by Chad Lutzke
“But Mr. Slidmer. It’s just about the…”
“Thank you, Mrs. Martin!” Edward then placed the receiver on the table, leaving the phone off the hook; the sound of Mrs. Martin’s plea could still be heard in the form of a high-pitched buzz.
Several minutes went by before Edward realized napping wasn’t going to happen without the help of his pills. He went to the bathroom and pulled a small prescription bottle out of the medicine cabinet, popped the lid, and spilled out two pills. They weren’t real strong, but they’d do the trick. He poured himself a glass of water and chased down the sleeping aids.
As he closed the medicine cabinet, he turned his head. He never looked in the mirror. He avoided his own face as well as the reasoning behind the effort to. It was the shame. He hated himself, and rightly so.
Once more, Edward lay his head down and within half an hour was asleep. He dreamt of writhing, bile-spewing rats soaked in blood with bellies full of household toxins. When he woke it was no longer daylight. He sprung straight from the couch, no rubbing of the eyes, no stretching. He woke both anxious and satisfied. His dreams told him he’d been successful with the trap; until waking reality hit him. Anxious to check the bread, he strode through the living room and into the kitchen. The stove clock read 7:00. He’d slept nearly four hours—much longer than he expected.
As Edward passed the counter, he spotted the loaf of bread he’d used earlier. It was surrounded by crumbs, and a large hole had been chewed into the backend of the loaf; two large rat turds sat next to it like a set of eyes staring at him.
“No! This is my house. This…” Edward picked up the loaf and squeezed it tight in his hand. “..is my food.”
He threw the bread hard at the wall.
“You can’t do this. I won’t allow it. I’ll be drinkin’ your blood! I’ll drink it up with a nice ham sandwich!” His voice cracked with rage.
With a reckless speed, he ran to the basement door and pulled it open. He got down two steps before stepping on something that sent him plummeting down the remainder of the staircase. His head crashed hard on the cement floor. Blood began to pool around his head as he lost consciousness—face up, his legs still on the stairs.
**
The light from the kitchen doorway fell down upon him like a spotlight. With a pounding head, Edward regained consciousness. He blinked and squinted his eyes under the light. Initially he’d forgotten about the fall and lay there collecting his thoughts. He lifted his head off the ground and winced in pain. Shutting his eyes, he lay his head back down. The curious smell of pennies filled the room.
With every attempt to focus on standing, his head throbbed all the more as it moved, but his body wouldn’t follow. He strained harder. All but his head remained still and dead like. There was no feeling in his arms or legs. Panic filled Edward as he recalled the incident—the storming through the kitchen, opening the door, and then tripping over something on the stairs.
His mind wouldn’t accept that the fall may have immobilized him but could think of no other reason why he couldn’t move. He began to scream and cuss but was answered only by an echo.
Spittle flew from his mouth as he continued on, throwing his head about. A claustrophobic feeling overwhelmed him; snot and tears wet his straining face. He identified the smell of pennies as blood when he turned his head to see a congealed mess resembling cranberry sauce. There was no way of telling how long he’d been lying there, but judging by the blood jelly around him it’d been at least half an hour.
The rats! He thought. They’ll crawl about me, urinating on me. Edward screamed louder. He screamed until the pain in his head would no longer allow it. Something must have broken. His back, he thought.
As he lay there still and unable to move, peering out of the darkened corners and cracked walls, he could make out their eyes. For a moment, he swore they were deep red—the color of blood, almost glowing.
Not real, he told himself.
The street lights shone through the basement windows, leaving the walls full of hunched silhouettes with pointed noses. Edward tightened his lips and turned his head away. The light from the kitchen revealed an old coffee can lay two feet from his face; an envelope spilled out. The word “rent” was written in cursive on the center of the envelope. Of course, the rent can. Mrs. Martin had left it on the stairs for him, a day early even. He recalled her last phone call. He had hung up on her. She’d been trying to report that she’d left the rent for him. He slammed his eyes shut in regret. The feeling filled every pore in his greedy body.
Upon opening his eyes, he screamed in terror as he looked at his side. His left hand, up to the wrist, had been picked clean of flesh, exposing the white bone beneath; the rats still hungrily feasting upon him—stretching, and then snapping, the tendons that trailed up under the meat of his forearm. Despite his shrieks, the rats continued to tear and rip at him. Edward’s eyes widened in horror as he saw more rats approaching his lifeless body. As he watched the blood-soaked rats feast upon him, his mad laughter bounced off the basement walls; louder and more hysterical with each rip of the flesh…
”Oh yes, boys. You’re gonna feast tonight! Oh yes!”
Notes on Chow
Another story that is nearly twenty years old. Initially I didn't care for it that much. I'm not big on straight forward revenge/karma execution stories, but those who have read this seemed to enjoy it. Hopefully you will too.
Quilted
I swear to you I was already hidden by the bushes when they breached the shore, pouring out like snakes afire. My pack was full of the day’s catch and I had stopped to adjust it. I watched as the bandits torched my village and butchered each man and woman; even the children. Like a coward, I remained concealed by the foliage, covering my ears to the cries as my people were beaten and skinned alive. It was only an hour earlier that I had kissed my wife and placed a flower in her silk, black hair—a habit I’d formed when heading out to hunt.
The courage to reveal myself and attack the bandits never came. Instead, I wept quietly, wishing them away, desperately hoping to find at least one other alive. As my village lay in piles of ash and blood, and the smell of burnt flesh permeated the air, I longed for death. I deserved it now more than any of them. Overwhelming remorse filled my soul. It was too late. It would have been better to die with honor protecting those I loved, than hide as a rat in his hole.
But I had done nothing.
For hours, the bandits took up repairs on their ship, in particular the sails. Holes were patched using mostly the clothing of the deceased villagers. As the bandits boarded and set sail, I made out a piece of material stretched taut across the ship’s front sail. Its hue was pink and appeared to have several small holes throughout. As the wind picked up, I noticed long tufts of black hair attached to the curious piece; a wilted flower caught in the strands.
I screamed and begged the lifeless face for forgiveness.
Notes on Quilted:
I love writing these little morsels—short and quick pieces of flash fiction. They are almost poetic and can often say a lot, really setting a mood if done correctly. Hopefully I conveyed that with the ones written in this book. This story came from yet another picture prompt; this time of a ship sailing off toward the moon at night. I tried thinking of something sinister and came up with what you just read. This story also spawned a book idea that is far enough from the original story it'll still be enjoyable and unpredictable. Hopefully one day I'll put that idea down into 30k words or more.
Deprivation
“So you think this’ll take care of it?” The aching truck driver asked, holding up the packet of Extra Strength Tylenol.
“Sir, I can’t be for sure, but it’s worth a try. I’m no pharmacist. Just a cashier.”
Before handing over his money, the trucker gave a suspicious glare at the young man. The cashier tightened his lips hard to hold in a laugh. He’d seen all kinds, especially working the graveyard shift. But this guy was a different kind of s
trange.
“Give me a fifth of that Jack right there.” The trucker nodded at the wall behind the cashier. “If one don’t take care of it, the other will.”
The cashier complied and pulled a dusty bottle of Jack Daniel's off the shelf.
“No, the fifth. Not the pint," said the trucker.
"Sir, this is the fifth." The cashier said as he held up the bottle.
The trucker stared hard at it and chuckled. "Yes, please."
The cashier gave a concerned look, grabbed a paper bag and hid the bottle inside. "Here you go, sir." He considered wishing the trucker well with his pain but changed his mind. He had no desire to strike up a possible conversation with the guy. Instead, he took the money being extended, retrieved the change, swiped the receipt and handed it over in one swift movement. A real pro.
The trucker gave a look that said he was looking for any excuse to backhand the kid. He snatched the bag of items and pocketed the change. He hadn't slept in nearly seven days or eaten in three and was full of the devil’s anger. An abscessed tooth will do that.
"I’ll be down at Margie’s for the night, and they don’t sell this kind of medicine," the trucker said as he lifted the bottle in the air. "I don’t wanna have to come back here.”
The cashier wasn't sure if that was a threat or just more gibberish like the rest of what the trucker spilled since he walked through the door. Nevertheless, another tight-lipped smile formed on the cashier's face. A smarter man would have recognized it as a cocky smirk, but the trucker didn't catch on.
He passed by the snack cake endcap and paused. The Hostess Sno-Balls caught his eye. Eating the usual fast food and bags of chips while on the road wasn’t doing anything for the infection. He couldn't remember his last meal, and it had really begun to wear on him. The case of lukewarm energy drinks back in the cab was the only thing keeping him going. These squishy Sno-Balls—if he can get them past the tooth—might appease the hunger pangs in his gut. He grabbed a package of the Sno-Balls, slapped a dollar bill on the counter in front of the cashier and left without change.
**
A sour smell spilled from the semi when the trucker opened it. Your average person would have retreated at the stench, but the driver had gotten used to it. Before entering, the man grabbed his jaw and rubbed it in an attempt to massage the pain away. His face scrunched as he meditated on the long road ahead. There had been a delay and the load wasn’t ready for pick-up. This had already gone on for days and could mean yet another day or two away from his apartment—away from the dentist.
The husky man pulled himself into the seat of the running truck and set the bag down next to him. Everything about him and his truck were stereotype. He liked it that way. His overweight body covered in denim and flannel, a dirty mesh cap that read “Keep On Truckin’” with a picture of R. Crumb’s iconic stepper. His belt buckle proudly sported his name, "Jed" in patriotic glitter, snuggly tucked under his belly.
As bad as the truck’s insides smelled, it gleamed with cleanliness. Everything was wiped down, not a single wrapper on the floor. The smell came from the seats. Ten years of junk food farts, nicotine, and his poodle “Amy” filled up every fiber in them with their funk. Amy’s black hair was never cut so it remained in her eyes. She was near blind anyhow so Jed saw no use in it. However, he did suspect much of the odor came from bits of feces that may not want to part ways with the dog until inside the truck.
Of course he'd long been used to the smell, and it wasn't often he had any company in the cab, save for a few lot lizards over the years. He always felt guilty paying for it. His mama raised him better than that, he'd think to himself the second after his loins spent their energy. Other than being lonely at times and succumbing to his manly desires, he despised the whores and normally stayed clear of them.
Jed ripped open the pack of Tylenol and reached for the flat 2-liter of Mountain Dew that sat warm in between the seats. He washed the pain reliever down and capped the soda. He never drank pop for the taste, so flat or not, it never bothered him. He'd either use it to stay awake or to mix up his liquor. He told himself caffeine would counteract any driving hindrance the alcohol may provide.
The phone in his shirt pocket vibrated. It was dispatch: You're still waylaid. Settle down for the night and maybe even tomorrow. Enjoy your little road vay-kay. May take a while.
Jed looked over at Amy who sat staring at nothing in particular through her hair-covered eyes. "Well, looks like I'll be polishing this bottle off tonight after all." Amy continued her stare and didn't acknowledge the comment. Deafness had taken her ears a while ago.
Jed texted back stating he'd received the message and would contact them in the morning. He had mixed feelings about his load not being ready for pickup. The break would be nice, especially considering the pain from his tooth. But sitting, putzing around for a day in his cab with nothing but crossword puzzles, a deck of cards, and his phone often caused him to get a bit stir crazy. And with that degree of boredom, it also made the temptation to pick up a lady all the harder to resist.
Jed put the truck into gear and pulled onto the road toward Margie's—a truck stop less than a mile away from the liquor store. He frequented there whenever on this route and considered himself a regular. It would be nice to see a familiar face, particularly Margie herself. An older, hardened women in her 60s; dyed black hair always in a bun held together by two different colored Bic pens. Her southern hospitality and fluent use of the word "hon'" told him she wasn't from here in the mid west.
Distracted by the pain, he nearly missed the turn at Margie's tall, bright sign. He hit the brakes and instinctively held out his arm to catch Amy like a mother to her child. The poor thing rolled off the seat before, and ever since he'd taken care to make sure she stayed safely put.
"Get with it, Jed," the man said to himself, widening his eyes then blinking hard as though it would help.
With an announcement of squeaks, hisses, and rattles, the truck pulled into Margie's and came to a stop under a broken parking lot light. The spot was the furthest from the building and allowed the least amount of light. An ideal spot for someone in need of privacy and rest.
He opened the door and stepped down out of the truck, then called for Amy. He knew she needed help getting down but it humored him a bit to act as though she were younger.
"I'm comin' darlin.'" Jed walked around the truck and opened the passenger door. He grabbed Amy and carried her over to a small patch of grass under the broken light. Jed stared at the starry night, wishing for the Tylenol to aid in getting some sleep.
While the dog did her business, Jed reached in the cab and grabbed the Sno-Balls out of the paper bag. As inviting as they looked, he wasn't sure his mouth would agree to breaking them down. Jed bit down softly on one. The sugar snuck its way immediately into the abscessed tooth and sent an alarming amount of pain through his body. He tried his best to ignore it, but when biting down again the marshmallow may as well have been a Dorito standing up the wrong way. He spit the pink snack out of his mouth and watched it bounce on the tar and roll under the truck.
"Son. Of. A…." and with that, Jed bit down hard on his tongue, adding to his pain-fueled frustration. It was going to be a long night. He headed back over to the patch of grass. "Atta girl." Jed gathered himself and bent to pick up his poodle, potential dingleberries and all. He set her back in the truck.
"I'll be right back, Amy. Goin' to see if Margie's working tonight." Jed gave his dog a pat and then shut and locked the door. He kept special care of his little road companion. He'd never forgive himself if anything happened to her, and he'd never forgive those who would harm her.
According to the skinny blonde waitress, Margie wasn't due to work until 6:00 the next morning. He'd see her then. He asked for a cup of coffee, and then tipped the waitress a quarter. He knew he'd probably be back for more and wanted to stretch out the tips. That, and he was disappointed Margie wasn't working. Though she wasn't old enough, Jed saw Margie as a bit o
f a strong mother figure. He didn't know why, but it helped on these long trips when he'd stop in and visit her. The waitress forced a smile and cursed Jed in her mind for the single-coin tip.
As Jed walked toward the door, he could see his truck. He was in no hurry to get back to it. Sometimes it felt like a jail cell, and Amy was no doubt curled up and content without him for now.
He looked around the small café and saw a few other men sitting, drinking coffee and munching on toast, contemplating their decision to be a trucker. He knew what they were thinking—regret with an underlying feeling of freedom. He gave a sympathetic smile and chose an empty table to sip his coffee. The smell of toast and fried eggs permeated the air causing Jed's stomach to remind him it was vacant. He couldn't remember if this was the end of his third or fourth day with no solid food. Warm cups of milk, coffee, Dew, and water were all he could get passed the tooth. He'd been telling himself he could stand to lose a little of the weight anyhow. But the hunger he now felt, mixed with the lack of sleep, had affected his ability to find the tiniest blessing in anything.