by Ray Wallace
Time to let the demons out.
- THE FULL SEVEN COURSES -
Author's note: So here's a story about a guy with a potentially beneficial ability that is used for dark purposes. Not sure, exactly, where the idea for this one came from. Sometimes they just seem to arrive from out of nowhere, a random firing of neurons resulting in some rather weird and random concepts. Or maybe there was a demon whispering in my ear. I think I like the second explanation better...
*
Stephan licked his lips in anticipation of the night's feast as he approached the entrance to that long condemned building. He was patted down by two big men who materialized out of the darkness before being allowed inside. Then it was across the ill lit, shabby lobby toward a steel door to the left of the defunct elevators. Pushing open the door he discovered a set of metal stairs which rang hollowly beneath the heels of his boots as he descended into the basement, a wide room littered with broken pieces of drywall and discarded furniture, remnants of the building's better years. At the room's far end was a wooden door covered in mostly indecipherable graffiti. There he knocked twice. Paused. Knocked three more times.
Where the hell does the man find these places? Stephan wondered just as the door opened.
The much smaller room beyond had obviously once been used for storage. Its walls were lined with empty shelves. Now it served a much different purpose.
A pair of naked, fluorescent bulbs lit the area in sterile luminescence from the ceiling. At the center of the small room was a table made of stainless steel. Next to the table was an IV bag filled with some clear fluid. There was also a heart monitor that beeped steadily if a bit quickly to Stephan's ears and a metal tray on a stand atop which was scattered an array of surgical instruments. Lying on the table was a woman. Or what was left of a woman. She wore no clothing. Her eyes were closed. Aside from her ragged inhalations she was motionless.
"Ah, my friend," said a raspy male voice to Stephan's left. "Tonight I have prepared for you a very special treat indeed."
Stephan turned to look at the other man in his blood spattered surgical gown.
"So I see, Gurne. So I see..."
Stephan did not know the man's first name nor did Gurne know Stephan's last name. That's the way it had been throughout the year-and-a-half of their little relationship. And that's the way Stephan planned to keep it.
Gurne smiled, exposing teeth yellowed by years of incessant cigarette smoking. "Oh, you see? Huh? But wait until you taste..."
Stephan's mouth was watering. He inhaled deeply through his nose, certain that the room's stagnant air was suffused with the odor of pain. His stomach growled.
"I think I've finally done it," said Gurne as he walked around the table over to the tray of instruments. He lifted a syringe, stuck the needle into the bare flesh of the woman's upper arm. Within seconds of the injection she opened her eyes and started to moan.
"You mean the full seven courses?" asked Stephan, hardly daring to believe. After all this time... Could it be?
"Yes, yes. All seven." Gurne set down the syringe, grabbed a particularly nasty looking implement with a jagged blade at its end. "A few moments of preparation and the feast should be ready."
As Gurne got to work Stephan's mind went back to the time when he discovered he was different from other human beings. He'd been eight years old. A friend of his had fallen while riding his bike and broken his arm. As the boy had wailed in pain, Stephan had reached out and held the injured appendage in his hands. Instantly he was overcome with the strangest sensation. A feeling of warmth had flooded his body. A flavor had filled his mouth. Chocolate. It was the boy's pain, he knew instinctively. The pain of the broken bone. It tasted like the richest, most wonderful chocolate in all the world. He drank it in, took the pain into himself, couldn't get enough of it. It tasted... so... good... Eventually the flavor faded away as did the boy's sobbing. The pain was gone. Stephan had eaten it. Actually, physically, eaten it. His stomach felt full and a little queasy like it had last Halloween after he'd had too much candy. The boy had smiled at him a bit curiously then pushed his bike home.
After that Stephan started searching out pain in others. When his grandmother had been sick, dying of cancer, he had visited her often at the hospice. Her pain tasted of unsweetened tea. Most cuts, he came to find, tasted of strawberries. Abrasions? Grapes. An infected tooth? Potatoes and gravy. There was the cinnamon sweetness of migraine headaches. Heroine withdrawal was like an undercooked steak. Whiplash like vegetable stew. Heartache, a lemon meringue pie. There was no predicting it. The flavors of seemingly related injuries could be similar or wildly divergent.
There was one constant, however: It all tasted too wonderful for words.
Of course, many people suffered through different types of pain simultaneously. There could be a slipped disc mixed with a sinus infection. Very tasty. Or a sore throat, a recently stubbed toe, and the mourning of a dying loved one. Quite delicious. How about an impacted wisdom tooth, a stomach ache, and homesickness? The combinations were endlessly enticing. He just could not get enough. As a young adult, he trained to become a paramedic, the perfect career choice, he reasoned, for one blessed with his particular little "gift." And during the hours when he wasn't working he found himself traveling further and further into the dark and seedy sections of the city where he lived, searching for ever new and inventive feasts. Many of the people he found in these places were no strangers to pain. In fact, most of them, it seemed, suffered in one way or another on a daily basis. And once word spread of the handsome young man and his soothing touch, Stephan found himself welcomed by the dregs and outcasts of society with blessings and open arms. He was offered gifts, money, most of the stuff stolen or obtained by other nefarious means, no doubt. Soon he no longer needed to work. He was free to pursue his unique and particular passion at his leisure.
It was inevitable that he discover the sex dungeons. Not the touristy, sterile, as seen on HBO's Real Sex type of sex dungeons. No, these were the ones out near the warehouse district where the real serious S&M freaks got together. The places stank of blood and sweat and sex and pain, so much delicious pain. People were nailed to walls or tied to racks and other various torture devices where they were fondled and flayed. The lighting was dim, the floors dirty, the music loud and abrasive. It was in one such den of iniquity that Stephan met Gurne.
"Ah, yes, paineater, your reputation precedes you," said the older man with the yellow teeth between lengthy drags of an unfiltered cigarette. He smiled, a rather ghastly sight, and waved a finger at Stephan. "I've met your kind before, you know."
"My kind?"
"What, you think you are the only one? The world is a big place, my friend. Very big. It is next to impossible to be completely unique in a world so crowded and vast, no?"
Stephan shrugged. His stomach was calling for his attention. The sweet aroma of agony filled his head.
"Back in my home country, while I was still a practicing surgeon, before I was stripped of my doctorate by superiors who did not understand my particular methods, I met another like you. A woman. Very beautiful. A voracious eater. A connoisseur of pain. Could not get enough. She asked me if my particular skills were for hire. Quite the imagination, this one had. You see, she wished to create ever more enticing and elaborate meals. There was one particular meal she had in mind. But then she died, quite suddenly and tragically. Her dream was never attained."
The following week Stephan partook of one of Gurne's little culinary creations. Four different flavors.
"Four courses," as Gurne referred to them. He laughed. "From surgeon to chef. It still seems so strange."
Stephan thought he'd died and gone to heaven. But he realized how wrong he was when a month later he consumed five courses. Eventually there came six courses. Pure ecstasy. Well worth the fee Stephan willingly paid for the experience. Gurne talked often about the female paineater and her dream of a seven course meal. A dream that became Gurne's. Then Stephan's. But suc
h a concept proved to be much more easily conceived than executed. There is only so much trauma the average human being can endure as Gurne was able to prove time after time while experimenting on the various homeless people - usually abducted by hired goons - he procured for his little experiments. At a certain point the body goes into shock, the heart simply gives out. Enduring five different types of agony simultaneously is usually enough to cause this sort of system failure. During Stephan and Gurne's ensuing relationship a six course meal was achieved only three times. The seven course meal became a thing of myth. It was their Holy Grail. Stephan came to believe that it was an unattainable goal. Gurne thought otherwise. "You'll see, chance will eventually smile upon us. We will find the right subject, one who is strong enough..."
And now Stephan was here, beneath this condemned building, his quest quite possibly at an end. He hardly dared believe...
Stephan watched as Gurne finished his preparations, nearly swooning at the intoxicating odors of agony swirling about the room. With a flourish, the mad doctor stepped away from the table. "Ah, yes, she still lives," he said. Then he cackled, a rather unpleasant sound. "I believe I have truly done it, my friend. I believe I have achieved the full seven courses. Quickly, now. Quickly!"
Stephan's hands were trembling as he approached the table, as he reached out toward the squirming form strapped down upon it. Could it be? Had Gurne achieved the impossible? He touched the woman's bare leg just above where it ended in a stump. And the flavors washed over him, into him, through him...
First, the appetizers: An ear infection (salted tomatoes). The despair of a life wasted (a vinegar-based dressing).
Then onto the main courses: Methamphetamine withdrawal (a choice cut of steak, well done). Fingernails roughly peeled back (steamed carrots with a hint of butter). A roughly amputated leg (broccoli covered in melted cheese).
And finally, dessert: A pin stuck into the eyeball (chocolate covered pretzels). The onset of labor contractions (strawberry short cake).
She's pregnant, thought Stephan, surprised, a part of him repulsed by this, by what he and Gurne were doing here. She was hardly even showing, was obviously much too early in her pregnancy to be undergoing contractions. Gurne must have somehow induced them. Stephan's repugnance grew. But the flavors, all those wonderful flavors kept distracting him as they poured into him, warmed him, filled the whole of his being...
Ten minutes later found him back outside in the basement's main area. He was in a corner, retching, bent over, hand braced against the wall for support. Gurne was patting him on the back, saying, "There, there," like he was Stephan's mother or lover. The meal had been too much, had been more than he could stomach. And the look on that poor woman's face as he had staggered away from her, the way she had smiled at him then whispered, "Thank you," just before she flatlined.
Eventually he was able to stand on his own. He shrugged away Gurne's hand and made his way over to the stairs that would take him up and out of that awful place.
"You know the drill," said Gurne as he headed back to the room with the dead woman. "Wire the money to my account. And I'll see you next week."
Fuck you, Stephan wanted to reply. You monster.
But he didn't. He would never say such a thing because he was a monster too, wasn't he? And those seven courses... Sick as he felt right then, his mouth was watering all over again at the memory of them.
"Yeah, Gurne," he said. "Same time next week."
Then he went up and out of the building, made his way over to his car, and drove off into the night.
- DISCONNECTED -
Author's note: This one's about a teenage boy who's had the one thing he cares for more than anything else in the world taken from him, and the lengths he'll go to in order to get it back...
*
Mathew sat there in the darkness, alone with the anger, the pain, the hatred. This time his father had gone too far. Of all the various punishments that had been heaped upon him since... well, since Mother had left... this one was by far the worst. The lowest form of abuse. Completely intolerable. Mother would have never let something like this happen. But Mother was gone. Long gone. He could not look to her for protection. He was on his own now. Fourteen years old and nearly a man, as his father liked to tell him, to throw in his face. Well then, it was time to start acting like one. It was time to stand up for himself. To show his father that he wasn't going to take his abuse anymore.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, he stood from the edge of the bed, walked over to the closet at the other side of the room, opened it, knelt down and reached inside for what he knew was there. Then, aluminum baseball bat in hand, he walked out of the room and down the hallway, slow and quiet, toward the doorway located at the far end. A dim bar of light was visible beneath the door. Muffled sounds of some TV show came from the room beyond. His father was awake. Or maybe he'd fallen asleep with the TV on. Either way was fine with him. Either way the old bastard was going to find out what a terrible mistake he'd made when he'd decided to do the unthinkable.
His hand trembling a little as he reached for the doorknob, he gave it a turn and pushed the door open. It swung inward and there was his father lying on his back on the bed he once shared with Mother, eyes closed and the low sounds of his snoring just audible over the TV show. The sight of the man forced a choked sob from Mathew's throat. How could you? he thought. Oh, God, how could you? With a strangled cry he rushed the bed, raised the baseball bat high above his head with both hands then brought it down with everything he had across the middle of his father's face. Again the bat rose and again it fell, over and over until Mathew's arms were sore, burning with effort and adrenaline. By then his father's features - his high brow, long nose, thin lips - were broken and mangled beyond recognition.
At some point the bat slipped from Mathew's hands, landed with a soft thump on the carpeted floor, its wide end slick with blood. His father didn't move, didn't make a sound. Mathew stood there for a while just staring at the body of the man who had so betrayed him, had so effortlessly destroyed the world he had once loved, had without thought or mercy removed the one source of true joy from his life.
Taking in deep and measured breaths, fighting the shaking that ran throughout his body, Mathew circled the bed, walked past the TV on its stand, past the dresser where father kept his clothes, and past the vanity with its tall, oval-shaped mirror where Mother used to make herself look pretty. And there it was, sitting on the floor like some lost and forgotten thing. With fresh tears in his eyes he picked it up, cradled it in his arms, then left the room, walked downstairs to the living room and turned on the big screen television there. Within moments the cables were in place, the connections had been made, and his video gaming system was up and running once more.
With a smile on his face Mathew activated his online account.
And for a while, at least, all was right with the world again.
- WHO'S LAUGHING NOW? -
Author's note: Here's a horror story with a humorous edge to it that definitely found some inspiration in Evil Dead 2 - obviously, the title did if nothing else - and maybe a little bit from Clive Barker's "The Body Politic." I have to point out that there's a scene here involving a glass of champagne that I wrote well before I saw something similar in one of the Jackass movies or even before that movie was ever made. Now, I'm not saying that anyone involved with those films stole my idea or even has any idea that I exist. No, I'm thinking that it probably has more to do with the idea of great minds thinking alike...
*
"I'm so sorry, Debra. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before."
Which was, in fact, a lie because the exact same thing had happened just the previous week with a different partner in a different bed.
"Well, gee, Brian, that makes me feel so much better," said the tall and beautiful woman as she pulled a robe from the closet, put it on, tied it angrily about her waist. "Now, if it's not too much trouble, I'd appreciate it if you'd just get the
fuck out of here."
He felt horrible, sick with humiliation which was quickly giving way to anger as the tiny laughter reached his ears. Looking down he saw his limp penis twitching in hysterics, obviously enjoying the awful scene it had created.
"Oh, you think this is funny?" Brian asked, a touch of venom in his voice.
"Funny?" said Debra incredulously. "Oh, yeah, it's just hilarious when I get naked, hop in the sack with a man and he isn't aroused in the least. That's a regular fucking riot!"
Brian looked up at her, saw the fury in her eyes. "I wasn't talking to you. I didn't mean..."
"You weren't talking to me?! Well, then who the hell were you talking to? Your dick?!" More laughter at that one.
Debra picked Brian's pants up off the floor and threw them at him. "Do us both a favor and just leave." Then she went into the bathroom and closed the door.
He got dressed, left the apartment and never spoke to Debra again.
*
"You bastard," hissed Brian as he drove through the night. And what a perfect night it had been. Dinner and dancing and a number of drinks and then Debra had surprised him by asking him back to her place. He had thought it would take a few more dates to get into her panties, was elated that he had been wrong. Of course, he was a little nervous, hoping that the problem he had experienced the week before with the call girl wouldn't recur, that it was a one time thing, that his penis was going to cooperate, that it would just do its job. And then disaster had struck, for the second time in as many weeks.
"I can't believe this shit!" His penis was silent for the time being, apparently satisfied with the mischief it had already caused. "Just wait until we get home."
Fifteen minutes later and he was turning into the driveway in front of his house, a nice little one story place on the outskirts of town. The minute he was through the door, Brian roughly pulled his pants off, tossed them across the room, sent his underwear flying after them.