was probably best not to give them reason to look even more sinister.

  I opened the door. The men rudely pushed the door open the rest of the way, and the non-bald one shoved me to the floor. The bald one shut the door and locked it.

  Both of them took guns out of their inside jacket pockets and pointed them at me. I cringed and tried not to scream.

  "Where's the money?" the bald one asked.

  "What money?"

  He cr
ouched down next to me and tapped me on the knee with the barrel of his gun. "Are we playing stupid? Is that today's game?"

  "I swear, I don't know what money you're talking about," I insisted. "I have seventeen dollars in my wallet! Is that good enough?"

  "We're here for the ransom," the bald one said.

  "I don't have anything up for ransom."

  The bald intruder tapped my knee with the revolver. "I don't like stupid people, and I don't like smart people pretending to be stupid."

  "I really have no idea what you're talking about!"

  "Don't lie to us. We told you what would happen if you didn't pay. Didn't it bother you to find your brother's nose on a plate? Did you think we were kidding?"

  "I don't have a brother."

  The bald man stared at me. "Beg pardon?"

  "I don't have a brother."

  "There really isn't much of a family resemblance," his partner noted.

  "Is this 417 Skylar Way?"

  "Yes."

  "Apartment 230?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you Josh White?"

  "Yes."

  "And you have no brother?"

  "No."

  "Dammit!" the bald man shouted. "I can't believe this! He did it to us again! This is a bunch of crap. Crap! I will not continue to work under these conditions. He thinks I won't walk? I will so walk. And I'll tell him why to his face. I'll tell him that this is a bunch of crap. I may yank that cigar out of his mouth before I do it, too. I'll march right in there, pluck that cigar right out from between his lips, and tell him that this is a bunch of crap. Then I'll walk."

  "He'll kill you," his partner said.

  "Yeah? I'd like to see him try."

  "He'll do more than try. He'll shoot you right in the forehead and make me dispose of your body."

  "I know, I know. But you agree that this is crap, right?"

  "Yep."

  The bald man sighed. "I need to change direction in my life. College or tech school . . . I dunno, I'll look into taking night classes somewhere."

  His partner gestured at me with his gun. "What should we do with him?"

  "I don't know. Cap him, I guess."

  I wondered if I could attack unexpectedly and subdue my opponents. But then I remembered something my mother told me: "Son, don't be a hero." Of course, that was moments after my dad died trying to be a hero. He didn't even save the hamster. That said, anything I did now would be more about self-preservation than heroism, so I didn't think my mom's advice was applicable.

  If nothing else, this seemed like an appropriate time to speak up. "Look, that couldn't be less necessary. I'd never call the cops on you guys."

  "Oh, really? Why is that?"

  "Because I've . . . I've got bodies hidden everywhere. I wouldn't want anybody poking around my place."

  The men exchanged a look. I was relatively certain they didn't believe me. I didn't make any effort to insist that my story was true, since it would be pretty easy to verify the lack of bodies.

  "That," said the bald man, "is the most ridiculous lie I've ever heard from someone facing death. But I'm entertained by it."

  "That was my intent," I said. It wasn't, of course, but I was willing to try anything to stay on his good side.

  "We probably shouldn't kill you now, anyway," said the bald man, though he continued to point his gun at me in a potentially killing manner. "We'll take you to see the boss. Find out what he wants to do with you."

  I nodded politely. "Thank you."

  The bald man grinned. "You do realize that we were going to give you a merciful shot to the head, while the boss might have you slowly tortured to death, right?"

  "No, I did not realize that."

  "Now you do. Sucks to be you."

  * * *

  I sat in the back seat of their car, planning my daring escape. The plan currently involved us being struck by another car, spinning out of control, and my captors being knocked unconscious or dead against the dashboard, leaving me free to vacate the vehicle. Admittedly, there was a strong element of luck required for this plan to come to fruition, and I was seeking other options.

  "What are your names?" I asked.

  The bald man, who was not driving, turned around to look at me. "None of your business."

  Fine. I'd think of him as Baldy. Served him right. Baldy and Hairy.

  The driver glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. "I'm Harry," he said.

  I was too scared to chuckle at the coincidence, but I did note it with silent amusement.

  "Why'd you tell him that?" asked Baldy.

  "What's he going to do with that information? He's probably going to be dead in an hour."

  "You're kidding, right? An hour from now he'll still be in the knives-under-toenails stage."

  "I mean . . . you know what I mean. He'll be on his way to death in an hour."

  "And what if the boss wants to let him go?"

  "Then he knows my name is Harry. Big deal. It's not like my name is Snorky McDorkel."

  Baldy nodded. "Yeah, I see your point."

  He still didn't introduce himself, but I chose to focus instead on the "knives-under-toenails" portion of the conversation. "He won't really torture me, will he?" I asked.

  "Sure he will," said Baldy. "Why wouldn't he?"

  "I haven't done anything wrong."

  "You can try explaining that to him, but you'll still end up tortured to death."

  "You'll put in a good word for me, won't you?"

  "Unlikely."

  Though I'm not what you would call a complainer, I was very tempted to let Baldy and Harry know how upset I was with my current predicament. However, I also wanted to avoid a situation where either or both of them recommended to the boss that I be put to death. So I settled for sitting quietly in the back seat, thinking complaining thoughts about my current predicament.

  About fifteen minutes later, they blindfolded me. It was either that or ride in the trunk. I'd ridden in a car trunk once, when some friends tried to get me into a drive-in movie for free, and they decided that it would be funny just to leave me in there during the double feature. When they finally opened the trunk, I pretended to be dead, which would have been hilarious revenge, except that I oversold the illusion (having my tongue lolling out of my mouth was an unnecessary detail) and my friends decided to disprove my fatality by throwing a milkshake on me.

  I sat there wearing the blindfold, listening carefully for any details that might reveal my location. I knew the car was in motion, so that might prove helpful. They made a lot of turns. At one point they may have struck a small animal. Finally we arrived at our destination, and they helped me out of the car and led me indoors.

  They sat me down and removed the blindfold. I'm not sure if the room I was in had an official name, but if it did, I assume it was The Scary Room of Horrible Awful Painful Death. Everywhere you looked, there was something that could hurt or kill you. And I'm not talking about multi-purpose objects, such as, say, a corkscrew, which could be used as an implement of torture but might be justified simply as a way to get a cork out. The objects in this room seemed specifically designed to cause pain or end lives. The room had metal walls and a metal floor, presumably for easy cleanup.

  A very large gentleman sat in front of me, smoking a cigar. I use the word "large" to be polite, but your own mental image is welcome to be much less polite. Though I'll admit that he carried his weight well, there was a lot of it. He had a neatly trimmed grey mustache and goatee, which he stroked thoughtfully as he looked at me. I was pretty sure he was the aforementioned boss.

  "Are you Josh White?" he asked me.

  "Yes."

  "731 Skylar Way, Apartment 230?"

  "Yes."

  "And you don't have a brother?"

  "No."

  The boss snapped his fingers. "Bring me the brother."

  Baldy and Harry hurried out of the room. The boss just sat and stared at me as he smoked. I tried not to fidget.

  T
hey returned a moment later, pushing in a steel cage on wheels. A man about my age was crouched inside. His mouth was gagged, he had barely any room to move, and he was covered with perspiration. He also had bloody gauze stuck to his face in the nasal area and left-ear area.

  The boss looked back and forth between the two of us.

  "You're right," he finally said. "They're not related. We've got the wrong guy."

  "Do we cap him?" Baldy asked.

  The boss stroked his goatee some more. "When you snatched him from his apartment, did he say anything objectionable?"

  "No," said Harry. "Actually, he was very cooperative. And not in a spineless pathetic way. I hate when they start begging and blubbering, but he didn't do any of that. It was more like his attitude was that he didn't want to come with us — which is only to be expected — but he didn't want to create unnecessary hardship."

  "I'd agree with that," said Baldy.

  "Hmmm." The boss considered that information. "You know what? Variety is the spice of life. Let's set him free."

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  "However," the boss said, causing me to suck the sigh back in, "we need to make sure he won't go to the cops."

  "I won't go to the cops," I assured him. "We even talked about that earlier, back at my place."

  "If you get the law involved, I will use no fewer than twelve of the tools in this room on you. Twelve. You may think that doesn't sound like many, but trust me, it's a lot."

  "I trust you."

  "Also," he said, causing me to suck in a second sigh, "we need to make sure you remember us. So I'm going to sever a body part. Your choice."

  Baldy grinned at me. "You should choose your head."

  "You think this is funny?" The boss stood up and smacked Baldy across the face. "A human being is about to lose a body part! Show some respect!"

  Baldy rubbed his cheek and nodded. "Sorry."

  The boss returned his attention to me. "Like I said, you pick the part. The obvious selection is your little toe, but I'll leave it up to you."

  I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. "I, uh . . . when do I have to make a decision?"

  "Right now."

  "I can't . . . uh, I'm not . . . uh, I don't . . . does hair count?"

  The boss shook his head.

  "Not even eyebrows?"