The deejay sighed depressively. "Another knifing downtown. Simply Blues Bar." A yawn. The sound of something icy and long being swallowed. "Some people just shouldn't drink. Let's get back to the Doors."
Lauren pushed harder on her driver's door that felt fused shut. There was no play in it and she yelled to the driver to move his car. But there was no answer and when she did the same, on the other side, still nothing. As she knocked sweating hands on the windows of both cars, Morrison started screaming.
". . . well the music is your only friend.
Dance on fire as it intends.
Music is your only friend.
Until the end."
Lauren gave up on the cars which blocked her doors, started the Rabbit, jammed it into reverse, hit the gas, let out the clutch. Her tires gushed sticky, black dust but the car behind her didn't move. She started to panic, unable to escape, and screamed at the drivers pressing against her, on three sides, to move their cars. She caught her expression in the Rabbit's rearview; a fleeting look of terror.
"The face in the mirror won't stop,
The girl in the window won't drop.
A feast of friends - 'Alive! 'she cried.
Waiting for me outside. Outside!"
She pounded harder on the windows of both cars, but no one responded. Just more murmured amusement behind tinted glass. Cigarette tips burning, shifting like creature eyes. She slid across the front seat again, grunting trapped, primitive sounds, and banged on the tinted windows of the opposite car. She could see her helpless features reflected in the black glass and gripped the door more tightly as she screamed.
"Before I sink
Into the big sleep.
I want to hear the scream
Of the butterfly"
The Doors kicked her harder and her hands began to bruise from pounding the glass; yellow-purple flesh replacing pink. Her throat was grated by screams and though she couldn't make out voices, the laughter in the surrounding cars grew louder. She began to cry and the deejay chuckled.
"Just stepped outside and the flames are rising. Don't forget to use your lotion, guys and gals." He made an obscene, squirting sound. "Quick thought for the night: maybe we're all cooking alive and don't know it . . . so, let's party."
He killed The Doors and substituted punk earbleed, which started suddenly, making Lauren's heart beat too fast.
She immediately looked up when the car behind hers began to rumble like a piece of earth moving equipment and started forward, shoving the Rabbit's front tires over the cement block. Then, the rear tires. It pushed harder, engine screaming, tires spinning. Ahead, the sequin sea of L.A. glittered.
Lauren tried frantically to get out, but the other cars rolled over their own cement blocks and stopped her, jamming either side like grisly escorts.
She looked ahead, saw the cliff's edge and grabbed the wheel tightly, trying to lock the tires. But the Rabbit kept sliding closer to the edge, tires gouging fat scars in the dirt. She held down the horn, trying to let someone know, then covered her face with both hands, plunging into blackness; a burning spray, twisting end-over-end.
As the three cars drove away into the muggy gloom, the deejay made a sound of exquisite pain. "Another ghastly evening in the City of Angels. In case you're keeping score, the temperature just went up another degree . . . and you're losing."
The six headlights stared around a curve and disappeared, looking for places to go; things to do. Sirens wailed and moved toward Mulholland as the deejay blew smoke into the mike, spun a ballad and cooed Auschwitz delight.
"Stay bad, babies . . . the night is young. And there's no way out."
Eyes
It was happy hour.
Work done. New lies beginning.
Singles charmed and smiled; a despairing auction. Tragic fears hid in faces, and no one noticed the small man who entered. He was about fifty and stared nervously at the beauty, money, and failure. The exhibits glanced back, propped on stools, primping; stalking.
As he stood in the doorway, in his wrinkled black suit, something about him gave the impression of excess. Maybe it was the way he moved, the way he seemed a size too big for his slight frame. As if he were retaining something that shouldn't be there. It showed in the haunted posture, the suffering color. The distance he'd clearly come.
He walked slowly, through swags of bar smoke, examining faces that passed; perfumed and lost. As he moved, pain seeped from behind his eyes, in tiny, tortured glances. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a Coke. The bartender noticed the man stared at him a little too long; searching. Estimating.
A drunk giant was two stools over, swallowing Coronas in a wet, yellow chain. Four empties formed a miniature Manhattanscape before him, and his features had fallen soft.
A Vogue face, in glove-leather dress, had just shoved away from him, and he was mad; humiliated. He lit a Camel and watched the small man, who sipped his coke like a boy, staring about, feet kicking slowly at the bar's side. Everything about the little man, now staring at him, irritated him.
"Hey, asshole, what's your problem?"
The small man didn't acknowledge the question. Just kept sipping; child's dimensions, kicking softly. Silent torment inched across his expression like a crack in glass.
"Hey, I'm talking to you"
The small man glanced over, examined the angry expression. The liquor. The creature simplicity. He noticed it all, floated his glance away, returned to his drink.
A fifth Corona was ordered. Swallowed.
The giant stared drunken sadisms at the back of the smaller man's head and stood. Moved closer. Loomed behind the small man; a fat Frankenstein.
"Hey, know what? I don't like it when people stare at me."
He nudged him hard enough to make it hurt. Lit a new cigarette, feeling sweat scratch and itch. The Vogue face glared from nearby, posing; waiting for her life.
"Got a name, Maybelline?"
The man stared ahead, sipped Coke. "I don't like smoke," was the answer.
The drunk blew more Camel on him.
The wrinkled, black suit shifted. "Would you like being stared at better for a price?"
More Corona was sucked into the fleshy mouth. "What're you talkin' about?"
The small man pulled out a crumpled bill. Straightened it. "Whoever blinks first loses a hundred dollars."
Within minutes, a crowd had gathered and the two were seated at a table. Eyes locked. The larger man's were unfocusing; unprotected. The small man's stare paced. Agony crept.
"Blink, you little fuck. . ." the drunk was hissing, grinning.
The black suit sat steady, unreacting. But both began to sense weightless things landing on the surface of their eyeballs; perching on sensitive tissues and drinking.
The drunk felt his lids flicker once or twice, fought it. Broke into a hateful smile.
"Do it, Goddamn you!"
His eyes began to water, and thick fingers clutched at the table. The small man's lids were falling, the upper and lower lashes meeting like trap-teeth. As the crowd roared, he finally blinked.
The drunk quickly stood, screamed victory. Pressed his own eyes shut, rubbing at dry smolder.
The crowd returned to its septic ease, and the black suit slid the hundred-dollar bill across the table. The drunk stood, glaring at the smaller man.
"What's your fuckin' problem? Like to give away money, or you just stupid?"
There was no answer.
The drunk was full of triumph and contempt, and ordered a victory drink, as he watched the small man exit. But as he waited on the stool, he began to feel an aching in his bones and muscles. He tried to ignore it but was unable to fight a spreading depression; emptiness.
As the bartender poured the Corona, the drunk stared at himself in the big mirror, stricken by his own dead color. He could feel his life slipping away, reasons for it all rising off him like fast-escaping fumes. His entire body felt sick, and his mind could recall nothing of value; no reason to go on. He ma
naged to pay the bartender and leave.
He wandered down the street, filled with misery, that grew worse with each step. He began to weep and collapsed to the sidewalk, hiding his terrified face in trembling hands.
A block away, the small man was at McDonald's, ordering. Feeling slightly better. His appetite was even back, and he was anxious to enjoy the food while he could. As he ate, he knew he'd have to find another place soon. Another town to rid himself of the horror.
Another set of eyes he could pay to take it all away.
For awhile.
Obsolete
Dora frowned.
"Tom . . . if I'm wrong, tell me I'm wrong."
Tom bit into his breakfast and sighed. He looked up at his wife and saw the concern on her sleepy, morning face.
"You're not wrong. I know we should do something." Tom neatened his tie at the collar, spread his hands candidly. "It's just that the kids . . ."
Dora's eyes caught flame.
"The kids? Are you joking? Yesterday, it ran the shower for Robert, and the water was steaming hot. If I hadn't gotten home when I did . . ." she swept at the table with her balled napkin, sending crumbs everywhere.
"Honey, the crumbs," Tom spoke, calmly.
"Let it worry about the crumbs. Maybe it can at least duplicate the functions of a broom." Dora's young face went rigid; intractable. "Tom, I want it out. It's a danger to my family."
"Honey, the man said it takes time for these helpers to adjust."
"Getting the kinks out? No. I won't stand for it. We bought one of these things to help out. Not to turn our lives upside down. Do you know what it's done wrong just this week? And I'm not talking about breaking dishes."
Tom rose and began to take his dishes to the sink. Dora stopped him with a gentle hand.
"I'm sorry. I'll get the dishes. It's just I'm so nervous about that thing. I've never been close to one . . . please, let's get rid of it. It's not like us."
Tom took his wife into his arms. "I'll take care of it before I leave for work."
Outside, it was kneeled over a cluster of flowers, trimming them. Torn walked up behind, as he did every morning on his way to the garage.
"Stop gardening, please."
It did, lifting the nippers away from the stems, waiting.
"You'll have to leave." He faltered for a tense second. "My wife and I don't want you here any longer."
It remained motionless.
"It just isn't working out . . . we'll have to take you back to the center. Maybe they can find you another family."
The helper nodded and Tom's mouth tightened.
"I wish things had worked out."
He walked to the garage and pulled away in a cloud of exhaust. It washed over the helper, which accidentally clamped the nippers onto its fingers, causing red blood to run.
As it wept, one of the children ran up and stared at it, through a single, dilating lens.
"What's wrong?" asked the little girl, synthesized voice concerned. "What's that stuff coming out of your finger?"
The old woman wadded cloth around the running blood, and smiled a lonely hurt; a perfectly-built replica of a human, and one of the last five hundred remaining, waiting to be scrapped.
Wyom . . .
Sooner or later, they come. Check you off the list.
I was like you. Had an interesting life. Felt safe. It’s gone. I never know when they’ll come for me.
I write, hoping to ease my fear. But deep inside, I’m scared.
I sleep badly, I don’t know why they haven’t found me yet.
But they will.
I don’t know exactly who they are or what they want. Only that we’re the kind they look for: they hate people like us. We have the “qualities.” We think differently, can penetrate lies.
They murdered a woman I used to work with. Anne. Pretty blonde. Had her own television series for a couple of years. You'd know it by name. Buried her alive in Wyoming. Sent me a videotape of her begging for her life. You could hear them out of camera range, amused by her screams. They kept zooming in on her eyes. If you'd seen it
Rumor is they take a lot of the victims to Wyoming. The bodies are always tortured. I don't know why.
All I know is they prey on people like us.
Haven't you wondered about the way certain people seem to go out of their way to make things harder for you when there's no reason? Tell lies? Spread ugly gossip? They do it that way. Make you question yourself.
Other times, they distract you. Engage you in a conversation. Praise you. Promise you something. Maybe do you a favor, though you didn't really ask. When you think about it later, and it makes no sense, it's too late. They come for you.
Think.
Haven't you wondered about the glares of strangers you did nothing to upset? The hang-ups on the phone? Did you think it was coincidence?
But it's not their only approach.
Sometimes they try to unnerve you. Destroy your sense of well-being. Ruin your health. Maybe your finances. Your marriage. If you're really married to who you think you are.
Or, like with me, they'll send a video of someone you know being tortured, murdered.
That was the beginning.
If they want, they can create an artificial trust. Even a friendship. A feeling you're safe. You'll sense you're with someone you can open up to; they savor the deceit. You'll allow yourself a vulnerability. Begin to relax; believe.
Then, when you're sure everything is safe and warm, they pick exactly the right moment and come and get you, take you to Wyom . . .
January 30, 1997
Mr. Stephen Jones
London, England.
Dear Mr. Jones,
Greetings. I'm Richard Christian Matheson's personal assistant and enclose, WYOM..., a new short story he's completed.
Mr. Matheson has been traveling on business and, before leaving, asked that I send it along, in the hope you'd find it suitable for your anthology.
I know he'll look forward to your reaction.
Many thanks.
Sincerely,
John Lerner
Assistant to Richard Christian Matheson
P.S. I understand you're personal friends with Mr. Matheson, as well as his occasional editor. He's been out of touch for awhile now, and left no messages. Have you, by any chance, heard from him?
P.P.S. FYI: I'll be forwarding a video of Mr. Matheson's latest project within the week. Enjoy.
Sentences
Harry first noticed the advertisement as he rode on the subway.
The ad made him straighten and take notice, and he draped the paper in his lap, running his finger across the print.
Do you want to know what's really wrong with your life? WE HAVE THE ANSWER! If you are tired of drugs, sex, religion, T.M., EST, psychoanalysis, etc. NO WONDER!! None of these contain the answer! Only we have that! If you want your life to make sense to you, call the following number for a personal consultation.
To say the least, Harry was jolted.
He had been looking for something like this for months. He was, to the point of outrage, fed up with his life, and felt it high time he get to the bottom of the shoddy hand he'd been dealt.
Shoving and shouldering his way out of the subway at the next station, he placed a call to the number indicated in the ad. His call answered, he was calmly assured that the service specified was sincere and completely effective, by a cordial secretary. He was also informed of the rate; a flat five-hundred dollars.
As convinced as was possible, in so short a call, Harry made an appointment to come in the following day, stipulating no commitment. The secretary readily agreed to the terms.
The following afternoon, Harry was sitting in the office of Mr. Lance Webb, one of the agent-counselors for the business, which Harry had, by now, discovered was called Script Sure.
Smiling, Webb sat behind his formidable, pecan desk, regarding Harry.
"Well, I suppose you're here to find out how it all wor
ks," he said. "Am I right?"
"You are," replied Harry. "But before we get to talking, I'd like to know just how you are able to do what you claim in your ad." Webb smiled.
"We prefer to have the payment first," he said, pleasantly.
"But . . . how can I be sure?" Harry's voice was rich with doubt. "I don't mean to be impolite, but if I lose five-hundred bucks on some con-scheme, that'll be the last straw."
"I understand your hesitation, Mr. Addley. However, we at Script Sure are solidly backed by all of our customers. Some of their letters of accolade hang on the wall behind me."
Webb gestured to several framed letters.
"However, if you prefer declining our services, I will respect your wishes and terminate this meeting." Webb was icily polite. "Others are waiting."
Harry stared at Webb and the letters, and thought for a good minute.
"Alright," he said, making out a check. "I'm afraid the fact of the matter is, I really haven't much to lose."
Webb nodded, approvingly, as he examined the check Harry handed to him and, placing it in a desk drawer, leaned forward in his chair.
"I'd like to take as little of your time as possible, Mr. Addley. Therefore, to be quite simple and clear," he said, matter-of-factly, "your life, in its totality, is a script. That's the answer."
"What?" said Harry, unimpressed.
"A script," repeated Webb.
"I don't follow you," said Harry, squinting with budding frustration. "What is this, Transactional Analysis or something? I've read all that garbage. I thought this was completely different."
Webb laughed.
"No, no, Mr. Addley. You see, this is completely different. The script I refer to is a tangible structure, not just a loose concept. You are living a script. It was written, by a writer, just for you."
Harry stared at Webb, unflinchingly.
"You're crazy," he said.
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