Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "Yes."

  "Good. Jesus." Then a rather obvious idea occurred to me. "Did your husband have any black magic books or scrolls or anything like that?"

  "Not in the house."

  "Are you sure? Maybe hidden under the mattress next to the Playboys?"

  "I’m sure. I looked."

  "Maybe in his closet, in a shoebox or something? That’s where I kept my porn when I lived with this one chick. Now I just leave it out on the floor and in the bathroom."

  "I don’t care about your porn."

  "You should. It’s good porn."

  "I’m sure it is. Now why don’t you head over to Wal-Mart?"

  "Are you giving me orders again?"

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Counting to ten."

  "All right, all right, we’ll go."

  "You mean you’ll go. If my husband turns up headless, it’s probably best if I don’t have a recent chainsaw purchase on my credit card."

  "Well, I don’t have enough money for a chainsaw."

  "How much is a chainsaw?"

  "Dunno. More than the twelve bucks I got from you. Anyway, even if I had the money, I wouldn’t pay for this stuff. That’s your problem."

  "Jerk." She stormed off into another room. What did she think, I was going to purchase hardware for her? Give me a break. I once dated this chick, and she asked if we could stop by the convenience store for a Coke, and I said sure and went in with her, and when the clerk said that it would be a buck-nineteen she looked at me all expectantly, as if I was supposed to buy her Coke. It’s not even like I was getting one for myself. I made her buy her own damn Coke. No way in hell was I going to buy Gretchen a saw with my own money. Screw that.

  She returned with some cash. "This is a hundred and sixty-five dollars. It’s all the money I have in the world." She handed me the wad of bills. "I want change."

  "Not a problem."

  "Be back in an hour or I’m calling the cops on you."

  That did it. I reached into my jacket, pulled out the revolver, and shoved it in her face. "If I’m not back in an hour, you’ll wait another fuckin’ hour. If I’m not back then, you’ll kiss your hundred and sixty-five bucks goodbye and be glad you’re still alive. You got that?"

  "Yeah."

  "Say ‘yes.’ It’s more polite."

  "Yes."

  "Thank you." I was tempted to bash the barrel of the revolver against her nose, but then she probably would call the cops. And besides, I didn’t feel like screwing some chick with a swollen nose. I hoped that the gun-in-the-face would be enough to remind her that she wasn’t the boss of me.

  I tucked the gun back into my inside jacket pocket. "I’ll try to be back in an hour, but I can’t help it if people try to go through the ‘twelve items or less’ line with thirteen items."

  She nodded without much enthusiasm. Clearly this little reminder of who was in charge had bummed her out. Good. It actually made me kind of horny.

  "Feel free to keep trying with the butcher knife," I said, as I headed for the front door.

  "I think I’m just going to watch some TV."

  "Whatever. Seeya in an hour or so."

  - 4 -

  As I walked down the sidewalk, I wondered if I was a complete dumbass for going through with this. I quickly decided that yes, I was indeed a dumbass, a big one, but that it would be worth it in the end.

  I wasn’t scared of prison. I mean, I certainly didn’t want to go to prison, but when you live like I do, it’s pretty much a given that at some point you’re going to end up doing time. I figured, worst case scenario, even if I got life in the slammer I’d be clever enough to figure out a way to slit my wrists or hang myself.

  Live fast and die young. Take risks. I didn’t even like to wear condoms.

  Now I had to figure out what to do. I was definitely going to keep Gretchen’s cash for myself, but that meant I’d have to figure out some other way to get the necessary saws. I’ve never been skilled at breaking-and-entering, so stealing one from somebody’s home wasn’t an option. Neither was stealing one from Wal-Mart, since not only would a chainsaw not fit down my pants, but I wouldn’t put one down there if it did.

  Maybe I could pick up one for cheap at a pawn shop.

  Hmmmmm.

  One thing was for sure: I was going to be back in an hour. Yeah, yeah, I put Gretchen in her place, but I still couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t call the cops on me. Though it wouldn’t be in her best interest to do so, I had to keep the whole "insane woman" element of the situation in mind.

  I found a pawn shop pretty easily, but sadly they didn’t have either a hacksaw or a chainsaw. They did have the latest Alice Cooper CD for five bucks, so I picked that up.

  I resumed walking down the sidewalk, trying to figure things out. What else could be used to separate a stingy head from its body? Perhaps we’d given up too easily. If I bashed at his neck with a claw hammer, over and over, the bones would have to separate before too long, right?

  Made sense.

  Or maybe the brain itself was the issue. Yeah, we’d bashed his skull in, but we hadn’t actually gone after his grey matter. If we got the skull open, we could stab his brain a few times with the butcher knife. That might work better than stabbing the heart.

  Hmmmmm.

  The problem with being lost in thought is that I wasn’t paying as much attention to my surroundings as I normally would. For example, under normal circumstances, when I walked past an alleyway, I’d notice if there was a pair of young thugs hiding in the shadows, waiting for a victim to approach. I’d be certain that my gun was ready to draw at a moment’s notice, do my I’m Pretty Sure You Don’t Wanna Fuck With Me walk, and they’d leave me alone.

  Instead, I was doing my Lost In Thought Trying to Figure Out Where The Hell I’m Gonna Get a Chainsaw At This Late Hour walk. So I was really unhappy when I saw the gun pointed at me.

  "Get in here!" said one of the young thugs, grabbing me by the collar of my jacket. He pulled me into the alley while his buddy kept the gun pointed at me.

  Both of the assholes looked about eighteen or nineteen. The one with the gun had a shaved head and a Swastika tattooed on his forehead. The one who had dared to touch my jacket was holding a switchblade knife and he had a green mohawk.

  Mohawk Boy slammed me against the wall. "Give me your wallet, bitch!"

  "Whoa, whoa, hold on," I said. "I’m in the business. How about showing some professional courtesy?"

  "I’ll professional courtesy your ass!"

  "I don’t even get what that means."

  "He said, hand over your wallet!" said Mr. Shaved Head.

  I dug my wallet out of my back pocket and handed it over. Mohawk Boy opened it and quickly flipped through the contents. "Two bucks?"

  "The economy’s crap, man."

  "Turn your pockets inside-out!"

  I reached inside my jacket pocket.

  "No, your pants pockets first!"

  "What difference does the order make?"

  "Pants pockets first!"

  Damn. I reached into the pocket of my jeans and took out my earnings for the night. I could’ve easily knocked the knife right out of his hand and then fed him his own mohawk, but I didn’t own any Kevlar leotards so I had to think about his buddy with the gun.

  I handed over the money. Mohawk Boy grinned. "Thanks."

  "Anytime. Don’t mention it."

  "What else ya got?" asked Mr. Shaved Head.

  "You just took almost a hundred and eighty bucks from me! What the hell else do you need?"

  "Maybe we need blood."

  "Yeah, okay, whatever. So how come that Swastika hasn’t gotten you killed yet?"

  "‘Cuz I know how to take care of myself."

  "Yeah, but doesn’t it keep you from being served at restaurants and stuff?"

  "No."

  "I can’t imagine that. I mean, your friend can wear a hat when he doesn’t want to lo
ok like a complete retard, but you don’t even have any hair to comb over your forehead. Do you slap on a wig?"

  "You need to stop talking."

  "What’s gonna happen when you’re middle-aged? Some Jewish kid will kick your ass. Aren’t you thinking about the future?"

  "I’m serious. You need to keep that mouth shut."

  "Sorry. I’m just wondering why somebody would want to make it so they can’t even walk into a McDonalds without some sort of conflict. Seems like social suicide to me."

  "Kiss my ass."

  I looked at him more closely. "That’s a temporary tattoo, isn’t it?"

  "Fuck you!"

  "It is! I can tell from here!"

  "So what?"

  "Wow, you must be quite a badass. Did you get that at Hot Topic or Claire’s?"

  "I said shut the fuck up!"

  Okay, I promised myself that I would be brutally honest when I wrote this, which means that I can’t talk about using his anger as a distraction, reaching into my jacket, pulling out my gun, popping a bullet right into the middle of his ridiculous Swastika, and then taking out Mohawk Boy a split-second before he lunged at me with the switchblade.

  No, the truth is that they beat the shit out of me.

  Don’t get me wrong—I put up a good fight. I think I broke Mohawk Boy’s nose and I rubbed off part of Mr. Shaved Head’s tattoo. Still, I was outnumbered. In the movies, the hero can beat up dozens of opponents, but in real life, fighting two guys at once generally means that you’re gonna get your ass kicked.

  They ran off with my money and wallet, leaving me lying on the ground with a bloody nose, split lip, cut arm, headache, earache, stomachache, groinache, broken toe (I think) and about eighteen billion bruises.

  And then I lost consciousness for a while.

  - 5 -

  I awoke to a warm, pleasant sensation on my legs. When I opened my eyes and saw that it was wino taking a piss on me, the sensation became less pleasant. I cursed, sputtered, and scooted away.

  "Sorry, din’t seeya dere," said the wino, giving me a rotten-tooth smile.

  I reached into my jacket pocket to grab my gun so I could shoot his dick off.

  It wasn’t there.

  "Lookin’ for dis?" he asked, pointing my gun at me. The safety was off.

  "No, I was looking for something to wipe off your goddamn urine."

  "Urine. Dat’s funny. Urine." He chuckled. The wino looked about eighty years old and had a thick grey beard. He was wearing raggedy clothes that looked like they hadn’t been washed in six weeks, and he’d done a lot of vomiting in those six weeks.

  "Give me back my gun," I said.

  The wino shook his head. "Uh-uh. My gun. Guess I lied when I said I din’t see ya dere, huh?" The wino’s belly shook as he laughed, like a bowl full of Jell-O shots.

  I pushed myself up to a sitting position, which really, really hurt. "I mean it. Give me back the gun, old man."

  "I’m ‘onna sell dis gun, an’ get me some booooooze. My belly’s gon’ be full tonight! Boo-ya!"

  "That gun was used to commit a crime today. You try to sell it, you’re going to jail."

  The wino threw back his head and laughed. "I ain’t ‘fraid of jail. Dey got booze in jail."

  "No, they don’t."

  "Dey sure do! Dey got booze an’ poontang an’ biscuits."

  "You’re thinking of the magical jail in the land of fairy dragons."

  "Boooooooooze."

  I almost liked this old guy, except that he’d stolen my gun and taken a leak on me. "Just give me my gun. I don’t want you to hurt yourself with it."

  "Ain’t goin’ hurt myself. Goin’ hurt you."

  "I don’t think so."

  "Goin’ make you bleed!"

  At this point, it was time to make the situation with the wino go away. I kicked him in the shin as hard as I could. He let out a loud yelp and fell to the ground, howling in pain. I plucked the gun out of his hand and turned it on him.

  "Oh, sweet Jesus!" he cried out. "Don’t shoot me! Please, please don’t shoot me!"

  "I’m not gonna shoot you," I said, getting to my feet.

  "Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! Oh, Lord, I’m not ready to die! Please don’t call me home! I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die! Oh, please, show some mercy, kind sir! I’ll do anything! No, no, no, no, no, don’t kill me!"

  "I’m not gonna kill you. Shut up."

  The wino grabbed my right leg with both hands. "You are! You’re gonna kill me for what I done! Oh Jesus God Christ Buddha I don’t wanna die! Why won’t you have sweet mercy? I wasn’t goin’ hurt you wit’ da gun, I swear it on my dead momma’s life! I was goin’ let you go! Oh, please, please, please, can’t you find it in yourself to let me and my children live?" Tears streamed down his face.

  I tried to shake him off my leg. "Knock it off. What the hell’s the matter with you?"

  "I’ll do anything! Anything at all! I’m too young to die! I got too many unresolved issues in my life! Want my shirt? I’ll give you my shirt!"

  "I don’t want your shirt."

  "Take it! Take da shirt off my back!" The wino hurriedly unbuttoned his filthy shirt, took it off, and thrust it at me. "Take da shirt in exchange for my life! Please!"

  I thrust the shirt back at him. "I don’t want the shirt or your life. Go away."

  "You’re goin’ kill me!"

  "I said I wasn’t."

  "You’re goin’ shoot me in da back of my head!"

  "Jeez, get some self-respect," I told him. I turned and tried to walk out of the alley, but the wino wouldn’t let go of my damn leg. I turned back and pressed the barrel of the gun against his head. He shrieked.

  "I don’t wanna die don’t wanna die don’t wanna—"

  "Let go of my leg!"

  "—die don’t wanna die don’t wanna die don’t wanna—"

  "Stop blubbering! I’m not gonna kill you. Get your hands off my leg so I can leave!"

  He let go of my leg, then clawed at the zipper of my pants. "I’ll suck your dick! I’ll suck it good so you won’t kill me! We won’t have to tell no one ‘bout it!"

  I came pretty close to shooting him then, but I settled for kicking him in the chest. He fell onto his side and then scrunched up into the fetal position, sobbing.

  I shoved the gun into my inside jacket pocket and hurried out of the alley, wincing at the pain that seemed to be in every joint in my body. I hurt enough from my beating that I didn’t notice the cop until I walked into him.

  "Uhhhhh," I said.

  "What’s going on?" the cop asked. He was a big guy with a bad complexion, and he looked like the kind of person who really enjoyed using his billy club.

  "Nothing, sir."

  "Oh, Lord, he’s goin’ come back to kill me, I just know it! He’s goin’ crack my teeth on the pavement and shoot my brains out! Please, please, please heavenly Allah don’t let him come back! I need a drink!"

  "A homeless man tried to mug me," I explained. "No big deal. He seems kind of mentally disturbed; you may want to check him into a soup kitchen."

  "Looks like he beat you up pretty bad."

  I nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I did take a few punches. I’ve always tried to live a life of peace, so it’s hard for me to defend myself against physical violence. God gives me strength, though. I forgive the homeless man for what he did."

  The cop narrowed his eyes. "Why don’t you wait here?"

  "Yes, sir."

  The cop walked into the alley. I tried to decide if I should make a run for it or not. Technically, I was the victim here, but I don’t think it will surprise you to discover that I didn’t have a concealed weapons permit for the gun in my jacket, nor was it even registered in my name.

  Unfortunately, I was sore as hell, and staggering away from the scene in a pathetic half-limp wouldn’t get me far. I was going to have to talk my way out of this one. I’ll admit that I did think about popping the cop, but purely in a "Gosh, it sure would be stupid to pop the cop" s
ense. They don’t stop looking for cop killers.

  I stepped back to the entrance of the alley so I could watch. The wino kept begging for his life, although by now it was pure gibberish, while the cop tried to calm him down. I sort of hoped that the wino would offer to fellate him, which would’ve been pretty funny.

  The cop pulled the wino to his feet, pushed him against the wall, and handcuffed him. The wino shouted something that I couldn’t understand but that was most likely a request that the cop not kill him.

  "Nobody’s going to kill you," said the cop, who had obviously learned to speak Incoherent Wino during his training.

  "You takin’ me to jail?" asked the wino.

  "I’m taking you to the station, yes."

  "All riiiiight! Poontang! Poontang!"