Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre

by ed. Tim W. Lieder

  This is L.A. We work out. It’s the law. If we refuse, they deport us somewhere dismal, like...that place Loretta Lynn came from… Butcher Holler.

  Then came the next gadget, the Buttmaster. When I heard about the Buttmaster I just did not want it. Not something with a name that weird. Between you and me, I have no complaints about my butt. So far it has defied gravity. I like that in a butt. I do not need a Buttmaster, I am master of my own butt. Now that I am, thirty-five, I guess I should be thinking about more than my thighs or butt. Well actually, I did not think of this, but something led me to consider it.

  On my last birthday, a Facemaster arrived. I thought what cheek someone has. On your first anniversary the traditional gift is paper, so it must be fair to assume that on your thirty fifth birthday, a Facemaster will arrive.

  The argument was this. I really did not think I needed a Facemaster. I am 35, and I am not a sun worshipper, I do not drink alcohol often or do illegal drugs. I drink more water than a camel. I have maintained nonraisin like skin. But there is something very powerful about Suzanne Somers at 3am telling you how she puts conductive liquid on two jumpers and zaps her face back to youth. It had a very weird Frankenstein quality. There was something very horrorshow about the retinal flashes and twitches your body receives from the machine. And we all know if something hurts, it must be working. We already inject rat poison into people’s wrinkles. They acid wash the face. They do burn peeling. We rip out hair by the root. What’s a little shock to the face when Suzanne Somers is promising eternal youth? Maybe I would never buy makeup from a woman who still wears blue eyeliner, but I had trusted her with my thighs and my torso; so why not my face?

  But getting A FACEMASTER in the mail on my thirty fifth birthday? What a cruel gift. Is someone trying to tell me something? So my first thought is to ask my friends if they ordered one for me. Most of them had not even heard of it, but I needed to find the culprit. It seemed I was the only dork up at 3am who had seen it. My second thought, after dismissing the first as too cruel, was ‘did I order this in a sleeping pill induced haze at 3am? Am I honestly becoming this Joey Heatherton? Do I need to reread Valley of the Dolls?’

  When I finally realized that a roommate had ordered the thing and it was not some cruel thirty something birthday prank, I was okay. I was anticipating electrocuting my face. I wanted to zap any future wrinkles and scare them away. However, if you do not have any serious Keith Richards crevices to watch miraculously disappear, what do you get in the end except a face reddened by electric shock? The furrow I have -- only botox can save it now. So I was on to other uses. I have a very mean kitten that appears to be possessed. Could I exorcise the demon using a small electric current when she climbs me like a scratching post? Could I use this on unruly nephews and nieces?

  '"What do you mean you don’t want to pick up your toys?" ::ZAP:::

  "Yea, kid, I thought so. Suck it up and stop your crying. If Suzanne Somers can take it, so can you!"

  I have no idea where The Facemaster is now. I like to think it went to live with the Thighmaster and the Torso Trak and the food dehydrator and the jar of Nads. Everyone got bored watching their friends zap their faces. Although we did have fun sneaking up on people in deep slumber and shocking them awake. It could be a good thing to have around if your kids fall asleep in church. I think this is what Suzanne Somers had in mind. That is why it is small and battery operated. I am going to look for it and just carry it around with me. Salespeople, dentists, gynecologists, people who line their inner eyelid with blue eyeliner....there will be no mercy.

  P.S. Please know that when you order anything from Suzanne Somers, an automated phone call with her voice calls you for eternity asking you to buy more stuff from her. That can freak a person out at 8am to answer the phone and hear Chrissie from Threes Company asking for you to buy more conductor fluid.

  The Hermetic Crab by Cameron Hill

  It all started with a mean case of the crabs. Hermit crabs.

  I was wandering through the razzle-dazzle of my home town’s science fair. Semi-functional demonstrations mixed with hopeful charities, trying to collect the limited largesse of strained student and family budgets. Great fun for all the family. ‘Cept the parents I guess. They spent their time keeping track of screaming children, and keeping little hands away from dangerous objects.

  The cries of one misbehaving tyke drew my attention to a stand, whose primary commodity appeared to be crabs

  – one big and rather sadistic looking mud crab (responsible for the crying child) and a multitude of a smaller seashell clad variety. Hermit crabs, it turned out.

  I eyed up the sign, written in a crab-like scrawl, identifying the price of the little crustaceans -- $30 a pop. I idly asked no one in particular, “Who in heck would want to pay $30 for a pet crab?”

  The crab vendor chose this moment to come out of his shell and answer with an outraged expression painted across his heavy features.

  “Why would you want a hermit crab? WHY? I’ll tell you why! They’re quiet, they’ll eat anything and they live for thirty years! Clean and neat looking too! They don’t shed fur, they don’t rip up the furniture, and unlike bloody fish, they don’t swim around with a trail of poop coming out of their butts!”

  Charming mental vision.

  He scooped up one of the larger crabs. It waved its claws indignantly, snapping them open and shut, making a quiet clicking noise.

  “See this little bugger? 20 years old he is, and he hasn’t crapped in all that time!”

  I leaned in and squinted at the crab. It went for my nose with a razor claw. I jerked my head back.

  “It does look constipated.”

  The vendor looked unimpressed. I shrugged and wandered a few paces away. Then I stopped. My girlfriend Kym’s birthday was that week. I needed a present. I’d bet no one had given her a hermit crab before. Particularly a constipated one. I had a vision of her being distinctly unimpressed, but the amusement value…

  I bought the crab. Kym was unimpressed. I had my amusement. We had an argument. I had to put up with three days of stony silence, then buy her expensive perfume.

  So I inherited a pet crab. The blasted thing seemed rather smug.

  Several weeks later I was out shopping at the local markets when a child ran past, closely pursued by a sweating shopkeeper. As I watched the chase, the child seemed to not be human at all.

  “Come back here you brat!” screamed the shopkeeper as they both vanished round a corner.

  I stood there blinking, and glanced about to see if anyone else had noticed. I decided I was mistaken and moved on. Problem was that throughout the rest of that day I could have sworn I saw a tree watching me and three pixies chasing small birds.

  Upon arriving home the crab introduced itself in a broad Scottish brogue.

  “Ah, I see by the spooked expression on yer mug that ye’ve woken up at last. I dinnae ken how ye slept so long as it is! I’m Angus. Yer a magician. I’m yer familiar and teacher.”

  Uh huh. Right. I needed a good night’s rest. I shut its box and went to bed. When I peeled open my eyes I found the crab had got out of its box.

  “Weel, laddie. This’ll go a whole easier if ye just relax and listen. Yer a magician, and I’m here to teach ye what that means.”

  The crab waved its claws threateningly and fixed a stern and beady eye on me.

  “Think o’ magic like paintin’ pictures. But, yer both IN the paintin’ AND the painter. If ye wish to change somethin’ in that paintin’, ye need to draw it like. That’s yer talent; ye can draw in new things. O’ course ta do tha’, ye need paint. Unfortunately fer you though, there’s nae nice palette standin' by with lot’s o’ pretty colors waitin' to be dabbed and splattered aboot. Ye’ have to use paint that’s already in the picture.”

  Angus waved his claws enthusiastically.

  “Fer example, say ye want fire? If ye had no fire in the picture, ye tain’t goin' ta be able to do it. Tha’ said, if ye got a lit match,
ye can use it as ‘paint’ fer lightin’ a candle while standin’ 10 feet away or, if yer halfway capable, throwin’ a ball o’ fire at something.”

  The crab stopped his meandering and tilted his eyestalks up to look at me.

  “Ye followin’ this?”

  I blinked. “Huh?”

  The crab looked depressed.

  “I can see this isn’t goin’ tae be easy is it?”

  Angus started putting me through exercises – weeks passed and I lost weight. Angus seemed a little confused – thinking I’ve done some things I shouldn’t have been able to do; but what’s ‘normal’ where magic is concerned?

  So my life came down to working during the day and practising magic at night, while trying to see enough of Kym to keep her from dumping me on grounds of neglect.

  Except when I was at the psychiatrist.

  It all became business as usual, until I found myself on the way to our local town markets, accompanying Kym on a shopping trip. A beat up car drove past, and I felt a chill run down my neck. Sitting in the driver’s seat was a thing. It squeezed into the car in a way that would have been amusing had it not looked like a nightmare from the depths of hell. Grey skin, scars, and eyes that hadn’t just stared into an abyss – they were the abyss.

  Eyes that were tracking Kym.

  We were all alone in the street. No passers by. Just us and the thing. It stopped the car and got out, and continued to get out. It was big! I turned ghostly white.

  “Are you ok? What wrong?” she asked me. She shot a glance at the Beast, and smiled at it hesitantly. I didn’t know what she was seeing but it obviously wasn’t what I was seeing. I pulled Kym away, and started down the street. I couldn’t think of anything except running.

  The Beast leaped forward and backhanded me to the pavement. Kym screamed. I couldn’t believe its strength, I felt like a cement truck had hit me. It shook Kym like a cat shakes a rat, and bundled her dazed form into the car. I tried to get to my feet. A dizzying black haze engulfed me.

  I don’t think I was out for long. I hurt all over and felt sick. I had no time to be sick. I rushed home, and ran to Angus’ box. Wrenching off the lid I leaned down and started to babble.

  “Angus, thisbighuge effing monster-thing grabbed Kym. I-I don’t knowwheretheywent,

  youGOTTAhelpme…”

  Angus nipped my nose. I yelped.

  “Calm doon, laddie! Now, what did it look like?” Angus somehow managed to furrow his shell in

  concentration as I described it.

  “Right laddie. It’s an ogre. Big, tough, dumber than a

  pile o’ coo dung. Eats people, particularly bairns. Grab yer

  bag o’ tricks and take me to where ye saw it.”

  So I did. I wandered up and down the street waving Angus about like a dousing wand. Passers-by stared. Why hadn’t they been around when I needed passers-by?!? Three blocks away from the attack, Angus shouted, “A glamour!”

  I looked about but had no idea what he was on about. “Laddie, it’s a common otherworld trick. Damn beast has grabbed a piece o’ this place and hid it just outside reality. Strong stuff; hard to do for mortals, but it’s instinctive tae the fae, and a few others. Concentrate. Try and see what ye think should be there – a street probably.”

  I concentrated. My eyes watered. I felt the start of a migraine. My attention started to wander. I shook my head and focussed… and a street was suddenly in front of me. I gasped and blinked. It was still there.

  I stepped into a street that, given the style of the houses, must have been lost for forty years. The air smelled musty. Overhead the sky wavered and flickered, as if seen through a heat haze. The whole scene, its colors strangely washed out, reminded me of a faded photo. I was standing in the echo of a memory, stored in a forgotten album.

  The street stretched ahead. The debris of shattered suburban quietude scattered across the road and the lawns, intertwined with the desiccated, mummified remnants of corpses.

  I glanced at the nearest and flinched. The child had been horribly mauled. Tortured. Murdered at the very border. It must have been deliberate. The ogre must have let her drag her shattered body to the edge of escape.

  f escapAye laddie, tis a horror. Ye can end it though. Ye have that within ye. Brave it, and drag yon beastie doon. But do it sneaky like, as if ye were a godless Campbell.”

  I glanced at the bag hanging by my side. Angus peeked out. He waved his eyestalks and snapped his tiny claws decisively. I glanced back down the mausoleum street, squared my shoulders, and set off. I had an ogre to hunt.

  I walked gingerly, stepping over broken bodies, their faces stretched forever in a rictus of pain and terror. Empty sockets stared into the flickering sky. Around me houses loomed, brightly painted despite the washed out atmosphere. In some, doors or windows had been smashed to kindling. Others were pristine, as if the owners had stepped out for just a moment.

  I stumbled over the half-crushed wreckage of a child’s tricycle; the clatter echoed up the entire street. I froze as the sound died away.

  When I started to breathe, a gravelly voice boomed all around me.

  “Fee. Fie. Foe. Fum. I’ll taste the blood of an anguished man.”

  The air shook to a sinister laugh.

  “Welcome Mage. I am glad you came.”

  “Great job, ye great clod-stompin’ hairy coo!” squeaked Angus, “Ye’ve bloody blewn it noo! I said go sneaky like!”

  “I thought you said these things were DUMB!” I shouted at the crab, “It thinks it’s a frickin poet. That may be pretentious, but it’s not DUMB!”

  “Weel. Some of ‘em are smart. I dinnae think it likely you’d run into a smart one. Bugger eh?” mumbled the misguided little cretin before hiding deep in my bag.

  The gravelly voice laughed again. Houses shook around me. My teeth jarred in my skull and my ears started to bleed.

  “I can smell your fear!” it gloated, “Come then wizardling. I’ll grind your bones to powder and suck out your eyeballs. But I’ll do it, oh… So… Slow. Your lovely and I are waiting in number 13.”

  I walked down the street towards that ill-fated number.

  The grey warty monstrosity lumbered from the kitchen door. I wasn’t sure how, but it managed to squeeze through without turning the doorframe to splinters. It loomed over me and grinned, revealing dirty gravestone teeth, slick with rotting blood. Its gums held rotting meat and maggots. The stench hit me like a tumbling brick wall.

  It lifted one clawed slab of a hand, and gestured at me to come, as if it was an extra in a martial arts movie. I tried to imagine it relaxing in front of a Bruce Lee flick.

  I threw my first spell. I blew a puff of air from my mouth, and ramped it up to hurricane speed. The huge beast staggered back, fell and rolled a dozen meters. How heavy was it? I’d expected more. I pursued it, passing the house containing Kym.

  The Beast stood up, and leered mockingly.

  I pulled out a lighter, flicked the action, and watched a feeble flame spring into life. I reached out to the fire, gathering its energy and essence. I fed it my rage and fear, and hurled the crackling wave of angry doom at the monstrosity.

  The firestorm blasted down the street. Everything in front of me vanished behind a blazing wall of heat, the back draft blasted me from my feet, burning my skin, singeing my hair and sucking the air out of my lungs. I choked and blinked through tearing eyes. The street in front of me had been turned into a pyre, the very tarmac bubbling from the furnace blast.

  The Beast stood in the midst of it, barely singed. It leered at me and laughed its booming bone-grinding laugh. I shook my head in denial, and then fled into a sturdy house, slamming and locking doors behind me. Panting, I sank to the floor.

  Moments later the door and wall were hammered to splinters as the ogre came straight through, reaching for me with its dreadful hands. Panicking, I picked up a fallen brick multiplying the force and mass, and hurled it at its head. The brick smashed into it with an audible crack a
nd actually knocked it over. I reached out and multiplied the force of the ogre’s fall. It hi t the ground with a titanic bang, and vanished through the floor.

  I took a couple of breaths and looked into the cellar.

  A pair of gleaming eyes stared up at me.

  I whimpered and fled back to the street. I was exhausted. I was panicking. I had found more power than I had expected and it hadn’t been nearly enough! I’d nearly blasted half a street to ash and cinders, and hit the thing with enough kinetic force to put it through a solidly built floor. It hadn’t even had the good grace to say “Ouch!” With a crash, it emerged from the house. I could see that this time it was going to stop screwing about and finish it.

  “That’s it?” it roared, “I had hoped for a bit of entertainment, but if that’s all you can offer, I’m just going to start peeling your scalp off!”

  I fled to the edge of the inferno. I swung around and watched it advance. I glanced at the tortured bodies littering the street. This was really going to hurt. Kym would suffer as well.

  Hurt...I could manipulate and multiply forces. Could I manipulate emotion? I acted. Grasped my own pain and exhaustion, attuned it to the deep suffering that was part of the damned place, and forced that blistered, screaming, soul deep horror into the core of the Beast.

  The ogre staggered under this tsunami of torture. My own talent acting like petrol on a furnace.

  It staggered and fell, eyes wide. Perhaps it had never before felt pain. That would explain its obsession.

  Agony rose to a crescendo within me, filling me with a torture so intense it verged on pleasure. I fell to my knees and lost everything in a terrible haze. I could feel my skin flayed, my nails torn out, my eyes boiling, frangible bones smashing to shards, arms slowly wrenched from their sockets. I added magic to it and made the creature FEEL.