by Jeff Strand
The pig shook his head. "You don’t! This isn’t you!"
The wolf growled. "You dare to speak for me? You think you know me? You think you can look inside me? You’re nothing, little pig…nothing. I’ll show what you what are."
The wolf slashed at the pig’s fat tummy with his claw, making trickling red letters that formed a single word.
Meat.
"What do you think of that?" the wolf asked.
The pig spat in his face.
Anger flared through the wolf, but he kept himself under control. If he lost his temper, he’d end the life of his prey too soon, and that wouldn’t do at all.
Instead, he carved more words onto the pig’s flesh. Pork. Bacon. Ham. Sausage. The pig squealed and squealed, thrashing back and forth, and the creature’s misery was blissful music to the wolf’s ears.
The words were becoming difficult to read, so the wolf greedily lapped up the excess blood.
The pig stopped squealing and struggling. Its eyes glazed over and it stared vacantly at nothing.
Was it dead? Had the wolf lost control after all?
The wolf placed an ear to the pig’s chest and listened for a heartbeat. No, it was still alive. Just catatonic. The pig had retreated into a safe place in its mind where there was no blood or death or wolves.
The wolf raked a claw across the pig’s cheek to encourage it to return to reality. The pig didn’t react. It was gone.
Cursing under its breath, the wolf slashed open the pig’s belly. One of its claws caught on the intestines, yanking them out like thick rope. The wolf burrowed its face into the pig’s open stomach and gobbled away, devouring the pig from the inside out.
When there was nothing left but teeth and ears, the wolf added to its necklace.
««—»»
As the third little pig made his way through the big, beautiful world, he passed a vendor who was selling bricks and mortar.
"If I purchase these bricks and mortar, it will take me a long time to complete my house," said the little pig. "There will be no time for singing and games and dancing and naps, but I will have a sturdy shelter!"
And that’s exactly what the little pig did!
As the pig slept for the night, the Big Bad Wolf approached. "No brick house can keep me out," he said. "I will blow it in just as I did the house of straw, and just as I did the house of wood!" He pounded on the door. "Little pig, little pig, let me in!"
"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin!"
The wolf chuckled at this insolence. And then he huffed…and puffed…and blew with all of his might…
…but the house still stood!
Undaunted, the wolf sucked in another deep breath, filling his lungs with air, and then he huffed…and then he puffed…and then he blew with even more of his might…
…and yet the house still stood!
How could this have happened? His huffing and puffing had never failed before. Was he past his prime? Did this spell the end of his reign of terror? Would the name of the Big Bad Wolf be a source of laughter for little pigs throughout the meadows of the world?
The Big Bad Wolf felt helpless.
Impotent.
No. There had to be another way to get inside.
And then he saw it. The chimney. The foolish pig may have built a house that could withstand the force of the wolf’s breath, but he’d neglected to completely seal off the structure, and that would be his tragic downfall.
The wolf climbed onto the roof of the brick house and then leapt down the chimney, just as quickly as you please!
He plunged into a pot of boiling water, howling as his flesh blistered and bubbled underneath his fur. Before he could leap from the death trap, the pig slammed a lid on top of the pot, trapping him inside.
In the darkness of the pot, the wolf renounced his canine gods. His fur came off in bloody clumps and the bones in his paws shattered as he slammed them against the lid. Slowly, ever so slowly, the Big Bad Wolf boiled to death.
His corpse floated in the water long after the fire died out.
The next morning, the little pig removed the lid and laughed at the dead wolf. He decided to go fetch his brothers and show them the body of the wretched creature that had…
The pig froze in horror.
The wolf’s belly had split apart, and his last meals, undigested, floated in the water. Though they were well-boiled, the little pig recognized his brother’s snout and his other brother’s severed leg.
The little pig collapsed into the corner. He closed his eyes and screamed in anguish. He screamed and screamed and screamed, his entire world collapsing around him as his brick house stood firm.
Everything Has a Purpose
The handwriting on the note was terrible, but "or your wife will be killed" stood out nicely.
Harry Stearns was going to turn forty in two weeks. He’d been dreading that particular birthday for the past nine years, yet now the idea of being over the hill didn’t seem so bad, as long as he didn’t have to be over the hill alone.
He’d get Joanne back. Of course he would. He’d obeyed orders and would continue to do so. He hadn’t called the police, he hadn’t told anybody what had happened, and he hadn’t let anybody follow him. He’d play their game, do whatever they wanted.
What scared him the most, though, was that the kidnappers hadn’t asked for any kind of ransom. He’d brought Joanne’s jewelry box just in case.
««—»»
Despite having lived in Bodenwolf, Indiana his entire life, Harry didn’t know the numerous back roads very well and got himself thoroughly lost. If he hadn’t given himself so much extra time to reach his destination, he probably would have missed the meeting altogether, but the third time he passed the same overturned Volkswagen he got back on track and reached the rendezvous point only ten minutes late.
He shut off the engine, but left on the headlights as he waited. He was on a short, unpaved dead-end road, in the middle of a heavily wooded area. When he rolled down the window he could hear that there was a stream nearby. Hopefully the ten minutes he’d been late weren’t enough for the kidnappers to get impatient and take off.
Harry sat there for a while, whistling badly to calm his nerves.
After fifteen minutes he was horrified to think that he might have missed them, but then something tapped against the passenger-side window, making him flinch. A man in black denim jeans, a black leather jacket, and a black facemask stood by the window. He’d tapped it with a revolver.
"Kill the headlights, then get out of the car," said the man, moving a few feet away from the door and pointing his revolver at Harry’s head. "Slowly." He sounded fairly young, but the facemask made it difficult to be sure.
Harry shut off the headlights as the kidnapper turned on the flashlight, focusing the beam on Harry’s face. He carefully opened the door and eased his way out of the vehicle, trying not to make any sudden movements. After he got out, he stepped away from the car and raised his hands in the air.
"I brought some jewelry," Harry said. "The box is in the back seat."
"Thanks. Maybe I’ll pick it up later." The kidnapper slammed the door shut, then kept the gun aimed at Harry while he dug a set of keys out of his pocket. He selected one and scraped it along the driver’s side door, leaving a zigzag pattern all the way across it. "Doesn’t that just piss you off?" he asked.
Under other circumstances it would have, but for now Harry had much more important things to worry about. "Where’s my wife?"
"Don’t worry, I’ll take you to her. We’ve got a pretty nice hike ahead of us, so we’d better get started. You don’t mind if I keep this gun aimed at your back the whole time, do you? Didn’t think so. We’ll be going through some rough area, and I’ll have to shoot you if you pull anything sneaky, so try not to trip."
««—»»
Harry snuck a glance at his watch every so often, and noted that it took about forty-five minutes to reach their destination. The kidnapper was a regular cha
tterbox the entire time, sharing numerous vivid descriptions of what would happen to Harry and Joanne should he become even the slightest bit annoyed.
Finally they emerged from the woods into the side yard of a large two-story log house. Far from the cobweb-laden shack Harry would expect kidnapper scum to reside in, from the outside it was a perfectly maintained home with a second-floor deck that looked to have been recently repainted. The outside was fairly well lit, and the man shut off his flashlight.
"Here we are," he said, tucking the flashlight into his inside jacket pocket. "Not bad, huh?"
"Very nice."
"I’m glad you like it. Keep walking."
They moved around to the front yard. The house was completely surrounded by forest except for a small driveway that curved out of sight. The man forced Harry up onto the front porch, and then pressed the barrel of the revolver against his neck.
"Wipe your feet," he said.
Harry wiped his feet on the "Welcome Friends!" mat.
The man reached past him and opened the door. "We’re here!" he called out as they stepped into the foyer. There were two sets of stairs, a tan-carpeted one leading up and a wooden one leading down.
"You’re late," said an elderly but forceful voice from upstairs.
"Hey, your friend here was late. Not my fault."
"Well, that’s not surprising. Bring him up here."
Still at gunpoint, Harry walked upstairs and found himself in a spacious, immaculate living room. The walls were decorated with framed pictures of beach scenes, and the furniture was all the color of sand. An old man, probably in his seventies, was relaxing in a recliner, reading something by Hemingway. Though his body was slender, it was obvious at a glance that there was nothing frail about him. He placed a bookmark inside the paperback and set it aside on an end table, then regarded Harry with a warm smile.
"Welcome to my home," he said. "Do you know who I am?"
There was something vaguely familiar about the old man, but Harry couldn’t place him. He shook his head.
The old man shrugged. "You never did have much of a memory. Would you care for a drink? I’m afraid I don’t keep liquor in the house, but you’re welcome to a glass of orange juice or water with lemon."
"I just want to see my wife."
"Of course." The old man nodded to the man in the facemask. "Alex, please point your gun at our guest again."
"Don’t use my name, for God’s sake! What’s the matter with you?" Alex demanded.
"Relax, relax. Ulcers are nobody’s friend. Now let’s go visit his wife in the basement."
The cement-floored basement was just as immaculate as the upstairs. Neatly stacked cardboard boxes lined the walls, and there was a tool bench with several unfinished projects resting upon it. There was a small desk in the corner, and an uncomfortable-looking wooden chair in the center of the room.
But what really caught Harry’s attention was Joanne, tied to a chair against the far wall, grotesque streaks running down her face where the absurd amount of makeup she wore had mixed with tears. Her eyes widened as she saw Harry and she tried to say something, but her mouth was gagged, muffling her words.
"There she is," said the old man, gesturing dramatically. "You’ll be pleased to note that she’s unharmed."
"Mostly unharmed," Alex corrected.
Now that Harry had found Joanne, his thoughts turned toward figuring out a way to get them out of here. If he could just get a hold of the gun…
"I want to talk to her," Harry said. "Take the gag off."
Alex casually walked past Harry, then spun around and punched him in the stomach, doubling him over. "Excuse me? Did I miss the part where the balance of power shifted in your favor?"
"I just want to hear her say that she’s all right," Harry groaned, standing back up, arms wrapped around his belly.
"Tough. Remember who’s in charge here."
"That’s enough," said the old man. "Lead our guest to his seat."
"Sit," said Alex, pointing at the wooden chair.
The feeling was seeping out of Harry’s legs. There was no way he could lunge for the gun without getting shot, and if he spun around to attack the old man, Alex probably wouldn’t hesitate to fire. Basically, he had to cooperate and pray that a window of opportunity presented itself.
He sat down on the chair, which was just as uncomfortable as it looked. Alex gestured toward the chair leg with the gun. "See those handcuffs?"
Harry looked down and saw them, one bracelet wrapped around the leg of the chair, the other lying on the floor. "Yes."
"Lock the free end around your leg."
Harry picked up the bracelet and snapped it around his left ankle. Alex dragged the desk across the floor of the basement, creating an ear-torturing screech, until it was in front of the chair. Alex bent down and squeezed the bracelet, making sure it was on securely, then, satisfied, walked over to a position behind Joanne and began to stroke her hair. She whimpered at his touch.
The old man began to pace slowly around the room. "So, Mr. Stearns, I am now going to give you a chance to save your wife, as well as yourself. I hope for both of your sakes you’ll be able to give me what I want."
"Anything I’ve got, it’s yours," Harry insisted. "I’ve got a couple thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry back in the car, and I’ll empty my bank account, anything you want."
The old man shook his head. "Unfortunately, I don’t want money. I want answers."
Harry gave him a confused look. "Answers? What, are you trying to get the inside scoop about the merger? If so, you’ve got the wrong person."
"No, no, nothing like that. The answers I want come from far in your past." The old man picked up a stack of papers from the top of one of the cardboard boxes and set it on the desk. The stack was at least an inch thick, and the front page was blank.
Alex walked over to the tool bench and grabbed a pair of metal garden shears. He opened them as wide as they would go, then approached Harry and snapped them shut an inch from his nose.
"Here’s how this is going to work," the old man informed Harry. "You’re going to answer all of my questions. For every question you get wrong, my associate is going to cut off one of your wife’s toes. After that, he’ll begin removing fingers. After that, he’ll get creative. Then he’ll start on you. Is that clear?"
"Yes," Harry whispered, barely able to breathe.
"Good." The old man handed him a pencil. "You may begin."
Fighting the urge to vomit, Harry turned over the blank page. What he saw on the next page was both hopelessly foreign and frighteningly familiar.
An algebra test.
And suddenly he remembered exactly where he’d seen the old man before. An hour a day, five days a week, for a full year. "Oh my God…Mr. Shadle!"
The old man smiled. "You always said you’d never use this stuff. Don’t you hate being wrong?"
Them Old West Mutations
Now, the citizens of Spittin’ Hollow had got themselves all worked up to see a good gunfight, so when it was interrupted by giant cockroaches they were none too happy. You see, the Halloran triplets had come into town not two weeks ago, shootin’ and hollerin’ and overall causin’ a ruckus. Spittin’ Hollow was a rowdy enough place on its own, so most of the locals didn’t pay ’em much attention. But then Bob Halloran, the one who still had both his eyes, went and questioned the decency of Miss Jenkins, who everyone knew was just as pure as an unopened bottle of sarsaparilla.
Sheriff Mason, he wasn’t gonna put up with that kind of behavior in his town, so he challenged Bob Halloran to a gunfight at dawn. That was a mite earlier than the sheriff was happy with, since he liked sleepin’ late almost as much as he liked lockin’ up drunks, but he reckoned that was the proper way to do it. Bob Halloran accepted the duel, havin’ some honor despite the fact that he was lowlife scum.
So at dawn the locals who weren’t too tired gathered ‘round Main Street to watch Sheriff Mason plug that Halloran boy a good one.
Earl and Frank Halloran were there, sittin’ on their horses and tryin’ to look sinister. Sheriff Mason and Bob Halloran exchanged some fightin’ words, then they stood thirty paces apart and got ready to draw.
Which was when those cockroaches showed up.
A dozen scurried out of Doc Rollin’s pharmacy, each one of ’em a good ten feet long. A couple of Madame Paula’s workin’ girls were unfortunate enough to be standin’ there at the time, and some of those things started crawlin’ right over the women. They fell to the ground just screamin’ as loud as you please.
So Sheriff Mason, he turned around and got ready to put a bullet or two into those creatures, seein’ as how Madame Paula was prone to givin’ him a freebie when she was inebriated. But before he could do anything, Bob Halloran shot him in the back. The Halloran boys didn’t have that much honor.
Havin’ a dead sheriff would’ve been a bigger deal to the rest of the locals if they hadn’t been so preoccupied with the roaches. One of the bugs took a huge bite out of one of the workin’ girls, lowerin’ her askin’ price drastically. About six of the other roaches started runnin’ down the side of the street, sendin’ those townspeople scattering.
"Hot damn!" shouted Howie the bartender. "It’s Armageddon or somethin’!"
Bob Halloran, he was generally as yellow as they come, but instead of takin’ off he started shootin’ his last five bullets at the roaches. The first bullet missed entirely, the second bullet missed the roaches entirely but hit Howie, and the last three hit the back of a roach that was runnin’ after Miss Jenkins. But the bullets bounced right off like they’d been shot at steel, one of ’em hittin’ Howie again.