At the Gates of Madness

by Shaun Meeks

  Tonight, I plan on going back to the lake, to prove what I already know to be true. I am going to return to the lake that I was born in, that I had been taken from to live as a human. I have no idea why they would do this, the people that had called me son, grandson, but I know that my true parents live under the dark waters of lake Simcoe, and I hope that they are still alive. If they aren’t, if the people that called my family as a human have stolen any chance I have of being reunited with my true parents, I shall make sure this town knows that the rumors and tales of Igopogo aren’t just fairy tales and silly stories, but a reality that will leave each and every one of them dead.

  Stripped Away

  She moves with fluid motion across the stage, feels the music pulse through her body, seeming to mimic her own heartbeat. She closes her eyes to the men off the stage that are watching her because in her own head, not a single one of them matter. To her, the men that usually come to the club to watch her dance are no more than decoration, as incidental as the wallpaper or the screws that held the tables together. It wasn’t always this way for her, most nights she pandered to the men, danced the ways that made them grunt, groan and howl for her. Each time she swayed her hips, flipped her hair and peeled away a garment, they would react just the way she wanted them to. She loved to smile at the men that she looked at as easy targets, then go up to after her set was done, flirt with, rub against and convince to go to the VIP room and get a private dance. She always knew that it was how you made real money, so dancing on stage for the men, her marks, was imperative.

  Tonight is different though, it isn’t about them, it’s all about her. She moves to the thudding drum a way that might be mesmerizing to those watching her, but she doesn’t look or care. Tonight is her dance, one last hurrah before she walks away from the whole mess forever.

  Over the last six years she has been dancing at Paradise Lost in Toronto, starting at the very bottom and working her way up to be one of the headliners. When she had started, she told her family and friends that found out she was dancing that she was doing it to pay her way through university, but she knew herself that she had never had any attention to going back to school for anything. Her intentions had always been to be discovered by someone and get a career in modeling or acting, she just had never wanted to tell people that. She thought that if she had ever shared her dreams of being something more than a stripper, doctor or lawyer, they would only try to dissuade her from pursuing them. They all claimed to love and support her no matter what, but when it came down to anything that she cared about that was outside the norm they all told her that she was a silly little thing for aiming so high. So she had continued to strip, pretending that she was saving her money up to go to school to live out the dreams others had for her while she prayed every day for something to change, to get better, to be discovered and become more than she was.

  Not that any of that mattered now. With the things that had happened in the world over the last two month, all those small things such as careers and dreams mean as much as the money she once yearned to make. Ever since the plagues started, the only thing that mattered to most people was staying alive, not turning into another blistering body being sent to the pits for burning.

  As she dances on stage for the men that still come out to the club without any worries of the plague, she tries not to think about the early days when the disease first hit the news. She didn’t want to think about the videos of people with their skin falling from them in clumps, large angry blisters all over, bursting in small volcanic explosions, their loved ones running away in fear of catching whatever they had. She didn’t want to think of the military trucks driving around shooting those that looked infected in hopes of containing the outbreak, the dead piled in the back of trucks being driven to the pits to burn and try to control the infection. Her mind tried to avoid the memories of seeing dead people lying in the alleyways, rats coming up from the sewers to feed on the free food and helping to spread the virus even faster.

  It didn’t work though, not in the slightest. The dead continued to pile up, the sounds of gunshots and people screaming when the found out they were infected seemed to be everywhere. When it all started, she had decided to lock herself in her house, afraid getting it herself just as everyone else was. She locked her doors, pushed her dressers in front of it and ate the food and drank the bottled water she had. She didn’t use the tap water for fear that it could spread the infection, since nobody really knew what the cause of the plague was. She had hoped that she would be able to live locked away in her small apartment with her little toy poodle and that the doctors and scientists would figure out what was going on and find a way to fix it all.

  Nothing was fixed, the doctors and scientist knew nothing about what was going on, had no clue to what had caused it all or how to cure it and for her, the food and water eventually ran out. She had no choice but to venture out and hope for the best. She returned to Paradise Lost three weeks after barricading herself in the apartment and was surprised to see that there were customers inside, that there were as many, if not more than usual in there watching the women bump and grind on stage. Her boss was happy to have her back, saying he understood why she had left the way she did and that night she had gone back on stage for the first time since the plague had hit. She danced the way she always had, for the men, moving the way they wanted, playing to their reactions and making them love her as she always had. It was almost as if the world had gone back to normal, at least in the club.

  It amazed her that after all that had happened and was still happening that there was anyone in the club at all, that the owner decided to keep things up and running. A plague that was as bad if not worse than the Black Plague was everywhere, thousands of people dying across the globe, yet people still came out to watch women strip down to their bareness. She wondered what made men try to lose themselves in the club, why they chose looking at naked women dancing as a way to escape from the realities outside. She hoped that they were doing it as a way to be happy for a few minutes of the day, that looking at the female body was a way for them to be able to keep going without contemplating suicide. She hoped that there was more of a reason for them being here than the fact that their dicks made most of the decisions for them. Men were driven by few things in the world, even before then plague hit, and those things were sex, money and power, all of which are connected. The more money and power you have, the more sex you get, and with enough money, you can buy sex and use your power to control the other. She knew, seeing all the men in the club that as a whole the male species was pathetic.

  If things had gone back to normal, tonight would have been just like all those other nights before and since the plague, but they weren’t. Things had changed and not for the better. When she had come into work tonight, she had known that this would be it for her, her last dance, that she was done with this life and all these men that came out to Paradise Lost night after night. She didn’t want to come in a do her regular dance either, because for her last dance, she wanted it to be something special. She wanted this one to be for her and nobody else.

  As requested by her, the DJ puts her second song on, the Deftones “Change (In the House of Flies)” and the strobe light begins to throb to the beat and she moves with each thud of the bass, the light flashing behind her closed eyelids. She loves this song, always thought it was one of the best to strip to, but never used it until today, at least not in front of people. When she was at home, standing by the full length mirror on her bathroom door, she would give herself a little strip tease, dancing the way that made her hot. Now she mimics the same movements, her hands stroke her barely covered skin, touching herself like a lover being allowed to explore her body for the first time. She moves her lips to the vocals, lip synching along with Chino and waiting for just the right moment for her big finale. Normally her big finale was to take of her G-string, give the audience a good view of her naughty bits, then walk off stage leaving them begging for more. Tonight she had
something different planned.

  She had come up with the idea three days ago when she had gone to the bathroom at home and saw the first blister showing behind her ear. At first she had just thought that it was possible she had burnt herself with her curling iron, but when a second and third blister appeared the next day, she knew what it meant. She looked over her body yesterday after working in the club and knew that there was no way she would be able to hide it much longer. She knew enough about the cycle of the plague that within days her skin would start to rip, tear and fall away from her body. She tried not to cry at the sight of the blisters and knowing that she would be dead soon, she thought of what to do to go out with a bang, and that was what tonight was for.

  She moves her body slower; her hands are feeling her skin, ignoring the way the blisters move under her hands, feeling like under filled water balloons. She knows that the strobe lights are hiding them as well as the small tears in her flesh that rip with each movement. She can the skin losing its hold on her body with every sway and now she knows the time has come. She opens her eyes and looks at the crowd, at the men in Pervert’s Row, at the ones that sit further back and pretend they are not as twisted as the men drooling in the front. She smiles at them and sees that they are still reacting to her, even though she wasn’t even looking at them until now. She pulls her G-string off and hears the men hooting all around for her, wanting to see a flash of what should be forbidden to them, but she plans on showing them more flesh than they bargained for.

  As she looks at them, her left hand sliding down her stomach to her exclamation mark of pubes, ready to give them what they want, she wonders how many of them know her name. Sure they might know her stage name, if they even remember that, but none of them know or even care to know what name her mother and father once called her when they were still alive, before the plague. To these men, people that show up at strip clubs when all around them the world is crumbling, she isn’t a name, or even a person, she’s just a pretty face, a pair of tits and a cunt.

  After tonight though, she knows that she will be more than a sex object and the men in the club will curse her name until the day they die, which was all in their near future.

  As she dances, her hands disappears in the shadows of her groin right on cue the strobe light stops flashing and a spotlight falls on her just as she pulls her hand away from her body, tearing away the flesh that surrounds her pussy. She winces at the pain, hot wet liquid pours down her leg, feeling thick like maple syrup and she looks at the meat in her hand and smiles before taking it and throwing it at one of the men in sitting in pervert row, blood also spraying the people on either side of him. She can’t hear the slap of herself on the man’s face, but sees the look that washes over him as it slides down his face and knocks over his drink. Nobody is reacting yet, they haven’t even figured out exactly what is going on. She wonders if some think that she threw her panties at the man. She wants them to know exactly what is going on.

  She reaches back down to her legs and slides her hands into the flow blood, the thickness of the hot liquid making her feel slightly sick, but she doesn’t stop, instead she throws her hand towards the audience, spraying as many as she can with diseased blood. As people to yell, pushing away from their chairs as she sprays them, she continues to move to the music, reaching her left hand to her right shoulder and pulls at her flesh. She expects it to make a tearing sound, like ripping paper, but it sounds more like pulling fresh wallpaper off a wall, the glue still wet but wanting to hold on to its new home. Again she ignores the pain as her nerves begin to cry out, she is so set on finishing her final strip show for all these men and making them finally suffer like she is. Once the skin detaches itself from her body, she throws that into the crowd, leading to a volley of more yelling and screaming. She opens her eyes as she continues to strip her skin away from her, tossing bits of herself at the audience that use to hunger for her, the same ones that would want her to throw her bra or panties were now getting the real parts of her. The pain becomes duller with each bit of her flesh she dissected from herself, numbness spreads across her, allowing her to continue. She watches as some of the patrons, knives and broken beer bottles in hand, coming running towards her with blood spray across their angry faces, and she completes her dance by eviscerating herself. She gasps a little as she buries her hands through the muscles of her stomach, digs deep though as she grits her teeth until she finds the slimy, rope like intestines. She starts to pull, stares at the men running at her with ill intent and feels weakness in her whole body. Her knees are unable to support her any longer and she falls to them, but does not give up, she has her plan and she will not stop until she has finished her final reveal for all to see. She looks away from the men and down at her own ravaged body, muscle tissue gleaming and it’s a wonder she has not passed out, to faint from the pure shock of all of this, but she is too determined to stop. She pulls hard and feels coldness inside, her hands reappear in front of her, and she sees the bluish sausages come out of her as though she is a magician doing the old endless hankie trick. She looks up as the men are within feet of her, holding herself out to them as though it is some sort of sacrificial offering and feels the darkness approaching her as though it is an entity. She closes her eyes, not wanting to see what will happen next and turns into her own mind, her own memory.

  She feels nothing more aside from freedom and happiness. She sees her little puppy, still alive, lying across her floor in a pool of sunlight while she herself is sitting on a couch, reading a random book, listening to music and sipping tea. She doesn’t hear screams or sirens so she knows that this is before the plague and that is the perfect place to be. Somewhere quiet, relaxing and with the one creature that loves and needs her more than anyone else. She just wished her puppy could say her name.

  Atheist in the Foxhole

  Close your eyes and listen to the sounds of the bugs singing their songs, the music of the wind blowing through the canopy of trees a few yards away and try to forget where you are. Look up at the blue skies, the heavens that Father Saunders once told you about, where God watches us all and sees the good and the bad we do. Stare skyward and hope to see God so that you don’t feel the urge to look down and see your friend laying at your feet, his head open and his grey matter pooled in the dirt around you. Don’t look and see his one remaining eye staring dull and dead right at you, as though asking why you are alive when he is clearly not. It’s bad enough you can smell him, the odor of his cells breaking down, trying so hard to liquefy and become one with the earth he is laying on, you don’t need to see him like that, though I’m sure the image is already burnt into your memory. Just grip your weapon and listen to the sounds around you as you look up above and pray that things will turn out better for you than they did for poor old George.

  George had come from your hometown, and like you he thought he had come to the jungle to fight the good fight, to better the world and bring America’s democratic fist down on the damn commie Gooks. You were told by Father Saunders that it was God’s will that you join the army and protect the innocent, but who have you really protected. Not George, go ahead and look down if you don’t believe me, though the smell of his congealing blood and of his spilt intestines is filling your nose which means you don’t really need to look and see him there. If you did, you’d see how it almost looks as though he is accusing you with that one good eye, hating you because you are still alive and he will never see his mother again.

  Do you want to think about your mother now, think about going home to her alive and well, far from the bugs that swarm overhead and the humid air that seems to strangle you as you lay here in this hole, this ditch, hearing gunshots and screams singing out like some strange choir of death? Are they going to make you bring the news to George’s mom that he was killed, that he had died only a foot away from you, that you had watched him raise his head to see if the coast was clear on to be torn apart by four bullets, one to the face and three to the gut? You know that she wil
l hate you when she sees you, ask you why it wasn’t you that died in that foxhole instead of the child that had suckled from her for just over a year. Every time she sees you walking around town, passing her on the street or in a store, she will look at you with hate and contempt as though she blames you for the death of her little Georgie. She will go have afternoon tea over at the ladies club where your mom likes to go and tell them all about how you used him as a human shield just so you could make it home, that you were always a selfish boy and weren’t worth the skin you walked around in. She will hate you and try to get everyone in town to hate you.

  Of course none of those things will be true; you couldn’t have saved George any more than you have a chance of being the hero that ends this war. You are no one special, and you are far from a hero. So what are you? Why are you here? Does anyone know about who you really are, or what your true motives for coming to Vietnam were?

  I doubt it.

  You like your secrets and always have.

  Does anyone know that you used to steal money from the collection box at the church, or that you used to smell your mothers panties while touching yourself? All kids have secrets; eating boogers, peeing the bed or stealing their dad’s cigarettes, but you had more than the rest it seems. Did anyone ever know that it was you that went into church after skipping class, heading into one of the confessional booths with a skin magazine that you stole from your dad’s closet, and then proceeded to jerk off all over the screen? Or how about when you would go to the city to see the doctor, and while there you would sneak into the women’s washroom, sit in a stall and beat it while some stranger took a piss in the one next to you? Were you hoping to get caught? Did you think that some gorgeous woman would walk in there, find you and get so turned on that she would have her way with you? Did it ever happen?