Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  ««—»»

  "This is Channel 8 news, coming to you live from a city we won’t name in the interest of not having to worry about geographical accuracy! Slurpee the Snowman, a formerly un-alive pair of delicious fruity ice beverages, has gone on a rampage, devouring dozens of people! I have with me Mayor Snortweather. Mayor, what is your opinion of this crisis?"

  "Well, in the snowman’s defense, at least he’s not a necrophile."

  "That is certainly true, sir."

  "As you’ll remember, I promised the people of this fair city that when elected, I would not tolerate necrophilia in any way, shape, or form. And I have kept that promise. Anyway, I’m confident that the snowman will be captured within the next few weeks and this whole incident will merely be an unpleasant little footnote in history, like Hitler."

  "Thank you sir. We now return you to Wiener Jokes, joined in progress."

  Rufus shut off the television and cackled with maniacal glee. Oh sure, everyone had laughed when he told them his evil plan. "What a dumb plan," they’d said. But he’d been sure that the best way to destroy Christmas was to sit around watching television all summer until a news story came on about someone going on a homicidal rampage, and then convince that person to do his bidding.

  Soon Slurpee the Snowman would be his servant, and together they would ruin the holiday season, once and for all!

  ««—»»

  As a special treat, this next section of our holiday tale will be told to you by guest narrator James Earl Jones:

  Hello, this is James Earl Jones. I’ve been asked to relate the following piece of "Howard Rises Again" because my booming, manly voice adds dignity and dramatic impact to any project I’m involved with. I was the voice of Darth Vader, you know. And I was in Soul Man with C. Thomas Howell.

  Of course, since this is print and not audio, my presence here is pretty much wasted. Especially since if any of you are reading this aloud, it’s just going to sound like I have some squeaky, annoying voice. This whole idea is kind of stupid, isn’t it? My check better not bounce, that’s all I have to say.

  Anyway, the part I was supposed to tell you had the wicked Rufus convincing Slurpee the Snowman to become his evil servant, after which they chartered a carrier pigeon to the North Pole. It really wasn’t up to the level of quality you’ve seen in other paragraphs of this story, so you didn’t miss much by listening to me complain. Thank you.

  Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a big hand for James Earl Jones! And now back to our story, joined in progress:

  ««—»»

  "—ing little brat?" asked Santa, standing outside of his newest toy factory while his chickens (acquired in the controversial Easter merger six years ago) fled in terror.

  "I’ll tell you why you should be scared," snarled Rufus. "If you don’t surrender immediately, there will be wreaked a havoc like no havoc you’ve ever seen wreaked."

  "Wreak…wreak…" said Slurpee.

  Santa folded his arms. "I think not. I’ve survived accusations of overcommercialization. I’ve survived psychological testing that suggests I have a God Complex. What makes you think I’m going to be defeated by a wormy little twerp like…whoa, I didn’t see that ravenous snowman behind you! Does he bite?"

  Rufus nodded.

  "Ummm…okay, you win. But I won’t go quietly." Santa turned and ran, screaming "AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!" in his loudest voice.

  "Victory is ours!" Rufus declared. "But it’s only July, and the fruits of my labors won’t be noticeable until decorations start going up in late September. So, Slurpee…destroy! Destroy! Destroy! Make it fall, wreck it all, make them faint, scrape the paint…gooooooo team evil!"

  "Wreak," said Slurpee, as he began to destroy.

  ««—»»

  A Special Note To Younger Readers: I know that the idea of a killer snowman destroying Santa’s workplace is kind of scary. Which is okay, because scary things happen in the world, and it’s best to learn to cope with them. But this is supposed to be a fun little story, and I don’t want to upset you by making you wonder whether or not Santa will survive. So I just want you to know that there’s no reason to be concerned, because Santa Claus doesn’t exist. He’s just a big lie your parents told you. See, there was nothing to worry about. Now back to the story, joined in progress:

  ««—»»

  "—wearing a dress of hardened Play-Doh while licking the toenails of a plummeting lemming."

  "That’s sick, Mrs. Claus," said her favorite elf, Spike, as he opened the door to the Hit The Fan Contingency Room. They quickly entered, and looked with the proper reverence at the pedestal upon which rested the urn containing those most heroic of disintegrated reindeer ashes.

  The ashes of Howard, the Tenth Reindeer.

  "He gave his life saving Christmas from the evil Edward Stinkwater," said Mrs. Claus, lifting the urn. "And now, if all goes well, he’ll be able to die for Christmas once again. Spike, recite the incantation."

  "Rise," said Spike.

  The urn began to tremble, the ground began to quake, the house began to shake, and suddenly the ashes rose and began to take form. There was some swirling and churning and bubbling and skeedaddling and snorkling, and suddenly there he stood, in all of his dramatic glory.

  Howard, the Tenth Reindeer.

  At that moment, the snowman burst into the room. Howard spoke his very first word since he’d made the ultimate sacrifice two long years ago: "Huh?"

  And then Slurpee ate him.

  "Well, damn," said Mrs. Claus.

  "Foolish woman," laughed Rufus, stepping into the room. "I’ve defeated your pitiful elves and even your multi-class halflings! I’ve destroyed your toy factory and have strewn Beanie Baby parts all over the North Pole! The children of the world will all be weeping come December 25! Now, Slurpee…get her!"

  "Stop!" shouted Santa, entering the room with his candy cane revolver. Rufus spun around, pulling out the coal pistol Santa had given him years ago. Mrs. Claus whipped out her tinsel gun. Spike yanked out his ornament boom-stick. Slurpee ate Spike.

  Santa fired, hitting Rufus in the chest. Rufus fired, hitting himself in the chest. Mrs. Claus fired, hitting Rufus in the uvula. Had Spike not been eaten, he would have fired, hitting Mrs. Claus in the left earlobe.

  As Rufus dropped to the floor in slow motion, Santa and Mrs. Claus opened fire on Slurpee, filling the air with a cacophony of glorious bang sounds and reducing the snowman to a melted Sno-Cone. Then they started shooting at the ceiling, overcome with firepower dementia.

  Soon it was all over, and they stood victorious over the dying Rufus. "Thought you could beat us, didn’t ya?" asked Santa. "Thought you were soooooo tough, but gosh, if I look around the room I only see one person who’s mortally wounded, golly, whoever could it be, I wonder…oh, it’s you!"

  Rufus forced a grin. "You may have beaten me, and my cousin Edward before me. But there’s one thing you haven’t beaten, and that’s the small nuclear device Slurpee and I brought along with us as a precaution against just this kind of situation. It’s going to explode in thirty seconds. Good night." And he died, bringing the official body count to eighty-seven, a new record for a story that was originally published as a Christmas card.

  Santa and Mrs. Claus hurried outside, where the nuclear device lay waiting, with a red digital readout conveniently informing them that 23 seconds remained. "Hand me my clippers," said Santa, opening the access panel. "The question is, do I cut the red wire, the blue wire, the yellow wire, the green wire, the white wire, the orange wire, the pink wire, the chartreuse wire, the periwinkle wire, or the wire with ‘Cut Me’ written on it?"

  "The orange wire," said Mrs. Claus, "because it looks most like the ball of flame that will engulf us if you get it wrong."

  Santa took a deep breath, positioned the clippers over the orange wire, and cut.

  "Thank you for cutting the orange wire," said a perky recorded voice from within the nuclear device. "Armageddon has been averted."

 
"You did it!" shouted Mrs. Claus. "Christmas is saved!"

  "We all did it," said Santa. "Well, I guess the people who got eaten by the snowman weren’t all that helpful, but everyone who survived did their share. Merry Christmas!"

  Yes, once again, evil was defeated and the spirit of Christmas lived on. And so we bring to a close this tale.

  The tale of Howard, the Tenth Reindeer.

  ««—»»

  (Note: Slurpees are a registered trademark of some business, and have never been known to magically transform into psychotic snowmen. They have, however, been shown to cause irreversible kidney damage.)

  BrainBugs

  My name is Charlie, and there are bugs in my brain.

  They’re crawling around in there, eating through my grey matter and doing Lord only knows what else.

  I’m not sure what kind they are. Spiders, I’m guessing, but I didn’t see them go in so I can’t be certain. It sort of feels like spiders, the way they dance around.

  Scientists will tell you that the brain doesn’t have nerves, that it doesn’t feel pain, but they’re wrong. I can feel everything. I can feel every time the bugs take a bite.

  They’ve probably eaten about half of my brain so far. I’m still doing okay, though, because you really only use a small percentage of it. But I’m scared that they’ll eat through an important part.

  If they are spiders, I wonder if they’ve spun webs in there?

  Every once in a while I’ll stick a Q-tip really far into my ear, as far as it will go, but it never comes out with webs on it. So maybe they aren’t.

  I wish I knew how to get them out.

  What would you do, if you were me? Don’t say go to the hospital. They won’t help me there. I went to a hospital for something else that I don’t want to talk about, before the bugs, and they didn’t help me at all.

  I hate doctors.

  Do you think that maybe the bugs crawled in through my nose? I do get nosebleeds sometimes. Bad ones. That could be it, I guess.

  Sometimes I think I want to name them. I don’t know how many there are, so it’s not a very practical idea, but it might be nice to be able to say "Ah, that’s Hector taking a bite right now," or "Winslow seems to be especially frisky this morning."

  What kind of names do you think I should give them?

  You want to hear something strange? I wouldn’t kill them if they crawled out. You probably think I would. They’ve hurt me a lot, and you probably think I’d smash them with my fist if I got the chance, but I wouldn’t. They’re not trying to hurt me. They’re just hungry, like any other living creature. I’d catch them in a piece of Tupperware and then release them onto my front lawn.

  I do wish they’d leave, though.

  They’re really, really hurting me.

  You would? Seriously? For free?

  I don’t know. What kind of medical training do you have?

  Yes, I know that enthusiasm counts for a lot, but there should be some kind of formal training before you try to remove bugs from somebody’s brain, right?

  No, no, you’re absolutely right. They could devour an important part any moment now. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  One is eating in sort of a spiral shape. I think I’ll name him Farley.

  What the hell are you doing? You can’t slice through the cranium with a pair of haircutting scissors! You clearly have no concept of proper surgical procedure. Put that down.

  See, you cut yourself. You have to be more careful.

  My hand hurts.

  Maybe I should just learn to live with them. I don’t even remember how long the bugs have been there. Maybe they’ve been there since I was born. I might need them. I might die if they leave.

  Look, you don’t have to be sarcastic about it. I know I’m in danger.

  Stop it.

  Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

  Stop it. You’re just trying to scare me.

  I said, stop trying to scare me.

  A chainsaw is not the answer. It’s an imprecise tool.

  Ow! You’re stressing me out and I think it’s making Farley hungry!

  Leave me alone.

  No, you’re right, I don’t want to die.

  I’ll go get it.

  I wish you could come with me.

  I’ll be back.

  I’ve got it, but you know what, I can’t even feel the bugs right now. Maybe they’ve left. Yep, I bet they’re gone for good. Whew, that’s a relief.

  I know, I know, self-delusion is not an attractive personality trait. I just think that maybe if we try this I’m going to be injured or something.

  Shut up.

  Now you’re just being mean. If you had bugs in your brain, you wouldn’t be talking like this.

  I’ll punch you.

  I swear I’ll punch you.

  Shut up!

  Look at what you made me do. Now my other hand is bleeding. I can’t see you anymore. Are you still here?

  You promise?

  Okay, I’ll let you do this, but you have to be careful. I mean it.

  I won’t move, but you have to be very, very careful.

  I don’t think you’re supposed to be using these things indoors. It’s so loud. I hope the neighbors don’t come over to see what we’re doing.

  Let me find something to bite down on.

  This towel will work.

  Please be careful.

  I’m not moving I’m not moving I’m not moving I’m not moving I’m not OH IT HURTS IT HURTS!

  Stop it! Just turn it off!

  You promised you’d be careful and you slipped! A doctor could have done a better job than this!

  My eye is ruined!

  What?

  You did not.

  Don’t play with me.

  I don’t see them. No, I don’t see them swimming in the blood on the floor. I just don’t! I’m looking where you’re pointing, but I don’t see them!

  Are they? Really? You mean it?

  Maybe they went in through my eye in the first place. I don’t know how they fit, but maybe they crawled under my eyeball.

  You’re not just kidding around, are you? Please tell me you’re not just kidding around.

  Wow.

  I’m sorry I yelled at you.

  No, I don’t feel any better, but I’m sure I will soon.

  Thank you. You’re a real pal.

  But I think I’ve changed my mind. I’m feeling faint from loss of blood and I probably should go to the hospital. Will you drive me?

  Cap’n Hank’s Five Alarm Nuclear Lava Wings

  "These wings are for pussies!" Vincent announced, shoving the basket aside. "I could force-feed one of these to my three year-old granddaughter and she wouldn’t even break a sweat. Atomic wings, my ass!"

  That skinny bastard had come in every weekend for the past couple of months, and all he ever did was gripe about the Buffalo wings. We were all getting a little sick of it, especially Bernard, who’d owned and ran the place going on twenty years now.

  "Those are the hottest wings in town," Bernard said, leaning over the bar and speaking in a much calmer voice than I ever would’ve been able to manage. "We’ve been voted hottest wings six years in a row, and we’ll be voted hottest wings this year, the next year, and the year after."

  "By who?" Vincent asked. "Pussy Wing Eaters of America? I’m barely even getting a tingle out of these things. Hell, the bleu cheese and celery is hotter than the sauce. I want my money back."

  Bernard patted the side of the cash register. "Your money is staying right here."

  "Then at least give me a free beer."

  "I’ll give you a free kick in the butt, right out the door."

  Vincent sighed and half-heartedly picked another wing out of his basket. "I guess I’ll finish these since I paid for ’em, but I want it known that these are Girl Scout wings. Naw, Brownie wings. Brownies are the smaller Girl Scouts, right? These sissy wings wouldn’t have even disrupted my grandmother’s flow of oxygen when s
he was on life support, God rest her soul."

  There were only four others in the bar: Randy, Sam, Terrence, and me. We were pretty much the only ones ever in the bar, and that’s just how we liked it. We hung out at Bernard’s place nearly every night, and we didn’t much like new people coming in to piss and moan about the food. Bernard made a damn good Buffalo wing, every bit as good as what they made in New York. At least I assumed that was the case, seeing as how I’d never been to New York.

  Bernard glanced at each of us, and then he smiled. "Tell me, Vince, buddy, have you ever heard of Cap’n Hank’s Five Alarm Nuclear Lava Wings?"

  Vincent shook his head. "Nope."

  "It’s a special recipe. They are, and I kid you not, the hottest wings in the world. One bite and you’ll be bawling in the restroom like a little girl who got spanked by her daddy."

  "Yeah, right."

  "You’ll beg for dry ice for your tongue."

  "I doubt that."

  Bernard looked Vincent directly in the eye and held his stare for a long moment. "I’m not kidding. These wings will make you their bitch."

  "Well, hell, whip up a batch then," said Vincent. "What are you waiting for?"

  "I don’t keep the sauce in stock. It doesn’t store well, and I don’t need to lose my bar because of some lawsuit over somebody burning their mouth. But I’ll special order a jar if you want, and we’ll see how much of a man you really are."