“Another martini, friend?” The bartender looked more like an overgrown boy than a man–mid-twenties, gelled hair, tattoos covering his neck and forearms. Caleb nodded and set his glass down. The bartender watched the stage as he prepared the drink. “He’s damn good, ain’t he?”
“He’s amazing.”
Radical Raymond sat on a stool at the back corner of the stage, shadows covering him like a second skin. Some of the less Talented flesh-benders held their hands up to their foreheads; some had their digits digging into their temples, trying to look dramatic. But not Raymond. His hands were folded in his lap, one eyebrow raised as he bended the flesh in the middle of the stage, in front of the awestruck crowd.
“He’s the best there ever was,” Caleb said in a dreamlike state. He turned to find a new drink in front of him and that he’d spoken to himself. The tattooed boy-bartender was flirting with a girl at the other end of the bar, paying no attention to Caleb.
Raymond stood from his stool and plucked his piece of flesh from the stage floor, then bowed to the crowd. They erupted with applause, whistles, stomping, and shouting, all praising the man that had just wowed them with his unequalled ability. Caleb was still reeling from the beauty of the man’s art.
The host jumped back on stage, his portly belly stretching his Ritz t-shirt, a mustard stain just above his belly button. His labored breathing was obvious when he spoke. It made Caleb uncomfortable just to watch him.
“How bout that Radical Raymond, huh?” His sweat gleamed under the stage lights, and he took deep breaths to recover from his previous sentence while the crowd gave another round of applause. “And now my friends, we open the stage to you aspiring flesh-benders out there. Don’t be shy now.”
Caleb willed his legs to move, but they refused to cooperate. They were pillars of stone, bolted to the ground, refusing to obey his brain signals. But to Caleb’s relief, an attractive, petite Hispanic girl got on stage.
She bowed to the crowd and stretched her mouth into a smile that dug into Caleb’s chest and tunneled to his heart. The girl was breathtaking, intoxicating to look at. Caleb was more than impressed, not only with her beauty, but with her courage to get on stage and follow an act like Raymond’s. She’d really have to do something special–none of the old clichés he’d seen a million times. Flesh-bending was an art, and too many wannabes figured they could jump on stage and do it without putting enough thought into it; this wasn’t something that just any Joe Schmo could do. You’d have to have the Talent, of course, something given to those special few at birth, but along with that, you had to have creativity, inventiveness.
Caleb’s mouth hung open as the girl peeled her shirt from her torso, wearing nothing underneath, and shook her tits at the crowd. Perfect roundness with big, dark nipples, swaying as she tossed the garment into the audience. She bent down and her breasts hung, and when she stood back up, she held a silver knife that she’d unsheathed from her knee-high leather boot.
Then she plunged the blade into her chest. She sawed at the flesh, cutting around the left breast until it ripped free and plopped to the floor, jiggling like molded Jell-O. Blood pumped rhythmically from the gaping wound, yet she only smiled. A real pro, this girl. The crowd reacted with applause, and Caleb wanted nothing more than to be engulfed by her body, swallowed whole by her sex. And not just because of her beauty, but her genius. She was going to bend her own flesh, something Caleb had never thought possible. His pain tolerance was that of a child’s, but this woman, half his size, had severed her breast and hardly flinched. She began working at the other.
“Not bad, huh?”
Caleb jumped at the voice beside him, but couldn’t peel his eyes from the girl mutilating herself in the name of her Talent.
“It’s astounding,” he answered back.
“You can say that again.”
Caleb had to tear his eyes away from the stage, like a Band-Aid from a festering wound. His level of frustration was on red as he turned, ready to show his displeasure with a hard scowl. But he didn’t want to miss a moment of the show; he wanted to continue his gluttonous drinking-in of the gorgeous female bleeding before him. He spun to face the voice, and found Radical Raymond leaning against the bar beside him, sipping the last of a drink, sucking in an ice cube and chewing on it. He turned to Caleb and held out a hand.
“Raymond, nice to meet you.”
Caleb almost buckled under the pressure, but he threatened his hand–in his mind–that he would cut it off and bend it on stage if it didn’t do his bidding. Thankfully, the hand cooperated and clamped around Raymond’s.
“C–Caleb. I’m a huge fan, Mr. Raymond.”
“My name isn’t ‘Mister,’ okay? And don’t call me ‘Radical’ either. I didn’t come up with that stupid fucking name, the Ritz did. Just Raymond if you don’t mind,” he said, slamming his empty glass on the bar.
Caleb felt his face glowing like a Christmas light. “Sorry. Can I buy you a drink, Raymond?”
The man raised an eyebrow, one of his signature moves, and looked Caleb up and down. “Just so you know, I like pussy, okay?”
“Yeah, good…I mean…so do I. I’d love to meet that girl,” Caleb said as he shifted his attention back to the stage. The girl sat on the same stool that Raymond had, blood still pumping from the open wounds, covering her body like a crimson jumpsuit. She’d bended the flesh of her breasts into a full-sized man and a woman, and her nipples became their sex organs. The man’s dark, hard cock pointed at the crowd and they shouted their approval. The other breast, now a woman, lay on her back, the place between her legs as dark as the man’s dick. She grabbed her ankles and spread her legs so wide, she could have ripped herself in half. The man reached down and stroked his hardened member, which began sprouting arms and legs as he rubbed it. What was a bulging vein a moment before peeled away and became an arm, sprouting a tiny hand on the end.
Raymond laughed. “Yeah, I’m sure you would, Caleb. She’s damn good.”
Caleb heard Raymond talking, but his eyes were moths to the bright light on stage. This girl could flesh-bend as good as Raymond, if not slightly better.
The man on stage had a full-blown fetus for a penis, and he got on his knees and plunged it into the woman who shouted her pleasure with each pump. Her stomach began to bulge, more and more with each pelvic thrust from the man. And when her belly was to the point of bursting, the man pulled out, a dark void where the baby-dick once was. The woman reached up and grabbed his head, then shoved it into her sex, all the way to the shoulders. The man’s body went limp as she stuffed him in further, opening wide to take his body into hers.
Caleb was speechless with the beauty of it. He glanced toward Raymond to get a glimpse of his reaction.
“She’s very Talented, huh, Caleb?” Raymond said, sliding his tongue across his teeth.
“Oh God, yes. I’ve never seen anything like this…no offense to you mister…uh…Raymond.” Caleb shot Raymond an apologetic look. But Caleb’s eyes were sucked back to the stage. “You’ve always been my favorite. I could never bend flesh like you…or her.”
Raymond emptied his drink, and as he set it down, the boy-bartender had a fresh one waiting. It seemed as though Radical Raymond was a vodka tonic kind of man, and Caleb pointed to the bartender. “That’s on my tab as well.”
“You got it, slick.”
“So, Caleb. You’re a fellow flesh-bender, hmm?” Raymond grabbed the drink and reached into the glass for a cube of ice, which he tossed into his mouth and rolled around before chewing it. “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”
The left breast devoured the man with her vaginal maw, but had doubled in size. She stood, facing the crowd, the size of a Sumo wrestler. Dark brown udders ran down the front of her torso, squirting milk at the crowd in pearly streams. They loved it, every one of them, some opening their mouths to catch the precious liquid and taste the art.
“Oh, I’ve been here before. Lots of times. Just don’t think I’m good e
nough to actually get on that stage,” Caleb said, glancing at Raymond. “Especially not after someone like you.”
Raymond laughed, slapping the bar and knocking over some of the other patrons’ drinks. But none of them noticed; they were hypnotized by the artistic smorgasbord before them.
“Let me see it,” he said, slamming his drink in a single gulp.
“I’m sorry?”
“The flesh, give it here.”
Caleb already had his hand in his pocket, flicking the cube back and forth from nervousness. He pulled it out and handed it to Raymond.
“You see, this is the problem, Caleb. I can smell the damn thing a mile away. Dead flesh is no good.”
The massive woman on stage reached behind her head and unzipped herself, splitting her front wide open. The gorgeous girl on the stool, the genius at work, scrunched her brow, causing the breast-woman’s entrails to burst out and whip around like streamers caught in a strong wind. The chaotic flailing ceased as quickly as it began, and the intestines reached out to the crowd, tickling the people in the front row under their chins.
“But…I’ve always been able to bend it at home…I mean…when I’m practicing alone.”
“Yes, Caleb. And I could buy any old cheap pencil for a dime and still draw a picture, right? It’s all about the flesh, my boy.”
Caleb grinned so hard he nearly tore the corners of his mouth. His idol, the great Radical Raymond, giving him flesh-bending advice. “Thank you so much! But where do I–”
The crowd burst into deafening applause, and when Caleb turned to face the stage, the flesh had morphed back into the severed breasts. The gorgeous artist walked forward and plucked them from the floor, then twisted them back onto her body as if they were jar lids.
A firm grip took Caleb’s shoulder and he turned to find Raymond staring intently at him. “All in the flesh, Caleb.”
As he said the words, his mouth oozed from his face like melting candle wax. The rest of his body began to liquefy and pool onto the floor, his sparkly stage clothes floating on the surface. A few people in the crowd noticed the commotion, mouths gaping, gasping and murmuring to one another.
Caleb tried to explain that he had no idea what had happened, but his jaw moved up and down with no words to accompany it. He turned to the bartender, ready to accuse him of poisoning the vodka tonics.
But his eye caught the Hispanic female on stage, the girl who had outdone Raymond in her flesh-bending, outdone any person Caleb had ever seen with Talent. She grabbed the skin of her face, wadded it up in her fist like silk, and pulled outward. The crowd turned their attention away from Caleb to witness this miracle of artistic beauty.
She pulled away the skin, discarding it on the stage floor, piled up like soiled linen. And Raymond stood there, stark naked, facing his adoring fans with open arms.
“Amazing,” the boy-bartender said from just behind Caleb on the other side of the bar. He’d been slicing limes as the miracle of flesh-bending had unfolded.
Caleb was proud. He knew Radical Raymond was the best there ever was or ever would be. Caleb’s smile never left his face, only stretched wider, and he caught Raymond’s eye–just the quickest of glances–and he winked.
“He’s the greatest,” Caleb said, and then reached across the bar to seize the knife from the bartender, pulling it from his slack fingers as he continued to gawk at Raymond, who took his well-deserved bows.
Caleb couldn’t let him down. He had to go on stage. Show Raymond that he had true Talent. That he was a flesh-bender. Caleb slammed his hand on the bar and severed his left thumb at the knuckle.
The pain was beautiful.
Shane McKenzie is the author of Infinity House, All You Can Eat, Bleed on Me, Jacked, Addicted to the Dead, Muerte Con Carne, Fat Off Sex & Violence, Escape from Shit Town (co-authored with Sam W. Anderson and Erik Williams), Fairy, The Bingo Hall, and many more to come. He is also the editor at Sinister Grin Press. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and daughter. Also, he is going to kill you.
-Almost Home
by Kevin Lucia
“The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”
“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”
by Robert Frost
“How much longer?”
“Not long, I don’t think.”
“How long?”
Shelly blinked at the rain-slicked windshield while her mind struggled against the wipers’ metronome. She was so tired driving, and of not knowing when it would end.
I chose this. Shouldn’t complain.
She touched the .38 revolver under her belt. The cold metal chilled her fingertips. Shivering, she pulled her hand away. Bile churned in her gut, made her mouth taste sour, because she really couldn’t blame anyone but herself for this. She’d known what Scott had been like–God help her, she’d known–and it wasn’t like people hadn’t warned her. But she hadn’t listened, because, she’d thought she could change him. Make him better.
And now, here they were.
“Shit.”
“Cody. Watch your mouth.” She glanced sideways. “What’s wrong?”
The old Gameboy she’d bought for him at a thrift store warbled. Arcs of light from the tiny screen played across Cody’s forehead, accentuating the angles of his nose and cheeks, flaring in the hollows under his eyes.
“Only two lives left. Thing’s fuckin’ hard.”
She squinted at the rain-blurred road. “Don’t swear, honey. It’s crude.”
“Dad swore.”
She swallowed sharp, brittle words. “Well, I don’t want you to. It’s low. You ain’t gonna be like that. You’re gonna be different. Better. Okay?”
Tiny stars blossomed over Cody’s cheeks while his thumbs raced. “Whatever.”
“No. You can change, Cody. If you want to.”
“Sure.”
It wasn’t much of an answer, but they were both tired, and Cody seemed too absorbed in the Gameboy for her to push the issue much further. Still, she persisted. She was his mother, after all.
Fine time to pick that responsibility up. Where was she when the bruises on his arms had started showing?
She sucked in a deep breath, swallowing her self-recrimination. “You can always change, Cody. Always.”
“’Kay. When’s the next stop? My ass–butt hurts.”
She bit her lip. They hadn’t seen anything for miles, and the highway stretched out before them into the dark: a black strip broken only by pale yellow lines. Wet darkness swirled around them. Only a few pinprick stars glimmered through night’s velvet curtain, along with snatches of bone-white moon.
They’d gotten lost. Probably took the wrong exit. The next stop could be minutes or hours away.
She glanced at the gas gauge. The needle trembled inside the yellow of “Caution,” just above the red of “Empty.” Her stomach cramped.
“I dunno, kiddo.”
Vinyl seating squeaked. Electronic trumpets blared. “Cool.”
She didn’t answer, just swallowed bitter fear. Her stomach chewed on doubt and empty promises. Here was the truth: things were no better now than they were before. Scott’s behavior had been erratic, impossible to predict, and life with him had been a violent roller coaster ride…
But they’d had a home. A roof over their heads. Food.
And now?
She looked in the rearview mirror. Its cracked glass reflected her worn face, her skin pulled tight at the corners of her mouth. Old bruises shadowed her eyes. Cody looked much better than she did. Thankfully, young skin healed fast.
She frowned. That’s not my face.
Her mirror eyes laughed at her while the gun pressed against her belly, and she dreamed of pulling that trigger, soon, dreamed of making all her regrets and nightmares disappear for good.
No.
Shelly drove to the tune of the Gameboy’s warbles.
* * *
Cody had shut the Gameboy off and fallen asleep. The silence made her eyelids flutter. She’d tried listening to the radio to stay awake, but all it played were angry evangelists and snide politicians. She’d turned that off as well.
Her arms trembled. Fatigue burned her stomach.
Something caught her gaze. Up ahead, on the right side of the road, a building shimmered through the raindrops. A rest stop and welcome center–long and narrow, built of night-washed brick–its parking lot empty. Understandable, given the late hour.
Still, something about the place bothered her. She frowned, glancing at Cody. Curled away from her, asleep against the passenger side door, he looked babyish. Hard to imagine him saying ‘shit’ and ‘fuck.’
Stringy brown bangs sprawled across his forehead and eyes. She brushed them away. As her fingertips grazed his smooth skin, a chill coiled around her spine.
She looked up, flicked on the turn signal–even on this dark, empty highway–and slowed.
She pulled off the highway and into the crescent parking lot at the rest stop. Dim halogen lights spilled piss-yellow splashes over the building and onto the ground. Nearby sat a small, neglected park sporting a few leafless trees. Shadowed shapes of picnic tables and grills huddled amongst them.
She parked at the building’s entrance, where a sign read: Welcome to Webb County. She looked at the gas gauge; saw the needle bleeding from yellow into red.
Fear chilled her stomach. She had no money left for gas; had spent her last few dollars on that old Gameboy. She’d almost said no–like she had at countless other thrift stores and Salvation Army outlets along the way, so many they blended together into one blurred memory–but something had made her give in; she wasn’t sure what. Maybe it had been her desperate need to see him smile, the way he’d shown bright white teeth in a grin all boys his age should have. She hadn’t seen him smile like that in such a long time.
Not since Scott had been laid off from the lumber mill, anyway.
Now, looking at the fuel gauge, she felt guilty for buying the Gameboy. A few dollars wouldn’t have made much difference, but even so the guilt–along with a million other sharp regrets–jabbed into her heart. Something crumbled deep inside her.
Horror Library, Volume 5 Page 10