Brides Of The Impaler

by Edward Lee

  “Get your smart ass out of that chair. We have to search the building. My bet is you cock-teased him one too many times and he just got sick of it so he walked out—”

  “I think Gemser’s too big of a man to do something like that.” She winked again.

  Funari got the innuendo. Don’t take the bait. “I’m too busy to let you piss me off, but one thing I’m sure of, Gemser’s at least enough of a class act that if he quit, he’d leave the keys and leave a message. You take the first and second floors, I’ll take three and four.”

  Funari strode off, heel snapping. Laura laughed and casually got to the task.

  An hour later, they were done, and there was no sign of Gemser.

  “Fuck this. That motherfucker!” Funari growled back at the desk. “I have to find a substitute fast. You’ll have to work a sixteen-hour shift.”

  “You know me, Mark. I’ll do anything for triple-time.”

  “Bullshit. Time and a half.”

  “Have a good day.” Laura grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

  “All right, triple-time!” Bitch, bitch, BITCH! Funari tossed her the keys and now he headed for the front doors. He didn’t look at her when he said, “And if that scumbag shows up here tonight with his dick in his hand, have him call me.”

  Laura offered a light, spiccato chuckle. “He’d need both hands, Mark. Unlike, well…”

  Funari banged out the doors and stalked to his car. He reminded Laura of a toddler about to have a tantrum.

  “What a loser,” she muttered. She locked up after him. But now that her pathetic boss was gone, the empty building seemed immense, and she was alone in it. She began her first round, wondering where the hell Gemser could be.

  (II)

  Gemser wasn’t quite dead yet, proof of the resilience of the human body. He’d been stripped and erected on the sharpened pole and now hung there as if mounted, and in truth, he’d never even gotten a good look at the people who’d done this to him. Only a few candles lit the stench-filled room, and he could see their shadows squatting aside as they seemed to divide his lunch among the three of them—egg salad sandwich, chips, and a tangerine—chug his coffee and riffle through his wallet. He could feel his heart thumping hard and slow as the pain coursed through him like dull electricity. In deeper shadows, he saw several other figures who’d suffered the same fate. They were all macabre mannequins now.

  “Suh-suh-suh…someone’ll come,” one of the figures said.

  Another. “The New Mother will protect us. She protected us from him, didn’t she?”

  “Yeah.” A third female voice. “But it’ll all be over soon anyway.”

  “That’s right!”

  More eating sounds, then:

  “Francy, when will you have to leave?”

  “Soon. The guy with the goatee has to go to his office in a little while, but I’ll already be there. I’ll take the subway.”

  “I-I-I wish I could go instead-instead-instead—”

  “Be quiet! And how could you go anyway, Stutty? You don’t talk right—he wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Yuh-yeah? How do you know he’ll buh-buh-buh—believe you?”

  “Because the New Mother said he would! We must have faith! We have to believe!”

  “Shut up, Francy. We do. You’re too bossy.”

  “I am n—”

  “Huh-hey! This guy has four hundred bucks in his wallet.”

  “That’s great. We’ll put it with what’s left of Doke’s money. Is there any sandwich left?”

  “No.”

  “Shit.” A chuckle. “It’s funny, though. He made it but we ate it!”

  Crazy, Gemser’s half-firing brain managed to think.

  “Wuh-wuh-we should agorn him now.”

  “Adorn, Stutty!”

  “That’s what I said!”

  Gemser felt like he’d been shuddering for hours. When would he die? His body seemed to minutely toss around the stake each time his heart beat. Feet scuffled, and now his eyes could dimly detect the three shapes crowding around him. Gemser tried to scream but all that came out was a rough, wet rattle.

  “He’s still alive!”

  “The New Mother said that sometimes the Prince’s enemies would live for days on the pikes.”

  “Wuh-wow!”

  Madness, Gemser thought.

  A sharp, familiar smell reached his nostrils, and though his nervous system was growing less and less responsive, he could feel something, too. Magic marker, came the insane thought. They were drawing lines up and down his body with magic marker.

  “I think it’s cool he’s still alive.”

  “Hey, I wonder if…”

  Now Gemser felt a hand plying his terror-and pain-shriveled genitals.

  “Sandrine, you weirdo! He’s almost dead! He can’t—”

  “I…just wanna see if…” And next Gemser felt a mouth down there. Gemser blinked.

  “Told you, Sandrine, you perv.”

  The shadows all cackled.

  I’m…in hell, was the last thought to drift through George Gemser’s mind before he died.

  (III)

  Jess was used to hangovers; it scarcely impeded him from getting up at eight, showering, and dressing. As he knotted his tie he paused to stare at Britt who lay asleep and belly-down on the tousled bed. The sheets were mostly off, and what Jess was musing over was her nearly bare body just lying there for him to view, the sweep of her back, the sleek legs, and her buttocks barely covered by the tissue-thin pan ties. Nope, Jess thought. I ain’t gonna do better in a million years.

  “You’re up early,” he commented when he came out to the kitchen. Cristina puttered at the coffee machine, wrapped in a robe. She seemed perturbed.

  “I got a coffee craving,” she said. “I didn’t sleep much but I slept great.”

  “Then how come you look pissed off?”

  Cristina reflected. “I guess because I sort of am. Britt and I are going to lunch later, and I wanted to wear that red Dolce and Gabbana dress she got me. But I can’t find it anywhere.”

  “It’ll turn up,” Jess small-talked. He grabbed his briefcase. “Has Paul left for the golf course yet?”

  “He’s in the shower.”

  “Tell him I’ll try to meet him for the back nine, will ya? I have a little paperwork to do.”

  “Sure,” she said, distracted. “Why don’t you and Britt stay tonight, too? We’re not doing anything.”

  “We’ll probably take you up on that.” Jess chuckled. “Paul and I’ll bring back a couple fifty-dollar pizzas from Barbetta’s.”

  “That would be great. Oh, and don’t forget to show that bowl-thing to your secretary.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m dying to know what the stones are.” Probably paste, he figured, but the lawyer in him couldn’t resist. “See ya tonight.”

  “ ’Bye.”

  Jess rushed out, jumped in the car, and twenty minutes later was at the office. His eyes gave a sexist bulge when he entered the office and saw Ann already at her desk. He could see her runway model legs beneath the glass-topped desk, black leather skirt hiked up high enough to just barely betray the fact that she rarely wore pan ties. Jesus. These Lipstick Lesbians LOVE to rile up middle-aged straight guys. At least she was good at her job, too. “Here’s the rest of those lease reports you wanted,” she said. She frowned within a banged frame of blonde hair. “I’ve been at it since six.”

  “What a gal.” He thumbed through the papers. “You sure it’s all here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good, then you can go—”

  “Serious?”

  “It’s Saturday, Ann. No sense both of us being here if we don’t have to be.”

  “What a guy!”

  “But could you do me a favor?” He pulled the three-gemmed bowl from his briefcase. “That chick you know who has a jewelry business? Could you give her a call and get me an appraisal appointment?”

  “Sure…” She dialed, then peere
d at the bowl. “Looks old. Where you’d get it?”

  “It was buried in Paul’s basement, believe it or not. We just want to know what the stones are.”

  Ann eyed the object further, then began talking on the phone. When she was done, she said, “She’ll have someone here within an hour to take a look.”

  “Thanks, Ann. Now you get out of here and have some fun.”

  “Oh, I’ll definitely do that,” she said, batting big lashes. She got up but paused to take one more glance at the bowl. “Yeah, it looks old, all right. And…creepy.”

  Jess reglanced at it through narrowed eyes. A vertigo seemed to shift his vision, the three stones flashing. “Yeah,” he murmured.

  Ann bade her grateful farewell, while Jess chose to sit at her desk to go over the paperwork. But only minutes later, there was a tap at the open door.

  Jess looked up, slightly taken aback by a wan woman with medium blonde hair that looked poorly combed, late thirties, probably, and kind of pallid. Red lipstick looked overly applied, but she wore a stunning scarlet dress that must’ve cost a bundle. That’s what I call worn around the edges, he thought. The dress clashed with the rest of her, and only a smidgen of prettiness seemed to struggle beneath the weathered veneer, and to top it all off, she wore uncomely pink glasses. “Oh, hi,” he said. “You must be Ann’s friend, the jewelry appraiser.”

  “Um-hmm, right. I’m Francy.” Her eyes seemed to spark when she noticed the bowl atop the glass desk. “Is that it?”

  She looks more beat than a rented drum, Jess thought, but she sure got here fast. “Yes, and come in. I’m Jess Franklin.”

  The woman seemed to walk sheepishly, as if unused to the classy high heels. With each step, her eyes grew wider on the bowl. “Wow,” she said, coming right around to where Jess sat and leaning over. Her bare arm rubbed his shoulder at once. This is…weird, he thought, just the immediacy with which she brushed against him. He felt vaguely uncomfortable.

  As she leaned, she picked up the bowl. The three rounded stones gleamed in their mounts. “It’s…interesting,” she said, though her voice sounded as worn as she looked. “Looks like an old cistern…Eastern Orthodox…maybe, about five hundred years old.”

  Another thing bothered him: the way she stalled before each group of words, almost as if reciting something. She pronounced each word slowly. Her arm rubbed him more overtly as she continued to look, half-spellbound. “We see these every now and then. They’re worth about three or four hundred dollars to collectors.”

  Damn, he thought, his greed stifled. He glanced aside, was about to speak, but noticed the woman’s small breasts almost fully visible due to the angle she leaned in. Yeah, she’s beat, all right. Rode hard and put away wet. Her broken teeth looked stained as well. But she’s got to be for real if Ann’s friend sent her …

  “So the stones aren’t valuable?” he finally asked.

  “Not on their own…”

  Now Jess’s discomfort merged with something else when she absently put her left arm around him and pointed to each stone with her right index finger. He noticed the nails were shabby and bitten down. Ann’s friend sure sent me a piece of work. I think she’s putting the make on me …

  “See. Obsidian, green garnet, and red garnet,” she said, then squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t take them out, then the bowl would be worthless.”

  In the leaning gap of her dress top, Jess saw that her nipples looked raggy, as if chewed. He felt half-repulsed by her, but then something primal in him stirred. He offered a fake chuckle. “And we were thinking black diamond, emerald, and ruby…”

  She laughed in a high titter, and squeezed his shoulder again. “Oh, no. The stones by themselfs are worthless.”

  ThemSELFS? he thought. This woman’s something.

  “But I can give you four hundred dollars for it.” And now her right hand had a wad of cash in it.

  Jess winced. This is fucked-up. “It’s not even mine, I just wanted it appraised.” He blinked. “So…you’re really a friend of Ann’s?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She giggled. “We make out all the time—”

  Jess’s breath caught in his chest. “Uh, yeah, well—”

  “You…sure you don’t want to sell it?” Now her words, however stilted, came out as a hot gush, and her right hand slipped below the desk, traced up his thigh, and landed on his crotch.

  “Hey, what is this?” Jess objected. “Is this a con?”

  She rubbed, brushing right against him. “Hmm?”

  Jess wanted to rise and throw her out of the office…but didn’t. He seemed to melt, remaining there, and she continued. This is FUCKED-UP. Some crude lust fogged his senses but eventually a thread of reason pushed through.

  “You’re just trying to work me over for the damn bowl, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-uh.” She rubbed some more, started to slide her fingers under his belt.

  He was about to grab her hand just as it slid beneath his shorts. “I—” A thought flashed. “I get it. She put you up to this. Right?”

  “Um-hmm. Anna.”

  Jess frowned. “You mean Ann.”

  “Right, Ann.” The odd woman noticed the front office door open. “Come on, back here. We don’t want anyone to see.” She urged him out of the seat and back into Jess’s office.

  He didn’t stop her. What am I doing? “Listen. I’m not selling you the bowl—”

  “That’s okay. But if you change your mind…let…Ann know, and I’ll buy it.” She pushed Jess’s office door closed, walked right back up to him, and sat him down.

  “Look. Just…stop—”

  She smiled. “Let me. I want to. I like it…”

  Jess didn’t move. He supposed it was the crudity of it all, and the abruptness, that pushed his resistence over the edge, the way she knelt before him and yanked his pants and shorts right down to his ankles in one pull.

  “Look,” he objected yet again but before he could say more, he tensed right up when—as abruptly as everything else—she began to fellate him.

  Holy shit, what am I—

  “Mmmm,” she murmured through the act.

  The sensation was riveting, and judging by her technique, she’d had some considerable experience. Shit, that’s the best…A dizzy glance down at the back of her head, and he half-noticed the label on her dress—Dolce & Gabbana—but the coincidence was lost by the fastidious, wet rhythm and excruciating plea sure. Another minute and he spent himself in her mouth.

  “Mmmm,” she kept murmuring through the earthy denouement. His release left him tingling and lax.

  The woman stood up and grinned at him. She didn’t expectorate anywhere. “If you change your mind about selling the cistern, have…Ann call me.”

  Jess stared. The bizarre woman waved and left the office.

  He snapped out of it a few moments later, jumped up and hauled up his pants. What the hell was that shit all about? A tinge of guilt seemed to fleck his spirit. Did I just cheat on Britt?

  No. Not really.

  He stepped into the restroom, got himself back to rights. Some girl who looks like a bum in a nice dress just blew me in my office, came the bald realization. A worse realization occurred moments later, when he errantly reached into his back pocket.

  That ho! That thieving bitch!

  Jess’s wallet was gone.

  Anger mapped his face with lines. He couldn’t even think straight when he heard tapping. Someone knocking on the office door.

  Furious, he barged out to the front area—

  “Mr. Franklin?” asked a mousy-looking woman in jeans and a pink blouse. “I’m Daniela Agren, from Doria Jewelers. Ann said you needed an appraisal.”

  Jess stood mute. He jerked a gaze to the front desk and saw that the bowl was gone.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  (I)

  The same man with the absurd blond mohawk and leather vest greeted him from behind the counter. He’d called Vernon an hour previously. “One Noxious Nun coming up. You were sm
art to preorder.” He turned his hand toward the shelves. “We sold out the same day of their release.”

  Charming. “Thanks for calling,” Vernon said. He still couldn’t figure why he’d ordered the thing. He looked at it in its box. The actual figure looked more unsettling than the ad pictures: a cute little toy nun holding a bowl of blood.

  “Pretty impressive detail,” bragged the proprietor.

  Vernon said nothing, just stared at the thing. He thought of a hypnotist’s totem. The tiny eyes beamed, the tiny white fangs in the tiny mouth seemed to shimmer. When Vernon blinked, he could have sworn the hardened scarlet resin in the tiny bowl rippled as if liquid. This thing really is bizarre. What unsettled him more than the rest, though, were the weaving black, green, and red lines that decorated the box.

  Vernon gulped.

  “Your niece’ll love it,” said the shopkeeper.

  “My niece?” Vernon looked at him. “Oh, yes, I’m sure she will—”

  “—and she’ll definitely want the rest of the line. I can give you a 5 percent police discount—”

  “Really?” Vernon felt flattered.

  “—if you preorder the next ten figures.”

  Vernon winced. “Let me give it some thought,” he said. I hate the hard sell. He thanked the man and left.

  Saturday morning traffic wasn’t bad. He cruised down 69th, subconsciously eyeing the street for signs of his “bum-chicks.” Still nothing more to go on, but at least there’d been no more impalements. When he pulled onto Amsterdam, he rechecked the address on his note pad, then parked illegally. Here it is.

  One of the city’s many grand old rent-controlled apartment buildings hulked before him. He went up narrow stairs, huffing when he reached the third floor, and found the number. His hand paused before knocking, for the oddest of door knockers caught his eye.

  It had been mounted on the drab door’s center stile, an oval of tarnished bronze depicting a morose half-formed face. Just two eyes, no mouth, no other features.

  In the strangest notion, Vernon imagined that for a split second, the knocker had grown a mouth—a grin—which showed tiny fangs.