Madness & Mayhem: 23 Tales of Horror and Humor

by James Aquilone

  “Princess, you art as beautiful as the winter moon,” he said, kneeling before her as she massacred flowers in the garden. “You art as radiant as a—”

  “You’re blocking the sun, oaf,” she said. “Move!”

  He shimmied to the side.

  “Princess—” He hesitated. Her impenetrable expression enthralled him. “Please, hear me. I must confess I never meant to love you…yet my heart aches whenever I gaze upon you and it burns all the more when all you return is a sullen face. I cannot go on thus.”

  The princess pulled another flower out of the ground, and each pluck at its petals was a pluck at his heart. He laid his hands over hers. She recoiled. “Why do you pester me with such nonsense? Get off the ground. You are a disgrace!”

  He stood, dusting off his knees. “I am sorry, princess, but what I am trying to tell you is that I love you.”

  She threw back her head and a shrill laugh burst from her throat. “And what does that matter to me?” The princess looked at him as if he were a wart on a troll’s bottom.

  “I know you cannot love, but—”

  “You wanted me to hate you, not love you. You have gotten that, in abundance!”

  “Aye.”

  “You are a terrific fool. Now leave me, oaf. I find your puppy dog eyes repulsive.”

  The knight took his leave of the princess and wept under an elm tree. It was not long before a troubadour appeared.

  The knight told him of his predicament.

  “Good knight, there is a witch,” the troubadour said.

  “Aye, there’s always a witch,” he said, “and nothing good ever comes of them.”

  “That may be true, my liege, but this witch is the most powerful in Mora. If anyone can help you, it is she.”

  With a bitter heart, the knight rode over hills and dales and into the dark forest until he found the wise woman.

  Inside her hut, he sat on an overturned bucket across from the witch. She was an old hag, as ugly as the first witch was beautiful. The candle that illumed her face seemed to highlight the worst of her twisted and tortured visage.

  “Can you make a woman love me?” he said.

  The hag grinned. “That depends,” she said.

  “She has been enchanted never to love.”

  “Ah! And who is this unfortunate maiden?”

  “My wife.”

  The witch’s laugh was a hideous and bestial thing and trailed off deep into the shadows. “It seems you have things backwards, sir knight. The lady is already yours. What do you need of love now?”

  “Can you do it or not?”

  “Yes, I can make her love you.”

  “Can you make her love me truly?” he asked. “Always?”

  The hag’s grin dissolved. “I can make her dote on you hand and foot. I can make her follow at your heels like a lovesick puppy. I can make her yours. I can create the illusion of love. But true love? Sir knight, you ask for something that takes more than magic. And always’? Forever and ever’?” She shook her head.

  The knight was crestfallen. His heart burned. He rose and took leave of the witch. When he threw open the flap that was her door, he was greeted by a crimson moon that seemed to hang just out of his reach. He gazed upon the disc as if transfixed, but the hag’s voice roused him back to the world. “There is a way,” she said, “but it may prove worse than your current woes.”

  After the witch worked her magic, the knight returned with the utmost swiftness to his princess.

  “What do you want now?” she said.

  “Did you not miss me? I was gone longer than I expected.”

  “Gone? Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  The sullen girl had returned to plucking petals. She sat on a stool, surrounded by a carpet of torn-up flowers, her face determined and serious. Whatever interest she had in the operation he never knew.

  The knight removed a small parcel from his satchel. “I brought you a gift,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said, and rolled her eyes.

  “It is a coffyn!” He removed the cloth covering and handed it to her. “It is filled with—”

  “Give it here! I know what a meat pie is filled with!”

  She snatched the treat from his hand. It seemed the only thing she enjoyed, besides plucking flowers, was pie. The princess snapped her fingers and within moments a servant handed her a fork and she dug into the savory treat.

  “This is not a coffyn, you dumb oaf!” she cried. “See, there is no lid. Therefore, it is properly called a trap.”

  “Yes, my princess.”

  She set to the pie, lustfully scooping out the contents and shoveling them into her delicate mouth. “It’s not terrible,” she mumbled between bites.

  When finished, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve and said, “Leave me!”

  “But I have been gone so long.”

  “Yes, and I have been quite enjoying the peace and quiet.”

  She stung him with her cold, hateful eyes and then she returned to her game of plucking petals. Perhaps the hag had lied. Was he a fool to have trusted another witch? And such a vile and low one as that? Nonetheless, he remained in the garden and waited.

  It wasn’t long before the princess began to complain about the drafts in the castle and the servants’ carelessness and how hideous she found everything—and then it began. He spied the change in her eyes first. She looked at him, perhaps for the first time, and something quite wondrous happened: the princess smiled. It was a magnificent thing. The warmth spread across her cheeks and her face seemed to bloom like a summer rose. She said, in a delicate, soft voice he had never heard before: “Let us walk through the garden.”

  As they strolled, the princess took his hand and his heart quickened.

  They stopped beside the last bed of daisies remaining in the garden.

  “Have I ever told you I loved you?” she asked.

  His heart nearly seized. He stammered and nearly choked. “No, I do not believe you ever have.”

  “Of course not. I have never told anyone I loved them.” The princess giggled, her chest heaved, and her cheeks burned like the rays of dawn. She looked at him with such fervor that he thought she might burst. Perhaps she was about to burst. Her tender feelings had been bottled up inside her for so long.

  Suddenly she sprang upon him. She kissed him on the lips. “I love you,” she said in a timid voice and kissed him again. Then she sang out: “I love you! I love you! I love!”

  That night, as they lay in their—finally—consummated marriage bed, the princess said, “We are married; I think you may remove your tunic in bed.”

  “As you say, it is drafty in this castle. I shall leave it on.”

  “You are a queer one,” she said, and then playfully slapped him on the chest. He cried out in pain.

  “What is the matter?” she asked, sitting up stiffly. “I have never seen you in pain.”

  “I fell from my horse,” he lied.

  “But—”

  He silenced the princess with a kiss.

  They fell asleep in each other’s arms. And though he’d had many, many victories, for the first time he felt victorious.

  He tried not to think on the witch’s final words, but as his dreams deepened they returned to him and he dreaded the coming of morning.

  With the crowing of the cock, the callous-hearted princess returned. On the instant she opened her eyes, he saw they blazed again with hatred. He tried to placate her with kind words and kisses, but she raged worse than ever.

  She jumped out of bed and began to hurl curses at him.

  “Do you not remember telling me of your love for me yesternight?” he said.

  “Obviously, I lied.” She spit out the words like a cobra’s venom. “And why, pray, is it so drafty in here? Can’t you get more tapestries?”

  And with that the princess evicted the knight from their castle.

  He took up residence in the stables. And as he lay among the horses, he remembered the witch’s word
s from the day before. “I cannot remove the ’chantment for always,” she had said. “I can provide only a block that works sometimes. Know this: love is weakness and love is strength. That is the only true love, sir knight. If you give something of yourself, and if it is given with an honorable heart, your wife will love you, truly, but not always. In time her old ’chantment will return and she will despise you again. From one day to the next you will not know whether she has love for you or poison.”

  He had not hesitated. He had told the witch: “If she will love me truly for only the briefest moment, I would treasure it. A complete absence of love is a worse fate to endure. Do what you must.”

  The witch had carved a fist-sized hole in the knight’s chest with an enchanted dagger; his invincibility, his heart now vulnerable to blade or blow. She had cauterized the edges of the wound and the bloody flesh she roasted and placed in the trap. The hole, she had said, would never close. It was the only worthy sacrifice he could make.

  A fortnight passed and the princess asked the knight to return to her. Immediately he noticed the warm glow had returned to her eyes. “I missed you,” she said, and they returned to their marital bed.

  So it went as the witch had said. The princess loved the knight, the princess hated the knight. He never knew from one day to the next if she would be his salvation or his ruin. Life was never dull, never predictable. It was often bitter, yes, but sometimes sweet, and the sweet days were particularly sweet. And when love did flicker behind her eyes, he knew it was true. There was no always, only sometimes, and, oh, how he longed for those sometimes. His princess, his poison, his love, his enemy, his weakness, his strength, his life... Always and always and always...

  No Place for a Hero

  (Originally published in Galaxy’s Edge Magazine)

  Bernard Kowalski destroyed the Verrazano Bridge during the Friday rush.

  But there are three important things to keep in mind: It was unintentional, no one died, and he caught the bank robbers he was chasing. It was a classic superhero feat. They should have given him a ticker-tape parade.

  Instead he got thirty years in prison.

  In his closing argument, the prosecutor called Bernie a “living, breathing weapon of mass destruction.” She also called him an “irresponsible, reckless vigilante” and a “fame-seeking psychopath.” Never once did she mention the word “hero.” Bernie easily could have flicked a paper clip through her throat and decapitated her right on the spot. But he was a superhero and superheroes don’t kill.

  They held him on Rikers Island while they built a special long-term prison for him on Guantánamo Bay. He saved them the trouble. He busted out with one well-placed punch to the four-foot-thick cement wall and eventually settled on a desert island in the Pacific Ocean.

  A superhero, Bernie lamented, has no place in the real world.

  Bernie watched the sun sink into the ocean as he squeezed another yam and let it drip into a coconut shell.

  He had super strength. He could throw a garbage truck a mile. He could run so fast he was just a blur. He could blow down buildings with his ultra-breath. He could fly. And what did it get the world’s first and only superhero? All the yams he could eat and his very own tropical prison.

  No one bothered with him except for some neighboring islanders who would leave him food and gifts. They thought he was an angry deity. The yams were offerings. On special occasions they left a roasted pig. He was happy for the food. It wasn’t like he could fly over to Paris and grab some baguettes—not without causing an international incident.

  He was thinking how Superman never got hauled into court in the comics, when he spotted the helicopter. At first he figured it was sightseers. They occasionally flew over the island to take a peek at the superhuman, snap a few photos. He usually waved at them. Sometimes they’d wave back, sometimes they’d give him the finger.

  He zoomed in with his telescopic vision and saw that it was a U.S. Marine Corps helicopter. In all the time he’d been on the island, no authorities had ever tried to contact him or haul him back to the States. Was this an assault? Were they stupid enough to try to finish him off now?

  He scanned the sky, but there was only the one helicopter. If this was an attack, then the copter had to be equipped with a WMD.

  He could hurl a palm tree at it or blow it down with his ultra-breath. But he continued squeezing yams. After two years on the island, the only way he could eat the tubers was by slurping them up like milkshakes.

  The helicopter landed down the beach. He watched a man in a military uniform jump out. Alone, he headed toward the superhuman. Bernie relaxed.

  The man said, “Bernard Kowalski?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m Batman.” Military man didn’t laugh.

  “I am General William Duncan, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

  Bernie picked up a yam, squeezed it so hard it exploded in his hand. “Care for a yam?”

  “I’m not going to pussyfoot around, Kowalski. Your government needs you, maybe even the world.”

  “My government? You mean the one that arrested me for being a superhero?”

  “We’re in a big jam, the chili is really hitting the fan, and it is my opinion that you’re the solution. We’re prepared to offer you full asylum and will expunge your past crimes from the record.”

  “Crimes, huh? I was fighting crime!”

  “Believe me, as a soldier myself, I understand. Collateral damage is inevitable in war. The greater good, son, that’s what matters.”

  “Exactly! That’s what I kept saying at the trial. I’m a superhero. There should be different rules for me.”

  “Well, Kowalski, the rules have just changed.”

  Bernie wiped the yam juice off his hands, sat up straighter. “Have they now?”

  “It seems you are no longer the world’s only superhuman. But you can still be the world’s only superhero. A supervillain named Madame Devastator has already destroyed most of New Jersey.”

  “Madame Devastator? Cool name.”

  “We’ve thrown everything at her, but it’s done no good. We need you to take her out. You are cleared to use any means necessary. We’re in a real bind here. What do you say, Kowalski?”

  “General, I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”

  “I’ll brief you at the Pentagon. We have an aircraft carrier not too far away.”

  “It’ll be quicker if I take you.”

  Bernie scooped up the general and flew east.

  Madame Devastator’s real name was Hannah Bormann. She was a twenty-two-year-old art student from Connecticut, at least until about a week ago when she went berserk in Jersey.

  At the Pentagon, Bernie watched videos of her obliterating Hoboken. She could fire bolts of lightning out of her fingertips and create storms with a hand gesture. She also sported a killer costume, something Bernie had always wanted. But his superhero career had ended before he could design one. Madame Devastator wore black high-heeled boots with laces up to her knees, a leather bodysuit with lightning bolts running down the sides, and a scarlet cape. At the moment, Bernie was in yellow Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, and a pink tank top.

  When the briefing was over, General Duncan said, “Do you need any assistance from us?”

  “Can you guys rustle me up a uniform? I feel kinda dorky here.”

  A half-hour later he was wearing Henry Winkler’s leather jacket from Happy Days, John Wayne’s cowboy hat from True Grit, Harrison Ford’s pants from Raiders of the Lost Ark, and James Dean’s boots from Rebel Without a Cause. Some wise guy had made a run to the Smithsonian and thought the clothes had some mojo that might help. They started calling Bernie “Mr. Americana.” His previous superhero name was Bernard Kowalski.

  When Bernie reached New York City, where Madame Devastator was currently wreaking havoc, he perched himself on top of the Freedom Tower. He didn’t need his telescopic vision to find her. A boulder the size of a minivan blasted into the air over Central Park. Ber
nie rocketed uptown, and just before the boulder crashed on top of The Dakota apartment building he obliterated it with a mighty uppercut.

  Bernie bolted into the park, flying just above the treetops.

  He was nearing the lake when a street lamp rose into the air and swatted him as if he were a pesky fly. He plunged into the water, and as he sank, Bernie thought how he had only ever fought purse snatchers and jaywalkers.

  He sprang out of the water, grabbed his hat—which was floating nearby—and placed it back on his head.

  Madame Devastator stood beside the Bethesda Fountain, sparks dancing on her fingertips. “I should have figured they’d send for you,” she said. “You’ve always struck me as a brownnoser.”

  “Is that why you’re doing this? To get to me?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m doing this because I can. It’s fun. Besides, what the hell else can you do with fingertips that shoot lightning?”

  “You got me there,” Bernie said, and blasted her with his ultra-breath. She hurtled backwards, knocking down trees and statues. She didn’t come to a stop until she crashed into the side of an M10 bus.

  All the vehicles on Central Park West were abandoned. General Duncan had pulled the military out of the area and evacuated as many civilians as he could, though there were still plenty of them watching from their apartment windows, snapping photos and taking video.

  A woman stuck her head out of a fourth-story window and shouted, “Get her, Mr. Americana!” Bernie’s face burned with pride, though he wondered how she knew his nickname.

  Bernie spotted a garbage truck up the block. He’d always wanted to chuck one.

  As he lifted it over his head, he noticed with glee the camera flashes coming from the surrounding buildings. He paused, flexed his muscles, and then heaved the truck at Madame Devastator, just as she was getting to her feet. Bernie was disappointed when the truck crash-landed right-side up a few yards in front of her. It tottered, and he helped it along with a blast of his ultra-breath. A moment after the truck fell onto the supervillain, windows were thrown open and there was a thunderclap of applause and hooting. Some people were giving Bernie the thumbs-up. They held out their cellphones. Bernie smiled and waved as if he had just won the Miss America Pageant.