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IT SLICES, IT DICES
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IT SLICES, IT DICES
By J. Michael Best
There are few people on this spinning, blue marble who would ever accuse Badhorn of being “normal.” Ever since William L. Badhorn planted his flag in this little plot of Middle America, there hasn’t been much normal about the place. It grew too quickly, drawing people from around the world. The students at the university are too smart; the medical and history programs especially rival anything in the Ivy League. And, mostly, it’s just too weird. Too many people missing, too many freak coincidences, and just too many freaks.
But, if you absolutely had to make a list of people who thought of Badhorn as pretty normal, Julian H. Peterson would be right near the top. Julian H. had never really thought of Badhorn as being anything special, probably because Julian H. himself was not anything special. He could stand to lose a few -or forty- pounds. He showered enough so that he didn't smell too bad on most days, and he was sharp enough to get himself dressed and out the door to his perfectly unremarkable 9-to-5, where he did just enough, on most days, to not get fired. All in all, Julian H. Peterson was ok with being ok, and if any urge to do more ever struck him, he’d just pour some more beer or grab another slice of pizza.
So, in his thirty odd years on the planet, Julian H. had never thought of Badhorn as anything more than home, and a pretty boring one at that. Nothing especially out of the ordinary had ever happened to him, unless you count that one time he bought a scratcher ticket down at the Village Pantry, won five bucks, used that money to buy another scratcher, and then won five more. That kind of thing just didn’t happen everyday. And, then, there was that lady across the hall with all the cats who was kind of weird. Other than that, though, his life was pretty quiet. He didn’t even know anyone who had ever had more of a run-in with any of Badhorn’s supposed weirdness than he had. Of course, Julian H. didn’t know that many people either.
So that Friday night, when Julian H. got home, he went through his usual routine: throwing off his jeans, throwing on his sweats, ordering a large Papa Darryl's ham, pineapple, and mushroom pizza, and embedding himself in the buttprint on his couch.
Maybe, now that he thought about it, it had been kind of an unusual night. When he went to pay the pizza-faced delivery kid for the actual pizza, the kid had told him it was on the house. Although Julian H. could have sworn he ordered the pizza about 20 minutes ago, the kid said it was actually 33 minutes ago -an obvious violation of their 30 minutes or it’s free policy. Not one to argue about free pizza, Julian took the pie and closed the door right in the kid’s face. Waves of ham and pineapple and mushroom swam through his nose as he returned to the couch, only to find his favorite movie of all time, ScareWolf, just starting on channel 4.
She may be big time now, but ScareWolf is where Jenny Lynn Callahan started out. Julian loved it because there was this part about halfway through the flick where -ok, actually at 56 minutes, 10 seconds- where, if you paused the VCR just right, you could almost, kinda see half of the bottom of Jenny Lynn’s boob - it was just too bad that the pause button on Julian’s VCR was broken. So, even though he owned the VHS, Julian watched the whole movie, and he could have sworn that that scene took a half a frame longer tonight - that he sorta saw that almost half a boob. And did Jenny Lynn give him a wink and smile? That, or maybe it was just the 33 minute old pizza. Either way, Julian H. chalked it up to one of life’s great mysteries and took another bite of pizza.
With his brain growing groggy but not quite ready for sleep, Julian started to flip through all six of the channels on his television, even though there was absolutely nothing on. Late night talk shows, 1-900 numbers (like they’d fool him again), Uncle Cletus psychic hotline. There really should be more channels, Julian thought. Then, there’d be more quality programming. Almost automatically, Julian decided to do one more pass through the channels. It seemed to him that, despite the excitement of free pizza and his favorite movie earlier in the evening, this night was about to, once again, end uneventfully.
And it might have, if Julian H. had decided to stop on channel 6 and just been content to watch Badhorn Nightly News. Or if he would have continued on to channel 1, he would have found out that his other favorite movie of all time, Perch of the Blood Monkeys, was on, and his fantasy night of free pizza, Jenny Lynn Callahan, and blood monkeys would have been strangely complete. And maybe it’s not all Julian H.’s fault that in his sleepy mix of free pizza and half-a-boob sightings, he didn’t realize that the clicker had stopped on channel zero. Maybe Julian H. shouldn’t be completely blamed for not even realizing that there was no channel zero. As his eyes drifted open and closed, and his mind drifted here to there, his hands seemed to operate on their own, as if they were drawn to the mystery channel. Julian’s eyes were getting heavy. Closed. Then open. Closed. Then open. Closed.
“Billy Graves here.” The deep, gravelly voice sounded like it was inside Julian’s head. Once Julian opened his eyes, he knew he wouldn’t be able to ever close them again.
Well, at least for a half hour or so.
The screen zoomed in too close, like it was the operator’s first time using the camera, before it backed up to show a tall man in a cheap devil costume, the kind you’d buy on sale the day after Halloween. A shiny red hood with tiny devil horns covered his head. Some kind of grayish, green corpse paint caked his face, including the curled dandy mustache that hugged his upper lip. Large, yellowing teeth smiled straight through the set. Julian H. was never a connoisseur of quality filmmaking, but even he had to wonder if this program hadn’t been funded by change found in the devil man’s couch.
Billy Graves pointed at Julian with a cheap, plastic pitchfork. “Are you sick of being sick?” A couple of people from the studio audience off screen shouted, “Yes!”
“Are you tired of being tired?” the pitchman with the pitchfork asked. More people screamed “Yes!” from off screen. The camera pulled out, correctly this time, to show Billy Graves standing behind a table. Now, it has already been noted that Julian H. Peterson was not a particularly smart man, but even he could see that this was not a normal television studio set. The table that Billy stood behind was long, about seven feet, and came up to just above his waist. It was made of solid black marble. Julian had never seen anything like it. The table was as remarkable as the costume was cheap.
On either side of Billy, tall torches burned brightly, while, behind him, there was only darkness. Julian could see the beginnings of the studio audience on the edges of the screen. “Then you need,” Billy continued, “the Die-Master.” The crowd went nuts.
Wait, that’s not right, Julian thought. His fingers rubbed his eyes, as if maybe he could rub this picture out of his brain.
“Who needs diet and exercise?” asked Billy Graves. “The Die-Master will remove those unwanted pounds instantly!” The studio audience cheered their approval. Billy went on in his used-car salesman from beyond voice. “Don’t believe me? Well, who wants to give it a try? You sir! Step on up!”
A bald, heavy set man in overalls and a sweat stained t-shirt could not wait to get on the stage. He jumped up, grabbed Billy Graves’ greenish-gray hand and shook it until Julian
thought it might fall off. The man clapped, jumped (as much as he could jump), and overall, looked like he was ready to give this Die-Master a try. But it wasn’t just the man’s enthusiasm that was unusual. Even half asleep, Julian H. noticed the abnormally wide, glazed, and empty look in the man’s eyes. The chickens had left this coop a long time ago.
“Ok!” Billy Graves said. “What’s your name, sir?”
“Earl Ignatius Oliver,” the man nearly screamed at Billy. His mind may have been gone, but his voice and body were certainly still intact.
“Whatta name!” Billy continued. “Ok, Earl, are you ready to lose a few unwanted pounds?”
“Yes, Billy!” Billy had to physically hold Earl back. He, clearly, was ready.
“Then, let’s bring out the Die-Master!” Billy grandly waved his arms. While the flames burned on either side of the stage, a cheap pinwheel of sparklers sputtered to life directly behind Billy. He covered his head, annoyed by the sparks. Two bikini clad, greenish-gray bimbos emerged from the side of the screen, pushing a cart. Julian H. snickered to himself. Like a train wreck, he couldn’t look away.
The women, in cheap vinyl bikinis and high heels, chomped on their gum as they wheeled the cart into place. They were pleasantly bored by the whole spectacle.
When Julian H. saw what was on the cart, he laughed out loud. Even he would not buy that thing. It was like someone had gone into their creepy uncle’s basement and stole his favorite recliner, the one he’d been sitting in for the last 20 years. Cigarette burns, beer stains, and who-knows-what-else marked it. Then they just ripped it in half and had not even bothered to sew it back up. The back and arm rests sat directly on the floor of the cart, yellowish stuffing still falling out piece by piece. In front this old half-a-recliner were two large, rusty, blood-stained bear traps.
Earl whooped and hollered like he had just won the lottery. The studio audience matched his enthusiasm note for note. “Oh my Gawd!” Earl hooted with delight.
“Er, something like that,” Billy Graves mumbled. He picked up his tone. “Earl! Are you ready to shed those useless extra pounds?”
“Yes, Billy!” Earl screamed. The two girls walked to either side of Earl and escorted him over to the garage sale from hell contraption that was the Die-Master. Earl sat carefully in the seat, while each woman grabbed a leg. Julian H. couldn’t help but notice how easily they hoisted Earl’s legs. His thighs must have been as big as those girls’ waists.
“Now, Earl,” Billy got serious for a moment. “Have you tried to lose weight in the past?”
“Oh yes, Billy.” Earl did his best to look introspective, in a glossed over kind of way. “I’ve tried everything: Speed Demon Cardio Pills. The Hot Pepper Cleanse. Even the Fatkins Diet. Nothing has seemed to work.”
“Uh-huh,” Billy agreed solemnly. “And have you tried exercise?”
“Oh, I’ve tried 8 Minute Abs. 7 minute Abs. Even the Clinical Insanity exercise program. I just don’t think I’ll ever lose the weight Billy!”
The studio audience oohed and awed with sympathy. Even Julian H. felt himself getting a little misty-eyed. The Die-Master girls smiled sadly, still holding Earl’s legs.
“Ya see Earl, that’s the problem with these fad diets and exercise programs,” Billy spoke up. “They take time! Months. Weeks. Minutes. Who’s got time for all that?” The studio audience booed their displeasure.
“Earl, I’m promising you instant results! Without any effort whatsoever. You just sit there and let the Grave-ettes and the Die-Master do all the work!” A flurry of catcalls and whistles came from offscreen at the mention of the Grave-ettes. Julian had to admit that they were pretty hot, in a weird, cheap Halloween kind of way. Billy continued his speech, “So, Earl, I ask you again: Are you ready to lose those useless extra pounds?”
“Yes Billy.”
“C’mon Earl! I said, ‘Are you ready to lose those useless extra pounds?’” Billy Graves clapped his hands and the audience cheered.
“Yes, Billy!” The audience cheered louder. Even Julian H. found himself sitting up a little straighter.
“I said, ‘Are you ready to lose those useless extra pounds?!” Billy screamed it this time.
“YES BILLY!” Earl, the audience, and Julian H. went bananas.
“Then, let’s count it down! Are you ready?” Billy didn’t wait for an answer this time. He just started counting. The audience knew the drill and joined in. “Six!” they all yelled.
Julian H. knew they were counting down to something special, but they weren’t actually counting down. Somehow, he knew the next number would not be five. “Six!” Billy and the audience repeated. Then, for the final count, everyone, including Julian, screamed again, “Six!”
And with that, the Grave-ettes each dropped Earl’s big legs into the bear traps. The traps snapped shut, severing Earl’s legs and sending blood, bone, and flesh flying through the air, most of it landing directly on the face and bosoms of the Grave-ettes, who squealed in delight. The studio audience cheered with joy, Billy Graves yelled like a Texas high school football coach whose team had just won the state championship, and Earl Ignatius Oliver screamed in a masochistic mix of pain and passion. Julian felt like he was in one of those movies where everything moved in slow motion. It wasn’t until he heard his neighbors pounding on the walls that he had even realized he was standing and yelling at the top of his lungs. Yelling, not because he was appalled by what he had just seen, but because he was enthralled by it. He had just been a part of something. Something very special.
The Grave-ettes wheeled Earl and the Die Master off the screen. Just like that, Earl had lost, what? 70? 80 pounds? No one could say that Billy Graves didn’t deliver on his promises.
“That’s right, Julian!” Billy Graves looked directly at the screen. “You can lose all that extra weight too! Just like that!” Billy snapped his fingers. “Order today and I’ll even throw in a copy of Bleeding to the Oldies at no extra charge!”
Wait. What? Had Billy Graves just said his name? Julian shook his head and sat back down.
“Or better yet,” Billy continued, his toothy, yellow grin directed right at the camera, “why not just come down to the studio and try it out yourself?”
Julian shook the cobwebs out of his head a second time. That could’t be right. Billy Graves couldn’t be talking to him. No one even talked to Julian in real life, let alone through the TV.
“Ok folks, if you liked that, you’re gonna love this.” The black marble table magically rolled off the screen and Billy walked toward the front of the stage, his red cheap red cape shining harshly under the studio lights. “Who has time to cook anymore? And, with all the murders and executions in your busy life, do you even have the energy? I know I don’t! That’s why I’ve invented something extra special for you! Bring it on out girls!”
The Grave-ettes returned, looking clean and fresh as a three day old corpse and wearing cooking aprons over their bikinis. Julian wasn’t 100% sure, but it looked like each apron read “Kill the Cook.” The Die-Master was long gone. A giant fire pit sat on the cart now. The fire was burning unnaturally high, and Julian swore he could feel the flames through the screen. In the fire were four stakes, and tied, one to a stake, were four men, each one with the same look of pain and pleasure that Julian H. had just seen on the face of good ol’ Earl.
“That’s right people! It’s the George Four-Man Grill!” The audience cheered madly. Billy strapped on a backpack with a fire hose attached. It looked like something you’d use to bust ghosts. “And clean up is a breeze with the new ToxiClean.” Billy pulled the trigger on the hose and a stream of green sludge coated the man on the end of the grill. His skin started to melt, and as soon as the fire touched the chemicals, the man burst into flame, his ashes falling slowly down into the fire. Julian was fully engrossed again, as Billy sprayed the second, the third, and the fourth man. This Billy Graves character was starting to grow on Julian. He didn’t exactly know why; he’d never really had the urge
to hurt anyone. Well, that wasn’t exactly true, but he’d never actually hurt anyone. Still, he felt like this Billy Graves guy got him somehow.
“Yes, Julian H. Peterson, it’s just that easy.” Billy Graves looked directly at the screen. “Your boring life can change just like that!” Once again, Billy snapped his fingers and, this time, fire erupted behind him. Julian felt his feet moving on their own, slowly getting closer and closer to the screen. “Come on down to Badhorn Campus Studios tomorrow night and join us for a live taping of Billy Graves’ Sour Hour of Demonic Power!” Billy snapped his fingers again and the screen went dark. Julian’s feet stopped, and he felt a type of fog lifted from his brain. He shook his head, like maybe everything he had just seen would fall out on to the floor, and he could process what had just happened. What time was it? How long had he been watching that show? He glanced at the clock. It was just a few minutes after midnight. While it had felt like hours, only a few minutes had passed.
The Collector Page 3