Benjamin's Parasite

by Jeff Strand

  BENJAMIN'S PARASITE

  Jeff Strand

  First Edition

  May 2009

  Published by:

  Delirium Books

  P.O. Box 338

  North Webster, IN 46555

  sales@deliriumbooks.com

  www.deliriumbooks.com

  Benjamin's Parasite copyright 2009 by Jeff Strand

  Cover Artwork copyright 2009 by Mike Bohatch

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copy Editor: David Marty and Steve Souza

  AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER

  This is a true story.

  I have changed the names, not to protect the individuals represented in these pages, but to protect you, the reader. This story is top secret in a "If you knew the whole truth, I'd have to kill you" manner, and my busy schedule doesn't allow me to hunt down each of you, bash you in the head with a shovel, and bury you in a shallow grave.

  There will be moments in this narrative that you will consider "farfetched." Well, do you know what else is farfetched? Reality. Reality is freakin' insane, people! It's absolutely jam-packed with stuff where you think "No way could that possibly be true! That's too messed up! The media has got to be exaggerating for dramatic effect!"

  But it's not.

  After you finish enjoying this book, you may receive a visitor at your place of residence (yes, all sales of this book have been tracked—sorry about that). He or she will be polite but stern, and ask you a few questions. It is very important that you do not break eye contact. Breaking eye contact implies guilt. Guilt implies that you need to be eliminated. You don't want that.

  The best response is to chuckle and say "Benjamin's Parasite? Fun little book. Totally implausible, but, hey, it's fiction, right?" If you get the chuckle right, he or she will determine that you do not know The Truth, and will most likely leave you alone.

  If this all sounds kind of inconvenient, just know that if I hadn't changed the names in this book, you'd be dead already.

  Enjoy the read!

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fifty-seven words to go, and Brian had written everything he knew about Wuthering Heights. What else could be said about this stupid, stupid, stupid book?

  He stared at his computer screen and let out a long, frustrated sigh. Then he clicked the "Word Count" icon again.

  Yep, still fifty-seven words left.

  Crap.

  Why couldn't Mr. Wilson have asked for two pages instead of five hundred words? Then Brian could just manipulate the font or the line spacing and be done with it. He simply wasn't in the mood to write about books by old dead authors, especially not with the stomachache he'd had for the past couple of days.

  He skimmed the essay, and then his mood brightened as he realized that he'd used six different contractions (three couldn'ts, two won'ts, and a shouldn't) that could be split out into their respective pairs of words.

  He made the changes. Fifty-one words to go.

  He added his middle name to the byline, giving himself another word.

  Maybe he could find a fifty-word quote that illustrated one of his key points. This would be easier if he hadn't left the book in his locker at school, but he might be able to find a decent quote on the internet.

  He looked at his byline again. Adding his middle name was probably pushing it. Mr. Wilson might get suspicious. He reluctantly deleted it, bringing his remaining words all the way back up to fifty-one.

  Crap.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, there were two quick knocks and then his mom opened his door. "Why are you playing around online?" she asked.

  "I'm doing research for my essay."

  "No you're not. You're chatting. I told you, no internet until your homework is done."

  "It's research!" Brian insisted. "I can't help it if Dale sends me an instant message while I'm doing research!"

  "That doesn't mean you have to send one back. Just ignore him."

  "That would be rude. You don't want to be responsible for raising a rude son, do you?"

  "Homework first," his mom said, folding her arms in front of her chest. "I mean it."

  "I'm doing my homework. The internet provides a vast pool of resources right here at my fingertips."

  "Don't be a smartass."

  "I'm not. I'm just saying that the internet provides—"

  "I know what you're saying. It's almost ten. I want you in bed by ten-thirty."

  Brian rolled his eyes. "All right."

  "How much do you have left on your essay?"

  "Only fifty-one words."

  She gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Good. Get it done so you can go to sleep."

  "I will."

  His mom left, shutting the door behind her. She hadn't even asked about his stomachache. No sympathy at all. Just because he'd faked it the past few times didn't mean he was faking it this time. He let Dale know that he had to go, and then logged off.

  Really, fifty-one words weren't all that many. If he set his alarm early, he could write them before school. And he'd be nice and refreshed when he finished the essay, which would make for a much higher quality final product. And maybe his stomach would hurt bad enough in the morning that his mom would have to let him stay home, giving him the whole weekend to finish it up.

  A perfect plan.

  He shut down his computer and turned on the television and his video game system. It was Carnage-A-Plenty time!

  The game's opening screen appeared. It was blank at first, until various internal organs splattered against it, spelling out the game's title in guts and trickles of blood.

  Carnage-A-Plenty proceeded to the character selection phase. You could play as Goregantua (weapon of choice: axe), Shreddy-Or-Not (weapon of choice: razor blades) or Rendfield (weapon of choice: cheese grater).

  Brian selected Goregantua.

  The game then asked if he wanted to play in Violent Mode or Peaceful Mode. If he selected Peaceful Mode, Gandhi would appear on the screen, smile, wave, and then get beaten to a bloody pulp by men with crowbars, after which the game would automatically revert to Violent Mode.

  Brian selected Violent Mode, and the game began.

  The premise of Carnage-A-Plenty was simple: kill stuff. The more stuff you killed, the more points you got. This was not an unusual concept for a video game. What made Carnage-A-Plenty better was that you received additional points for further mutilation of the corpses. The greater the mess, the greater your score.

  As the screeching punk rock soundtrack played (quietly), Brian maneuvered Goregantua through a filthy alley. The object in this stage was to kill as many homeless people as possible.

  The first derelict emerged from a garbage can and Brian swung his axe, lopping off both of the derelict's arms with one swipe, earning himself bonus points. He was an expert at this level.

  The toothless and now armless derelict tried to run away, but Brian quickly caught up to him. He pressed the attack button as rapidly as he could, axe a blur of motion, until the derelict had been reduced to a pile of bum chunks.

  On the screen, Goregantua leapt into the air, came down feet-first upon the pile, and then began to twist back and forth.

  "Yes!" exclaimed Brian as the words smear bonus flashed on the screen. Smearing your enemy's remains was one of the more difficult special moves to pull off.

  There were two quick knocks on Brian's door.

  He hurriedly pressed the panic button and set the game controller on his bed.

  "Why are you watching TV?" his mothe
r demanded, walking into the room.

  "It's a documentary," said Brian, gesturing to the image of Abraham Lincoln on the TV screen. A monotone narrator recited the words to the Gettysburg Address.

  "Is your essay done?"

  "Yes." Brian didn't like to lie, but he could retain inner peace when he did.

  "Then it's time for bed."

  "You said ten-thirty!"

  His mother suspiciously eyed the television, and then nodded. "Okay, you can watch for ten more minutes. But then it's bedtime, all right?"

  "All right."

  After his mother left again, Brian resumed his game. He quickly dispatched a bag lady by repeatedly running over her with her own cart, then lost several units of life-force when he was struck by wino breath.

  He decapitated the wino and in another difficult move, kicked his head into the air and caught it in his mouth, swallowing it whole.

  cannibalism bonus flashed on the screen.

  "I rule," said Brian, wishing that spectators were around to see just how much he truly ruled.

  Three vagrants were huddled around a fire in a trash barrel. Brian/Goregantua quickly snatched up the barrel and incinerated the vagrants with its contents. Then he beat the shit out of their charred corpses with the barrel itself.

  His stomach was really starting to hurt badly, almost like something was squirming around in there. Not enough to distract him from the game, though. In fact, he couldn't remember ever having this much fun with Carnage-A-Plenty.

  He was vaguely aware of an incredible headache as well. There was no way he could go to school like this. He'd have to stay home, and then he could play the game all day! It would be the best day ever, even better than the one where he made out with Denise MacKenzie and she let him keep his right hand on her left boob for four whole seconds before she slapped him away.

  Maybe I should pause my game and go get some aspirin and Pepto-Bismol, he thought. Nah. Not worth the loss of playing time.

  He played for a few more minutes, impressing the hell out of himself with his awesome special moves.

  Then Brian set down the game controller, walked out of his bedroom, and headed for the kitchen to find something useful to kill his mom with.

  * * *

  Sharon sat on the couch, three words away from completing the crossword puzzle she'd been working on all week. She used to finish one every day without fail, but since her divorce last year she found herself working on the same one for four or five days.

  She heard Brian's footsteps as he walked down the stairs. She hated feeling like she was constantly nagging him, but he was receiving B's and C's when he was clearly smart enough to be getting A's, so she needed to keep the pressure on.

  He walked through the living room and into the kitchen, not even acknowledging her existence.

  "What are you getting?" she asked.

  She heard a drawer open. "Orange juice."

  Why would he open a drawer if he wanted orange juice?

  Sharon continued to work on the crossword puzzle as she listened to Brian rummage through the drawer's contents. She was not going to say anything. He was fifteen years old, and he could find things in the kitchen without her help.

  The drawer slid shut. Another drawer opened.

  Nope, she wasn't going to ask. She'd nagged him enough this evening. Sometimes you just had to...

  Screw it. "What are you looking for?"

  "Nothing." The second drawer slid shut.

  Not a good answer. Sharon set down her crossword puzzle. Her son might've been fifteen, but sometimes she had to watch him as if he were a three-year-old.

  Brian walked into the living room just as she sat up. He looked her right in the eye, gave her a cheerful smile, and then rushed at her with a meat cleaver.

  Sharon's first reaction was to shriek.

  Her second was to throw a punch.

  Her fist connected with her son's jaw, knocking him back several steps. The meat cleaver flew out of his hand. He appeared momentarily stunned, but then quickly began to look around for his weapon.

  "Brian!" Sharon screamed, tears already streaming down her cheeks. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

  He picked up the meat cleaver and didn't answer. Was he on drugs? He couldn't be; she searched his room at least once a week. Brian didn't look stoned, anyway. Nor did he look enraged. He looked excited.

  He rushed at her again.

  This time Sharon ran. No time to get the front door open, so she rushed up the stairs. She cringed as she hurried up the steps, waiting for him to throw the meat cleaver at her, for the blade to thunk into her skull.

  Instead, the meat cleaver slashed across her back, scraping bone, causing pain so intense that she lost her footing and tumbled forward onto the steps, knocking the wind out of her.

  She immediately kicked her feet back as hard as she could. Only her left foot hit, but it was a solid hit. Brian cried out and she heard him fall down the stairs behind her.

  Sharon pushed herself up and then looked back. Brian lay on the floor, still holding the meat cleaver, grimacing in pain. Maybe if he was hurt badly enough, she could move past him and get out of the house.

  That option vanished as he shakily began to get up. Sharon ran up the rest of the stairs and then hurried down the hallway and into her bedroom. She slammed and locked the door.

  She wanted to just collapse onto her bed and cry, or at least take a moment to figure out what possibly could have happened to her son, but there was no time. She had to call the police.

  Sharon glanced over at her dresser. No phone.

  Damn it! Once again Brian had taken it and not put it back where it belonged, though she was probably going to have to skip the lecture this time.

  The door shook as Brian kicked it from the other side.

  "Open up, Mom!" he shouted.

  Sharon opened her closet door, frantically searching for something to use as a weapon.

  "C'mon, Mom. I'm not giving up five thousand points. No way."

  Five thousand points? What the hell was he talking about?

  There was nothing useful in the closet, unless she wanted to smother him with a faux fur coat. She wished that she kept a gun in the house—well, no, Brian would be a lot harder to escape from if he'd gotten his hands on a revolver instead of a meat cleaver.

  The door shook on its hinges.

  Sharon rushed over and picked up the lamp on her bedside. Dear God, she couldn't believe that she might have to bash her son's head with it. Was he infected by some weird disease? Brian didn't even like to kill bugs, except for ants.

  She could always try to open her window and jump, but breaking her legs would not be conducive to a successful escape.

  The door burst open. Brian stepped inside, the meat cleaver clenched tightly in his fist.

  Sharon threw the lamp at him.

  Missed.

  It shattered against the wall next to him. Brian didn't even flinch. He let out a whoop of joy and ran at her. Sharon sprinted for the doorway, and the meat cleaver blade opened a huge gash all the way up her left arm.

  She got past him. Sharon hurried back down the steps, then slipped, lost her balance, and bashed into the left wall, sending an excruciating burst of pain through her bleeding arm. But she didn't fall and made it to the bottom of the stairs.

  Brian was right behind her.

  Again, no time to get the front door open, so she veered off into the kitchen. She grabbed the first thing she could find—the answering machine that had long ago been replaced by voice mail but remained on the counter, and threw it at him.

  The answering machine struck Brian in the forehead and then dangled over the counter, the cord still plugged in. Brian fell to his knees, rubbing the spot where it hit, groaning in agony.

  Sharon pulled a butcher knife out of the rack.

  She ran past her son, praying that he wouldn't be able to attack her again, praying that she could just get away from him and not have to hurt him to save her
life.

  He made a grab for her but missed.

  Now there was time to get out of the house. She unlocked the front door, threw it open, and ran outside, slamming the door behind her. She was feeling lightheaded from blood loss, but she could handle it, she just needed to get to safety. She darted for the house next door, where the Kaskas lived.

  Behind her, she heard the front door open.

  She ran up onto the Kaskas' porch and desperately pounded on their front door. "Open up!" she screamed. "Please! Hurry!"

  She looked over and saw Brian striding across the yard, still holding the meat cleaver. Some blood ran down his face from the gash in his forehead, yet he still had that expression of excitement. Hell, he looked thrilled to be trying to murder his own mother.

  The door opened, revealing Leslie Kaska, a plump and soft-featured woman in her forties. She didn't even have time to look startled before Sharon pushed past her. "Close the door!" she screamed.

  Leslie closed the door. "What's going on? Is somebody after you?"

  Sharon nodded. "It's Brian. He's...he's gone crazy or something."

  "Brian did this to you?"

  Leslie's teenage daughter, Carolyn, stepped into the living room and screamed as the front window shattered. Brian ducked inside, surveyed his surroundings, and smiled.

  "Aw, hell yeah! Fifteen thousand points!"

  His smile faltered for a split second as John Kaska entered the room, but then he charged at Leslie. The force of the shotgun blast blew Brian off his feet. The meat cleaver dropped to the floor next to his head, and this time he didn't get back up.