She swung her head up to look at me, her eyes wild with panic.
Then someone grabbed me from behind and shoved a chemical-smelling cloth over my mouth and nose.
One of the more ridiculous myths about ghouls is that we are undead creatures. Just because we hang out around graveyards a lot doesn't mean we're undead. We're merely going where the food is. Would you assume someone was Italian just because he hung out around a pizza parlor?
Of course, in this case, the disadvantage of not being undead was that after struggling to breathe, I sank into unconsciousness.
WHEN I CAME TO, I found myself in the same room, sitting on a chair. A piece of towel had been stuffed into my mouth, held in place by more cloth tied around my head, but I had to work hard to keep myself from gagging on the gag. My wrists were bound tightly together behind the back of the chair, and my feet were tied quite thoroughly to the bottom.
The young woman was watching me from her chair. It would be hard for me to free myself without showing my true nature, and I was afraid that might freak her out. On the other hand, she had been kidnapped by a serial killer, so how much more freaked out could she get?
I want to make it clear that just because I can transform myself into a hyena does not mean I am a "were-hyena." We ghouls have a long and proud tradition of being able to morph into hyenas. (You can look that up on Wikipedia, although the article is inaccurate in many other respects.) And unlike lycanthropes, we're not infectious. I really don't understand what the werewolves have to be proud about. Anyone can become a werewolf, just by being bitten by one. Essentially, lycanthropy spreads like rabies. We ghouls, on the other hand, reproduce in the normal human fashion. My family can trace its lineage back to the ancient Persian Empire.
In all modesty, though, the ability to become a hyena isn't very impressive. It's useful for feeding, because those hyena jaws are strong enough to bite through bone, but hyenas really don't get a lot of respect. Take The Lion King, for example: the hyenas don't even get to be the real villains, merely minions for an evil lion. Thus Hollywood continues to perpetuate the stereotype that carrion eaters are of lower status than predators.
After a few minutes of struggling with my ropes, I decided that transforming was my only option. I could only hope that if the young woman told anyone about my ability, they would attribute her story to hysteria.
I shape-shifted into my hyena form. Since it was smaller than my human form, the ropes loosened as I transformed. As soon as I was free, I changed back to human.
From behind her gag, the young woman made a half-choking cough of incredulity.
I knelt by her chair and set to work untying her. "Don't worry, I'll get you out of here."
Before I finished, the door opened. I rose to my feet and turned to find Harvey pointing a gun at me.
If there was one thing that the P.R. about vampires and werewolves was not overhyping, it was their magical resistance to harm. I envied that. It wouldn't take a wooden stake through the heart or a silver bullet to kill me: plain old lead bullets would do the trick. I raised my hands in surrender.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ahsani," Harvey said. "But I couldn't have you running to the police. People might get the wrong impression."
"People already have the wrong impression," I said. "They're calling you a ghoul when you're actually a serial killer. It's very bad P.R. for—"
"I'm a vampire hunter, not a serial killer," said Harvey, still pointing the gun at me.
"What?" I said.
He motioned with his gun toward the girl. "Go ahead, check her pulse."
I put my fingers to her throat. There was no heartbeat, and her skin felt cool to the touch. "You really are a vampire," I said.
She glared at me. "So what? You're a—"
I stuffed the gag back into her mouth. "So why haven't you killed her yet?" I said as I backed away from her, which took me closer to Harvey and the door.
"I don't want the meat to go bad," he said. "It's much better when you slice it off fresh."
I didn't bother to express my disagreement verbally. There's no accounting for taste.
"Fortunately," he said, "vampires stay alive a lot longer than humans after you start cutting chunks off them."
"How do they taste?" I asked.
He smiled. "Much better than chicken."
For a moment, as I stood next to Harvey and we both looked at the vampire, I thought he and I could come to a culinary arrangement. I could eat the bones for him, at the very least. I guess the serial killer mentality made him taunt the police by leaving the bones lying around for people to find, but it really wasn't very smart.
However, before I could say anything, he added, "Vampire flesh isn't really human anymore, so it's not like I'm a ghoul."
Being looked down on by a serial killer was the straw that broke this ghoul's back. In one smooth motion I transformed my head into my hyena form and tore out Harvey's throat.
Hey, we may not be hunters, but that doesn't mean we're not dangerous when provoked.
AFTER I UNTIED HER, the vampire and I looked down at Harvey's body.
"I suppose I should call the police or something," I said, "and let them know the serial killer is dead."
"Are you kidding?" said the vampire. "Let's just leave him and get out of here."
If I left the body for a few days, sealed up in this room, it would get nice and ripe. And unlike my usual food, it wouldn't taste of formaldehyde. My mouth watered just imagining the meal.
"Let's go," I said.
As we got to the living room, she grabbed my hand and pulled me close. My heart beat faster.
"I've heard that werewolves are the greatest lovers in the world," she said.
I was about to express my annoyance at yet another example of good werewolf P.R. when I realized what she was implying. And despite being so dumb she couldn't tell a hyena from a wolf, she was very good-looking.
"Yes," I said as I embraced her. "Yes, we are."
This story originally appeared in Blood Lite anthology, Gallery Books, 2008.
Eric James Stone is a winner of the 2004 Writers of the Future contest, 2010 Nebula award and a finalist for the 2010 Hugo Award. His short stories have appeared in Analog, IngerGalactic Medicine Show, and Nature. His novel Unforgettable was published by Baen. Eric lives in Utah, has a website at www.ericjamesstone.com, and does not eat human flesh.
Hot Fudge and Whipped Cream
Tarl Kudrick
DEEP DOWN IN ONE of the least reputable layers of the mystic underworld, Skragg, one of the least reputable of genies, felt a summons from the human world. Impossible, he thought. He hadn't felt a proper summons in...well, he'd probably remember if he tried hard enough, but why bother?
Besides, hadn't humans forgotten about magic? He'd find out if he answered the summons, but he had better things to do. Those three imps who'd been following him around lately wanted to learn how to play poker, and they were dumb enough to let him deal the cards. The underworld didn't have money, but they could play for rocks, sticks, or even toenail clippings for all he cared. Skragg, whose bad mood was well into its fifth century now, just wanted to make somebody lose.
Skragg showed the imps how to properly shuffle the deck, and stacked it in the process. The gargoyle-like imps' eyes glazed over as he talked, then they made funny faces at each other. Skragg had never known an imp to care about the proper way to do anything, and these three were no exception.
As Skragg dealt, he felt magic pull at his black leather jacket again. Meanwhile, the imps carefully examined the cards they received, as if viewing them from different angles might change them into something they could eat.
"Do five red cards beat four sixes?" the short imp asked.
"Sure!" the fat one said.
"Let's make all the cards wild," the tall one said.
Skragg seethed. "Can't you imps do anything the right way?"
"The fun way is the right way!"
Skragg's reply was cut short when
magic pulled at him a third time, stronger than before. The fat imp sniffed the air. "Skragg, are you being summoned?"
"Bet or fold!"
The fat imp drooled a bit, licked one of the cards, grimaced, and folded. The short imp bet by pushing a few stones into the middle of the hot red ground between them. The tall imp raised. Then Skragg was yanked into the human world so forcefully, he felt like he'd been launched from a catapult.
The room he appeared in was lit by a single weak bulb hanging from the ceiling. He had to take off his sunglasses to see he was in some dusty garage. Probably suburban, given the bright red kid's bike leaning against the wall, and the half-finished dog house on the floor. A high-pitched voice said, "You've got legs!"
Skragg looked down. A little girl wearing blue overalls, a red shirt, and red socks with no shoes was staring up at him. She was holding his bronze lamp and a thick rag.
A little girl? Was somebody kidding? "Course I got legs!" Skragg said. "C'mere, I'll step on you." He wiggled one of his sharp, thorny feet at her.
The girl walked around him like an art critic taking a dim view of a statue. "You're all pointy!"
Skragg straightened his jacket and ran a hand through his brilliant green mohawk. "You're all dull."
The girl giggled. "I'm Candace."
"That's your problem."
"I'm six years old today! It's my birthday!"
Skragg snorted. "I'm six thousand years old."
Silently, he cursed every human who had ever lived (except James Dean). The days when emperors and kings would summon genies and beg for their help were long gone—and good riddance—but a little kid? Had his life really sunk so low? At least it couldn't get any worse. He let his cigarette slump from his lips and adopted the most surly, superior, and uncooperative pose he could imagine.
Candace smiled coyly and dragged one small, red-stockinged foot back and forth in front of her, as if a boy had just given her a flower. "Now I get a wish."
"Don't you mean three wishes?" Skragg asked, bored.
"Uh-uh," she said. "Three wishes is a fairy tale. Real genies give one wish every ten years."
How could she know that? Genies had been spreading the "three wishes" story since before humans knew how to write it down. He supposed it didn't really matter. "You're going to wish to be a movie star, right?"
Candace took a big breath. "I want an ice cream sundae with hot fudge and whipped cream."
Skragg stared at her. "You're kidding."
"Nope!" She giggled and clapped her hands.
"You summoned an Elder Djinn across five layers of reality because you want ice cream?"
"I really want a unicorn, but Mom would kill me. So it has to be the best sundae ever."
Skragg folded his arms. "We'll compromise. I'll make it taste like unicorn, and your Mom can just beat you up."
Candace laughed. "Noooooo!!! I want a real sundae. The best ever!"
What kind of child could summon a genie and not even take him seriously? "Kid, I don't know where you got your information, but the days of wish-granting are over. I've got to get back to my game, or I'll be lucky to have a pair of twos."
"Why?"
"Because those imps cheat, that's why."
"Why?"
"Because they're rotten."
"Why?"
He wanted to tear her tongue out. "Can't you say anything but 'why'?"
"Will you make me a sundae, Mr. Genie?"
"No!"
Under her dark bangs, her big round eyes got bigger and rounder. "What about my wish?"
"Go jump rope in a minefield." He prepared to go home.
Candace moved to face him as squarely as she could, given that he was three times her height. "You're a mean genie. I'm gonna make you give me that sundae." She stared at him with such hatred that for a moment, Skragg felt unsure of himself.
But only for a moment. He shoved a fiery finger at her. "Touch my lamp again and I'll feed you to a troll."
She stuck her tongue out at him. He stuck his own forked one right back and returned to his homeworld, where he found three grinning imps and very bad cards waiting for him.
THE NEXT DAY, Skragg was trying to win back all the rocks he'd lost when the imps suggested playing for favors.
"Favors?" Skragg asked.
The fat imp drooled a bit and munched on a rock. "See, maybe whoever loses all their rocks has to do whatever the winners say for a week."
"Anything they say," the short imp said.
Skragg didn't know a single useful thing an imp could do for him. But so what? Making them run themselves ragged might be fun. They were so dumb, they kept eating the rocks they were using for betting chips.
"Scared?" asked the tall imp, while the other two chuckled.
"Never," Skragg said. "It's a bet. And when I win, I'm gonna make you choke on those rocks."
Just then, he felt a terrific wrenching sensation, like his spine had just been pulled out through his head. He was back in the human world, and this time outdoors, in the middle of a driveway. Bright sunshine leaped all over him like an overeager dog. He raised an arm to fend it off.
He heard a little girl's voice: "See?"
Skragg looked around and saw a group of people gasp in unison, then take pictures. Candace had summoned him to a press conference, right in front of her house.
She was pointing and smiling. "Genies are real and they live in lamps and everything!" Reporters and film crews surrounded Skragg and waved microphones in his face.
Skragg stared down at Candace. "Do you realize what you've done?"
"Yup!" Candace said. "But if you make me the best ice cream sundae ever, with hot fudge and whipped cream, I'll use my wish to make them all forget!"
Tendrils of steam rose from Skragg's body as he weighed his options. Her offer was tempting. Other genies would be furious if he didn't take it. They'd be summoned by the thousands, they might have to start granting wishes again...it couldn't be allowed. But then he remembered who he was—an Elder Djinn whose bloodline stretched back to the First Dynasty itself—and what he was up against—a little brat human girl.
Though he had to admit, she was getting on his nerves.
Skragg smiled so nastily that Candace's face withered a bit. "Make them all forget," he said. "Good idea."
He concentrated and drew on the full power of his homeworld. The effort brought him to his knees, but he released enough magic to send the reporters back to their homes, with no memories of him or the girl. And of course, every recording of the event, of any kind, was gone.
His head pounded like a mountain had been dropped on it. Candace's horrified expression made up for it.
She kicked him. "You're evil!"
"And you're ugly." He stood up and spat on her driveway, melting some of the asphalt. "Now scram. And leave my lamp alone!"
"I want my sundae!"
"Kid, listen to me," Skragg said slowly. "There's no Santa Claus, I ate the Easter Bunny for dinner last week, and every day after your parents drop you off at school, they go to Disneyworld without you."
And with that, Skragg used what little strength he had left to go home.
MUCH LATER, Skragg was down five thousand rocks to the imps. How was this possible? He didn't dare use magical trickery—imps could smell magic—but there were a million other ways to cheat at cards, and he knew them all.
It was that brat's fault. No little girl could summon genies and flocks of reporters like that. Who was helping her? Why?
"I wonder what we'll make you do when we win," the short imp said.
"This game's not over yet." Skragg had a good hand, but he knew when he was beat, and folded.
The short imp took the pot and showed a pair of threes, then flapped its hairy, pointed ears—the imp equivalent of whistling innocently.
Skragg was about to invent the sport of imp hurling when the tall one said, "You like the human world, don't you Skragg?"
"What?" He was so offended, he forgot about b
eing bluffed.
"You observe it all the time."
"I do not. Nothing in that realm's ever interested me."
"Yeah?" The imp leaned back a little. "What was your favorite Elvis movie?"
"Viva Las Vegas, of cour—hey!" Skragg grabbed the imp by the neck, then stood up, lifting it off the ground. "Ask me that again, scale breath."
The other imps begged Skragg to put the tall one down. When that didn't work, they praised Skragg and admitted they'd been rude. That worked.
Skragg settled back onto the ground and resumed brooding about Candace.
"What should we make him do if we beat him?" the short imp asked the others.
"Won't happen," Skragg said.
"We could make him perform in a play."
Skragg groaned. The imps had admired human theatre since the days of Sophocles, but they never stuck to the scripts. Their production of Waiting for Godot had started with Godot calling out, "Here I am!"
"We could do The Wizard of Oz," the short imp told the fat one. "Skragg would look great in big ruby slippers."
"Okay, but instead of Oz, let's have the cyclone put Dorothy on the moon."
"Boring!" the tall imp said. "How about on the Titanic?"
"They'll drown! We don't want anything serious."
"True," the other imps agreed, shuddering. "Nothing serious."
The tall imp tapped its chin thoughtfully. "The Titanic should be attacked by Godzilla."
"That's serious! They'll die!"
"Not," the tall imp said, "if they challenge Godzilla to some kind of contest, and win."
Another pause. Then ideas exploded from them.
"Dueling banjos!"
"Pie eating!"
"Roller derby!"
"No, wait!" the short imp said. "A dance contest!"
The fat imp leaped to its feet, shook with excitement, and spread out its hands as if unfurling a banner. "Dorothy and Godzilla in, 'Swan Lake II: Disco Forever'!"
All three turned to Skragg. "Skragg!"
Funny Horror (Unidentified Funny Objects Annual Anthology Series of Humorous SF/F) Page 11