I’ll call the police. I’ll—
“Drop it,” a deep voice ordered from behind him. He heard a click and slowly lowered the bat. His knees began to tremble.
The front door splintered and swung open. Nev shrieked and jumped. The bat fell from his hand. A sharp pain ran up his back, something as hard as metal driven into it. Wincing, he fell to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes.
A man wearing sunglasses over a ski mask entered his home through the busted front door. Nev couldn’t see the second man behind him, but he assumed his new acquaintance was similarly attired. The intruder must have pried open his back door or jimmied loose a window. The burglars had the jump on Nev. He’d already lost.
“Please … I don’t have much.” Nev’s voice quivered over trembling lips. He threw out his hands. “It’s yours. Take it, whatever you want, and just go.”
“Oh, we’re gonna take it, all right,” Ski Mask said. He was tall and thin and wore black leather gloves. In one gloved hand, he held a pistol. “Whatever we want.”
The man behind Nev batted his skull. Nev fell onto his stomach and rolled onto his back. He could see both men now, and they were smiling.
The shotgun stock of the shorter, plump man who had blindsided Nev was stained with blood. Unlike his partner, he wasn’t wearing a mask and didn’t seem to care who saw his face.
That’s not promising. Nev studied the short, bald man’s beady, sunken eyes as he rubbed the back of his head. His fingers came off red and wet.
“Meat!” Joji called.
The taller criminal spun around with pistol raised. “Woah,” he said. “That fucker scared the shit out of me. And look at the size of it! It’s like an ostrich or something.”
“It’s a parrot,” his partner corrected.
“Yeah, I know it’s a fucking parrot, ya dumb fuck. I meant, the fucker’s as big as an ostrich.”
“Ostriches are way bigger than that, Gumbo. They can’t fly neither.”
“You’re gonna fly, right out that fucking window, if you don’t stop using my fucking name on jobs.”
“Does it matter?” the shorter man asked. “We’re just going to kill him, anyway.”
“Just …” Gumbo growled. “Don’t do it, okay? Or I’m gonna start calling you ‘Pokey’.”
“That’s Gumby’s horse, not Gumbo’s. You’d think with a name like yours, you’d know that.”
“Maybe I don’t watch baby cartoons, asshole,” Gumbo said. “Christ, give me strength.” He stared down at Nev. “Hey? You still with us down there? You ain’t gonna shit yourself, are you? Because if you do, that fat fuck’s gonna make you eat it, comprendo ?”
“Why do I have to make him eat it?” the shorter man asked. “And I have a glandular condition that—”
“My point is,” Gumbo interrupted. “We ain’t going through all this work smelling your stinking britches the whole time.”
Nev looked away. He was rewarded for his irresponsiveness with a swift kick to his ribs. Stabbing, hot pain flared through his side.
“You listening to me, asshole?” Gumbo kicked again.
Nev saw the attack coming and managed to roll with it just a little and lessen the blow. Gumbo’s foot connected with the fleshy side of his lower back, causing considerable hurt but no permanent damage.
“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Nev shouted. His rage boiled over, and he sat up quickly.
“Uh-uh.” Gumbo jammed the snub nose of his pistol into Nev’s forehead. Nev froze, his jaw clenched and his anger bubbling.
“That’s better,” Gumbo said. “Now that I’ve got your attention, tell us where you stashed the good stuff. Drugs, money, jewelry, bearer bonds, rare comics, limited edition Atari games … whatever. We want your valuables, and we don’t want to have to tear through your whole goddamn house to find them. So why don’t you talk, huh? Make it easier on us …” He pistol whipped Nev across the ear. “And yourself.”
Nev growled. His head was ringing. “I don’t have a stash. I—”
Agony seized his jaw and shot arrows into his brain as Gumbo brought the butt of the pistol across Nev’s mouth. He fell in the direction of the blow, collapsing onto his side. A steady stream of blood and shattered teeth ran from his gaping maw.
“Great,” Pokey said. “How’s he supposed to talk if you dislocate his fucking jaw?”
“You got a better idea?” Gumbo asked.
Pokey pulled out a large survival knife. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Gumbo smirked. “By all means …” He stepped back and waved his partner forward.
Nev recognized the opening. He rolled away from the criminals, onto his stomach. He scrambled to his feet and dashed for the front door.
“Oh no you don’t,” Pokey said. His left hand grabbed under Nev’s chin while his other …
Nev’s eyes burst open. He stopped dead in his tracks and fell to his knees. His hands shook as they hovered around the gore-stained knife’s tip protruding out of his belly. He squealed as he watched the blade twist and retreat back into him.
His body numbed. Some connection had severed. He plopped limply onto his shoulder, gravity flattening him to his back. His left arm was pinned beneath him, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t even tell if his other arm was still attached.
Something’s wrong. Oh God, something’s terribly wrong.
“I can’t move.” The words fell from Nev’s lips like snowflakes in the night. Their weight began to build. He raised his head. That, he could move. But everything below his neck refused to obey his mind’s command, not so much as a raised finger or a twitching toe.
A low whine emitted from his throat. Snot bubbled from one nostril as tears rained from his eyes. He slammed his head against the carpet repeatedly. He wanted to scream, but choked on his sobs.
Finally, he found his voice and wailed. “I can’t move!”
Gumbo tucked his gun under his belt. “Well, I guess that resolves that, then.”
“Ah man, Gumbo.” Pokey’s nose wrinkled. “He shit his pants.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Gumbo kicked Nev’s leg. Nev winced in anticipation, but he never felt the blow.
“I think the poor sap’s paralyzed.” A smile wormed across Gumbo’s lips. “Breaks my heart.” He turned to his partner. “Anyway, let’s grab what’s worth grabbing and get moving. Who knows who heard the son of a bitch screaming?”
The burglars disappeared from Nev’s sight. He could hear them knocking furniture over and tossing things around in the other rooms, but none of that mattered. He couldn’t breathe, his heart was beating fast, his lungs pumping faster. His sobs compounded the problem. He didn’t care. Nev wanted to die.
“Meat!” Joji shrieked. She flew from her perch and landed on his groin.
Nev couldn’t feel her weight. He smiled through the anguish, the only thing he loved come to see him in his lowest hour. She lifted a taloned toe and scratched the small white feathers around her eye, regarding Nev with what he hoped was the same love and compassion he felt for her.
Joji’s head bobbed. She rocked from side to side and whistled. “Please?” Then she plunged her head into Nev’s wound and tore out a strip of flesh.
Nev’s mouth dropped open. “N-No, Joji,” he stuttered. What he’d seen his beloved pet do had sent his already fragile mind careening into the abyss. Not being able to feel the mutilation had been his saving grace.
After her first peck, Joji had retreated as if she’d expected repercussions. Nev couldn’t so much as shift his weight to jostle her off of him. He could do nothing but watch.
Joji whistled again. “Thank you,” she said in her mock human tone. She dove in for seconds. Nev gaped as she ripped and tore into the wound, opening it up to expose the raw, red muscle beneath. Blood soaked the bird’s beak, matted down her feathers.
She ate her fill.
Nev passed out.
* * *
“Fuckin’ hell, Gumbo!” Pokey’s v
oice startled Nev from rest. “You’ve got to see this!”
Nev craned his neck and whimpered. Joji’s head was completely buried in his stomach. The wound was a ravaged mess.
“Oh my God,” Gumbo croaked. He put his hand over his mouth and made a gurgling sound as if he might vomit.
“Please,” Nev whispered. The low tone was all he could manage. “Get her off me.”
“This asshole’s still kicking?” Gumbo asked. He leaned over Nev and slapped him across the face. “Hey, asshole? You telling me you can’t feel that shit?”
Nev rolled his head slowly from left to right. “Please …”
“Sure, buddy,” Gumbo said, offering a placating smile. “I’ll get the bird off of you. Just one question: why is she eating you in the first place? I thought these things ate like fruit and nuts and shit.”
“She loves meat,” Nev struggled to speak. “She’s obsessed with it. There’s some roast beef in the fridge. If you put it on the counter …”
“Sure, sure.” Gumbo grinned so wide that he bared all his teeth, wet with saliva. He stood and walked toward the refrigerator and out of sight.
“Thank … thank you.”
“Aw, man,” Pokey said. “You’re a sick fuck, brother.”
Gumbo returned, laughing. He was holding the bag of roast beef open in his hands. He pulled out a slice and ate it.
Joji stretched out her neck toward the roast beef. Her head tilted so that her eye could look directly at it. “Meat!” she squawked and took a shit on Nev’s stomach.
“That’s right, bird,” Gumbo said. “Meat. And it’s all for you.” He crouched over Nev and wiggled a slice over his face.
The bird stepped closer. “Please?”
“What … what are … no, please …” Nev was barely awake as Gumbo draped the thin-sliced deli meat over his mouth. The burglar clamped Nev’s head with his knees so he couldn’t shake it off.
The parrot paced up and down Nev’s chest, her feathers rustling. She wanted more.
“We got everything packed up?” Gumbo asked.
“Good to go,” Pokey answered.
“Good.” Gumbo removed the rest of the beef from its package. He smeared a couple of slices over Nev’s eyes and forehead, leaving clumps of meat and streaks of blood everywhere it touched. The criminal draped the remaining slices over Nev’s face. Standing, he dumped the blood from the bag over Nev’s roast beef mask. Nev could hear him walk away and exit through the remains of his front door, followed by his partner.
As they left, Joji hopped onto his chin. Her weight creased his lips. Her claw dug into his cheek. He felt all of it. And he felt it all the more when she started to eat.
REVENGE IS A DISH
* * *
“Why’d I ever take that fucking job? Why’d I ever take that fucking job? Why’d I ever take … that fucking … job ?”
Maurice shouted the words up at his captive audience, the blinding ball of fire scorching his already sun-burned skin. He howled as he slammed his fists into the water, and it spat back, salt stinging his eyes. Helios and his fucking chariot couldn’t race across the sky quick enough for his liking. His boiling, blistering skin and cracked, dry, and bleeding lips cried for sunscreen.
He took a long, slow breath, trying to calm down and conserve his strength. But as the calming dispelled his anger, he gave way to despair and began to sob. “I don’t even like boats. I hate the freaking water, I hate the constant rocking, and I fucking hate rich people.”
But he sure as hell didn’t mind screwing them, at least not that gold-digging slut, Olivia. Even she had turned on him, left him for fish food.
Just two months ago, Maurice had been a rising star in the culinary world. He had a reputation for making exquisite new creations from standard ingredients or using exotic and sometimes unheard-of fare in more common dishes. After a rather public dispute with the owner of Mes Amis , who made unfounded (or at least unproven) allegations that Maurice had embezzled from the restaurant where he’d served as head chef, he took a break from the Manhattan elite cuisine scene. A week later, he received a call from Dr. Nigel Flickenhoffer at the behest of his wife, Olivia, a regular at the restaurant during his head chefdom.
Dr. Flickenhoffer was a retired curmudgeon of inexhaustible means, despite his trophy wife’s exorbitant attempts to exhaust them. At one-third her newly wedded husband’s age, Olivia—the name she’d given the old fool, though Maurice suspected she’d gone by Trixie or Lexus in a former life while employed at some truck-stop strip club or its nearby parking lot—had an insatiable sexual appetite, the kind a limp dick like Flickenhoffer couldn’t satisfy, not with all his hoity-toityness and fancy things or all the Viagra in the world. Her vocabulary was as small as her waist, but her fake tits were the best and biggest money could buy, no doubt a gift from Doc Asshole, as Maurice preferred to call him. It didn’t take long for Maurice to realize he hadn’t been selected for his cooking skills but for his pretty-boy looks, piercing blue eyes, strong arms, and chiseled abs, the kind only years of exercising and eating right could provide. Olivia took him for a test drive during his tête à tête interview and seemed pleased with the results. Four times pleased, by his count.
The job seemed simple. The couple intended to sail their yacht, a ninety-foot Princess, around the world. To do so, they required a chef to provide the daily meals for them and their small crew. Freshly returned to the job market, Maurice needed a paycheck and Olivia needed a fuck buddy to fill the void, her void, while her dickhead husband fulfilled his egomaniacal, global-explorative fantasy.
“Come with us,” the doctor had said, “and see exotic locales and forgotten cultures, worlds you never knew existed.” Maurice was all-too-willing to say yes, enjoying the pay and the perks Olivia’s proposal offered. He signed on the dotted line two minutes after he’d spilled his seed on her back and was out to sea only a few days later.
In the six weeks he’d spent in that smoking-jacket-and-boating-shoe-wearing, George Hamilton wannabe’s employ, Maurice had kept everyone well fed and Olivia well satisfied. Everything was perfect.
Until he got caught with his dick in Doc Asshole’s most prized possession.
Even on a boat as big as the Wakemaster , it was easy to run out of places to hide. Their secrecy was not aided by the facts that Olivia was a screamer and a lust-crazed whore. Her aggressive and endless grinding had chafed Maurice raw. Her indiscretion had gotten him fired. He’d barely had enough time to pull up his shorts before the old bastard and his captain threw him overboard.
He floated on a lifesaver that one of the deckhands, a teenager named Samuel, had been kind enough to let slip from the back of the boat as it drifted away. Maurice clung to the hard, white doughnut as if it were the only thing in the world that mattered. Out there, surrounded by deep, dark ocean as far as his eyes could see, it was all that mattered.
That, and revenge.
If I somehow make it out of this cesspool alive, I might only take a finger or two from good ol’ Samuel. The rest of them will rot in hell, but not before they suffer. They’re in for a whole fucking galaxy full of hurt.
He gritted his teeth. Especially that twat, Doc Asshole. “I’m gonna kill you for this, you mother fucker!” he screamed at the sky.
Maurice slumped over the lifesaver. The thoughts of revenge, the anger, the wild schemes and planned torture his imagination concocted, those were the fuel that kept him floating. But with every passing hour—twenty-seven or so by his best estimate—the voice of doubt and hopelessness grew louder in his mind, a voice that told of a future far more likely, a future without his pipedream revenge.
A voice that told him he was going to die.
He sobbed quietly, unable to hold it back. Last he knew, the Wakemaster was drifting lazily somewhere north of the Solomon Islands. He had no idea which way the currents had taken him, could barely tell direction at all, his only indicator being the downward arch of the cruel afternoon sun.
As much
as he despised that burning globe and the damage it was doing to his smooth, boyish face, he feared its setting. Maurice knew so little about the ocean. He knew nothing about sailing, or nautical miles, or currents, or buoyancy, or surviving alone at sea. He barely even knew how to swim. Yet somewhere in the far recesses of his mind dwelled a tidbit of information he believed to be true whether it was or not: sharks feed at night.
The opening scene of Jaws flashed behind his eyes. He gripped the life preserver a little tighter.
The irony of a chef becoming food for another creature was not lost on him. He laughed that nervous sort of laugh one has while walking through a haunted house, pretending to be brave. The fear of what hid beneath him in that infinite expanse of deadly water seeped through his body like the icy touch of a howling blizzard.
He would not survive the night.
He would not have his revenge.
Maurice had made it through the first night thanks to the sheer power of denial, defiance, and rage. Reality had since kicked him in the ass with a steel-toed boot. Dread sent a hollow pain through his chest, and he winced as another sob caught in his throat.
Something touched his leg.
The slightest brushing, probably just a swish of water, tickled the hair on his calf. He’d felt it a hundred times since he’d entered the water, and each time, his heartbeat fluttered. Each time, it had turned out to be nothing.
Because it was nothing. Just my imagination .
The water temperature rose, and he wondered if he’d been so petrified that he’d pissed himself. But the water didn’t cool. Heat seemed to pulsate through it as if it were tangible and alive.
“Fuck!” Something slid, slippery and eel-like, across his shin. It’s just my imagination just my imagination just my imagin—
“Ah!” He swiped his hand across his calf. “What the fuck?” Something had bitten him, really had bitten him this time. He lifted his leg, relieved to find it whole. His fingers prodded the skin around a small bump. It wasn’t a bite. It burned as though it had been pressed against a hot oven.
Wrathbone and Other Stories Page 10