by Bryan Hall
Its tip stung.
With a deep breath, the man pulled the bit away and found the tube of topical oral pain-relieving gel, and squeezed a liberal amount onto his gloved fingers. He rubbed the gel over his gums (and even applied a little to the fresh gill areas, though it burned), before taking up his tools again.
He fit the bit back into the correct location and took a deep breath.
Then he pulled the drill’s trigger.
“Man, those movies used to scare the shit out of me. You were pretty badass, back in the day.”
Brennan smiled. It was not his best smile, the one he practiced in the mirror sometimes to put timid people at ease. No, this was a thin, tired smile. An annoyed smile.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Whoa. Even your voice is different. Did they, like, make you sound all grungy and shit with computers or something?”
“No, that was my voice, too. I just don’t go around growling like that all the time.”
The kid, a long-haired stoner in a heavy metal T-shirt, just stared at Brennan. Then, slowly, he looked down at the table, down at the line of 8x10 photos. His eyes scanned the photos, stills from each of the Razor Dawn films as well as candid, behind-the-scenes snapshots, before glancing back up at Brennan to say, “Are these free or something?”
Brennan’s jaw was beginning to ache; he realized he’d been clenching his teeth again.
“They’re twenty dollars,” he said.
“Apiece?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Well, for the photo and an autograph.”
The stoner stared at him for a long moment before saying, “What the fuck ever, dude,” and walking away.
Brennan let out a long, slow breath and looked over at Kim. She smiled sympathetically and crossed her legs. They were good legs, still, after all these years. She’d taken care of herself, and it showed.
Brennan wasn’t so bad himself, of course. He’d managed to keep it together, anyway (though, of course, having a decent plastic surgeon helped).
He had to.
Brennan glanced across the way, to the empty table, the apologetic sign taped to its surface letting convention-goers know that, due to unforeseen circumstances, Donald J. Praggert had cancelled his appearance.
Unforeseen circumstances.
Prick.
The convention had pretty much allowed Brennan and Kim to set their prices because Don had promised he would show up. The publicity—“First Razor Dawn reunion! In honor of the twentieth anniversary of the film!”—had bumped the convention up from the B-level crap festival it really was to something higher, something sublime. Fangoria was set to write a piece on the reunion. So was Rue Morgue.
And Don fucked it all up.
In accordance with the Shit Rolls Downhill doctrine, the convention folks took out their frustration on Brennan and Kim. The pissed off reporters would probably do the same ... they’d already written crap reviews of the last four Razor Dawn sequels (“For a supposedly tireless hellspawn, Brennan O’Rourke looks like he could use a nap,” one of the kinder ones read).
When the con wrapped up at five, Brennan packed up his photos and posters and toy figurines, and turned to Kim Torrence.
“Want to get a drink or something?”
His former costar had risen to scream-queen fame at the ripe age of seventeen, when she spent half of the first Razor Dawn running in terror from Brennan’s demonic character, “The Prophet.”
Kim gave him an apologetic smile and said, “I wish I could ... but my flight’s in an hour, and I have to teach tomorrow.”
“You’re a teacher now?” Brennan said.
“Have been for almost ten years. First grade.”
“You ever miss the business?”
Kim’s eyes widened. “Goodness, no. I mean, it was fun while it lasted, but ... I just didn’t feel like there was any longevity there.”
Brennan glanced away and nodded.
He hadn’t done much work yet this year, but he was counting on “The Horror Show” to hire him again to host its all-night Halloween movie marathon again. It wasn’t much—basic cable didn’t pay for shit—but it was something. It kept his face and his name out there.
Until the next film.
The big one.
The reason—Brennan hoped, anyway—that Donald had pulled a no-show.
The magazines had lost interest a few years back when, after promising something for so many years, Donald J. Praggart, eccentric horror genius, still hadn’t delivered.
But Brennan knew.
He’d seen the drafts of the script.
And Praggart’s glorious return to the Razor Dawn franchise would blow everything out of the water.
All the shitty sequels? Forgotten.
The scandals surrounding Praggart’s bizarre behavior? Forgiven.
Brennan’s status as horror icon par excellence? Reinstated and cemented.
“Have you seen him lately?” she said.
Brennan shook his head.
“You were friends, right?”
He looked at her. “Sure. We still are ... it’s just ... well ...”
“He’s Donald Praggart?” she said, with a hint of a grin.
Brennan returned her grin. He remembered the endorsements of all the big name horror folks proclaiming Don to be the next Lovecraft, Poe, King, etc. How surreal had all of that been? Especially for his friend, the kid who, in school, had been relentlessly bullied and mocked for being sickly and bookish.
As she gathered the last of her things, Kim rose up on tiptoes to kiss Brennan on the cheek.
“It was nice to see you again,” she said. Her perfume was sweet and spicy, and Brennan couldn’t help but take note of the way her breasts pressed against him as she hugged him. “If you see Donald, tell him hi for me.”
Brennan tried to remember that this was Kimmy ... little Kimmy Torrence from Oxfart, Nebraska (or wherever the hell it was). He’d helped her with math homework on the set of the first film, for God’s sake.
But that was a seventeen-year-old girl. This was a thirty-seven-year-old woman.
And that reminded Brennan that he, too, was twenty years older. He still had decent muscle tone. His hairline had gone to hell, but that was okay. Fans were used to The Prophet’s clean-shaven (well, skinned) head, so cutting his hair was the best move Brennan had ever made. People had started recognizing him on the streets again.
He watched Kim go, remembering the scent of her, the feel of her body against his for that briefest of moments.
Then she was gone.
With a sigh, he packed up the rest of his things and left.
The convention high waned. Brennan was forced to, once again, admit the truth: Real life sucked.
Sure, cons had their problems—especially for someone like Brennan—but they were a lovely distraction from the pointless banality of everyday life.
Still, it wasn’t as fun as it used to be.
The Razor Dawn films had created a peculiar subculture within the horror community. The people who came to Brennan’s table usually fell into one of two camps. The first, like the annoying mouth-breather who had closed out this last con for him, were of the stoner/metalhead persuasion, for whom the films represented a kind of live-action version of their favorite album cover artwork. Those kids were annoying—and boring—but generally harmless. The other camp, though ...
Brennan could spot them from miles away. He could smell them. The clove cigarettes. Benzoin, myrrh, and patchouli. Black leather, chromed chains, and pale, pale flesh penetrated with bits of metal.
Razor Dawn had created a generation of fetishists, viewers who believed in the films’ “philosophy” and lived by Praggart’s strange, dark mythos.
And they worshipped The Prophet.
On screen, anyway.
In real life, Brennan had discovered that they were some of the whiniest, most pathetic, and thoroughly goddamned boring people on planet Earth.
Furfur met him in the foyer, crying loudly. Brennan stooped and scratched the black-and-white cat’s head before heading into the kitchen to get him a can of food. After feeding the cat, he helped himself to a ham sandwich, ate it by the kitchen counter as he nursed a Heineken taken from the fridge, and lingered a bit, allowing as much time to go by as he dared before putting his plate in the sink, brushing the crumbs from his hands, and walking toward the back of the house.
Speaking of things that just weren’t that fun anymore ...
He unlocked the deadbolt securing the cellar door and descended the steps. When he flipped on the light switch, he watched in amusement as Praggart’s guests tried—unsuccessfully—to remain defiant. They blinked away tears as the light blinded them and tried in vain to cover their nakedness, forgetting momentarily the shackles that held them in place.
“Had enough?” he said.
The female nodded, eyes wide with fear.
Brennan sighed. He walked around behind the girl and removed her catheter. He unlocked her ankle restraints and finished by freeing her wrists. The girl rubbed the angry red welts on her wrists and emitted a tiny “thank you” while Brennan began to decatheterize, unshackle, and otherwise detach the male.
“I trust you enjoyed your stay?” he said to the boy.
“W—will we g—get to meet him now?” the boy said.
Brennan raised an eyebrow at this. “Did he not come to see you?”
Both of them shook their heads.
Brennan frowned. That wasn’t usually how it worked.
Brennan had gotten the message on his way to his agent’s office. Don had asked if Brennan would mind “attending to the company,” a term Don had used, when he and Brennan had shared a flat in college, whenever he had guests who had overstayed their welcome. Don’s place was only twenty minutes or so from Brennan’s, and Brennan was quite familiar with his old friend’s strange appetites, so he didn’t mind stopping in.
“Who locked you up, then?” Brennan said to the couple.
“Housekeeper,” the girl said.
“Ms. Procell,” Brennan said.
The girl nodded.
“I see.”
Brennan looked around, sighed, and said, “Well, the show is over, kids. Wasn’t it fun? Nothing like a weekend in the cold and dark, eh? Did you learn any ‘mysteries of the flesh’ while languishing down here, hungry and alone?”
“It was horrible,” the girl said.
“Well, of course it was.” Brennan said. “You came looking for a horror story, and you found it.”
“W—what if we t—t—tell ...?” the boy said.
Brennan tuned in to his film persona and regarded the boy gravely. The kid shrunk down upon himself and started to cry.
“Do you think anyone would believe you?” Brennan said coldly.
He glared at them menacingly as they dressed in their ridiculous faux gothic clothes, and he walked them to the door. From the window, he saw the girl look back once, her eyes swimming in and out of focus.
Brennan sighed again. This was the problem with the fetishists. They loved the idea but not the reality. Reality was uncomfortable and humiliating and more than a little bit painful.
He climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Donald’s office. It was empty, but the desk was overflowing with a flurry of papers. He walked past the desk and opened the closet door. A ladder set into the wall inside led up to the attic, where Donald really worked when he was writing.
Brennan stepped up onto the first rungs of the ladder, though his knees protested and his lower back threatened to revolt. The large, empty room above, with its bare wood floors and the single bulb hanging from the ceiling, was Don’s preferred working space. He would sit there, with pen and notebook in hand, and craft whole universes. He wrote, sometimes, for days at a stretch without sleep or food.
When Brennan climbed up out of the hole, though, he first noticed that the room was vacant.
Then he saw that Donald had been up to something.
The floor was covered in plastic sheeting. Several spotlights on long tripods stood around a small work area in the middle of the room. A small hand mirror lay, cracked, near a metal worktable. Brennan took a few steps closer, saw the power drill lying on its side, the canister of metal hooks that had spilled onto the table, and a number of blades fanned out on a white cotton cloth. And he saw the arcs and spots, the dark, tacky pools and the dry, brown patterns that had painted the well-lit attic in shades of crimson and ochre.
Brennan stared. He’d known Praggart for most of his life, knew the man as a serial blasphemer, pervert, and occasional sadist, but he had never really hurt anyone (the occasional flogging or fisting notwithstanding, of course).
What the hell had happened? And how was Brennan supposed to deal with it?
He didn’t want to be an accessory to whatever horrible crimes it appeared that Don had committed, but he also wasn’t about to turn in a friend, even if the bastard had screwed them all when he stopped playing the Hollywood games and handed over the franchise to a bunch of cocky little shits who wouldn’t know horror if it crawled up inside their urethras and laid eggs.
There was a paper there, on the floor, partially saturated in what Brennan had to believe was blood. He stepped closer and looked at it.
Medical diagrams of some sort. A cross section drawing of a human head. Certain notes had been scribbled, in pencil, at some points of the drawing, but the writing had smudged and Brennan couldn’t read any of it.
After a thorough investigation of the scene, Brennan climbed back down the ladder. He planned to grab another of Praggart’s Heinekens, give the cat a little extra food and water, and leave an appropriately scathing message on Don’s voicemail on the drive home. He hadn’t planned on finding the black lacquered box on the previously empty dining room table.
As he approached the box, he noticed the flowing, spidery script on the note, and knew it immediately.
It read, “For Brennan—a new vista. I look forward to seeing you again.”
Don’s handwriting, naturally.
Brennan turned the note over, checking to see what, if anything, he’d missed.
It was blank.
He opened the box and looked inside. None of it made sense. The box was filled with a seemingly random assortment of newspaper clippings, some handwritten notes, a few bizarre-looking charts, a book—a—a textbook survey of linguistics—and a badly faded black-and-white photograph.
“I see you have received the package.”
Brennan, startled, spun to face the speaker: a tall, thin blonde woman, with pale skin and eyes.
“Ms. Procell,” Brennan said, regarding the strange, cold woman. “This is your doing, then?” He gestured to the box.
Ms. Procell cocked her head strangely as she looked at the box. “Mr. Praggart wanted you to have it.”
“Did he give you any messages in regard to why?”
Ms. Procell looked up at him again, and he couldn’t help feeling that her strange, glassy eyes were not seeing him.
“Where is Don, Ms. Procell?”
“Gone,” she said, the faintest whisper of a word.
“Gone where?”
Her eyes focused then on Brennan’s face, and she smiled.
“Fucking crazy bitch,” Brennan muttered to himself. With the late-afternoon traffic, it was after seven by the time he got home.
The box sat innocently upon the passenger seat, and Brennan found himself occasionally placing a protective hand upon the cool, lacquered lid.
He had taken the thing and left Praggart’s after realizing that he was getting nowhere with Procell. Brennan had never cared much for Don’s taste in friends and love
rs, but Amelie Procell was the oddest. Once, when Brennan had dropped by to return Don’s latest script draft, the woman matter-of-factly disrobed in front of the two men and had begun masturbating. Her low, incessant giggling during the act had given Brennan the chills.
Thinking back, Brennan remembered something Don had told him when he was preparing for the first Razor Dawn film. Don had said, “I don’t want you to be the boogeyman. I want you to be the dark.” And while it was only a low-budget horror film, Brennan had taken it seriously. He took Don seriously.
For his role, Brennan had become the dark. He’d seen and participated in things that most people couldn’t imagine. But Don ... Don always took it farther. And sometimes, Brennan had learned, the dark gets inside, like a chill, and you can’t shake it.
Brennan parked in his garage and took the box inside.
He fixed a meager dinner and ate while trying to watch television, but the inanities on the screen bored him. He had a small video library that he kept locked in his bedroom safe, but those films were not the sort of thing one watched while eating.
After dinner, he showered. He shaved, looking at his form in the steamed mirrors, appreciating the shape of his jaw, his eyes, his muscle, bone, and sinew. He could easily imagine them distorted, mutilated by the work of a team of artists over a span of hours. He’d spent thousands of hours in the makeup chair, transforming into the creature that had once graced toys, lunchboxes, comic book covers, and T-shirts all over the world.
Now he saw a man. An aging, slowly decaying man.
Nothing special.
He slipped on his robe and opted to leave Praggart’s strange box of nonsense for the morning.
And when he climbed into his bed and closed his eyes, Brennan dreamed.
Slick, red walls breathing. A hungry, painted mouth, lips parting, teeth shining. Stumbling in a darkness filled with wicked, barbed things that slid into his skin and refused to let go. Procell’s exhibitionist tendencies on display in the middle of a costume ball, except that, as Brennan pushed past masked faces and painted smiles, he saw that the emaciated and nude body splayed and wildly attending to itself was headless. The body changed. He knew, in the way that dreamers know, that it wasn’t Procell anymore.