His parents were atheists, and they often spoke of Darwin. Matthew decided to read "The Origin of Species" in the spring. He had befriended several spiders that had built their webs in the corners of his room. He named them all—Darwin, Nietzsche, Camus, and the biggest of all, Hume. When the ants arrived, he decided to run an experiment on survival. Catching a few ants in a jar, he walked over to the corner where Hume had built a massive web in, and sat down.
"Hey buddy," he said, then opened the jar of ants and dumped them into the web. They squirmed for their lives. Hume saw the offering and rushed down to go to work on the weakest. Matthew watched, with tremendous fascination, the process of paralyzing the ant and then encasing it for later ingestion. He focused on the other ones. Their struggle set off a warm sensation deep within him. He could not help but smile as the little creatures frantically tried to break their way free of the sticky web.
Long afterwards, he dreamt of the terrified ants the way a normal twelve-year old boy dreams about the girl next door. He was just as small as they were, but he was not trapped in the web. It was a show, a burlesque, almost. The ants cried for help. Matthew took pleasure in refusing. Then, Hume or Nietzsche would swoop down and begin the horrifying process of ending their lives.
These constituted Matthew Yutzenstal's first wet dreams.
"Our little boy is growing up," his mother quietly told his father in the most normal, clichéd manner possible.
"Thank God," his father said, "I was beginning to think, you know," he waved his hand in an effeminate manner, "he was, you know," he couldn't even say the word.
Matthew's mother took tremendous offense. "Not my son," she insisted, "never."
At some point in the future, Matthew's parents would look back fondly at the day they actually worried that the worst thing that could be wrong with their little boy was sexual confusion.
In the meantime, the rats had gotten wise to the steel traps in the kitchen and had stopped being fooled by them. Matthew's father switched to giant glue cards. He put peanut butter in the middle. This worked beautifully.
One night Matthew was dreaming about the ants when he heard a hideous cry come from the kitchen. It was a rat, stuck, screaming at the top of its little lungs. The sound of its fear and desperation was like music. A fantastic calm washed over Matthew. To listen to another creature suffer, he realized, is the most wondrous sensation an animal can experience. He had to go look at it, to allow his eyes the pleasure his ears enjoyed.
He crept through the hallway, into the kitchen. He turned on the light and the rat, seeing a giant human to add to its other miseries, screamed louder. It tried to wiggle itself free, arched its back and made every effort to tear itself off the glue card.
"You must be really scared," Matthew said, "you must know that very soon you will no longer exist. I envy you." He looked around. He wanted to find other ways to make the rat suffer.
Water dripped from the faucet on the kitchen sink. An idea flashed through Matthew's mind. Warmth is nice, he thought, scalding heat is torture. He grabbed a dirty pan left out on the side of the sink and turned on the hot water.
"Yes," he whispered to the rat, "things are going to get worse." Happiness had never been closer, he realized. This was what Darwin intended. These creatures, these little creatures, they had no right to exist in the same space as him.
The water was steaming. He put the pan underneath it. As it filled, he tested it with his finger. It was hot enough to make him draw back. Perfect. He turned the faucet off and carried the pan over to the corner.
When Matthew looked into the rat's black eyes, he saw, for the first time, how obvious fear is to another animal. No wonder the bigger, more popular kids had such an easy time picking on me, he realized, I must have been showing the same thing. His weakness made him angry, even a little sick.
"How about some water, scarecrow," he tilted the pan ever-so-slightly, allowing a thin stream to trickle down on the rat's head, directly into its eyes.
As soon as it hit, the rat twisted from side to side violently and ended up getting stuck right up to its chin. It was now completely helpless. Matthew increased the stream of water. The rat tried to scream again, but could barely open its mouth.
It was clear that the rat was in pain, but it could no longer express it. The process had become boring. Matthew put the pan back, then noticed a steak knife on the other side of the counter. He realized the next logical step was to cleanse his hands in the bath of another's misery. He grabbed the steak knife and walked back over to the rat.
"Would you like me to set you free?" he asked in a charming tone one might normally use to invite a pretty girl to the dance floor.
Matthew bent down, picked up the rat's tail and sliced through it with the steak knife. The material making up the tail gave way to the knife with absolutely no resistance. Again, this quickly bored him.
It did not bore the rat, which had managed to rip its head off of the glue card, leaving fur and patches of torn flesh. It shrilled in short bursts, between quick breaths, as it attempted to rationalize the sudden, violent loss of its tail.
There was a little blood, but nothing spectacular. Not according to Matthew. He brought the knife down over the rat's left hind leg and began sawing through it. Now he had something. A smile spread across his face as blood washed out around the cut he was making. There was a little resistance when he got to the bone, but he was able to force the knife through and in no time he had separated the little leg from the rat.
At this point, the rat could no longer breathe in any normal fashion. Its body heaved up and down as it struggled to maintain its life.
Matthew looked into the rat's eyes one more time. The message was clear. Death. The rodent wanted nothing else at that point. What doctors would refer to as a sadistic impulse ran through Matthew's mind. He considered leaving the rat just like that, bleeding on the glue card. It wouldn't be much different from what the glue card normally did, which was starve the animal to death.
But curiosity and a senseless rush of guilt prompted Matthew to decide to cut the rat's head off and end its misery. He brought the knife up and prepared to slice through its neck.
"What the hell are you doing?"
It was his father. The man who made sure killers and thieves who were too poor to afford the Johnny Cochran's of the world had a fighting chance in court. He was standing over his son with a terrified look on his face.
"I’m putting it out of its misery," Matthew explained in a manner that did not suggest he was lying.
"Wash your hands, thoroughly," his father directed him to the sink. "You'll get rabies playing around with rats."
This was a classic case of what those familiar with psychology would call ‘denial.’ Matthew's father had seen what his son was doing. He knew very well what it ultimately meant, and his brain had quickly sidetracked him so that he would not think too much about it.
Matthew went back to bed feeling as though he had grown a foot taller. Certainly, in his mind, he had proven to nature that he was better at surviving than a filthy little rat.
***
The bus made an unusual turn. This was not strange for a first day, but the fact that the street it rumbled down was populated by those who had even less money than Matthew's family was of note.
Out of a broken down, one-story house, a skinny fourth grader with the most stereotypical thick glasses resting on his nose walked to the bus. Everything about him was awkward and clumsy. He had, apparently, just finished breakfast, for a white mustache peppered with small chunks of cereal still stuck to his face. It looked on more than one occasion as though he might stumble over his own feet.
"Get this dork," Jason Bugle said.
The others laughed as ordered.
"He looks weirder than you, Yuckystall!" It was a girl, which made the ridicule all the more upsetting.
The new boy climbed onto the bus. He was smiling. How unaware he must be, Matthew thought, of the hell these kids are
about to put him through.
"Good morning!" The new boy directed his greeting at everyone on the bus.
Tony, the driver, was a greaser who still craved the validation of the ‘cool’ kids. Being in his early thirties did not deter him from doing childish and stupid things. Ignoring friendly nerds like the new kid was one of them.
"Sit down, geek," he said.
The entire bus laughed. Several bullies looked at Matthew.
This was it, he realized, this was the ticket out of hell. He smirked and shook his head in disgust. "What a tool," he said.
The bullies were satisfied. They joined in the laughter as the new boy walked, head already sunk, to the back of the bus. He saw Matthew, recognized a fellow genius and looked for support.
Matthew turned his eyes towards the window.
"Hello," the new boy said, "I'm Brandon." He offered his hand in the most polite manner.
Matthew continued to ignore him. A rage was building inside. Why the hell do the dipshits always find me for support? He curled his lips in to keep the angry air he was breathing from escaping.
Brandon gave up and sat down in the seat just in front of him.
The bus started again. Most of the kids returned to their previous conversations about sports and shoes. Matthew looked at Brandon. He was reminded of a small cat he had played with just a few weeks earlier.
Walking through an alley near 38th and Keystone, he had come across a homeless kitten. It was white with little black spots all over it. Under its chin was a black triangle, reminding Matthew of the Tom from the Tom and Jerry cartoons made during World War II. But this cat didn't look mean like old Tom. It was cute and cuddly, despite the fact that it had obviously been abandoned. When it saw Matthew, it cried with its little lungs for love and, more than likely, food.
The dying weakling in Matthew thought to himself, what a cute little kitty. I should take it home. He got as far as thinking how he would sell the idea to his dad, who constantly had to set traps for the parade of rodents in their apartment. A cat would get rid of them all, he practiced in his mind, why the very scent would scare off the mice and rats.
He picked the kitten up and started walking towards the projects. It purred and rubbed its little head against his arms in the most endearing fashion. Matthew wondered if the kitten was smart enough to show him affection based on the supposition that he was going to feed it. He held it up in front of his eyes.
"Are you being a prostitute?" he asked the little creature.
The kitten stared back at him, occasionally looking up when cars went by, then returning Matthew's gaze once more.
Matthew's stomach began to turn. It was a physical pain, complemented by a harsh voice in his head. What a pathetic existence, he thought, a tiny, fragile little animal that has the gall to call itself a killer. He needed to illustrate just how meek the cat was.
Rummaging through a trash can at the corner of Keystone and 38th, Matthew found a sturdy plastic bag from Osco's and put the kitten inside it. He walked back to the bridge over Fall Creek and climbed over the guard rail. A concrete embankment made the journey to the side of the creek effortless. Once he was by the water, he told the kitten, "Life is only pain." He knelt down, holding the bag over the creek, "You will thank me for this, just before it's over."
He dunked the bag into the river. The cat squirmed and fought for its life as water crept into the tiny space Matthew had allotted at the top. It could not fit through the hole, just watch the deadly water pour in.
Again, Matthew decided simply killing the creature was not enough. His satisfaction, what the rest of us might refer to as an orgasm, could only be derived by the cat believing there would be a pardon, and then realizing that no, this was the day all things ended.
Pulling the bag out of the water, he let the cat poke its head through the top. The kitten scratched at the side, looked at Matthew with horror and disgust. If it physically had the capability, the boy realized, this thing would tear me from limb to limb. He shoved the cat back down into the bag and dunked it once more.
Matthew teased the cat several times before he finally dumped the bag in until he felt no more movement. Climbing high up under the bridge, he took the dead cat out and laid it across the concrete in front of him. He could feel no pity for the creature. In his mind, it had made no effort to save itself.
All that is weak, he understood, is doomed.
***
Brandon had committed a cardinal sin. In his backpack was a stack of paperback books. When Matthew saw him open it and rummage through them, he assumed they were comic novels or science fiction or something else dorky. He ignored the new kid for a moment.
Then he saw the book Brandon had decided to read: The Stranger, by Albert Camus.
This had been Matthew's favorite book since the fourth grade. Who the hell did this kid think he was?
The other students noticed and were throwing erasers at him for doing something school-like on the bus.
"Can't you wait for the first bell to ring before being such a damn dork?" Jason Bugle chuckled, and then looked at Matthew, for the first time, for a follow up.
All Matthew could think about was the fact that he was no longer the true genius of the school. This new kid was obviously just starting the fourth grade. He himself had not discovered Camus until well into the second semester. Brandon would no doubt find his way to Nietzsche's The Anti-Christ before the end of the year. Mentally, he was superior. Matthew could feel it.
"Nobody reads on the bus," he finally sneered.
"Yeah, Yuckystein," Jason laughed, "give `em hell!"
Brandon ignored them all and continued reading. Continued soaking up the truth about people and apathy and the over-arching insignificance one could attach to something as mind-boggling as murder.
Matthew could no longer take it. "Put the book down," he demanded, "or I'll shove it up your nose!"
The other kids went silent. Here was an event one might expect to hear about for years to come. Stupid, nerdy Matthew Yutzenstal lost it, the first day of sixth grade, and beat the crap out of the new dork on the block.
He stood up. "Put the book away," he said again.
Brandon looked over, realizing the situation was beyond a simple Christian turning-of-the-cheek. He protected the book.
Matthew reached over and yanked Brandon's glasses off.
"Whoa!" a collective grunt of animal approval waved across the bus.
Tony the bus driver looked into the large mirror above the windshield. Seeing Matthew Yutzenstal stand over the new kid in bully formation made him smile. "You show him who’s boss, Yuckyboy!"
Matthew dropped the glasses on the floor and stepped on them. "You gonna put the book away?"
Brandon's mind made the show of force his body could not. Squinting, he opened the book back up and continued reading.
This was too much. Matthew pulled Brandon by his hair out of his seat and threw him to floor of the bus, right on top of his broken glasses. He brought his foot down, again and again, on Brandon's face. First the nose cracked, then the blood flew.
The rest of the kids stood up and moved away. They made no noise. Tony couldn't see what was happening. He assumed it was a good-natured ass-kicking that would remind the new boy that nerds don't have it easy at Carmel Elementary #12. The bus drove on as though nothing unusual was taking place.
Brandon kicked and swung blindly, desperately trying to stop the beating. This encouraged Matthew, who picked him up and dragged him to the emergency exit.
"Here's a lesson for all of you to learn," he addressed the dropped-jaw audience he was now in total command of.
Brandon grabbed the seats around him with his bloodied hands. Matthew opened the latch on the emergency exit. The bus was rumbling at about forty-five miles an hour up Keystone. There were cars right on their tail, honking, demanding the school bus simply not exist during their dash for work.
The emergency exit swung open and the alarm went off.
Wind rushed in, making the girls on the bus scream. Matthew ignored everything else. He quickly wiped the blood out of Brandon's eyes so that he could look into them.
"If there's an afterlife, I beg you to haunt me so that I may go through the rest of mine with complete peace of mind."
And then he tossed the new kid out of the bus.
The little boy flew onto the hood of a BMW racing up behind them. His fragile frame shattered on impact with the windshield of the fancy car. He bumped the hood once more as wind, gravity, and physics yanked him to the side of the road. Brandon turned several times and died.
The bus pulled over. Nobody would stand near Matthew. As Tony called for the police and an ambulance, Matthew watched the BMW with envy as it slowed and stopped at the side of the road.
Does that beautiful, expensive machine appreciate the life it just took? he wondered. To snuff the living without so much as a single emotion, this would be bliss, he realized, and sat back down to wait for the stupid pig-eyed police and whatever mundane ritual the simple-minded masses would employ to punish him.
To attempt to punish me, he corrected himself.
The World Without Souls
by D. Krauss
Stupid civilization ended on July 31, 2012 at noon, Geneva time (6 am here, so I was sleeping) when the Director of the Large Hadron Collider announced, "We have proven God does not exist." He beamed. The six or seven equally white coated, bespectacled, and (except for the two frowzy women) bearded geeks flanking him on the facility's steps also beamed.
And they had. It was quite elegant really. See, by isolating the Higgs boson and fooling around with it a bit, they discovered nothingness had this odd tendency to fold. Mind blowing, yes, the idea of nothing that can fold, but it does and out of the folds of nothing came something they called the Light quark (as in Let There Be). And from that came all of us. Not from some guy's rib.
Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Page 20