by Jake Bible
Covers thrown aside, I pound the mattress, screaming, screaming, screaming! Throat goes raw. Tired from the exertion, I collapse. Must be using MP3s since I didn’t hear the music skip a beat and it should have with the pounding I dished out. They don’t even spin vinyl. I hate them.
I stare at the pillow bunched against my dresser. Burn it.
Shoving stuff aside, I dig under the sink for the lighter fluid. Bleach. Counter scrub. Ant traps. Mason jar full of…something. Old vases and rusty steel wool. Lighter fluid.
The pillow is in the bathtub; fitting, since I think they put in a Jacuzzi in the VIP lounge. I squirt and drench it, listening for the pleas for mercy. Silence. Petroleum fumes lift my brain and float it on high. Why won’t they scream? I need those screams. I need their pain and torture to be palpable upon my tympanic membranes. They must suffer and I must witness.
Silence.
I scrape the match upon the tile grout. Sulfuric flame spurts to life and I place it to fuel. Fire!
I watch, wait, turning on the ceiling fan for the smoke. Pillow burns, then smolders, sputters, then smokes. Damn flame retardant chemicals. I slump to the floor, lean back against toilet and sob. My body racks with despair. And then they come, the screams. I can hear them now. Agony, pain, suffering…laughter? Motherfuckers!
Grabbing my straight razor from the sink, I rush the tub and snatch the sooty, scorched pillow from its enamel barbecue. I slash, slash, slash, ripping their little party palace to shreds. Covered in lighter fluid drenched feathers, I lift the empty casing aloft and let loose a war cry that even Crazy Horse himself would run from. I am their destroyer!
Toss pillow carcass aside and march to war against my captured Sealy. I will not show mercy. I will not give quarter. I do not take prisoners. Enter bedroom, the strains of Shania Twain grating at my stability. The pulsing, pounding, monotonous, redneck pop abomination chalkboard-fingernails my psyche. I squeeze my hands against my ears, nicking my temple with the straight razor. I feel the blood trickle down my cheek, but I don’t care. This is war and there will be blood!
Climb on top of my occupied sleep country and raise razored fist. Down I slice, again and again and again. I rip through fabric and elastic, grating on metal springs, opening their private party to the world; my world. Roar down into the opening; I will make them fear me.
They turn the music up, crank it, blare it. Taunt me. I shove my face into the shredded maw, screaming at them, “Bring it! Bring it all, bitches!”. And, to my great fear and surprise, they do. They bring it all.
All the freaky bedbugs of my world unite and pour from torn stuffing and coils. They are NOT microscopic, NOT miniscule, NOT too small for my eye to see. I see every one of them in all their freaky glory as they discharge from their festive fissure; flea circus of the damned. And Damn them and their freaky costumes and alternative lifestyles they insist on rubbing in my face. They bear knives sharpened, torches lit, pitchforks pronged, empty beer bottles properly jagged, lengths of chain linked and some, yes some, have firearms. Little tiny, itty-bitty pistols, rifles, automatics (semi and fully), guns of shot, all locked, loaded.
Oh, but I am ready also!
“Oh, but I am ready also!” I bellow at their ranks, the force and stench of my breath knocking their first charge into convulsions.
Miniature medics rush to their side, reaching for potions of unknown composition, designed specifically for their freaky bedbug metabolisms and immune systems. That is when realization rapes my conscious mind and I stumble in my rage, fear forcing its phallus between my abused hemispheres.
They have done this before!
This is not their first campaign! I did not force this battle! They had been sitting in wait for my mental collapse. Why? Do they have some type of freaky bedbug Geneva Convention preventing them from waging unilateral, pre-emptive war? Would the freaky bedbug United Mattresses have issued sanctions upon them? Bits of psyche flake and peel and float away, to be lost forever as the implications of an organized freaky bedbug civilization whittle at my grey matter.
Soul-filling vertigo. I vomit.
Let loose the chunks of war!
Partially digested scotch eggs and stout wash over the freaks. They drown in the cloying mixture of hardboiled egg wrapped in sausage, battered, breaded and then deep fried and hops, barley, roasted chocolate malts and yeast. The medics, already on the front line, are some of the first to die, leaving their legions no hope for curatives. Even if they didn’t perish immediately, they couldn’t withstand the after effects of the mighty globs of late night revelry and the liquid napalm of my bile.
Resilient they are, as am I.
I shove my fingers down my throat, launching the second wave of my stomach arsenal. Explosive projectile retching annihilates their ranks. Decimation is my aspiration, and oh how I aspirate! Green bile coats the battlefield.
But, still they come!
Dashing, crashing, crawling over their fallen comrades in arms. They have no regard for their wounded now; they must destroy me. Satisfaction shall not be theirs, neither shall victory.
Cackle laugh at my foes! Tug open the fly, free penis and rain piss. Hosing them, washing them away, back into their celebratory chasm. Drown in bladder juice, bitches! Kidney squeezins tide goes out and they are caught in their own doomed undertow.
Oh, but they are many. Legions now phalanx and re-group. Their mistake. They should scatter, go guerilla, split up. But to cluster together? They have condensed their doom!
Drawers drop and I carpet bomb them with scat shells. Hot death scouring the landscape with anal-ilation. It splashes up my legs, stinging my calves, curling my nose. But it is mine and smells of grandeur. Final squirts burst and the theatre of war becomes silent.
Drawers replaced, I survey my conquest. All dead, none spared. Silence washes me, cleanses me; sweet silence. Do I weep? Will tears of freedom stain my cheeks? They might; they do.
What is this I hear? What dares to break my hard fought silence?
A pounding? Not my head, not my heart. My lungs heave like bellows, but do not pound. Where? What? I listen and hear. The front door! The outside world! Now all shall see my triumph, my glory! Friends! Neighbors! Show me your gratitude, for I have saved your world!
Wipe eyes and turn step from soiled bed space and freeze. If my bowels were full they would be loosed now. I am blocked, flanked, outnumbered and voided. I despair. Sanity fleetingly gained, now lost.
Before me, fresh from the living room, reinforcements arrive.
Tactically speaking, I am an idiot and I shall pay dearly for my mistake.
I forgot about Bedbug Europe.
Leather Belts And Wooden Spoons
I tremble at the screeching from the kitchen. It’s her, Wooden Spoon, angry and frustrated. Did I do it? Is it my fault? Probably.
“Edward? Come here! Now!” she screams. She has gone over the edge this time.
I scramble away from the television, jumping the loveseat, trying to race the crazy bitch to my bedroom.
“Edward?”
I hit the hallway at a full run, my socks slipping on the wooden floors. I bounce from wall to wall like a fleshy pinball trying to escape a flipper that has come loose and is now in pursuit.
“Tilt! Tilt!” I holler, my voice cracking with fear.
“There you are! Get over here now!”
I glimpse her out of the corner of my eye and see she is holding her namesake, her wooden spoon. Dark with food stains, she wields it like a club, swinging it about her head, spittle flying from her puffy lips. She can’t catch me with those fat legs. I sprint the last couple feet, sliding across the threshold and into the carpeted sanctuary.
Door slammed and locked.
Wooden Spoon pounds away between gasps, “You Little Fucking Shit! Get out here right now!”
“No!” I bellow at the beast beyond. “Fuck you!”
“Oh, you shouldn’t have said that! That’s disrespect, that is! You’ll really pay now!”<
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She yanks at the doorknob, trying to man handle it open. She can’t, I’ve fortified my sanctuary for just these situations. I get called out too often to let a piece of cheap hardware be my downfall.
“What have you done? Have you changed your lock? Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!”
She throws herself against the cheap wooden paneling. That I didn’t adjust for. If she continues tossing her girth against the door, she will surely split it wide open and I will be plucked like a dirty pearl from a rotted oyster. But, as with everything, she grows tired quickly. I creep closer, pressing my ear carefully against the door. I can hear her wheezing on the other side, her strained lungs laboring for simple breath.
“Edward…sweety…I…won’t hurt…you. I…promise,” she forces out.
“Bullshit!”
I am answered with a roar of rage and fists pounding, the wooden spoon still in her hand, wood on wood clacking, echoing against my bedroom walls. I jump back, eardrum pained by the concussions.
“Wait until your father gets home! Oh, he won’t be pleased! This will ruin his evening, ruin his re-lax-ation!” she drawls the last word, mocking it and emphasizing it at the same time.
Father, good ole Leather Belt, won’t be pleased. That is true. But, is he ever? Not since I came to be; not since I ruined his re-lax-ation.
“Fuck him!” I scream back. Silence. Then a small giggle; I can hear the grin spread across her face.
“Tell him yourself, boy. He just walked in,” she mocks and I hear her footfalls grow fainter as she leaves the hallway.
I risk another ear-press, and strain to hear them. Muffled voices, angry voices, drift back from the living room, down the hall, through the wood and into my brain.
“…belt…locked…last time...,” is all I can make out.
Last time? Is this it, have I finally pushed them too far. Will Wooden Spoon and Leather Belt get rid of me now? Toss me aside, into the trash heap, burn pile, compost?
Who are these monsters? My parents? I can’t think that could be true. Why would evil such as these two have children? I don’t remember my birth, but others say they don’t either. But, is that right? Should I remember? Would it be important?
“Son?” I leap away. Damn, he’s quiet! I didn’t hear him even approach the door. “Son? Open up. Please.”
The calm voice; the dangerous voice. I know he has his tool, weapon, bit ‘o justice, wrapped tightly in one fist: his leather belt. I’ve watched him squeeze that cowhide too many times to not see it in my mind instantly. I begin to sweat, desperate drops trickling down my back, pooling at my waistband.
“No,” I state flatly, more courage in my voice than I thought possible.
Silence; pre-storm quiet.
SLAM!
“OPEN THIS FUCKING DOOR RIGHT NOW!”
This is it! This time it’s real! They will kill me, dispose of me, replace me! I scan my room, desperate for an answer. No weapons to speak of, at least nothing a boy could use against a grown man sadistically bent on killing. Escape? The windows? I dash to them, ripping the drapes wide. I yank the screens away and crank the windows open. They crack just enough for my ten-year-old frame to squeeze through. I glance at the shrubbery below me, maybe five, six feet. I can do this.
“You Little Fucking Shit!!!! I will count to three and you will open this door!!! Otherwise I will whip your ass until the skin comes off!!!!”
He will, I know that. And I drop.
They knew I might do this, hence the miniature holly bushes. I tear my self from their pointed leaves, scratching skin and ripping clothes. The evening sun is almost set and I am just now embarking on my escape. I have no plan, no destination, no idea where to go, how to get help. So I run.
I only make it past the edge of the house before I am stopped. Slapped in the face by Wooden Spoon; by her wooden spoon. Tears well up as my nose protests and I fall onto my haunches, mud and leaves sticking, coating my backside.
“Think you could out smart me, boy?” she grins, slapping the spoon in her palm. Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
I move my hands, bracing myself to stand, and feel something. A rock? No, a baseball. I curl my fingers around my new best friend.
“Get up and get inside,” she growls. Thwack! Thwack!
“Is he out there?” Leather Belt hollers from the back door.
“Yes! Come get his ass!” she looks down at me with pity and loathing. “I promised your father he could punish you tonight. This will be a long night for you, Edward. Quite possibly your last night.”
I fling the baseball at her face, but miss horribly. She cringes anyway, arms flying up to protect herself. I take her distraction and use it to flee. Up out of the mud I bound, heading for the Woods; in the twilight they will not be kind, but they will be a better refuge than here.
Wooden Spoon wails and Leather Belt joins, seeing me escape into the gloom of underbrush and overgrowth.
“Come back here! You Little Fucking Shit, come back here!” His rage is lost to me, now meters into the Woods. I sprint and squint, hoping I can make out any obstacles, leaping them when I do, tripping and falling, when I don’t.
Minutes, hours, days? I run, I run, I run.
Creatures pursue, nightmares follow, the Boogeyman waves. “Hi there!”
I run until there is nothing left. I run until I collapse.
The floor of the Woods is softer than my bed, softer than any bed and I fight the drifting, comforting sleep that envelopes me.
“Please don’t eat me…,” I whisper to the monsters, creatures, creations that lurk.
Blackness creeps in....
“Hey.” I am jostled. “Hey, you awake?”
I start, arms flailing, hands connecting with skin.
“Ow! Stop!”
I push myself to my feet, ready to fight the voice that has accosted me. But, senses returning, I see only a girl, my age, tattered, ripped, bruised, eye blackened. She waves her hands, warding me off.
“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammer. “Who are you?”
“I’m Stupid Little Bitch,” she says quietly and looks at me questioning.
“Oh. Oh, I’m Edward,” I respond. Her face drops, shoulders sag in disappointment. “Um, but, they call me Fucking Little Shit.”
She brightens, lifts her head and beams. I blink and she is hugging me tightly.
“Whoa, whoa,” I gently push her away. “Why are you here?” I look around at the Woods, nighttime has fallen, but the Woods glow by the unseen moonlight.
She looks up at me, smiling, crying; she wipes a tear. “They were going to kill me on Wednesday. They said so. I ran Tuesday night. I ran and ran and ran…until I came here.”
“Who were going to kill you?” I ask, knowing the answer. She wraps her arms about her flat girl chest.
“My Wooden Spoon and Leather Belt.” She steps toward me, taking my hands in hers. “Did yours say they would kill you too?”
“They always say that,” I answer, but know she wants more. “Yes, this time I think they would have.”
She smiles brighter. “We can stay here, you and me. They say it’s okay.”
“Who says that?”
“Them.” She gestures at the surrounding trees and ‘they’ step into the open. Monsters, beasts, creatures of all sorts. Trolls, giants, banshees, witches, werewolves, real wolves and vampires surround us.
My eyes widen in fear. I clutch at her hands, crushing her knuckles.
“Ow! It’s okay,” she says. “They’re just like us.” She looks at the all the nightmares about us and smiles. They smile back, in their way. “Everyone changes in the Woods.”
“What do you mean…everyone?”
She smiles coyly and turns, lifting the back of her peasant’s dress. I blush and turn away at the sight of her underpants. She grabs me and twists me back to her. “It’s okay, really. See?”
I risk a peep and see a bump protruding from just above the cleavage of her butt cheeks. Too curious for propriety I bend down clo
ser. Is that…
“It’s a tail!” she pipes with glee, letting the dress fall back in place. “I’m getting a tail!”
The beings about us move closer and I honestly see them for who they are. They are not evil monsters filled with malice, beasts driven to devour, to lure and kill. They are Little Fucking Shits, Stupid Little Bitches, Lazy Bastards, No Good Pieces of Crap. They are me, us, we.
“Will I…?” I whisper.
“Of course! Everyone becomes themselves in the Woods. Oooh, I wonder what you’ll be?” she muses as the citizens of the Woods surround me, welcome me and take me in their arms.
From the shadows of the trees the Boogeyman waves. This time I wave back.
***
“You promised us they would be obedient! That they would be ours forever!” I holler at the Dark Woman standing at the podium. “We paid you and you promised!”
I look around the meeting hall at the other Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons, urging them to respond. Howls of protest, shouts of betrayal, calls for refunds go up in a cacophony of indignation and unrest.
The Dark Woman- tall and sleek, not a dumpy flesh vehicle like the Wooden Spoons- raises her hands, asking for calm and quiet. Within seconds the protests cease and the Leather Belts and Wooden Spoons wait for her response to their outrage. I do not take my seat; she is not my master. I am a Leather Belt and I will not be bullied.
“Please, please,” she placates. “I did as you asked, I brought you the children. It is up to you to raise them right. To train them into submission and make them your willing slaves. All I can do is make sure they have no memory of their former lives, no memory of parents beyond your loving embrace.” She spreads her arms wide, taking in the room and smiles her best ‘I understand and I care deeply’ smile.
“But what do we do now?” my Wooden Spoon calls out. “They have all left us! Left us for the, the…the Woods!”
Gasps and shouts echo in the chamber. Voices begin to rise again. I take my cue.
“You are right,” I yell above the mob. “You have given us what we paid for. But, you have not given us what we wanted.” I slowly begin to pull my leather belt from around my waist. As I do, I can taste the change in the room, smell the violence, the juicy, delicious violence becoming solid. The sound of leather being pulled through denim belt loops becomes a chorus.