Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "The magic of cinema!"

  "Should we talk about soundproofing?"

  "Oh, yeah. We spent an entire weekend soundproofing this stupid garage. Testing it was a lot of fun. I’d go in there and scream at the top of my lungs, and you’d stand outside to see if you could hear me."

  "But the funny part is that Trish was screaming so loud that we were sure the cops were going to show up!"

  "Thus…the tongue scene!"

  "Oooooh, even I cringe at this part."

  "Gotta hand it to Lee, though. One take."

  "The pliers are in…in…in…oooh, there goes the tongue!"

  "Ouch."

  "Now this is interesting. That shot right there of the tongue hitting the floor. That’s not Trish’s tongue."

  "It’s actually a prosthetic tongue. We bought it from a Halloween shop for, what, ninety-nine cents?"

  "Ninety-nine cents before tax. We had a shot of the real tongue hitting the floor, but it didn’t look real. The real tongue looked fake, and the fake tongue looked real. Isn’t that weird?"

  "And there go her eyeballs!"

  "You’ve gotta have an eyeball moment in a movie like this. It’s, like, the law."

  "The fans would boycott us forever if we didn’t have a good old fashioned eyeball scene."

  "This scene was tough, though, because we’ve all seen so many eyeballs come out. How do you make it original? We were brainstorming ideas back when we were writing the script, and I thought, what about a frozen eyeball pop? So we just had Lee spray CO2 on her. We had to sharpen the Popsicle stick so it would go in, but you can’t really tell."

  "We did cut out the part where he severs the stalk because it interrupted the pacing of the gag."

  "And now the big death moment!"

  "We had to get this in one take, for obvious reasons. We’d originally settled on a decapitation, but I think two days before that we changed the plan."

  "Well, that was around the time when the news was filled with stories about hostages being decapitated by terrorists, and we were worried that if we paralleled real-life horror too closely, we’d lose some of our audience."

  "Also, Lee was getting into his role so much that we wanted to give him a chance to really cut loose. So we gave him the axe, and just told him to go nuts."

  "And he did, as you can see."

  "Look at those pieces fly."

  "The one that hits the dartboard…wouldn’t it have been cool if it hit the bullseye?"

  "If we’d had a CGI budget, we could’ve digitally altered it."

  "Maybe for the Super-Special Edition of Draining."

  "Oh, man, I just love watching this scene. Look at Lee’s face while he chops away. He was just so great to work with."

  "Is she dead yet?"

  "No, I think she dies right…here."

  "Right in the throat."

  "But not a decapitation." [Laughter.]

  "Do you want to talk about cleanup?"

  "God, no!"

  "When we do the sequel, we’re going to hire a janitor."

  "That took forever."

  "I still slip on blood occasionally."

  "You do not."

  "No, but I do see a dried speck here and there."

  "Look at Lee’s face while he stands there. A perfect combination of excitement and remorse."

  "Yeah. You know that the guy feels bad about what he’s done, but you also know that he’ll do it again."

  "And we cut to…the lovely and talented Rebecca Fredell! Now that is a whore!" [Laughter.]

  "I can’t believe you said that!"

  "We’ll edit it out."

  "Seriously, though, she was great to work with…"

  Sex Potion #147

  The elderly Gypsy woman gazed intently at Melissa Tucker’s palm, tracing a line with her fingertips. "Ah, yes…I see it now…the truth is right here…I see it most clearly…"

  "What do you see?" asked Melissa, leaning forward.

  "Your sex life…your sex life is…crap."

  Melissa shook her head, offended. "It’s not crap."

  The Gypsy tapped Melissa’s palm. "Says so right here. Crap."

  "Yeah, well, my hand is wrong." Melissa pulled her hand away. She’d paid twenty bucks for this? So what if she wasn’t getting laid every freakin’ night? It was perfectly normal for a single woman in her 30’s to go through a dry spell every once in a while. It didn’t mean there was anything wrong with her. It wasn’t like she was a hermit or a leper or something like that. Well, maybe there was a trace of hermit in her current lifestyle, but she wasn’t a leper. Definitely not a leper.

  "Actually, from what I saw, your hand has been your only source of sexual gratification for a long, long time," said the Gypsy.

  "That’s a lie! I’ve got a dildo!" said Melissa, approximately 350% louder than she’d intended.

  "I see," said the Gypsy with a knowing smile that made Melissa want to smack her over the head with the dildo.

  "And you know what? It isn’t even an actual dildo…it’s not male-shaped or anything like that. It’s a vibrator. I bought it to soothe my sore shoulder. And you know what? It worked damn well on my shoulder. And why am I justifying my vibrator to you?"

  The Gypsy’s expression turned serious. "All is not lost for you, Melissa. I look into your palm, and I gaze into your eyes, and I know why your vagina remains eternally vacant. You feel unattractive, Melissa. You feel like…like a…" She grabbed Melissa’s hand and checked out her palm again. "…fat pig."

  "I do not!"

  "Look for yourself," said the Gypsy, holding Melissa’s hand up in front of her face.

  Melissa yanked her hand back and rested it in her lap. "I’m not a fat pig."

  "I didn’t say you were a fat pig, though your palm says that you could certainly stand to visit the gym a bit more often. I said that you think of yourself as a fat pig. It’s your poor self-image that keeps your sex life dry and barren, like the windswept deserts of Egypt."

  "That’s not true. I just don’t feel the need to slut around. I suppose you have a hot stud muffin waiting in the back room?"

  The Gypsy nodded. "Pedro. He’s yours for another twenty bucks."

  "Seriously?"

  "No. But your desperation is evident in the way you perked up."

  Melissa sighed. "Okay, so, I don’t feel attractive. Guys just aren’t into women who look like I do. They want those thin models who couldn’t eat a whole sandwich without it bulging out their stomach like a snake. You know, when a snake eats a rat and its stomach bulges out? Or, not its stomach, I guess, its whole body, but you know what I mean. It’s in nature documentaries all the time. Those kinds of women."

  "You are mistaken, Melissa."

  "No, I’m not. Women who look like me don’t get laid."

  "You have no idea what a man will screw."

  "Well, it’s not me."

  The Gypsy looked Melissa in the eye, her gaze intense. "I see frightening things in you, Melissa. I see a woman who is ready to snap. Your pent-up sexual energy could explode with dire consequences to those around you. People could die, Melissa."

  "Maybe I’m happy not being in a relationship."

  "You’re not happy. If you don’t have sex soon you’re going to kill somebody. Trust me."

  "So what do I do?"

  "I’m glad you finally asked," said the Gypsy, reaching under the table and retrieving a briefcase. She popped open the lid. "I have a wide assortment of potions that will solve your little problem. I’ve got nine different love potions, but that’s not what you’re looking for…you need a sex potion. I’ve got one hundred and fifty of those. Let’s see…no, not potion #14…maybe #27…or #40…no, wait, I’ve got it, you need Sex Potion #146."

  "What does that one do?"

  "It…oh, wait, I’m out. Sex Potion #147 works the same; it just doesn’t have the mint flavor." The Gypsy took a small red vial out of the briefcase. "One drop of this and you will be sexually desirable to every man w
ho sees you. Men will want to leave their wives for you. Politicians will want to destroy their careers for you. Homosexuals will…well, I’ve never tested it on a homosexual, you might be out of luck there, but mark my words, this is a powerful potion."

  "How do I know it isn’t water?"

  "All of my potions are real." The Gypsy took a blue vial out of her briefcase and unscrewed the cap. "This is Sex Potion #79. Try a drop…but only a drop."

  Melissa took the vial from her. She lifted off the lid, which had a small dropper attached to it. Figuring that one drop of anything couldn’t hurt, she tilted her head back, lifted it to her mouth, and let the blue liquid fall onto her tongue.

  She screwed the cap back on the vial. "Nothing happened."

  "Wait six seconds."

  "So what’s going to happen in six…OH MY FREAKING GOD!!!" Melissa gasped for breath as she was struck by a wave of horniness beyond anything she’d ever experienced in her entire life. "OH…OH, SHIT…GET ME SOMETHING TO HUMP!!! IT’S AN EMERGENCY!!!"

  "Feeling a bit frisky, are we?"

  Not caring about the fact that this was extremely impolite, Melissa began rubbing herself through her pants. Her eyes crossed and she could feel a bead of sweat running down her forehead and she knew that her hand wasn’t going to be enough, she needed two hands, she needed a whole legion of hands…

  "OH MY GOD I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY LONGER I NEED TO—oh, wait, it’s gone."

  The Gypsy nodded. "Sex Potion #79 doesn’t last very long. We experimented with doubling the dose but the results were messy."

  "So these things really work," said Melissa. "I can’t believe it."

  "They do indeed. But you must be responsible with Sex Potion #147. Enjoy yourself, but don’t go trying to create adulterers or convert homosexuals."

  "How much is it?"

  "It’s quite affordable, actually."

  "How much?"

  "Remember, when you tried the other potion, you wanted to start humping things in front of me. You came very close to going at it with my table leg. This is potent stuff."

  "It’s a lot, isn’t it?"

  "You have to put it in context. In a cost-per-drop sense, yes, this potion is a bit pricey. But can you really put a price on the boost in self-esteem?"

  "I’m betting that you can."

  "A thousand bucks. Cash."

  Melissa glanced at her hand. "My palm says ‘Fuck that.’"

  "A thousand bucks for a vial with ten drops. The potion works, Melissa. Men will be crawling at your feet, pleading with you to open your legs and allow them to pleasure your silken femininity with their tongues. They’ll do anything you ask. Anything. Anyplace you want licked, they’ll lick. If there’s anything especially kinky you’ve ever wanted a man to do, like dress up in a…well, I’ll let you brainstorm those ideas yourself, but a world of sexual adventure is yours, Melissa."

  "Oh, well, gee, I always carry a spare thousand dollars in my purse, so let me just hand it over."

  "Sarcasm boosts the price. And there’s an ATM two blocks down."

  "Sorry, but no." Melissa pushed back her chair and stood up. "Thanks for the information that my sex life is crap. That was very helpful."

  "I see that a deal is in order," said the Gypsy. "I’m going to raise the price to fifteen hundred dollars…"

  "Ooooh, that makes all the difference."

  "…and I’m giving you a free sample." The Gypsy took a very tiny red vial out of the briefcase. "Use it wisely. The effects will last for exactly six hours. I’ll see you very soon, Melissa."

  Melissa took the vial and dropped it into her purse. "I don’t think you will, but thanks anyway."

  "Very soon."

  ««—»»

  "Die, bitch!"

  Harold Tiberius Chaumley slammed the claw hammer into the young woman’s skull for the eighth time. She’d quit struggling after the third blow and quit screaming after the fifth, but Harold wasn’t yet finished.

  "Die, bitch!" he repeated as he struck her a ninth time. He wasn’t good at murder-talk and truly admired those killers who could eloquently taunt their victims, or at least rant incoherently. Harold felt self-conscious about speaking during the process, but he wanted to say something, so he stuck with…

  "Die, bitch!"

  And one last "Die, bitch!" as the claw hammer damaged the girl for the eleventh time. That was enough. Eleven blows for his eleventh victim. The next one would get twelve. This pattern had been pure coincidence at first; it simply took one blow to kill his first victim, two to kill his second, and three to kill his third. But when the news started reporting on this, he’d decided to embrace the pattern and add one new blow for each successive victim. Victim #5 had been tricky, because the first four blows hadn’t killed her and she almost looked like she’d survive a fifth if it wasn’t a damn good one, but he’d gotten her between the eyes with the claw end of the hammer and finished her off.

  Harold, now out of breath, stared at the bloody mess of the girl. She deserved it. The filthy slut deserved it. Freely giving of her filthy body to that filthy college student. They were all filthy sluts these days. Tramps. Whores. Loose women who thought that a condom made it safe to allow disgusting diseased appendages into their body…if they even used a condom. He knew darn well that these kids weren’t using dental dams.

  It made him physically ill to think of the vile activities she must have been doing in her bed. How could people do those filthy, dirty, depraved, wretched things to each other and still look other human beings in the eye?

  Harold knew that he would never give in to that temptation. He’d sliced off the offending body part months ago, right after his first murder. He kept it in a jar in his bedroom as a reminder of his purity. And he was going to purify the world, one slut at a time.

  ««—»»

  As Melissa drove home, she considered the possible implications of the Gypsy’s potion. There was a definite moral dilemma here. If this potion worked, it probably wasn’t much different than slipping a drug into somebody’s drink at a bar.

  Of course, if she’d thought to slip a drug into somebody’s drink at a bar, she might not have had this dry spell in the first place.

  Her neighbor James was hot, muscular, and unmarried. He brought home various women on a semi-regular basis. Would it be so very bad if she used the potion on him? Would it kill the bastard to give her a bit of pleasure?

  She could do this.

  This was something she could do.

  Maybe.

  She tried to think of the potential downside. For one thing, he might wake up next to her and start screaming and crossing himself. That would be uncomfortable, but probably worth it. And she might feel horrible guilt for taking advantage of him in his potion-possessed state. She’d get over it.

  Well, that pretty much covered the situation from all possible angles. Yep, nobody could accuse her of acting without thinking. She’d just go home, freshen up, swig the potion, and finally end this goddamn dry spell.

  She got home, took a quick shower, put on her "Yes, you may touch" panties, dressed suggestively but not slutty, and fixed her hair. Then she paced around the house for about twenty minutes.

  This was a bad idea.

  The potion probably didn’t work, anyway.

  Of course it didn’t work.

  And since it didn’t work, there was nothing morally wrong with walking three houses down, knocking on Jim’s door, and asking to borrow an egg, right? She needed an egg. Can’t make cupcakes without an egg.

  She primped a few more times, left her home, walked three houses down, stepped onto James’ front porch, primped again (to make him more amenable to parting with the egg), swallowed the drop of potion, and rang the doorbell.

  The door swung open, revealing James wearing naught but a pair of red shorts. His tanned chest was slick with salty perspiration. His jaw dropped as he saw her. "Melissa! Hi!"

  "Hi."

  "You…you…wow! Won’t you come in?"
<
br />   "I’d love to," said Melissa, trying not to trip as she stepped inside.

  James couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off her. "Can I get you a beverage? Snack? Anything?" The distorted shape of his red shorts made it perfectly clear that the potion worked.

  Screw the moral dilemma.

  "Could I borrow an egg?" she asked, sweetly.

  "Oh, can you ever! How many do you need? I can go get more if you need more."

  "Just one. So what have you been doing?"