by Mike McCarty
“More,” the man in white whispered, staring intently. “More.”
“My grandmother was put in a home, much worse than this one, and my father visited her every Sunday morning and I went with him, which meant I didn’t have to go to church anymore. I used to think church was very boring. To think I used to hate church, the house of the Lord! In time Nick Perkowski became my best friend. His father had a pipe collection, and Nick stole one of the pipes and a leather pouch of tobacco. We hid in a toolshed and smoked that pipe until we both got sick and threw up. Once he stole a bottle of vodka and we did the same thing. Drank it down and then threw up! When his father noticed that the vodka bottle was missing, he blamed Carla. She got the belt for that. We knew the truth, but we didn’t say anything.”
The man in white listened with a tight grin. His face seemed to glow with a faint inner light.
“Then I did something very bad,” the old man said. “Nick never found out. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.”
“More.”
“No. I can’t tell you any more. It’s too sad.”
“More!” The red-haired man stroked Van Helsing’s forehead, pushing back a wispy, silvery lock.
“I cannot! It was terrible of me, to...to...” The old man paused, then sighed heavily. “...to cheat on that essay. I don’t know why I did it. I was at Nick’s house–he had done his school work, and I had forgotten about the assignment. I saw his essay on his desk while he was out of the room, and that reminded me I hadn’t written mine–so I folded up his essay and stuck it in my pocket. Later, I went home and copied it all out, changing the wording to the way I would say things. Why did I do it? Poor Nick! He failed the class! He trusted me, but he was a fool to be my friend! I felt so bad–after that, I never cheated again.”
“Really?” the man in white said with a sly smile. “What about Anna?”
“You know about that, do you?” The old man began to cry. “I suppose you would, you devil. Yes, I cheated on my dear wife. You want to hear about that, too? Is there some awful little detail you don’t know about yet?”
“I’m sure there is.” He continued to run his hands softly, so softly, over the old man’s forehead, then his neck and shoulders. “More, please.”
“But why?”
“You don’t want to know. More. More.”
“Please, don’t make me tell you more,” Van Helsing said. “My mouth is dry from all this talking.”
The red-haired man sighed. “I’m not making you do anything.”
“I met Anna in college. At that time I was studying astronomy, theology, the occult–nothing practical in the business world, but I put all that learning to good use. As well you know! My Anna–she had long, dark hair, brown eyes, full lips...fragile hands. She trusted me and gave me all the love she had in her heart. We were happy for many years. In time I became a teacher, and we started talking about raising a family. Soon came the children, and I should have been happy. I had everything a man could want. Everything!
“Anna had a sister. A plump girl, very plain. Big-boned. Yet she had a way of looking at a man that could drive him insane. And she used to say such daring things. I was entranced by that awful woman.”
“Delightful,” the red-haired man whispered. His face glowed as brightly as a candle.
“No! It was terrible!” Van Helsing cried. “Every few nights, I would make some excuse, and then sneak off to rut with that foul whore. I couldn’t help myself! It was like she had a spell over me. I don’t know why I did it–and I don’t know why I am telling you about it! Maybe you can tell me why I acted like such a pig. Why I hurt and dishonored my Anna, the only woman I ever loved.”
“Because,” the visitor said, “you are just a man. And men die. So men want to do all there is to do, before they reach the end.”
“Yes. You are exactly right.” The old man nodded sadly. “Anna found out and started seeing another man, clearly out of spite. Someone she had met at church. Church! It hurt to realize that Anna could do that sort of thing–but I cannot blame her. I stopped seeing her sister, and Anna ended her relationship with that other man. We stayed together, but things were never the same.
“I tried to write a book...I never finished it. I drifted from job to job, city to city, trying to find reasons to spend as much time away from home as possible. Anna’s mind began to deteriorate. I should have spent more time with her. I suppose I was looking for something to give my life meaning. And then–”
“Then?” The man in white leaned closer.
“Then I started hunting you.”
“Ah.” The visitor narrowed his eyes, and this made Van Helsing gasp.
“Are you going to kill me?” the old man said.
“You have more to tell me, I think. More.”
“Do I? But you know the rest. I chased you and kept chasing you. At times I’ve managed to stop you from destroying the lives of others. I’ve stopped you from turning entire cities into graveyards of the living dead. I was never entirely successful, though. Even after the stake entered your heart–even after your total destruction, time after time–somehow, you’ve always managed to return. Always. Why is that? Why? Tell me that! Tell me!”
The red-haired man laughed. He ran his hands along the old man’s arms, over his belly and down his legs. He moved to the end of the bed and sat on a far corner. “Eeny meeny minny moe,” he sang. “Catch Van Helsing by the toe.” So saying, he grabbed the old man by the big toe of his right foot. “You wish you could know all my secrets. That, my friend, is never going to happen. But I will tell you this much. Tonight I came to you as something you have never seen before. If I wished, I could do so tomorrow night, and every night after that. I am every monster that ever lived, and so much more! How can a little fool like you kill every monster? You’ve had a hard enough time with one!”
“Let go...of me. How dare...” Van Helsing’s words suddenly began to slur. He tried to sit up, but only fell back on the bed. “My skin...something is wrong with my skin...what have you done?” He seemed to have difficulty even blinking. His eyes refused to shut all the way. “Are you going...to drink my blood...now?”
“Me? Drink your bitter old blood?” The man in white shook his head with disgust. “No, thank you. I can nourish myself in many ways. Tonight, Abraham, I’ve come to you as a gorgon, the first night-creature to walk the earth in human form. Ancient, really, but new to this modern era. And a gorgon does not drink blood. It is a sin-eater. It is a beautiful beast that feasts on the ugliness of the human soul. On lies. Deceit. Guilt. You have fed me well this evening. And those who have fed the gorgon must then turn to stone. That is the way of things.”
The red-haired man giggled as he beat his palms against Van Helsing’s belly, which so far, had hardened to the stiffness of leather. The sound reminded him of a kettle drum. His happy face was shining like a full October moon. His laughter was a roar of delicious thunder.
“Stone, my friend!” the monster cried. “That should ease your mind. You’ve never wanted me to sip your cherished Van Helsing essence, and I can’t drink blood from a stone. Are those tears trickling down your hard, craggy old face? Don’t cry. Very soon you won’t be able to feel anything. You’ll like that. It will be peaceful.”
The red-haired man walked back to the entrance. His shining face dimmed with each step he took away from the bed. The glow was gone by the time he opened the door.
He turned to the bed. “You can be your own monument now,” he said. “It would be silly to bury a rock.” It then occurred to him that he was talking to a dead man, which was also silly.
He walked past the sleeping nurses, past the sleeping guard, out of the building and back into the night.
He was already home.
Bride of Bugboy
BUGBOY TO WED: BRIDE-TO-BE SEZ, “HE’S ALL MAN.” That’
s this week’s headline for The National Blab.
Yep, I’m actually getting married. Who’d have thunk it?
It all started in a ditch outside Deeps, Iowa.
I started the day by crawling out of a culvert and taking a dump in a patch of tall grass. Then I ate some old Pop-Tarts I had in my knapsack and got back on the road. A couple drivers slowed down for me, but when they caught sight of my face they kept right on going.
You see, I’m as ugly as shit.
I’ve got a great body. Chunky arms, huge pecs, nice butt (at least, my sister always told me so). The problem is all concentrated in one general area.
The neck up.
You might remember me from the tabloids. Does the name Bugboy ring a bell? A big, clanky leper-bell? My real name is Nicholas Boulton. The rags started running my picture when I was twelve. My folks were welfare leeches by day, barflies by night. They got about five-hundred bucks per tabloid photo session, so for a while, I was the big breadwinner for the family. But I think that got on my dad’s nerves. That’s when he started hitting me. Of course, my face had always bothered him–the money and publicity just made matters worse. One of his friends once asked him if Mom was having an affair with a cockroach.
I ran away from home when I was sixteen. I looked much older, though–like between twenty-five and thirty. That was eight years ago. I haven’t seen my parents since and hope never to see them again.
I do miss my sister, though. She was a cute kid, a few years younger than me. I’m sure my folks have turned her into a hooker or a drug addict by now. But then, perhaps I’m just being pessimistic. With any luck, she could be a perfectly nice unwed mother of five living in a deep-South trailer court.
About my face. I look something like a praying mantis with red hair. I have huge eyes, a flat nose, tiny ears and god-awful teeth. And freckles. My hairline starts about an inch and half above my eyebrows. A lot of people have told me that plastic surgery could help me. To them I say, “Fine. Care to lend me thirty-thousand dollars?” That’s when they suggest that maybe I should just comb my hair differently.
Back to my day. Eventually a fat, middle-aged farmer in a pickup gave me a lift. A jagged scar zig-zagged down the left side of his face. It didn’t bother me, considering my own gruesome mug.
“Why, ain’t you the pretty one! A regular Hollywood male model!” he guffawed around a mouthful of chew. “What happened? You get in a car accident or something?”
I decided to have some fun with Good-ol’-boy. “Nah, my dad used to chew tobacco and it screwed up his genes. Just like radiation poisoning. He killed himself after his teeth fell out and his pecker shriveled up.”
“Holy shit!” Good-ol’-boy spat out his shit-brown chew-wad and rubbed his gums with a dirty handkerchief. Then he thanked me for saving his teeth and pecker and asked if I’d like to help him with chores and hay-baling. Good-ol’-boy–Wayne Kramer by name–offered me fifty bucks a week, with meals. I could even sleep in the attic or the basement, my choice. I accepted his offer and opted for the basement.
When we arrived at the farm, I helped Wayne feed the calves and pigs. Wayne mentioned his wife was in the barn for the morning, milking the cows. At the time, I figured the barn was a good place for any mate Good-ol’-boy could pick.
We took care of a few other chores and pretty soon it was lunchtime. Before we went in the house, Wayne asked me to sit with him on the porch steps for a minute.
“I’d better warn you, Nick,” he said. “My wife is sweet gal but she’s not exactly what you’d call–” He thought for a moment. “–a stable Mabel. But don’t worry, she’s harmless enough.”
So saying, Wayne led me into the kitchen to meet Mrs. Kramer. To tell the truth, I was expecting a tractor with boobs.
Imagine my surprise to find out that Good-ol’-boy was married to a goddess. Wavy, jet-black hair. Cat-green eyes. Body like a breathtaking roller coaster. The only odd thing was her height: Mrs. Kramer was at least six foot two.
“Hello, Sugar,” she purred, stooping to give Wayne a peck on the cheek. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your ruggedly handsome young friend?”
That comment caught me by surprise. I’m about as ruggedly handsome as an open wound. Wayne commenced with the introductions.
“Honey, this here is Nick Boulton.” He opened the refrigerator, handed me a beer and took one for himself. “Nick, this is my wife, Apple.”
The goddess gave me a wink. “Momma called me that ‘cause I was the apple of my Daddy’s eye.”
For lunch, Apple served up steaks and potato salad. A chocolate cake was set aside for dessert on the counter. I noticed that Apple’s own steak was very rare. She didn’t have any the potato salad.
“So why is this town called Deeps?” I asked, sawing at my meat with a dull knife.
“Deeps? Why, what else could you call it?” Apple laughed. Wayne gave me a look and a nod.
“Deeps doesn’t always mean the bottom of the ocean,” the goddess continued. “Lots of things go deep. Feelings. Needs. Roots of every kind. Wells and chasms and pits and Hell itself, I suppose. All things old and basic and lasting run deep. Deeper than deep! Did Sugar tell you? My family, the Kluggs, founded Deeps.” She squeezed Wayne’s forearm. “Sugar’s a newcomer to these parts. We met at an auction about a year and a half ago.”
“Oh? So this is your farm, Apple?” I suppose that wasn’t the best question to ask in front of Wayne, but then, redneck etiquette can be tricky.
“Well, it was.” She took Wayne’s hand and held it to her cheek. “Now it’s ours.”
I was beginning to see why the goddess had married such an ox–free labor. That, and the fact that Wayne put up with her flirting and general flakiness. Perhaps mental illness ran deep in the Klugg line.
At last Apple served up the cake. One and a half pieces for me, one for Wayne, and two for her. She cut her own pieces larger, too.
Wayne and I spent the afternoon and early evening baling hay. Kevin and Ross, two teens from a nearby town called Wormwood, helped out as well. Both were initially freaked out by my looks–they stared at me like I was a man from a Mars. But as the day wore on, their curiosity got the best of them and they started to talk to me.
At one point, the boys and I were waiting for Wayne to finish fixing a minor breakdown in the baler. “So are you a long-lost Klugg or what?” Kevin said. He was plump and pimply, with a pouty lower lip.
“No. Do I look like a Klugg?”
“Not really. Still...“ Kevin shrugged his round butterball shoulders.
“The Kluggs all look okay,” Ross said, “but they’re still pretty weird. They expect people to wait on them like they’re royalty. This town’s full of Kluggs.” He pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit up. “The sheriff, the mayor, the school principal–they’re all Kluggs and they’re all women.”
“So the town’s a matriarchy?” Both boys looked at me like I was speaking in tongues, so I rephrased the question. “It’s led my women?”
“Yep,” Ross said. “All women. And they’re horny perverts, too.”
Kevin nodded. “It’s true. I can’t walk downtown without some Klugg pinching my ass. Last week we were playing football by the feed store and Sheriff Klugg joined us. She tackled me and started pinching my tits like she was trying to milk me or something. She was rough, too. Got me all bruised.”
I thought about Apple and Good-ol’-boy. “Maybe the Kluggs are chubby chasers.”
That theory didn’t set too well with Lardbutt. A sneer hitched his lip up Elvis-style. “So how come your face is all jack-shit?”
“My old man smoked too much pot when he was your age,” I said. More fun teasing the hicks. “Screwed up his genes. Ma gave birth to Siamese-twin retards a couple years after she had me.”
I plucked Ross’ joint from his fing
ers and took a drag. He didn’t ask me to hand it back, so I finished it for him.
Three months passed.
There was always plenty of work to do, from sunrise to sunset. Ball-busting labor really–but I didn’t mind. I had a roof over my head, three meals a day and the Kramers appreciated me.
I started to get worried because winter was coming. That meant less work, with nothing to do in the fields except watch the snow fall. Soon I’d be unemployed–booted back into an icy world that would let me freeze to death.
One morning while I was milking the cows (Apple was always happy to let me take care of that for her), I said to Wayne, “I suppose with winter coming, I should pack up my things and head back down the road again.”
Wayne just laughed. “What are you talking about, boy? Who said anything about us kicking your ass out of here? You think Apple wants to get her pretty ass back in here to milk these damn shit-machines? Don’t worry, we’ll always have plenty of work for you to do. Besides, good workers are hard to come by in Deeps.”
Wayne was right. Winter came and they still found plenty for me to do down on the farm in Deeps, Iowa.
In late November, we went into town to see the annual Thanksgiving Parade. The town was really just a post office, a gas station, a sheriff’s office, a bar, a small brick fire station and a grocery store–and the parade consisted of three floats and a tractor pulling a wagon loaded with straw and the county Pork Princess, a chubby blonde from a town called Raccoon Valley. It dawned on me that the town didn’t have a jail or graveyard and I mentioned it to Wayne and Apple.