Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  The legs stood. The blast had removed the torso so fast and so cleanly that Randy’s legs teetered by themselves. Did they take a step?

  Hello, Caleb … I’m comin’ to geeet yoooou!

  Someone was grabbing him, trying to pick him up, and he fought. Trans-fixed by the walking pair of disembodied legs, he struggled with the person who tried to take him. He watched the legs fall over with a nauseating thud, sending a flood of entrails and blood onto the carpet.

  And then there was nothing, nothing except the cool rain that pelted his face. The hands had won. They had taken him outside towards the big, white van with the flashing lights.

  Caleb watched the flurry of faces as they came at him and then disappeared. Many of them would say things to him, but his hearing hadn’t returned completely and he wished they would go away. Their smiles were animated and phony. The hands were still about him, hugging him, and he didn’t have to turn to see that they were the hands of his mother. They sat in the back of the ambulance, watching the red and blue lights bounce off the other trailers in the distance.

  Red … he would hate the color for the rest of his life.

  The man knelt down in front of him and removed his hat. It was covered with something that resembled his mother’s plastic wrap. His features were kind and concerned as he laid his hand on Caleb’s shoulder. He spoke slowly. “You okay, son?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “How about you ma’am?”

  He felt his mother move, as she apparently nodded also. There was the vibration again when she spoke to him, but he couldn’t make it out.

  He looked down at Caleb again. “Caleb? What happened, son?”

  Caleb watched the man’s eyes move left and then right as he focused on his own. The hideous image of Randy’s disfigured face slowly overlaid that of the detective’s, and he buried his face back into his mother’s bosom.

  “The monster came.”

  Don’t You Want to

  Play With Us?

  by Shane McKenzie

  Shane McKenzie is the author of INFINITY HOUSE, ALL YOU CAN EAT, BLEED ON ME, JACKED, ADDICTED TO THE DEAD, MUERTE CON CARNE, ESCAPE FROM SHIT TOWN (co-authored with Sam W. Anderson and Erik Williams), FAT OFF SEX AND VIOLENCE, FAIRY, PUS JUNKIES, PARASITE DEEP, TOILET BABY, THE BINGO HALL, and many more to come. He is also the editor at Sinister Grin Press. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and daughter.

  Follow him at http://shanemckenzie.org/

  “Game!” Flip rubbed his palms together to stop the shaking, then picked up his beer and drained it, slammed the empty glass on the bar. He stared at his darts, none of the three a bull’s eye, but still just enough points to win the game.

  Jerry stared at the dart board for another minute before cussing under his breath and pulling out his wallet. His buddies elbowed each other and snickered. The woman he’d come in with chewed on her bottom lip as she studied him. She looked ready to run away, as if Jerry would explode at any moment.

  Jerry slapped two twenties into Flip’s hand, then wiped his own hand on his pant leg. “Fuckin’ street trash,” he said, then checked his palm as if Flip had smeared shit on it. “Come in here and try to hustle me? Cal, why you let this stinky motherfucker in here anyway?”

  Flip knew the guy was intentionally trying to hurt his feelings or piss him off, but he wouldn’t accomplish either one. Flip’s skin had grown as thick as rhinoceros hide. He slapped one of the twenties onto the bar and smiled.

  Cal moved his toothpick from the left corner of his mouth to the right and snorted. He knocked his knuckles against the bar on top of the bill. “Next one’s on me, Flip.” Cal filled another glass full of Blue Moon, slid it to Flip who grabbed it and drained half of it down right away.

  The woman ran both hands through her hair, sighed, then joined the other two men who continued to snicker. She widened her eyes at them and they both shrugged and continued to laugh. Jerry shot a quick glance at his group, then let his fiery stare land back on Flip.

  “It was your stink, asshole. It was throwing my game off. You learn to throw darts by flinging shit against the dumpster walls?”

  Cal pulled his toothpick from his mouth and flicked it at Jerry, crossed his arms and rippled his forearm muscles. “You best watch your words, Jerry. ’Fore they get you in trouble.”

  Jerry’s face burned red and his friends finally stopped chortling.

  Flip only smiled and sipped his beer, reached out and tapped his finger on the crumpled bill on the bar. “Why don’t you pour us a couple of whiskey shots, Cal. See if we can’t extinguish the fire a little bit, hmm?”

  Jerry’s jaw muscles fluttered and his eyes rolled from Cal to Flip, then roamed back toward his friends. The woman turned her gaze, wouldn’t look Jerry in the eye.

  Cal filled three shot glasses with Jack, slammed two on the bar, and swallowed the liquor from the third. He hissed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You lost fair and square. You give Flip here any more shit about it, and we’ll be using your ass for a dartboard next, yeah?”

  Jerry reached over, plucked the shot, swallowed it. Flip did the same, then sat back on his stool and grinned.

  Jerry ran his tongue across the front of his teeth, then spun and joined his friends. He grabbed the woman rough by the wrist and yanked her toward the table in the back. The other two men followed, exchanging glances and shaking their heads.

  “Thanks, Cal,” Flip said.

  “You’re gettin’ sloppy, you know that?” Cal ran a damp towel over the bar, pulled another bacon-flavored toothpick from his shirt pocket and jammed it into his mouth. “You used to hit the bull’s eye with every dart, you know it? Used to remind me of that Robin Hood movie. With ol’ what’s his name…”

  The glass shook in Flip’s hand, and he downed the rest of the beer, set it down, then massaged the meat between his thumb and forefinger. That always seemed to help once the shakes got too bad. “Still good enough to kick the snot outta any of your customers, ain’t I?”

  The creases on Cal’s forehead deepened. “Ah, shit. You know…that fella that was dancin’ with Indians. Shit…”

  Flip chuckled, flexed his fingers. The shaking let up some, but it was still there. It was always there at least a little these days. Seemed they started the same day Flip walked in on Constance with her lips wrapped around a mouthful of hard cock. The fucking pool boy. Even through his rage, Flip couldn’t help but acknowledge how cliché the whole situation was. But God how it hurt. Crushed him. Constance wasn’t only his wife, but his best friend. His only friend. That was also the last day Flip ever had a real roof over his head.

  “Kevin Bacon? No…no that can’t be right. Shit, what was his name?”

  “Fill ’er up, would you, Cal?”

  Cal mumbled to himself as he fetched a new glass and pulled the Blue Moon tap. He stared at the ceiling and chewed on his lip as he continued to search his memory.

  Cal was a good man. Always treated Flip with respect. They had known each other since high school, though Flip was two years older and too damn cool back then to hang out with little ol’ Stinky Calvin. But these days Cal wasn’t so little, and Flip was for damn sure not cool. Cal had recognized Flip the first time he stepped into the Thirsty Dog, told him he could come by any time. Flip could tell the guy just felt sorry for him, but he didn’t mind. The Thirsty Dog was a great place to waste time, and these days, that’s all Flip had was time. He always tried to wash up beforehand so as not to chase away Cal’s customers with his sharp aroma, but finding a place to scrub his ass wasn’t always easy.

  Cal set the fresh glass down, shook his head. “The hell with it. Shitty movie anyway. The point is you could split darts back in the day.”

  Flip grabbed the glass, but his shaking hand made a good portion of it spill onto the bar. He set it back down, put his hands in his lap where he got to massaging again. A forced smile sliced across his face. “Look, you’re gonna hurt my feelings here. Didn’t I just pay for this beer
with my winnings?”

  “Nope, it was on the house, remember?” Cal arched his mouth and gave a light chuckle. “You doin’ okay, Flip?”

  Flip shrugged. “Living the good life, brother. Can’t you tell?”

  They both laughed, but were cut short when something crashed from across the bar. The woman was on her feet, the neck of a beer bottle in her fist, the other end jagged and broken. Jerry clutched at his forehead as he stood, his teeth bared and clenched. A dribble of blood rode the creases of his nose, and he wiped it away and snarled.

  “I told you not to fuckin’ touch me!” The woman waved the broken bottle out in front of her.

  “Oh, you’re gonna get it, bitch. You’re gonna get it so bad.” Jerry stomped his foot at her, and when she flinched and yelped, he chuckled.

  “Goddamnit,” Cal said, then reached under the bar and pulled out a big, chrome pistol. “Not in the mood for this shit.”

  Flip spun in his stool so he could watch, drained his beer in three big gulps. Never a dull night at the Thirsty Dog.

  “You fuckers take that shit outside, you hear me?” He took turns pointing the pistol at each of them. “Go on and get!”

  Jerry’s friends tried to coax Jerry into leaving, but he shoved them off, ignored Cal and his pistol, and faced the woman again. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Just wait ’til I get your ass home.” He wiped another palmful of blood from his forehead.

  “The lady will stay here with us,” Flip said. “Ain’t that right, Cal?” Flip wasn’t sure why he had butt in like that. He’d seen dozens of bar brawls at the Thirsty Dog in the last few years and never spoke up before. But he couldn’t feel good about letting this lady go home with Jerry. Regardless of the sour feelings he had toward women these days.

  Jerry’s eyes, burning as red as heated metal, landed on Flip, and he curled his lip until it nearly touched the bottom of his nose. “I suggest you shut your fuckin’ mouth, asshole. Before I shove my arm down your throat and toss you back in the garbage where you came from.”

  “Come on, Jerry, let’s just get the hell outta here,” one of the men said, both forearms covered in tattoos. He eyed Cal’s pistol which was still swinging from face to face.

  Jerry shoved the man in the center of the chest and sent him crashing into the pool table. “Mind your fuckin’ business, Barney. I mean it.”

  Barney held his hands up, head shaking, lips mashed together. The other man, a red-headed scrawny guy at least six foot six, caught Jerry’s blood-thirsty stare next, and didn’t say a word.

  Cal shot Flip a quick look, wrinkled his brow for a moment, then nodded and blinked rapidly. He turned back toward Jerry, jabbed the gun in his direction. “You heard him, dickhead. She stays. Now get the fuck outta my bar before it gets real messy.”

  Barney and the tall guy started inching toward the door, but Jerry held his ground. He ripped his shirt off, tossed it into the woman’s face, then faced Cal. Took three long, heavy steps toward him and pressed his forehead against the gun’s barrel.

  “You better be ready to pull that trigger, motherfucker. You hear me?”

  Cal smiled, cocked back the hammer. “Oh it would be my pleasure.”

  Flip hopped off his stool. “Come on now, fellas. No need for this shit. Jerry, you just had a bit too much to drink, that’s all. Go home, clear your head. Don’t do some shit that you’ll regret later, okay?”

  Jerry flared his nostrils and glared into Cal’s eyes, showing no signs that he had even heard Flip.

  The woman still held the bottle out in front of her, tears streaming down her face. Her hand shook and her lip trembled as she watched the standoff between Cal and her man.

  “We’re just gonna make sure she’s safe, that’s all. I’ll even give her my winnings so she can get a hotel.” Flip grabbed the twenty back off the bar and pulled the other out of his pocket, waved them in the air. “Everything will be—”

  The bar door flew open, thumped against the wall. Cal’s framed picture of Clint Eastwood fell and cracked, and a man stepped on it, splintering and crunching glass as he made his way into the bar. The guy was pale, the color of whipped cream. His red hair was disheveled, sticking out in all directions and thick with some kind of glue-like substance. A red balloon floated above his head, the string tied to his wrist. But the string looked weird, thick…slimy. He turned, closed the door, ran his hand along its frame.

  What in the hell? Flip thought.

  The guy wore a smile like the Mad Hatter as he slid his feet along the floor and took a seat on a stool across the bar from Flip. He ignored the commotion around him, tented his fingers on the bar, and kicked his feet. Flip couldn’t help but think the guy’s movement reminded him of an impatient child. The guy’s smile never even twitched, eyes never blinked.

  Flip rubbed the back of his head, shot a glance at Cal who was staring at the guy too. Even Jerry and the others now had their attention on the balloon-toting stranger.

  “Ice cream,” the man said. “A bowl of ice cream please.” His voice was high-pitched, sounded like he was on the verge of bursting out laughing as he spoke. A glistening tongue slid out from between his teeth and soaked his lips.

  It was like the energy in the room was shifted. Flip felt it the second that guy spoke, as if the very words he muttered transformed the atmosphere. A smell like cookies baking began to swirl through the air, and Flip’s stomach got to churning in response. He had a slight urge to laugh, but he couldn’t explain why.

  Cal removed the gun’s barrel from Jerry’s forehead, gave the man a long, hard look. “Now get the fuck outta here, Jerry. I’ve got a business to run here, goddamnit.”

  Jerry scowled and squeezed his fists until the veins on his forearms bulged, but didn’t say another word. He wiped his nose with the palm of his hand, spat on the floor, then made his way toward the door.

  The woman wept, set the bottle on a table, and crossed her arms.

  “Ice cream…hot fudge…ice cream!”

  Jerry and his buddies were at the door, and Jerry tugged on it, kicked it. “Well if you want me to leave so fuckin’ bad, unlock the door!”

  “Nobody’s leaving.” The man spun in his stool, kicking his feet and going around and around, a soft giggle clicking from his stretched-out smile. “You’re not ready yet.”

  Flip squinted as he stared at the balloon wobbling in the air above the stranger. He even rubbed his sleeve over his eyes to make sure he was seeing this clearly. Intestine. That’s what it looked like. A rope of intestine was tied to the balloon and the man’s wrist. Translucent slime dripped from it and pitter-pattered over the bar.

  “Hey, Cal,” Flip said. When Cal looked in his direction, Flip widened his eyes, nodded toward the man.

  “Cal, let us the fuck outta here!” Jerry slammed his fists against the door now, threw his shoulder into it hard enough to hurt himself, but it still didn’t budge.

  “The children are outside,” the man said. “When you’re all ready, they’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Look, motherfucker,” Jerry said as he stomped toward the stranger. “I don’t know who the fuck you are or what your problem is, but—”

  “Hold it now,” Cal said and used his tree trunk arm to hold Jerry back. “Let me see what the problem is here.” He pulled a fistful of keys from his jeans pocket, tried the door first, and when it didn’t open slid the key in. “What in the hell?”

  “A big bowl of ice cream please,” the man said. He turned and sat straight, facing the bar, hands folded in front of him. “With hot fudge.”

  Cal ran his hand along the frame, and when he pulled his hand away, strings of what looked like syrup stretched from his fingertips. He smelled it, wrinkled his nose, and turned toward the man with a hard scowl. He made his way behind the bar, leaned forward so he could look the man eye to eye. “Who in the hell are you? And what did you do the—” Cal’s brow furrowed when he noticed the slime droppings on the bar, then looked up at the balloon, at the intest
ine it was tied to. “What the fuck is this?”

  Jerry slammed his fist into the wall, then paraded toward the stranger, fist raised. “Open. The motherfuckin’. D—”

  The man moved so quickly, Flip wasn’t sure what he had actually seen. The man’s smile seemed to widen even further, even as Jerry’s blood sprayed him in the face.

  Jerry’s scowl melted and a deep grunt seeped from between his bloody lips. He grabbed the stranger’s shoulder, coughed, then fell on his side. He twitched as he pressed both hands to the wound under his chin as the blood steadily pumped out, made a whistling sound with his throat, then was still, eyes wide.

  Flip saw the knife now. No, not a knife…a peppermint stick? The candy was sharpened like a shiv, and Jerry’s blood flowed over the red and white swirled stripes. The balloon danced as the air conditioner blew against it.

  “A bowl of ice cream please.”

  Cal bared his teeth and jammed his gun into the stranger’s face, placed the barrel against his left nostril. “Get up. Now.”

  The man chortled, lifted the hand holding the peppermint stick over his head in a stabbing motion.

  The gun went off, and Flip jumped, screamed when he ran into something behind him. It was the woman, and as soon as Flip was close enough, she clutched him, pressed her body against his.

  Flip’s ears rang, and he had his eyes squeezed shut, scared to open them and face the gory scene in front of him. Then Cal screamed, and Flip’s eyes burst open.

  “Jesus!” Cal looked to be on his knees, only his face visible over the bar from where Flip stood. Cal’s hand was pinned to the bar by the sharpened candy, his fingers rigid and spread wide as the blood puddled around it.

  “A bowl of ice cream please. With hot fudge. Lots and lots of hot fudge.” The back of the stranger’s head was blown open, a pink goopy substance oozing out. But he sat as happy as ever, still kicked his legs. Still smiled. He ran a finger over his face where the bullet had entered. Fingered the hole, then popped the tip into his mouth.