Morbid Metamorphosis

by Lycan Valley Press

  “Getting’ too old for this shit. Dumb ass couldn’t just do what you’re told.” The pumping bass of his throat swirled around my head. “You want anything done right, got to do it your own damn self.”

  I felt my waist lifted, hoisted or man-handled, more like it. In all probability he was searching for my keys.

  They say that in the midst of a fatal wound your life flashes before your eyes. I can’t honestly put forth an educated opinion on that. I will say that as my eye lids fluttered and my contaminated irises rolled back towards my skull, the geyser on my right leg continued to froth like some sort of macabre fountain. My fingers clenched and unclenched rapidly, grasping for some unseen salvation. In short raspy breaths, I grappled with consciousness and began my gradual, steady descent into darkened madness.

  I shivered and convulsed despite the warm pool of blood forming beneath me. Far away in the chambers of my inner sanctum I could hear the infernal clicking and rattling that must have been Knuckles fidgeting with my keys to lock the doors. Into a hypnotic like trance I descended deeper and deeper.

  They say that in the midst of tragedy the mind can do exceptional things, retreating to a symbolic-like state of peace and tranquility. My mind drifted into an eclectic-like montage of all the memories I’d shared with Jaime-Lee. There was the very first day she’d crossed the threshold into my dominion. Donning shoulder length raven hair that cascaded down to her shoulders, it was as if the very locks on her head absorbed the sizzling florescent lights and reflected an aura to render the eyes of lesser men into blindness. Sandalwood, shimmering eyes that captivated one and all told a thousand stories with a single glance. Voluptuous, svelte and demure all at once, she carried a certain unspoken grace of a classic beauty that is a gross understatement of the definition. All wrapped up in a rebellious, take no prisoners, post grunge like package, Jaime-Lee had it all.

  My mind whirled in rapid succession to the many deep and profound discussions we’d had about personal philosophies, the meaning of life and where inner strength comes from. She was elusive. A riddle. Perhaps the craziest part of all those talks is they’d take place in-between serving lustful, greed infested customers with an appetite for winning the latest jackpot on varying lotteries. It always infuriated me that they so flagrantly interrupted her like she was invisible.

  Yet she always appeared when I needed her the most. I’m not proud to admit my cowardice, but when things were at their most overwhelming I made a most climactic pact with myself and was planning on punching my own ticket. Left to my own devices I had fully intended on allowing the post mortal pomp and circumstance to sort it all out. Jaime-Lee was my angel of mercy. She was a divine intervention of sorts to illustrate this could never be the way.

  Before you let your tawdry, tabloid like inclinations run wild, allow me to be clear. There was never any romantic soiree. In fact we weren’t even really friends. No, our bond was much more unconventional than that. Somehow we were immune to social superficialities. Quite simply, she was my muse and I her confidante. She moved me to dig deep within myself and face the blackened void, allowing the best to come shining through. To pay tribute to the difference she’d made I wrote inspirational poetry to share any opportunity I had.

  I felt as though a depraved audio engineer was wreaking havoc with my lucidity.

  “Now, Big Time. Back to the matter at hand. Let’s get into that safe. Old Uncle Knuckles got no time for that petty nickel and dime crap. I know you know what I’m talking about.” Each syllable strummed against the uneven palpitations in my chest.

  The nape of my neck sparked and sizzled. My pores opened in a vortex of rampage. Tufts of coarse black fur swayed back and forth growing at alarming rate. Denim clad calves split the fabric ripping shreds up to my waist. An anguished scream of epic proportion unleashed as my face elongated into a snout brandishing dagger sharp incisors glistening a vengeful sheen. The tiles beneath me were obliterated as I sank my razor like talons into the floor, scraping for purchase.

  “Hop like a bunny if you got to, pogo leg. The safe, and now.” Knuckles braced himself upon the far edge of the counter preparing to leap over.

  In a wrath fueled execution I rose to my final stand. My shoulder caught the edge of the cash register in the process, sending a succession of raining quarters, loonies and toonies spiraling down on Knuckles' head. Polymer bills drifted languidly like confetti.

  “What the…” Knuckles had not the opportunity to complete his epiphany as I unleashed the most venomous, guttural emission I was capable of. The bellowing fury caused his ski mask to peel back onto his forehead.

  He fired his colt .45 with impotence, spawned more from reflex than anything. His shot went wild into a cloud of shredded tobacco funneling in a dozen different directions. The bullet ricocheted, shattering the Slushie basin, and sending a volcanic flood of blue sugary goo below.

  Devoid of any rationale or reasoning, my primal instincts took, over acting and reacting as though the host in which I resided was no longer mine. The blades on my fingers pierced his face underneath the chin, facilitating a brand new mandible for his trouble. With a swift yank I tore out his tongue and cast it aside watching it slip and slide onto the mints and chewing gum below.

  Dear old Knuckles quivered and trembled as a demonic cackle erupted between my fangs. As his eyes bulged in sheer terror, I took it as invitation to swipe with my left, plucking each from their sockets. Squashed and useless, the remnants drizzled from my claws.

  In exuberated recollection, eons away, my human subconscious recalled the intent of this whole sorted soiree. With lightning precision, I grasped his belt buckle prompting a steaming succession of entrails tumbling to the floor. Up and over the counter I hoisted. In one foul swoop I swung Knuckle’s full body battery-ram style head first into the cast iron safe. Again. Again and again.

  I continued to swing, transfixed in my own play. Something had to give eventually as did Knuckle’s neck as it dangling on sinewy strands on verge of fleeing. The enclosure’s surface gave way as well, popping the safe door open just a smidge. Score one for the robbers.

  The apocalyptic fury was over faster than it had begun. Drained, I collapsed to the floor. My mind bolted back to the unthinkable in Jaime-Lee’s fate.

  The transformation had already begun to unravel as I dragged myself along the dusty cold tiles. I grappled against thoughts of the worst. Clutching, clawing and scraping, the talons receded back to their origin. Bones and vertebrae popped and snapped back into place. The entrance seemed like an eternity away as I rasped and coughed; my fangs descended back into the unknown. Gaunt and pale flesh replaced the onyx blanket of judgment.

  Nestling my forehead against the baseboards, I opened my cracked and parched lips as my voice betrayed me. Mere inches through the doorway I braced to encounter my unfathomable fear. My eyes swam in and out of focus with infernal indifference.

  In the center of a cumulus vapor cloud sat Jaime-Lee. Hunched over, facing away, her back pulsed rhythmically with each breath. Upon her shoulders, tasseled like remnants is all that remained of her apparel. Gradually, between tattered clothes, her flesh appeared, dissolving a yellow plush exterior. Abstract, black dots shrank before my eyes until dissolving into nothing.

  On bumbling, shaking legs I approached and reached out for her

  “How long have you known?” A whisper nearly inaudible eclipsed my tongue. Abandoning my beckoning like rhetoric, she simply purred over her shoulder.

  “Roach has been stomped. He no longer resides on this plane of existence.” To confirm her declaration, a solitary rivulet of blood splashed upon my cheek. I looked up to see the discarded refuse of what remotely resembled a torso. Dangling from the lights, the skinless, headless cadaver defied any necessity for elaboration. Stacks of two-liter soda bottles showcased their new labels of flesh and follicle hide

  I sighed a heavy elation of relief. From over her shoulder she whispered eloquently.

  “A voice beckoned fro
m a beautiful soul

  Orchestrates resolve of dominion afoul

  For I am the rhyme that you are the reason…..”

  My mind swirled, grappling with the carnage unleashed but still burst open the flood gates to an emporium of surrealism. I thought back to the sealed envelope on the counter. Unopened. Unread.

  “How could you have known…?” I never had a chance to explore that epiphany further. For the second time that night my world faded to black.

  Afterword

  Press release statement from Niagara Falls Police Chief Jonathan Buchanan:

  “While the media has billed this tragedy as the Avondale Atrocity, our forensic team has substantial reason to believe this homicide was an attempted armed robbery gone awry with mutiny between the perpetrators. Thomas Pratchett, aka Knuckles, was discovered eviscerated and dismembered at the scene. A second suspect Christian Forder, aka Roach, was also found slain in similar fashion. We’ve issued a nationwide manhunt for Pierre Tremblay, aka Skid. Anyone seeing Tremblay are encouraged not to approach or confront. He’s considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information is strongly urged to call our 800 number at Crime Stoppers. David Gammon, the staff on shift, is in critical condition after sustaining gunshot wounds to the femoral artery and cranium. We’re taking no further questions at this time.”

  It’s been about five weeks since the horrific nightmare that forever changed the course of how I’d exist. They say it was a miracle that I survived that night and should have been left for dead, especially after sustaining a bullet wound to the back of the head. I was air-lifted to Toronto General Hospital and went through over twenty-six hours of emergency surgery. They managed to reconstruct my skull with a titanium plate. Here’s the kicker. They weren’t able to dislodge the bullet’s shrapnel without causing any permanent or fatal damage, so here it sits as a trophy and constant reminder of my survival deep inside this crazed noodle. The cancer, as a result, has gone into full remission and the tumors have actually shrunk. I suppose if you have a flavor for the morbid there’s truly a silver lining to everything.

  To avoid a media circus and public hysteria the police somewhat influenced their investigation billing Skid as their primary suspect. Surprise, surprise: a corrupt police force. Who’d of thunk it? Still, he seems to have vanished into thin air so this goes off as one of those cold case files. I think you can use your imagination to determine the kind of fate Skid really had. In exchange for my amenity to charges of murder, I was exchanged like property to a highly classified organization by the name of Confederation of the Paranormal Society. Conveniently, they’d confiscated the security tapes as part of the deal. In order to ensure my silence, they keep me here for rigorous testing. Sure, I play along, jump through their hoops and dance their dance in hopes of some answers one day. I have no idea exactly where I am or if this journal, not to mention myself, will ever see the light of day again.

  But don’t feel bad for me. It really could be worse. I have a great rapport with the chief administrator, Dr. Rhys. I know deep inside he’s hiding something. I’m convinced I’ll get it out of him one day. He checks on me daily and I appreciate the company. Each day he pops in. Religiously, I ask what ever became of Jaime-Lee Barker.

  He always manages to give me this resigned expression of distaste and sighs dramatically for effect.

  “David, my boy, we’ve been over this time and again. Not in the store, not anywhere. There is and was no young lady. The security footage is undisputed evidence of that.” He’d always offer that infuriating, obligatory gesture of a reassuring touch to the shoulder. I always had to wrestle with the urge to paw it away. “Look. The mind is a powerful thing. In episodes of high crisis, it’s perfectly natural for the mind to manifest images, symbols if you will as a surrogate comfort or defense mechanism in coping with what the psyche is not prepared to face.” Each time I wanted to spew a steaming hair ball all over his Gucci loafers. Yet somehow I resisted.

  And sometimes late at night I lie awake, nocturnal and restless. The memories of that night replay themselves time and again. Even through my allegedly sound proof glass prison, in the distant wind I can hear the war cry that only I know and can fathom. I dream of running free beneath the sparkling stars and radiant moon on the prowl, yet not for prey but to free my spirit and hunt not for food but for an insatiable hunger for an unrequited soul. I may never know what ever became of Jaime-Lee but somehow deep down inside I trust she’ll forever keep the change.

  …AND THOU!

  Nancy Kilpatrick

  OVER at the color copier some guy's playing around with the paper trays, trying to shove in the top tray backwards, pulling it out, doing the same with the middle tray. He doesn't have a clue. I'm just handing over a box to a customer--copies of a photo of her missing daughter--so by the time I get to the color copier the guy's amusing himself by trying to jam the 11 by 17 paper into the 8-1/2 by 11 tray.

  “I'll do that,” I say, taking everything out of his hands.

  New York is one strange city and if you're a tourist, you don't know what it's really like. But when you move here to go to school, as I did, you see it all. I have. In the six months I've worked the night shift, lots of strange people have come through these doors, but I've never run across a dude as weird as him. He's got on these round sunglasses that just cover his eyes. The lenses are iridescent, making him look like a bug. Otherwise, he's a study in black and white--chalky polyester pants my grandfather would wear golfing, and an inky silk shirt buttoned to the neck with a big 'disco' collar. His legs and arms are skinny but his trunk is thick. I wonder if he's got some disease--his skin is almost paper white. As I fill a tray with the larger paper and slide it into the right slot, he's stuffing something smelly into his mouth.

  “What do you want to copy?” I ask him.

  Whatever he's chewing dribbles down his chin. It's the color of bread mold and stinks. He scratches the top of his head with his little finger, real fast, then stabs the finger towards the machine. I notice his nails are long and filed to a point, not to mention filthy. The back of his pale hand is a field of spikey black hairs.

  I lift the cover. Lying on the platen, face down, is a photograph. “You want it enlarged?” I ask, because of the 11 by 17 paper.

  He nods.

  I set the paper size, color codes, contrast, then ask, "How many?"

  He holds up his little finger.

  I press 'start'. We wait a second. A single sheet of paper slides out. Before I get a good look at it, he snatches it away, lifts the lid and grabs the photograph too, like it's a shot of some guy's dick.

  He jerks his way to the cash, hands in his plug, and pays his dollar plus tax. On the way to the door he checks out the black and white photocopy tacked to the bulletin board of the girl who's been missing for a week. The description says her name is Jean. She's eighteen, 5'4", has auburn hair and green eyes. A student, like me, but a freshman.

  His head quivers. I hear a noise like air being let out of a tire. The minute he's out the door he reaches into another pocket, pulls out more food and munches his way down Delancey.

  ***

  The same guy just came into the store again. I'm alone and tired. It's closing time and I'm just about to lock up. He zeros in on the same copier.

  I lock the door and turn the sign so 'CLOSED' faces the street. On my way back to the counter I hear an angry hissing noise.

  Over at the Xerox, he's lost it. He's got the front panel open, exposing the developer and toner bottles. His hands grip the top of the machine at the front corners. His feet are wide apart, toes touching the copier. His ass sticks out into the air and it's twerking in every direction. From where I stand, he looks attached to the copier the way an insect attaches to a wall.

  I grit my teeth, tell myself I'm lucky to have a job, and go on over. Being near him isn't fun. He smells like he's been sleeping in somebody's basement and eating dead rats.

  “Got a problem?”

  H
e hobbles backwards and points to the panel on the top. The copier path is jammed, which has nothing to do with the developer and toner. I shut the front panel. The digital image doesn't change, just shows a clog. I open the side panel. A piece of paper is caught between the rollers and I ease it out. It's stained blue, almost black. I toss it into the trash, but not before spotting a faint image of lines in one corner, like a parabola design. I press 'reset' and the machine turns over. The digital image disappears. “That should do it,” I say.

  The guy is eating again. Something greasy like from the food truck at the corner, and the smell turns my stomach. I wait while he makes his enlargement. The second it slides out of the machine he grabs it and the photograph. I catch a glimpse of red.

  He thrusts a crumpled buck at me and I hope I have my little bottle of Purex with me. He lurches towards the door. On the way he stops at the missing girl's picture again, like he's obsessed with it.

  It's ten after nine and I'm not about to stay longer than I have to. I've already cashed out and made the night deposit so I toss the money into the register and grab the baseball jacket I keep under the counter.

  The guy's at the door, which is locked, but he keeps yanking it towards him anyway. “Hang on!” I yell, but he doesn't seem to hear me.

  Out on the sidewalk, cool air snaps me awake. I'm flat mentally but not physically, and want to clear my brain before I go home and read a chapter of textbook Martin Buber so I'll know what the hell the Urban Philosophy prof's talking about tomorrow when we get into 'I and Thou'. Somebody passes eating a falafel and the smell of parsley and sesame wakes my stomach. I haven't eaten since breakfast, and there's a place I go after work sometimes down on Grand and I think I'll stop in for a beer and some food. The last time I was there a foxy redhead with green eyes and slim hips served me and I feel like seeing her again. Who knows, maybe I'll even ask...