The demon yanked on a rope in Ronny’s mind, and the man said, “Linda, those glasses make your eyes look tiny.” Linda, whose parents were both born in Korea, resented such remarks about her eyes and was shocked by her husband’s racism. She threw a small pot containing a favorite African violet at his head. Ronny ducked, but the flower pot struck him on the cheek.
The force of the blow to Ronny’s head almost knocked the demon off his perch on a line, but his claws held fast. With a fight in progress, the demon saw an opportunity to do some real harm. He flew from Ronny into Linda’s mouth.
The mind of an angry woman was far more comfortable for the demon than the mind of an inherently cheerful man. It was smooth machinery bathed in hot oil to him, a race car and a hell of a ride. The demon shifted Linda into a higher gear.
Linda strode toward her husband and slapped him on the same cheek that had sustained the impact of the flower pot. The demon leaped from Linda and landed in Ronny’s nose, where he slid inside until he caught hold of a length of rope. He pulled the rope with all his strength.
Ronny shouted, “Get away from me, bitch.” He put his hands in front of his face to protect himself from Linda’s blows. Her arms were a windmill with open palms, and then she slammed the heel of her hand against Ronny’s throat.
The struts and halyards of Ronny’s mind slammed into one another. Chains and lines tangled. A counterweight fell with a crash. Sensing that the entire structure would collapse in seconds, the demon leaped from Ronny to the floor, knowing his work in Ronny’s mind was done.
Ronny made a fist, and Linda quickly put her arms around him to prevent him from beating her. The couple fell to the floor. Ronny bashed Linda’s nose with his forehead, and it began to bleed. Linda called out, “You bastard.” The demon picked up a bit of grit from the floor and leaped into the woman’s ear. He threw the grit into the rapidly rotating machinery of Linda’s rage.
Ronny broke free of Linda’s grasp and tried to rise from the carpeted floor. Linda grappled his legs, and Ronny fell again and hit his head against the fireplace. A rope in Ronny snapped, and he lost consciousness.
Bleeding profusely from her nose, Linda rose from the floor. She felt light-headed, but the demon shifted her once again to a higher gear and pressed a turbocharging button on her dashboard. She stopped tottering and steadied herself on the mantle over the fireplace.
Linda dragged her unconscious husband by the legs from the living room to the kitchen. With demon-enhanced strength, she pulled his limp form from the floor to a chair. She grabbed her portable electric mixer and used the cord to tie Ronny’s neck to the rungs of the chair. Ronny awoke and began to choke. Next, she gathered the coffee maker, the toaster, and the blender and used the cords of those appliances to bind Ronny’s hands and feet.
With Ronny tied firmly in the chair, Linda reached into a cabinet under the kitchen counter and took out an electric frying pan. She plugged the cord into an outlet and turned the dial to medium high.
Pulling a boning knife from the rack by the stove, she turned to her choking husband and carefully cut deeply around his face. After separating a portion of the skin from the muscle underneath in accordance with the instructions whispered to her by the demon, she pulled hard and the face peeled off. Her husband tried to scream but was choking so violently he could not. He thrashed in the chair, but the cords held fast.
Linda flicked a pat of butter in the pan and then dropped in the bloody face of her husband. The face sizzled in the pan. From the refrigerator, she took a link of sausage and put it into the mouth of the frying face. Next, she broke an egg into each of its eyes.
The demon now stood on the bridge of Linda’s nose and inhaled the buttery aroma in ecstasy, for there is nothing like a fresh face. Mmmmm.
MEET THE WIFE
By Ken Goldman
“Life and death are one . . .”
— Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
Five words served as Liam Weston’s introduction to the shapely young woman seated at the bar. Although unable to hide a tinge of desperation in his voice, his being middle-aged had the advantage of his not caring a whole lot about proprieties. Drink in hand, expressionless and straightforward, he offered one hell of an ice breaker.
“Hello. My wife is dying.”
The blonde didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or just turn her back on another lounge creep. Instead, she sipped her wine and attempted a smile as if guys said this sort of thing to her all the time.
“Hello, yourself. And that has to be the shittiest pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”
An honest response. This was good. Liam wanted honesty. It saved time.
“Pick-up lines are for kids. My wife is dying, and I need to get laid tonight. Simple as that, Miss-whoever-you-are. Looking at you, I’m thinking we’re not talking about wining and dining here, so forgive my directness. Feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.”
Leaning close from her stool the woman whispered, “Are you a cop? The law visits this little bistro, you know, and entrapment is their sport. A girl has to be careful.”
Weston felt no need to whisper back. “I’m an accountant. CPA licensed to kill, agent Double-O-Zero.”
The joke was lame, meant more to stoke himself than to impress the woman. She offered another smile, wider this time. “Then you’re not wrong, Agent Zero. Screw the part about dining, but I could use another cabernet.” She extended her hand and he took it. “Dee Dee, but the second Dee is for show. Call me Dee. Short for Diane. And you’re . . .?”
“. . . Going to order you one cabernet so I can get your pretty little ass out of here reasonably sober.” Weston gulped his gin and tonic, clearly anxious to prove a man of his word. He pointed to the woman’s glass for the bartender to refill, turned back to Dee. “I’m Liam . . .” Hesitating with the surname, he decided he had no reason to share that information. This episode would be one-and-done, your basic wham bam, assuming the Viagra kicked in and he remembered how to perform this little slam dance with a stranger.
“Just hold on for a moment here, Liam. Some information before we close this deal, if you don’t mind. For one thing, I don’t come cheap, if you’ll pardon the expression.” She added a whisper, “And I don’t take Visa.”
Weston understood that for many of the women seated inside this tavern it was a seller’s market. Reaching for his money clip, he gave proof he was not a man who worried about starving. Studying the roll of bills, Dee smiled her best one yet.
“No exchange of cash right here, Agent Zero, thank you very much. That’s for the amateurs. Are we talking about an hour or the whole night?”
“We’re talking about as-long-as-it-takes. I’m forty, so you won’t exactly be riding the mechanical bull. But I’ve no problem going with your all-night rates.” Weston put down his drink and turned serious. “It’s been difficult for me—Dee, is it? I mean with my wife’s dying and all. I’ve been faithful for almost twenty years, excepting the occasional pay-for-play. It’s important you know that.”
The woman took a demure sip from her glass, her fingers toying with its stem. “Cancer?”
“Pancreatic. That’s the worst kind, and not pretty to watch. She hasn’t got long.”
Another sip. “You love her, of course.”
“My Melanie was a remarkable woman before the illness. But a man has needs, you know.”
Dee’s grin spread to her eyes. “Oh yes, I know all about a man’s needs. More than you would believe, Liam.” Her hand secretly slipped to Weston’s thigh, the woman’s long fingers inching upwards, stopping just short of home plate. Gulping the remainder of her cabernet, Dee’s eyes met his. “Are you staying nearby, or would you prefer I provide the accommodations?”
No streetwalker-type back alley fellatio-on-the-fly from this girl, no needle tracks in every available vein, and she showed some class, even if it were minimal. Liam knew he had chosen well. “My home is maybe twenty minutes from where we’re sitting. It’s in Glenn Echoes
.”
“Your home? I’m thinking, a comfortable little cul-de-sac in a picket fenced suburb filled with soccer moms and designer dogs?” Dee’s brow knitted. “That’s not usually where married men prefer to take me, Liam. You’ve heard the expression about shitting where you eat?”
“Yes, I should explain that part. See, Melanie and I, we have this arrangement, something we decided together would work for both of us, considering our circumstances. She’s a very understanding woman, my wife. In fact, tonight—it was her idea I come here.”
Dee’s knit brow returned. “More and more curious. Well, it’s your dime, Agent Liam.” She finished her cabernet and offered her hand. “Shall we?”
It was that easy.
The man’s home did indeed have a picket fence, complete with the neatly trimmed lawn and a small rose garden. The flowers could have used more tending, but Liam’s dying wife probably had no time for horticulture. Once inside the foyer Liam flicked on the lights, and Dee saw no evidence of children (or even a dog) having been in this home. Maybe the kids were grown, maybe the dog had died, but she doubted it. This place seemed built for two, the textbook cozy cottage of Mr. and Mrs. Dull. Dee would have felt no surprise had her host yelled out “Honey, I’m home!”
No photos adorned the mantel or walls, no cutesy poses of a younger and more virile Liam with the Missis rollicking on some beach during happier times. True, sometimes people were camera shy, but Dee doubted that possibility here. Some people just wanted the world to leave them the fuck alone.
None of that mattered. This was business, after all, and backstory was unnecessary. Helping Dee with her coat, Liam gestured to make herself comfortable on the couch. He didn’t offer a drink, but this wasn’t exactly a date. Saying nothing, Dee decided she would take her cue from him, although silence lingered for several minutes. His attempts at clever banter over, the man’s increasing awkwardness was almost endearing. But mostly it seemed pitiful.
“My wife, she’s upstairs. Melanie never leaves her bed anymore. Pancreatic cancer is painful and spreads fast once it’s metastasized. She’s pretty much incapacitated.”
Dee got halfway to a compassionate smile. “My mother died of breast cancer. I always worried that I might have the same—well, we hadn’t been speaking anyway.” She stopped herself. Small talk like this hardly seemed conducive to the night’s scheduled activity.
Liam’s eyes fell on Dee’s ample breasts, but his attitude toward them seemed more clinical than lascivious. “A young woman has to be careful. I assume you’ve had regular exams, haven’t you?”
No barstool Lotharios had ever thought to bring up mammograms, most certainly not during business hours and, why would they? Dee shrugged it off, wanting to get the night’s activities underway.
“I’m fine, Liam. My girls are healthy and ready to play. Here, you can see for yourself.” She unbuttoned her silken top before her host could utter a word. At this particular gambit she was proficient, but she refused to go braless because that wasn’t who she was, screw the accessories (or lack of them) of her profession. “Would you like to undress me yourself?” Sliding closer on the couch, Dee didn’t really give her companion a choice. She knew some men needed a little push to get things started, and those that did proved pretty quick on the trigger. She expected within the hour she would be on her way with cab fare.
“No children at home?” Liam asked. “I mean, sometimes women in your profession—”
“Do I look the maternal type? Besides, babies smell funny.”
Liam said nothing and slipped the silken garment and bra from Dee’s chest, staring at her tits like a child seeing his first rainbow. He quickly shifted his eyes to the floor. Dee had to smile. “It’s okay to look at my tits, Liam. You’re paying for them. Speaking of which . . .”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” He held out his billfold, and Dee plucked out several of the larger bills, stuffing them into her long-strapped handbag.
“So, where do we do this, Liam? Right here?”
The man took a moment, then shook his head, his eyes drifting to the stairwell. He sounded almost apologetic. “Not here. Up there.”
As if on cue, a woman’s voice called from the bedroom. More croak than speech, the sound sent an ice floe along Dee’s spine.
“Lee-ammm . . . Leeeee-ammmm . . .”
The voice had the disquieting effect of fingernails scraping a chalkboard. Dee needed a moment to compose herself. “Your wife sounds strong for someone who—”
“Leeeeeeeeeee—aaaaaaaammmmmmmm . . .”
“She wants me with her.” Turning to Dee, he offered his hand. “This is difficult for me. I would like you to come, all right?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Actually, Dee was sure the idea sucked. The request was ghoulish, and she could picture the bedroom scene if she went.
Hello, Mrs. Whoever-you-are. You’re looking very . . . yes, you’re looking . . . well, actually, you’re looking shitty, lady, really shitty. Now, if you’ll pardon me, your husband has paid for my services for the rest of tonight, so I imagine we’ll start with the customary blowjob. . . .
Liam’s hand remained extended ridiculously before he allowed it to drop. Did he really expect her to smile at his dying wife, then adjourn to another room to fuck her husband’s eyeballs out?
“Please,” he added.
Apparently, Liam did expect it. Dee was no stranger to things kinky, although tonight’s request rose quickly on her list. As she had told the guy earlier, it was his dime, and what he had asked wasn’t as bad as the request of the good-looking family man who, weeks earlier, had paid her to pee on him. Strange requests were an occupational hazard. Dee figured fuck it. She wriggled back into her top, leaving the bra on the floor while again telling herself business is business. Running both hands through her hair, she took a deep breath. Trailing Liam, together they climbed the stairs.
The bedroom door remained open, the room dark until Liam hit the switch. Stepping inside revealed a sight more sickening than Dee could have imagined. The wife—Melanie—lay immobile in bed like a corpse, which was what she might as well have been. In the dim light, she didn’t appear very old, maybe she even was young. But the cancer had deteriorated her, and she had gone beyond pale to colorless. Bed covers littered the floor, and she appeared dwarfed by the large bed while completely exposed, except for the filthy nightgown she wore. Veins spidered in all directions like thick tributaries, and she seemed covered with leaking sores. She could have been one of those glass figures used in med schools where every vein and artery showed on the outside. Maybe she was pretty once, but no trace of beauty showed now. Worse than the sight of her was the smell. Her decayed flesh reeked like putrefying liver, the stench of dying flesh withering right off the bone. Dee half expected to see maggots dining on that flesh, and she forced herself not to gag.
“Jesus . . .” The word simply slipped out. “I’m sorry, Liam. I can’t—” She turned to leave but felt the man’s hand on her arm.
“I know how terrible my wife appears. I have to admit feeling the same revulsion myself. I’m sure you’ll understand when I say it will seem a blessing when she dies. If there were any way I could be the one who instead—”
“I think I want to leave. Look, I’ll give you your money back, okay?”
Liam reached into his billfold again, pulled out several large bills.
“Stay. Please.”
Placing his hand on Dee’s shoulder, Liam must have seen her as the proverbial hooker with a heart of gold. Sighing, she stuffed the bills into her panties. She noticed another bed, a small cot a short distance from the wife. This guy must have loved his woman enough to sleep close by (but not too close!), even while his loving Melanie slowly decomposed before his eyes. Dee sat on the cot, thinking how Melanie’s reek seemed ripe enough for the woman to climb into her coffin right now.
“That smell . . .”
Liam’s eyes remained on his wife. “You get used to the smell
. After a while a person can adjust to almost anything.” He turned to Dee. “That’s why I’m going to ask you to do something for me. I wanted a woman tonight who might understand what would seem an unnatural request to others who lack your—”
“—My experience? I have my limits too, Liam, and I think I’m pushing the boundaries right now.” Seeing her host’s expression, she softened. “All right. Fine. Tell me what you want me to do.”
“You have to do it with me here. Mellie wants to watch us fuck, and I promised.”
Liam’s expiring bride seemed one kinky lady, all right, but Dee felt committed now. She told herself she could handle the wafting stench if she had to, and if Liam’s smelly Mellie wanted to gawk at her husband’s pumping party from across the room, well, then. . . .
“Fine. Right here on your little cot in front of the little woman.” Dee removed her top again. “Let’s go . . .”
“No, not here.” He pointed to the large bed in which his dying wife lay. “There. With her.”
His words took a moment to register.
With her . . .
[. . . in his own wife’s fucking death bed . . .]
Threesomes were common in Dee’s business, and often she even enjoyed them for the sheer creativity of the experience. Whether the third party were male or female never mattered, but sharing a bed with a nearly cadaverous third, this was unchartered territory and she doubted her stomach could handle it.
Liam added, “I’ll double whatever I gave you.”
The dying woman shifted in her bed, the first sign of movement she had shown. She pointed a trembling bony finger at Dee.
“Your name . . . tell me . . . what is it . . .?”
“What?”
“. . . your name . . .”
Forcing herself to speak, Dee felt her mouth go dry.
“It’s—well, it’s actually—I’m Diane. Or Dee. Whatever.”
Year's Best Body Horror 2017 Anthology Page 17