by Jordan Krall
As he raced upwards, slipping and sliding in six inches of snow, he looked up and saw the shimmering image of Barbara Stanwyck in the sky above. Tommy froze. His testicles retracted and his heart skipped a beat. Barbara winked and jiggled her breasts which appeared to be three sizes to large for her body. Her nipples were dots of pink fire and her teeth were glistening bubbles of starlight.
He continued running and when he reached the top of the hill, Tommy fell down to his knees. He chuckled, realizing that this was exactly the position Peachy was in when a speeding donkey on a sled killed him. This thought made him cut short his rest and sent him down the other side of the hill. I hope Joe Gurney still has that shack in the clay pits, he thought. His friend Joe used the shack for bootlegging and it would be, in Tommy’s opinion, a great place to hide out for a while.
Thinking back to his childhood, Tommy decided on a better way to go down the hill. He ran a few feet and then jumped onto his belly, sliding down the rest of the way. The freezing cold seeped through his jacket and shirt. He smiled and thought that Jake would have found all of this extremely hilarious.
Chapter 14
Inside Laruso’s Italian Eatery, the killer in black gloves sat at a table, his magic marker sitting beside a bowl of pasta. His mind was divided between the pleasurable taste of the food and the fracas outside on the street. Also in his mind, in a small corner that had always been reserved for obsession, was the remembrance of the musky stench of Sweetie Martini’s armpit sweat as he tore off her clothes.
The man eating pasta stared out the window, watching as a group of longheads came to the door of the restaurant. He shouted to Dan, the owner and cook. “You better leave now,” he said. Dan nodded and went to hide.
A group of four longheads came through the door. The one standing in front was dressed in a wrinkled military uniform. He walked up to the table where the man was eating pasta.
Instead of the frenzied manner in which they attacked outside, the longheads calmly took the man to the floor and proceeded to beat his arms and legs to a pulp with the butts of their guns. The man did not fight, did not say a word.
A living torso with crushed bones and flesh for appendages, he flapped around a little bit and then stared at the ceiling remembering his years spent in the military.
“General Entwistle, you awake?” one of the longheads asked. He looked around and saw his attackers gathered around him. His mind flashed jagged slivers of light and memory.
Now, General Entwistle remembered everything. He had brought the troops to the city and ordered them to attack. Meanwhile, he stayed back, out of harm’s way, with his good friends Sgt. Aaron Jeffords and Sgt. Dario Martino. They played cards and ate pasta while their men fought a fierce battle.
Many hours later, the troops came back. The walked their own trail of tears, gnashing their teeth and dragging snapping turtles that had attached themselves to the soldiers’ hands and feet.
The turtles were the least of their problems, however, for the men came back with freakish elongated skulls which made them resemble pale clones of Frankenstein’s monster. It was as if the soldiers were crystal clear reflections of a funhouse mirror.
General Entwistle scolded the men for not winning the battle and forced them into the worst hospital tents he could find. There they sat for weeks, being fed stale rations and being shown the same three Barbara Stanwyck films over and over. The men requested new movies, ones that were current but General Entwistle reserved those for himself. After viewing the same films for weeks, all of the longheads had memorized the dialogue. They chanted it like scripture, reworking it into their own stories of existential revelations and horrific revenge.
So now, he found himself on the floor, unable to move, finally facing the cruel, elongated arm of fate. One of the longheads took out a bizarre contraption and strapped his head into it.
General Entwistle felt a strap and a buckle being closed around his skull and felt metal rods being forced against his temples. He stared at a painting on the wall of the restaurant: a vibrant mural of modern Venice. He wanted so much to visit there. Even without arms and legs, he thought, it would be rather pleasant. I could hire someone to carry me around. Maybe a nice big, Amazonian woman with huge tits. I can sit on top of them and she can walk me around the city.
The longheads cranked the contraption that they had attached to the general’s head. It took five whole minutes of vigorous cranking until finally they had made him into something even more grotesque than themselves.
Entwistle spent the last fifteen minutes of his life thinking about snapping turtles and how nice it would have been to be able to visit Venice with his good friends Aaron and Dario. A minute before he died, the face of Barbara Stanwyck appeared over the wall and he watched her swim in the canals of Venice while her breasts bobbed in the water like oversized cantaloupes.
The longheads watched as General Entwistle expired and when it was all over, they started to convulse. The veins on their heads bulged like raging underground rivers which then exploded in a spurting display of biological apokalypsis. Floating rivers of blood shot through the air like ketchup angrily squeezed from bottles. The longheads dropped dead on the floor.
Dan Laruso came out of the kitchen closet where he had been hiding and took a look at the scene in his restaurant.
“This is gonna be a real pain in the ass to clean up,” he said, grabbing the mop and bucket.
Chapter 15
The donkey corpse still lay on the sled, Peachy’s entrails dragging close behind. The falling snow had covered it with a thick layer of glistening whiteness that reflected the streetlights.
A wet bubbling sound erupted from the donkey’s stomach along with a rip that echoed down the street, tickling the ears of each and every longhead. Out of the corpse of the hairy sled-rider came a baby donkey, half-dead with fright but with a resolve that was above and beyond that of any trauma victim.
It took only a few seconds for Little Bing Bong to get his bearings and when he did, he stood on all four legs and let out a hee-haw that shattered windows and brought goose bumps to everyone within a half mile radius. The sound even made the remnants of Peachy’s kneecaps slide into the gutter where they were eaten by a three-legged stray cat.
Little Bing Bong made his way down the street, ignoring the longheads and the slaughter of the citizens of Thompson. He started up the hill and when he reached the top, he looked into the eyes of Barbara Stanwyck. His donkey consciousness debated the idea of jumping off of the hill and into her cleavage but his reasoning skills told him that he’d never make it. Instead, he settled on bowing his head, mentally supplicating for a boon of some kind.
After ten minutes, Barbara responded favorably to the donkey’s petition and lifted her feet up and let loose a fierce brevibacterial wind of snow and sole dirt. Little Bing Bong closed his eyes and inhaled through his large donkey nose, filling his lungs with the revelation and blessing of Barbara Stanwyck.
At the bottom of the hill, a large crowd of longheads gathered, staring up at the animal on the hill. They were silent, focusing their minds on every snippet of dialogue from the Barbara Stanwyck movies they had watched. Every line was not only recited mentally but was studied and meditated upon.
Barbara’s foot brought another gust of wind and the longheads watched as each and every snowflake now reflected a different scene from the very films they were thinking about. The sky before them became a holographic universe of black and white memories, a seemingly infinite array of twinkling Barbara-clones encased in frost.
Little Bing Bong shook the snow from his fur and snorted in donkey-laughter. He looked down and saw a cardboard Halloween mask. Lacking the appropriate appendages to pick it up, he kicked it instead and watched it flip up into the air and get carried by the stink-wind that was still emanating from Barbara’s feet.
And so Little Bing Bong, the Apocalypse donkey, stood on top of the hill that rose above Thompson, New Jersey, and for the first time in his
young life, felt a tinge of bittersweet sorrow. He knew that something was going to happen to the world, something so massively absurd that it would erase any semblance of normality that had previously existed in any form whatsoever.
And so he watched and waited.
And waited.
Little Bing Bong was finally sucked up through the air and into Barbara Stanwyck’s mouth where he swam in her yellowish, gelatinous drool.
Chapter 16
Willie Packard ran out of Sara McMadigan’s apartment building and stumbled down the steps. While dressing, he neglected to pull up his zipper and now cold rush of air enveloped his penis, tickling it with icy fingertips. Though the feeling wasn’t unpleasant, he zipped his pants.
The street was quiet except for the always existent hum of the Dynatox Factory that reverberated through the town like an inexhaustible gong. Willie took a look down on end of the street and then the other.
No people.
He started walking until he got to Main Street and stopped when he saw all of the corpses.
“Whoa. What the fuck happened here?”
He walked slowly, careful not to step on anyone as he took a look at each person. Some people he recognized. Mike Barnes from the hardware store. Jessica Andrews from the pottery shop. John Lawrence, Willie’s mailman. Even Officer Freddy Fernandez was lying in the snowy gutter, his torso riddled with bullets. Willie shook his head. “Goddamn.”
His stomach growled so he walked farther down the street and saw that the lights were on in Laruso’s. Willie walked in and saw that Dan was mopping the floor which had streaks of gore across it. “Jesus, Dan. What the hell happened?”
“The hell if I know, Willie.”
“I hope it’s no trouble but you mind if I sit down? Maybe have something to eat?”
Dan gestured to the empty tables. “Sure thing, have a seat. What can I get ya?”
“Hmm,” Willie wondered. He knew the fettuccine alfredo was delicious but he’d also heard good things about the insalata di polpo. Not being able to make up his mind, he asked for both. “Can I have a glass of your house red wine, too?”
Dan nodded and went into the kitchen to prepare the food. He grabbed a wine glass, picked up a bottle of wine and poured a full glass. Good thing some winos left these bottles outside, Dan thought, remembering the weird looking drunks who were hanging out in the alley next to the restaurant.
After Dan had cooked up the food, he walked into the dining room. He saw Willie sitting at the table and almost dropped the plates.
Willie Packard was sitting, hands folded, at the table wearing something on his face. Dan slowly walked closer and quietly placed the plates on the table.
“Are you okay?” Dan asked.
Willie Packard laughed loudly through his Halloween mask.
THE END
THE APOCALYPSE DONKEY
Chapter One
Simon Palmer swerved the car but ended up hitting the squid anyway.
What the hell was a squid doing in the middle of the road? He didn’t know the answer but didn’t care so he kept driving. He figured the thing was dead before he hit it. But how could that be? It was out of water. Squid can’t survive for long out of water, can they? Another question he didn’t have the answer to. He was getting used to that.
The car hit a pothole and Simon heard one of the boxes in the backseat fall over, spilling copies of his books all over the floor.
“Shit,” he said and reached back with one arm to scoop some of them up. He almost hit the car in front of him so he eased over to the side of the road. Looking at the copies of book, the trade paperback collection of his comic book The Adventures of Fauntleroy LeRoux, Simon was reminded of the year he spent living in his car, drawing Fauntleroy LeRoux over and over in his notebook. Who would’ve thought that he’d get a chance to work on a new series featuring the classic character he had grown up reading? Though he was far from rich and famous, Simon considered himself lucky.
This book signing was something that Simon looked forward to despite knowing that most of the readership came from an obscure demographic. It wasn’t the usual comic book fan (male, 18-35, living with his parents) who read his work. He got fan mail from eighty-year old doctors, meth-addicted housewives, ten-year old orphans, and even an imprisoned priest. His publisher told him that the biggest readership came from central New Jersey and more specifically, the city of Thompson. Simon recalled hearing that Byron McPhee, the creator of the Fauntleroy LeRoux comic strip, moved to the area in 1932 although whether or not there was a connection, Simon didn’t know.
Once he drove into Thompson, he stopped at a strip mall and looked for a payphone. There was one by a liquor store and when Simon picked up the receiver, his hand touched something slimy. Smeared on the phone was something yellow and gooey. He took his handkerchief out of his pocket and held the phone with it. Then he dialed.
It rang twice and then a voice answered, “Hellooooo there!”
Simon said, “Hey, Chaps. What’s up? I’m in Thompson.” Chaps lived three towns away. Ever since Simon moved to Pennsylvania four years ago, they only saw each other occasionally.
“Already? I figured you wouldn’t get there until another hour or so. I still have to eat breakfast.”
“We’ll get something to eat, just meet me at Zip Comics and we’ll go to a diner or something.”
Chaps said, “I don’t know. I think I’d rather eat at home and meet you afterwards.”
Simon sighed. “Okay, when?”
“Maybe two hours or so.”
“Two hours? You kidding me?” Simon wanted to curse but held himself back, not wanting to upset an already unstable friendship. He wanted to tell Chaps to stop being a hermit, stop being a procrastinator, stop alienating his friends. But instead, Simon just said, “Okay, meet met at the comic shop at 9:30.”
Chaps said, “Okay. I’ll be there.” He giggled nervously. “Take care.”
“Yeah, you too. Bye.” Simon hung up. I really should’ve told him to go fuck himself.. Sick of this shit. If he doesn’t want to hang out, just fucking tell me. Simon felt like ending the friendship but felt like there was something there to nurture, something that was worthwhile. Chaps was unreliable to say the least but for some reason Simon liked his company.
What the fuck am I going to do for two hours? The comic shop isn’t even open.
Simon sat outside the strip mall and smoked a cigarette. He watched the cars drive by and wished he was in one of them, wanting to know what it was like to be someone else. He wasn’t discontent with his life but it would be fun to explore other lifestyle options. There might be a good story in there somewhere.
A car pulled into the parking lot, taking a space that was near Simon. The car idled for two minutes and then shut off. A man got out and walked towards him. He tried not looking at the guy but it was difficult. He was tall, freakishly so. Long brown hair and muscular, though not really that big. Okay, I think I better go back to the car. Simon hated being afraid but that was his instinct especially in unfamiliar surroundings where there were guys he knew could kick his ass in a minute.
Though mentally he was prepared to stand up, his body wouldn’t listen. The man got closer and walked up to Simon. He could see now that he wasn’t as scary close up. In fact, he was attractive and if Simon were gay, he’d find the guy irresistible.
The man said, “You him?”
Simon didn’t know what to reply. Was this a Fauntleroy LeRoux fan that recognized him? Did the guy come into town for the book signing? No, he didn’t seem enthusiastic. He’s too casual, nonchalant.
“Uh, I don’t know. Who are you looking for?” He stubbed out the cigarette and realized right away that it might come off looking like an aggressive gesture, like a character in a spaghetti western who was getting his hands ready to go for his six-shooters.
“Don’t fuck around. You’re the only guy standing here and so I’m asking, are you the guy?”
Oh, what the hell.
“Yeah, I’m the guy,” Simon said, instantly regretting it.
The man didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look excited or disappointed. His facial expression didn’t change while he went for his back pocket and brought out a black envelope.
The man said, “Here,” and dropped it on Simon’s lap. Then he walked back to his car.
“Hey wait!” Simon grabbed the envelope and stood up, taking a few steps towards the man. He got no response and so then jogged over to the guy, wanting to say, “Hey I was just kidding. I’m not the guy so here, sorry about that. Take back your weird, black envelope.”
He knew he couldn’t do it. So when the guy turned to look at him, Simon just said, “Thanks.”
The guy didn’t respond. He got into his car and drove away.
Simon stood in the middle of the parking lot, watching the car drive away and wondering what was in the black envelope. He hoped it wasn’t what he thought it was.
Chapter Two
Harry Bosch drove out of the parking lot, relieved to be done with the whole mess. He was told by Terry that there’d be a meth-head hanging out in front of the convenience store on Washington Road and to give him the envelope. Harry did just that and hoped that it would indeed be the end of the whole fucking mess.
That meth-head was acting strange but who knows what the fuck those guys are gonna do?
He’d been in debt to Terry Silver for far too long. Harry had been sucked in the by the allure of Terry’s unorthodox organized crime family, one that was not based on ethnicity or old country tradition. It was based on money, violence, and squid, all of which Harry loved. Still, Terry turned out to be the kind of guy who’d promise the same thing to three people, never intending to give it to any of them. Fucking asshole. I shoulda listened to Mike Barnes and stayed the fuck away from him.