Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "Mental anguish!"

  "Screw you!"

  Garry had to admit, he did feel rather foolish for setting up this film shoot without bringing a way to terminate the werewolf if things got out of hand. But that was neither here nor there at this point.

  "Did you even have insurance for this?" Teddy asked.

  "Of course!" Garry lied.

  Carl stepped over the corpses of the orgy participants, then rushed across the room and took down one of the stagehands. The stagehand wailed in terror and agony, but stopped when the werewolf tore out his throat.

  BANG!

  The werewolf howled and turned around, snarling.

  BANG! BANG! BANG!

  The fluffer fired three more shots into the creature. It let out a loud whimper and then flopped over on its side. Garry, Teddy, the fluffer, and the remaining living crew members stared at it for a long moment.

  "Is it dead?" Teddy asked.

  "Go kick it and see," the fluffer said.

  Teddy did so. The werewolf wasn’t dead. The fluffer fired a shot into its heart, and then a mercy shot into Teddy’s forehead, knowing that he wouldn’t want to live without his leg.

  The werewolf transformed back into human form. Carl lay dead on the floor, riddled with bullet holes. Garry couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for the poor kid, but at least he’d gotten laid before he died. That’s how Garry would’ve wanted to go.

  "Well, that sucked," said Garry.

  The fluffer sighed. "You think?"

  "We…we don’t have to spread word about my negligence, right? I mean, how was I supposed to know he was telling the truth about being a werewolf? I thought he was some whacko off the street."

  "I think we can work out a deal," said the fluffer. "But you’re cleaning up the mess."

  ««—»»

  Blood Orgy Rampage of the Werewolf, featuring the farewell performance of Darla Duncan, was the #1 bestselling underground DVD of the year.

  An Admittedly Rather Pointless But Mercifully Brief Story With Aliens In It

  "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!" I remarked, as the aliens began to take over the world. I knew I was being less than macho, hiding behind a trash can while dozens of people became extremely disintegrated, but I’d spent countless hours in therapy coming to terms with the fact that I was a pathetic little coward, and I wasn’t about to let that time go to waste.

  Suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of a Deadly Fatal Ray of Doom, and the trash can vaporized, spilling its less-than-pleasantly-fragrant contents all over me. Fortunately I’d stopped saying "AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!" just moments ago or I would have gotten a mouthful of very, very, very old scrambled eggs.

  "Surrender, human weenie!" said the alien standing in front of me. Well, that was the basic gist, anyway. They communicated by inhaling and exhaling streams of mucus, so I’d never taken much of an interest in learning their language.

  But then I felt something deep inside, sort of like when I’d tried to gargle dish soap (bad idea, don’t do it), but more dramatic. I was not going to let this alien scum push me around. This was my planet, and no snot-speaking invaders from another world were going to take it from me!

  It took me about two seconds to get over that particular delusion of grandeur, and I held up my arms in surrender. So, the aliens have taken over the world, and the ultimate fate of the human race is to spend eternity being dressed up in silly, gender-inappropriate clothes and dancing for their amusement. At least we still have computer games.

  Munchies

  [SCENE: A restaurant. Cindy and John are seated, looking over the menus.]

  CINDY: Have you ever come here before?

  JOHN: Actually, about once a week. It’s very good.

  [The waiter approaches.]

  WAITER: Are you ready to order?

  CINDY [to John]: I’m still looking. You go right ahead.

  JOHN: I’ll have the ten-layer lasagna.

  WAITER: Very good, sir.

  CINDY: I have a question about the spaghetti.

  WAITER: Yes?

  CINDY: The meat sauce…is it made with human flesh?

  WAITER [long pause]: No, ma’am.

  CINDY: Oh good. I’ll have that then.

  WAITER: Excellent choice, ma’am.

  CINDY: Because if there’s anything I’m not, it’s a cannibal. [to John] A disgusting practice, don’t you think?

  JOHN: Uh, yeah.

  CINDY: It’s horrible, just horrible. Those people should be locked up.

  [The waiter leaves.]

  JOHN: So…what do you like to do in your spare time?

  CINDY: What are you implying?

  JOHN: Nothing.

  CINDY: You’re implying that I’m a cannibal in my spare time, aren’t you?

  JOHN: No, no, it was just a question.

  CINDY: Well, I’m not. Cannibalism is illegal and morally offensive, and human flesh has never entered my stomach. Never. So you can just quit giving me that "You’re a cannibal" look.

  JOHN: I wasn’t giving you that kind of look.

  CINDY: Whatever you say.

  [Long, uncomfortable pause.]

  CINDY: Okay, once.

  JOHN: What?

  CINDY: I ate human flesh once. Are you happy?

  JOHN: Not really.

  CINDY: I was in a cave with a tour group. The exit collapsed, we were trapped for two weeks, we drew straws, my ex-husband lost…you know the drill.

  JOHN: You ate your ex-husband?

  CINDY: Yes. Stop that.

  JOHN: What?

  CINDY: You’re giving me the "You’re a cannibal" look again.

  JOHN: I’m sorry.

  CINDY: It was a long time ago, and quite frankly I don’t care to dredge up such unpleasant memories.

  [Another long, uncomfortable pause.]

  CINDY: Okay, he didn’t really draw the short straw.

  JOHN: He didn’t?

  CINDY: And we weren’t really trapped in a cave.

  JOHN: You weren’t?

  CINDY: We were at home. I found out he was cheating on me, shot him dead, and ate the body to dispose of the evidence.

  JOHN: You ate all of him?

  CINDY: Yes.

  JOHN: Even the bones?

  CINDY: What are you implying?

  JOHN: I’m not implying anything, I’m just asking.

  [Yet another long, uncomfortable pause.]

  CINDY: The diet wasn’t going well, okay? I’d been eating nothing but rice cakes for a month and I wasn’t losing any weight and I was getting frustrated and one night I just lost it and went down to raid the refrigerator but I hadn’t gone shopping that week so I grabbed the electric carving knife and ran back upstairs to our bedroom and ate, ate, ate!

  JOHN: Did you ever go back on the diet?

  CINDY: Yeah.

  JOHN: Well, that’s to be admired, at least.

  CINDY: Thank you.

  JOHN: Yo-yo dieting is a major problem in today’s society, and though we’re all human and everyone makes mistakes, it’s good that you gave it another shot and refused to give up. And sure, you may have devoured your husband, but that’s in the past. You succumbed to weakness, but you learned from your experience, and I would never think of holding that against you.

  CINDY: You’re so sweet.

  JOHN: Well, it’s always been my belief that… [He trails off, suddenly realizing something.]

  CINDY: What’s wrong?

  JOHN: When I picked you up at your apartment, you squeezed my arm.

  CINDY: I don’t remember that.

  JOHN: You did! You squeezed my arm. And you asked me to stand on that scale. And you had me take that body fat test. You were planning to eat me!

  CINDY: No, that’s ridiculous!

  JOHN: I can’t believe your nerve! If you want to practice cannibalism, that’s your own business, but don’t expect me to offer myself for your deviant appetite!

  CINDY: I wasn’t going to eat you! I promise! [A very short pause.] Okay,
I was. Raw. Are you happy now?

  JOHN: You’re sick! This blind date is over! [He stands up.]

  CINDY: Fine! You’re probably all stringy anyway!

  [John sits back down.]

  JOHN: I am not.

  CINDY: I bet you are. You’re probably kind of gritty, too.

  JOHN: Hey, I’ll have you know that my flesh is like filet mignon.

  CINDY: You wish.

  JOHN: I’m serious.

  CINDY: Prove it.

  JOHN: All right, you can eat my left arm. But that’s it.

  CINDY: That sounds fair enough.

  JOHN: Shall we go?

  CINDY: Sure.

  [They leave, hand in hand. Right before they exit, Cindy addresses the audience.]

  CINDY: There’ll be nothing left when I’m done.

  [Curtain close.]

  Roasting Weenies by Hellfire

  Every Friday afternoon of the school year, to celebrate the arrival of another weekend of freedom, Charlie Summers blew up a frog. He just liked doing it. He’d upheld this tradition all through fifth and sixth grade, and though his parents discouraged the activity and occasionally took away his firecrackers, they’d never been able to find his entire stash.

  This is why, when a limo driver was distracted by the fornicating octogenarians in his back seat and squished Charlie like a wad of Silly Putty, nobody would have been particularly surprised to learn that the little shit went straight to Hell.

  Except for Charlie. He’d been meaning to clean up his act somewhere around age sixteen, which he assumed was when the afterlife could try him as an adult. He couldn’t quite believe he was standing in the brimstone cell, with the background noise of wailing souls in torment serving as the ultimate in annoying Muzak. Hell was supposed to be for serial killers and rapists and transvestites, not eleven year-old amphibian exploders.

  The cell door swung open and the Devil entered, dressed in trendy scarlet. He grinned at Charlie and pulled the door closed. "So, Mr. Summers," he said, "we’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t we? It would appear that your soul is mine to torment for all eternity."

  Charlie backed into the corner and stared at the floor, trying to avoid the Devil’s piercing, glowing-eyed gaze. "Give me another chance…I’ll be good…"

  "Oh, no, no, no, no, no," said the Devil with a chuckle. "You’re mine. And your punishment for frog killing will be delightfully ironic. For the rest of your endless existence you are going to burn in a pit of searing flames listening to ‘It’s Not Easy Being Green.’"

  Charlie buried his face in his hands and began to cry. The Devil watched him for a moment, annoyed, then let out a long, sulfur-scented sigh.

  "Oh, knock that off. Take eternal damnation like a man."

  "It’s not fair," whimpered Charlie. "I’m just a kid."

  "Hitler was a kid once. Moody little bastard."

  "I want to go home…"

  The Devil rolled his eyes. "Look, you can’t go home. You’re dead. Your old body is being scraped off the limo tires as we speak. This is your home now."

  "I don’t like it!"

  "Well, tough titties said the kitties when the milk went dry. You’re here forever, and to be completely honest I don’t give a flying f—" The Devil’s eyes narrowed. "You know," he said, "maybe there is a way out of this. Do you know what it means to be reincarnated?"

  "I think so."

  "Well, forget it. It’s a crock. But here’s what I can do." He snapped his fingers and an image formed on the wall of a small blonde-haired boy, a couple of years younger than Charlie, walking by a river. "This is Hector Wrench. Nice little tyke, kind of a nerd, very squeamish. Hasn’t committed any mortal sins yet, so I can’t hurt him, but I can have some fun."

  The Devil snapped his fingers again, and the image burned away. "How would you like to come back to life and play a little joke that will scare the unholy piss out of our friend Hector?"

  Charlie nodded. Whatever the Devil had in mind had to be better than burning in Hell.

  "Good, good." The Devil cracked his knuckles. "Now, your old body is pretty much useless, so we’ll have to get you a new one. And darned if a boy about your age didn’t drown in that very river two months ago. He didn’t kill any frogs, so you know where he got to go. Anyway, if you’re willing, I’ll zap your soul into the corpse and let the fun begin. Are you willing?"

  "Yes!" said Charlie, nodding with wild enthusiasm.

  The Devil’s grin darkened. "Excellent."

  ««—»»

  Charlie gasped as he suddenly found himself beneath the surface of a freezing, fast-moving river. The gasp involved a painful intake of water, and he struggled violently to free himself from the large branch that pinned him to the bottom. The water was cold enough on its own, but after getting used to Hell it was all but unbearable.

  The branch snapped, sending Charlie moving swiftly along with the current. His head bounced against several large rocks on the bottom, and he got the distinct impression that scraps of it were being left behind. He flew past another pointed branch, which ripped open a disconcertingly large portion of his stomach but freed a minnow that had swum into the drowned boy’s mouth.

  Finally, the water became more shallow, and Charlie washed up onto the river bank. He just lay there for a few moments, cursing the moment he’d discovered the joys of firecrackers.

  "Are you okay?" a voice asked.

  Charlie looked up and saw Hector peering at him from the top of the river bank. Then Hector let loose with a high-pitched shriek and took off running into the woods.

  After the boy disappeared from sight, Charlie pushed himself into a kneeling position. His hands, purple and swollen, were not his own. He was wearing shreds of a blue shirt and shorts—the alligator on the pocket was still intact, but not much else. Though he figured it was probably a good idea to push his stomach back into the cavity from which it was starting to dangle, he didn’t much want to touch it and left it alone.

  Now what? The Devil hadn’t given him any instructions. Was he just supposed to shamble around, stretch out his arms, and moan? Maybe he was supposed to shout "Brains!" like in that movie. He wondered if he ought to be chasing Hector; after all, he didn’t want to disappoint the Devil and find himself back in Hell.

  Hector peeked out from behind a tree, went "Eeeeeek!!!" (actually pronouncing both the "e" and "k" sounds) and ran off again. Charlie stood up, fought off a dizzy spell, then glanced to his left to see the Devil standing next to him.

  "You look splendid," said the Devil, "but suck in that tummy." The Devil reached over and shoved his torn stomach back where it belonged.

  "Did I do okay?" asked Charlie.

  "You haven’t done squat yet. Now, our wee little friend is currently rushing back to his home. Mommy and Daddy are off trying to convince Aunt Sylvia not to divorce Uncle Frank until after the sanity hearing, so they won’t be around. What I want you to do is burst in, chase him all over the house, give him the scare of his life, and once you have him cornered, place both of your rotting hands on his face, look deep into his terrified eyes, and say ‘Booga-booga.’"

  "Booga-booga?"

  "Booga-booga."

  "Oh."

  "Like I said, he’s not a mortal sinner yet, so that’s the worst we can do." The Devil pointed to a path at the edge of the woods. "Follow that path and it’ll take you right to the house. Good luck."

  The Devil vanished in an impressive burst of flame that warmed Charlie right up. Charlie wiped some of the dirt from the riverbank off his face and walked over to the path. There was no sign of Hector. He tried to hum a merry tune as he walked through the woods, but "It’s Not Easy Being Green" kept playing in his mind.

  It took him about ten minutes to emerge from the woods into a small clearing where the two-story, desperately-in-need-of-painting house stood. Charlie considered scoping out the place first, but decided that he didn’t really want Hector’s parents coming home to the sight of a bloated, stomach-impaired prepu
bescent walking corpse, so he went straight to the front door.

  He opened the door and stepped into the foyer. Hector, who was waiting at the top of the stairs, released the metal bucket he’d been holding. It was attached to the ceiling by a thick rope, and began its rapid downward arc toward Charlie’s face.

  Charlie was surprised enough that he didn’t think to duck. The bucket struck him in the face, removing a healthy portion of chin as well as sending the nails that had been inside the bucket flying everywhere. He stumbled backwards, eight or nine nails protruding from his face, and smacked into the wall.