Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "Sounds good to me."

  Bernard smiled again. "Sounds good to me, too."

  ««—»»

  The next weekend, we all looked up as Vincent strut into the place. He sat down at the bar and folded his arms over his chest. "Hey, Bernard, why don’t you bring me a great big order of those special wings that you mentioned? And a teeny tiny glass of water to go with ’em. I don’t expect that I’ll need anything more."

  "Sure. Give me a few to heat up the sauce," said Bernard, heading into the back room.

  About five minutes later he returned, holding a basket of about a dozen wings. Those things were such a bright orange color that I thought they might glow in the dark. If you had a Geiger counter, which none of us did, I’ll bet that thing would’ve showed more radioactivity than if you waved it over Godzilla’s feces. It practically burned my nose just to smell them.

  Bernard set them in front of Vincent and gestured with dramatic flourish. "Here you go. Cap’n Hank’s Five Alarm Nuclear Lava Wings."

  Vincent took a quick whiff. "Mmmm. Tangy."

  Bernard grabbed a clipboard and set it in front of Vincent. "I’m gonna have to ask you to sign this waiver that absolves me from all responsibility and proves that you’re consuming these wings of your own personal accord."

  "Sure, sure," said Vincent, scribbling his signature on the form. "I’ve signed waivers on hotter-smelling wings than these hundreds of times."

  We all watched in silence as Vincent picked a drumstick up out of his basket. He inspected it from all angles and then took a bite. He chewed, slowly and thoughtfully.

  Finally he swallowed, took a sip of water, swished it around in his mouth for a moment, and then spoke.

  "These," he said, "are pussy wings."

  That’s all we needed to hear. Everybody sprang into action, pulling Vincent off his stool, lifting him up, and slamming him on top of the bar. I held his shoulders while Bernard lit up a blowtorch.

  While Vincent screamed, Bernard touched the flame to his mouth. Vincent’s lips blistered, cracked, blackened, and after a while just weren’t there anymore. Then Bernard started on his tongue. That took a lot longer, but none of us had anything better to do that evening.

  We would’ve liked to leave him that way so he could think about perhaps being less rude in the future, but though Vincent couldn’t speak anymore, he could still report us. So we had to kill him. It was easy; we just shoved those wings down his throat until he choked to death. Terrence drew the short straw and had to bury him.

  And so things went pretty much back to normal at Bernard’s bar. After a few days we quit talking about poor Vincent, and after a few weeks I don’t think any of us even thought about him much.

  Of course, when Bernard served me a hamburger that was way too overdone, I didn’t complain.

  A Call For Mr. Potty-Mouth

  "Piss!" shouted Margie. "Piss, piss, piss, piss!"

  "Margaret Anne Fulmer, you watch your language!" said her mother as she walked into the bedroom and put her hands on her hips. "Who taught you to talk like that?"

  Margie shrugged. "I dunno."

  "Well, that’s not a nice word, and I don’t want to hear that kind of talk from you, do you understand?"

  "You’ve said it. You’ve said even worse."

  "I’m not seven years old, now am I? And anyway, Mommy shouldn’t talk like that either. It isn’t polite."

  "But I can’t find my other shoe!"

  "That’s no reason to curse. Do you know what happens to little girls who use naughty language?"

  "No."

  "They get a visit from Mr. Potty-Mouth, and he washes their mouths out with soap."

  "Yuck."

  "That’s right, yuck. So think about that the next time you want to say a bad word. And your shoe is right there next to that piece of cake you snuck into your room."

  ««—»»

  That night, after she’d brushed her teeth and said her prayers, Margie sat in bed playing a handheld video game. It was hard to concentrate, because it was a school night and she had to listen for Mommy’s footsteps in the hallway or risk having the game taken away. But she was still doing pretty well, and was almost in the top ten scores.

  Then her spaceship exploded.

  "Dammit," she said, shutting off the game.

  "Now, now, that’s no way to talk, is it?"

  Margie gasped. A man stood next to her bed. He wore purple-and-white striped pajamas and an orange pointy hat that almost looked like a traffic cone, and he had a black mustache that curled up on both sides.

  "Who…who are you?" asked Margie.

  "Why, I’m Mr. Potty-Mouth, of course!" he said, winking at her and politely tipping his hat. "Little girls shouldn’t talk the way that you do. Oh no, no indeed. It’s very naughty. I think I’ll have to wash your mouth out with soap."

  Margie pulled the covers over her mouth and shook her head. "I’ll be good," she insisted, though the blanket muffled her words. "I won’t talk like that anymore."

  "Do you promise?" asked Mr. Potty-Mouth.

  Margie nodded.

  "Oh, no, I think you’re a wicked little girl who tells lies." He yanked the blanket and sheets away from her and tossed them across the room. Then he grinned and showed her his bar of soap.

  It was black, greasy soap, and the surface bubbled like boiling water. Some of it oozed between Mr. Potty-Mouth’s fingers and dripped onto the carpet.

  Margie tried to scream for her mother but the words didn’t come out. "I’m the only one who can hear you," said Mr. Potty-Mouth. "Nobody else will listen to such a foul-mouthed little girl."

  He grabbed her arm with his free hand and pulled her to the edge of the bed, then pushed the soap against her mouth. Margie expected it to burn, but it was freezing cold, and it smelled a hundred times stronger than the yellow soap she’d used during her bath that evening.

  She gagged as he rubbed the bar in small circles. Black bubbles floated past her eyes as the thick, slimy soap got all over her lips and teeth and into her mouth. She wanted to throw up. The black ooze ran down her chin and when one of the bubbles popped in her eye it stung worse than the time Bobby next door almost poked her eye out with a stick.

  "All nice and clean," said Mr. Potty-Mouth, stepping away from the bed. "I know you’ve learned your lesson. You’ll be a good little girl from now on, won’t you?"

  He tipped his hat with his free hand and vanished.

  Margie jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway. She still couldn’t speak, so she hurried into the bathroom to wash off that horrible black stuff.

  She grabbed the good guest towel from the rack and looked in the mirror as she scrubbed it over her face. No matter how old she got, she would never use bad words again. Never ever ever. No matter how mad she was, no matter how bad she did at video games, no matter what, she’d never—

  Margie dropped the towel in the sink and stared at her reflection. As tears poured down her cheeks, she tried desperately to cry out for Mommy…but she couldn’t because her mouth was gone.

  The Bad Man in the Blue House

  In the blue house, there lives a man.

  He is a bad man.

  A very bad man.

  In the red house next door, there lives a woman.

  She has done some bad things, but she is a good woman.

  She is a happy woman.

  A very happy woman.

  The bad man watches the happy woman.

  He thinks bad thoughts while he watches her.

  He loves her, but he hates her even more.

  He does not want to hurt her.

  Every day he tells himself that he does not want to hurt her.

  The bad man lies.

  Sometimes he watches her all night.

  He giggles while he watches her.

  Or he cries.

  Or he covers his mouth and screams.

  He hates the happy woman.

  Sometimes she closes her curtains at night.

/>   Then he can not see her.

  But he can see her in his mind.

  She looks better in his mind.

  And he can hurt her better in his mind.

  Over and over and over.

  The bad man thinks that tonight he might leave the blue house.

  He might visit the happy woman in her red house.

  He might visit her bedroom.

  The bad man will giggle.

  The happy woman will cry and scream.

  It will be fun.

  The bad man has a shiny knife.

  His father gave him this knife.

  It might not be shiny after tonight.

  The bad man watches for the happy woman.

  She won’t be back in the red house until it is dark out.

  The bad man will watch until then.

  The bad man is almost happy as he watches.

  When it is dark out, the happy woman comes home.

  He can see her inside the red house.

  She will not be asleep for a long time.

  The bad man can wait.

  He giggles while he waits.

  He loves the knife his father gave him.

  He does not get tired while he waits.

  When the happy woman gets in bed, he is more awake than ever.

  The bad man leaves the blue house.

  He likes the dark.

  People laugh at him in the light.

  Nobody laughs at him in the dark.

  He walks over to the red house.

  The bad man doesn’t giggle.

  The bad man is scared.

  He tests the doorknob.

  It is locked.

  He knew it would be locked.

  But the bad man has a key.

  He has had this key for a long time.

  He has always wanted to use it.

  He unlocks the door.

  The bad man walks inside the red house.

  He is very quiet.

  He looks around the happy woman’s kitchen.

  He stands there for a long time.

  He hates the happy woman.

  The bad man walks up the stairs.

  He does not giggle.

  He looks at the happy woman’s bedroom.

  The door is closed.

  The bad man wants to go back to the blue house.

  He wants to cry.

  But he wants to hurt the happy woman more.

  The bad man opens the door.

  The happy woman is in bed.

  Her eyes are closed.

  The bad man can hear her breathe.

  He moves closer.

  He can smell her.

  He is ready to hurt the happy woman.

  He is ready to hear her cry and scream.

  Her eyes are open.

  The bad man drops the shiny knife.

  The happy woman screams.

  The happy woman scrambles across the bed.

  The bad man grabs her leg.

  Her skin is warm.

  He digs his fingernails into her warm skin.

  But she pulls her leg free.

  The happy woman is off the bed.

  The bad man picks up the knife his father gave him.

  He giggles.

  The happy woman opens a drawer beside her bed.

  The bad man runs toward her.

  He can not wait to hurt her.

  He can not wait for her to cry.

  Maybe the happy woman will even beg.

  The bad man hears a loud noise.

  He drops the knife again.

  It is still shiny.

  The bad man wants to leave the red house.

  But he falls onto the bedroom floor.

  He hurts.

  He cries.

  He picks up the knife.

  He presses it to his chest.

  He loves the knife his father gave him.

  It is not shiny anymore.

  He closes his eyes.

  He can not see the happy woman anymore.

  Not even in his mind.

  The happy woman is safe.

  But she still cries.

  She still screams.

  Later, the happy woman moves out of the red house.

  She cries even after she has left.

  Sometimes she screams in her sleep.

  Sometimes she is scared.

  Not always.

  But sometimes.

  Abbey’s Shriek

  The front door opened, and Abbey cringed.

  "Stephanie, Abbey…go downstairs," said Dad as soon as he entered the living room.

  "But Dad—!" Abbey protested.

  "Are you arguing with me?" Dad walked over to shut off the television. "I thought we’d already worn out the lecture about you arguing with me, but I’ll be more than happy to repeat it."

  "No…I’m sorry." Abbey hurriedly began to gather up his comic books. "I’m going."

  "Now!"

  "Yes, sir." Abbey picked up the small stack of comics, then went over to the basement door. Stephanie, who at ten was three years and a month older than him, had already turned on the light and was walking down the steps. She never put up a fight.

  As Abbey followed her, Dad shut the door and locked it. There were probably much worse places to be than down in the basement. They had lots of board games, some drawing paper, and plenty of books to read. But Abbey was always frightened to be down here, even when his sister was with him.

  Stephanie sat down on the couch and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. The basement was cold even when it was warm outside. In the winter it could become unbearable. Abbey sat cross-legged on the floor and began to read The Fantastic Four. Dad called his comics "worthless trash," but, surprisingly, didn’t forbid him to read them.

  After a few minutes, there was a giggle from upstairs. Abbey glanced over at Stephanie, who was reading some stupid girl book. "What do you think they’re doing?"

  "You ask that every time."

  "I do not."

  "Yes, you do."

  "Well, tell me anyway."

  "You’re too young to know."

  "I am not!"

  "Yes, you are. If you weren’t too young you’d already know what they were doing."

  "Please, pretty please tell me?"

  "When you get older."

  "Tell me now! I’ll give you some of my Starburst!"

  "Give me the whole pack and I’ll tell you."

  That was a painful demand. Dad didn’t let them have candy very often, and it might be forever before Abbey got another pack. But he had to know.

  "Let me have half of them, and you can have the rest," he offered.

  "You can’t keep any cherry ones."

  Abbey frowned. He’d meant to take all of the cherry ones. He slipped the pack out of his pocket and drummed his fingers along it. "Tell me first then I’ll give you them."

  "No way, Jose. I know you. After I tell you you’ll just shove them all in your mouth like an orangutan."

  "I will not!"

  "Then you’ll scratch and drool all over yourself and spray snot all over the place, ‘cause that’s what orangutans do. Your mother was an orangutan, you know. It was supposed to be a secret. You were born out in the jungle. We have pictures."

  "Shut up!" said Abbey. "Mom’s in hell! Dad said so!"

  "Fine, believe whatever you want." Stephanie made "oo-oo-ee-ee-aa-aa!" noises at him.

  Abbey pouted for a few moments, but then opened the pack of Starburst and removed the strawberry and orange ones. He tossed the rest of the pack to his sister, spilling them everywhere.

  "You retard!" Stephanie got up off the couch and began gathering up the candies.

  "Now tell me what they’re doing up there."

  "Foreplay."

  "What’s that?"

  "It means they’re getting ready to have sex."

  "So what are they going to do?"

  "You retard, don’t you know anything?"

  "How am I supposed to know anything
if nobody tells me? I’m not magic!"

  "Well, I know all about it. I found some magazines in Dad’s closet one day when he accidentally left the door unlocked, and I know everything."

  "So tell me."

  "It’s really gross."

  "Cool!"

  "Dad’s up there with some lady. Pretty soon they’re going to be on the couch or in his bed completely naked."

  "Really?"

  "Uh-huh. Except the lady might be wearing high heels. Then they’re going to lick each other, all over. Even the penis and vagina."

  Abbey’s stomach lurched. "Why would they want to do that?"

  "Because, that’s what you do in foreplay. Then he’s going to stick his penis in her vagina."

  "He is not!"

  "Yes, he is."

  "What if they have to go pee?"

  "They hold it."

  "Eeewwww."

  "And then, after they do that for a while, slimy white stuff is going to come out of Dad’s penis, and then guess what happens?"

  "What?"

  "The lady licks it up!"

  "You liar!" Abbey said, giggling.

  "I’m serious! I saw it in the magazine!"