Gleefully Macabre Tales

by Jeff Strand

  "Uh-huh." I finished off the beer and turned the can upside down to make sure he knew there wasn’t any left. "So send my soul to Hell."

  "In time."

  "You’re so full of shit. If you could do it, you’d do it now." I gently kicked the bag. "Does that bug you?"

  "You’re sealing your fate, mortal."

  I kicked the bag a few more times. "Is that annoying you? It would sure annoy me. Why don’t you make me stop? Huh? Why don’t you curse my toes or something?"

  The head didn’t respond.

  "What’s the matter? Is my foot in your mouth?" I knelt down and untied the garbage bag. I reached inside and pulled out the wrapped-up head.

  "You’ll pay for this."

  "You keep saying that, and yet has my soul been sent to Hell? I don’t think so." I set the head in the sink and unwrapped the magazines.

  Hubby’s face was completely smeared with blood. He opened his eyes. "You’ve sealed your fate," he said. His mouth moved, but not quite in sync with his words, like a bad dub job.

  "Oooh, I’m trembling."

  The head glared at me. "You know not what you do."

  "You mean like this?" I pinched its nose.

  "I don’t need to breathe anymore, dumbass," said the head in a slightly nasal voice.

  "I’m not trying to suffocate you. I’m trying to annoy you."

  "Knock it off."

  "Go on, send my soul to Hell. You chicken?"

  "You don’t understand the powers you’re dealing with."

  I let go of his nose and poked him in the right eye. Not enough to puncture the eyeball or anything; more like a Three Stooges poke.

  "Ow," said the head.

  "So you can feel that?" I poked him in the other eye.

  The head opened its mouth and tried to bite me. I moved my hand out of the way and slapped it in the face.

  "Don’t do that again," I told it.

  "I’d advise you not to touch me anymore."

  I slapped it on the other cheek.

  "You little punk!"

  I pinched it again. "Got your nose!"

  Hubby’s head made another attempt to bite me. This time, his teeth scraped against the back of my hand. I grabbed the revolver out of my inside jacket pocket and pressed it against the head’s forehead.

  "You want some of this?" I asked. "Huh? You want a piece of this?"

  "Go on—threaten a severed head! Does that make you feel like a big man? Ooooooh, you’re so tough!"

  "I’ll pop you! I mean it!"

  "Does it boost your male ego to threaten a head? Why don’t you drag out the rest of my body so we can compare penis size?"

  "That’s it, you’re dead!" I shoved the barrel of the revolver into its mouth.

  "What the hell are you doing?" asked Gretchen. Her hair was wrapped in a towel and she was wearing a light blue bathrobe.

  "He was mouthing off," I explained.

  "Put the head back in the bag."

  "But it’s not dead yet!"

  "I can see that! That doesn’t mean you need to put a gun in its mouth! What’s the matter with you? It’s not like you’re gonna really shoot it!"

  "Well, don’t tell it that!"

  "Put the gun away, moron."

  I pulled the gun out of the head’s mouth, then poked it in the forehead with the barrel.

  "Put the gun away," Gretchen said.

  "I am!" I stuffed the gun back in my jacket pocket.

  "Now put the head away."

  "Are you sure we should do that? There could be money in this."

  "Put it away, Frank!"

  "We could make the talk show circuit or at least hit a few carnivals. We don’t have to tell people how he got decapitated."

  "Frank!"

  "All right, all right."

  Her hubby’s head glared at me as I wrapped it back up in the magazines. I dropped it back into the garbage bag and tied it closed.

  "He can’t really send my soul to Hell, can he?" I asked.

  "Sure he can."

  "You serious?"

  "Yeah. Don’t piss him off."

  I decided not to kick the garbage bag again. "I thought you didn’t know if this was black magic or not."

  "Well, Frankie, it’s entirely possible that I know more about the situation than I let on. If you weren’t a complete idiot, you might have figured that out by now."

  "So what’s the next step?"

  "Next you get in the shower and wash off that gook so that you can get rid of the body without people saying ‘Hey, where’s that blood-covered asshole going with those bags?’ Make it quick. It’s going to be light soon."

  I took a shower. Bitch used up all the hot water.

  - 7 -

  After the shower, Gretchen gave me some more of her husband’s dork clothes to wear. I see no need to describe them.

  Then she outlined the plan. We were going to very casually take the garbage bags down to the Dumpster, as if disposing of traditional weekly refuse, and then get the hell out of there. It was not exactly the scheme of a criminal mastermind, but it was nice and simple.

  "What if he talks to somebody?" I asked, as Gretchen picked up the bag containing the head.

  "He won’t."

  "How do you know?"

  She held the bag up to her face and spoke loudly and clearly. "Because if he does, I’ll smash him like a pumpkin."

  "Yeah, but wouldn’t that be better than festering away in a garbage dump?" I asked.

  She gave me a dirty look, as if to say ix-nay on the estering-fay away in an arbage-gay ump-day.

  "Well, it would be," I insisted. "I sure wouldn’t want to live for eternity as a disembodied head in a garbage bag. A jar in a lab, maybe, but not in a garbage bag."

  "Okay, fine, you’re right," said Gretchen. She slammed the bag down on the kitchen table.

  "Why are you getting pissy? You’re lucky I thought of that."

  "I just want this over." She took a dishtowel out of a drawer, then quickly opened up the garage bag and unwrapped the head. "Pry his mouth open for me."

  "Hell no."

  "Do it!"

  "Remember a half-second ago when I said ‘hell no’? That still stands."

  She looked at the head. "Open your mouth."

  The head did not open its mouth.

  "Open your mouth, or so help me I’ll set your hair on fire."

  "Oooh, can we do that anyway?" I asked.

  Gretchen ignored me. "I mean it. I’ll cut your fuckin’ lips off and start ripping your teeth out with a pair of pliers."

  The head opened its mouth and she shoved the rag inside.

  "Wow," I said. "You can be one unpleasant chick."

  "Shut up."

  "That was a compliment."

  She wrapped the head back up and once again tied the garbage bag. "Are we ready to go, or do you have anything else to complain about?"

  "Nah, I’m good."

  And so we headed off. I carried two bags and she carried one, which I assure you was me being chivalrous and not pussy- whipped. The Dumpster was right around the back of the apartment building, and we managed to almost reach it without everything getting fucked up.

  A dumb-looking little kid, maybe…hell, I can’t tell kids’ ages, I guess he was about five or so, was sitting in front of the exit, playing with a couple of dolls. And by "dolls" I don’t mean "action figures," I mean "dolls," as in "dolls that even a five-year-old deserves to get the shit kicked out of him for playing with."

  "Hi!" said the kid, smiling at Gretchen.

  "What are you doing here this early in the morning, sweetie?" Gretchen asked. "It’s not even light out."

  "Waiting for my mom. She’s taking me to visit Gramma."

  "That’s nice."

  "Did you two make babies last night?"

  "Charles! That’s not a nice thing to ask," said Gretchen.

  I shook my head. "All she did was perform oral—"

  Gretchen elbowed me in the ribs, hitting
right in an especially sore spot from my earlier beating. I winced, gritted my teeth, and politely refrained from traumatizing the youngster by beating a woman to death in front of him. Gretchen walked past him and pushed open the door to the outside. I followed her.

  "What the hell is the matter with you?" she demanded as the door swung closed behind me.

  "What? He asked a perfectly legitimate question."

  "You think you were being funny? You don’t say stuff like that to a little kid when you’re trying to be inconspicuous."

  "Better that I said it than the head."

  "Moron."

  "Actually, it would’ve been a lot funnier if I’d made a joke about you giving me head. Damn. Any chance we can go back in there and try again?"

  "Just throw away the bags."

  I set down one of the bags and raised the lid to the Dumpster with my free hand. "This is your last chance to reconcile with your husband. Don’t you think he’s earned a second chance?"

  Gretchen gave me a look that indicated that she was not fond of my sense of humor. That only made me want to be funnier. "I could probably recommend a good therapist for you two," I said. "Or you could go on Dr. Phil. Make that smug fucker work for his money!"

  "Are you done?"

  "Almost. I have one more Dr. Phil joke. No, wait, I forgot it. Yeah, I’m done."

  "I can’t believe I asked for your help. Let’s just throw this stuff away so we can get some sleep."

  As I lifted the bag to throw it into the Dumpster, the door opened and the dumb kid stepped outside. "Hi," he said.

  I tossed the bag into the Dumpster. "Hi," I replied.

  "Sweetie, you should go find your mom," Gretchen told him. I noticed that her bag was beginning to squirm.

  "She’s putting on makeup."

  "Then you should wait in your apartment."

  "My Playstation doesn’t work."

  "Still, it’s not safe out here. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself."

  Suddenly the little brat’s mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. "Puppies?"

  Gretchen noticed that her bag was squirming. "No, no, not puppies!"

  "Kitties?"

  "No, nothing cute! It’s a broken blender. I can’t shut it off."

  "Can I pet the puppies?"

  "I told you, they’re not puppies."

  "Woof! Woof!" said the head.

  The door opened and some hag wearing a shitload of makeup (and yet, somehow not enough) walked out of the building. "Charles! I told you to stay inside!"

  "They’re throwing away puppies," Charles said, pointing at the bags.

  The head whimpered in a most puppyish way.

  The brat’s mother looked absolutely horrified. "That’s terrible! Charles, come with me!"

  "I want a white one like Snoopy."

  Mommy grabbed Charles’ hand and glared at me. "That’s evil! You’re both evil. I’m calling the police."

  I pulled out my gun and shot her in the face.

  You’re probably going to judge me for that, but what would you have done? Just let her call the cops? I bet you’re thinking that you never would have gotten involved in this mess in the first place, but I don’t believe that for a second. It’s one of the basic rules of survival: If the bitch is gonna call the cops, you waste her.

  Okay, I’ll admit that the cops might not have come speeding out to the apartment, sirens blaring and lights flashing, just because they thought we were going to toss some puppies in a Dumpster. We might have had time to find another suitable dumping location for the dismembered corpse. But it’s not like I had time to sit around, sipping cappuccino and mulling over my options. She said she was gonna call the cops, I didn’t want her to call the cops, so I popped her in the face. Done. No use getting all upset over things that you can’t take back, right?

  It was a pretty good shot considering how little time I’d taken to aim. Got her in the left eye. (Well, my left, her right, so I guess that would make it her right eye.) There was plenty of blood, but those of you who think I’m a total dick should know that none of it got on the kid.

  Her body dropped to the ground.

  Gretchen just stood there in shock.

  The little brat also stood there in shock.

  Only the head spoke: "Jesus Christ! What the hell is the matter with you?"

  I punched the bag in Gretchen’s hand. "Quiet! I thought we gagged you!"

  "Oh God…oh God…oh God…" Gretchen whispered. I couldn’t wait to hear her say that later that day, in a different context.

  The brat looked as if he weren’t sure if he should run, cry, or tug on the sleeve of his dead mother. I don’t want to get all gooshy here, but I do have to admit that I felt sort of bad for the poor guy. Not too bad—I mean, the little shit was playing with dolls—but if I ever became an orphan, I’d probably be kind of sad about it, too.

  Finally, the brat made his decision. He frantically tried to open the door to get back into the building, but he was too scared and pathetic to do anything more than turn the doorknob back and forth without success.

  "What should I do about him?" I asked.

  Gretchen closed her eyes and let out a sob. "Make the problem go away."

  "Done."

  Okay, you know what? I’m starting to sense a little hostility coming my way. I guess you just obey those Ten Commandments every chance you get, huh? You’re probably one of those people who sits at home on your comfy couch and watches Survivor and thinks "Gosh, if I were on that show, I’d never complain about the harsh conditions like those whiners," while you gorge yourself on a double pepperoni pan pizza with extra cheese. Well, in this situation, I didn’t have the extra cheese. I did what needed to be done.

  But to keep you from getting your panties in a twist, I won’t describe it. How does that sound? We’ll just skip over that whole part. I didn’t have to use my gun again, though, which I happen to think is pretty impressive.

  So: One gunshot. Dead mom. Dead kid. Blubbering Gretchen. All caught up? Good.

  By now she was sitting on the ground, with her face buried in her hands. But like I’ve already said, crying women don’t really bother me all that much, so I mostly just wanted her to shut up.

  "What’s the new plan?" I asked.

  She looked up at me and gave me a look of pure hatred. It actually creeped me out a little. I was glad that most of my "anything goes" activities involved her facing the other way.

  "Fuck you," she said.

  "There’s no reason to be impolite. You’re the one who said to make the problem go away. I would’ve let the little rugrat go."

  She gave me the finger. I blew her a kiss.

  Then she stood up. "We have to get out of here."

  "Should we dump the bags?"

  "No, we shouldn’t dump the bags! It’s a murder scene now! They’ll check everything for clues! Hurry up and get the one you already threw away."

  "Who cares if they find the bags of body parts now? Two murders, three murders…what’s the difference?"

  "The difference is that my dismembered husband will be traced back to me, you fucking idiot!"

  "Well, so will Mommy and the tyke."

  "I had nothing to do with that!"

  "Methinks you’re self-deceptive."

  "Okay, asshole, I had nothing to do with that that anybody can prove. Happy now?"

  "Gleeful."

  "Now get the other bag out of the Dumpster so we can get out of here."

  I shook my head. "I’m not carrying these things around. We’re dumping ’em here like we planned." I picked up the bag with the head and tossed it into the Dumpster.

  There was an "oooof!" from inside.

  I was pretty sure it wasn’t the head.

  "What was that?" Gretchen asked.

  "Nothing." I tossed the third bag into the dumpster.

  "Seriously, what was that?"

  "How should I know? Probably a rat. Probably lots of rats. Who cares?"

  "Get the
bags out of there."

  "Screw that. Help me carry the dead chick."

  "I said, get the bags out of there!"

  "Uh-uh."

  "If you don’t get those bags this minute, you don’t get to so much as touch a nipple. Not one nipple."

  To be honest, I was surprised that our deal was still on. I shrugged. "Fine. I’ll get the bags."

  I peered over the top of the Dumpster. It was too dark to see anything inside except for vague shapes. I hoisted myself up onto the edge, so that I was bending over the side at the waist, and then reached down to retrieve the first bag.

  Cold hands grabbed my arms.

  I said "Aaaiiggghhh!!!" (approximately).

  The hands pulled me inside the Dumpster. I landed on something that didn’t feel very good to land upon. I struggled and flailed around as the hands clawed at my arms. A third hand grabbed my ankle.