Do you know what inspiration is? Have you ever felt this truly inspired?
He was inspired. After all, he’d never used the pool, and to hell with Mr. Fyuesterman!
Inspiration suddenly made him want to run and dive into the pool. Ah, the embrace of cold water! He’d have more fun swimming than lying here in oblivion, he realized.
“Yeah,” he said. “All you have to do is get to your feet. Try standing, boy. Make it to the door.”
He thought about Mr. Fyuesterman, what he would do if he ran into him…
“Those aren’t shit stains on my carpet,” Richard said. “That’s vomit you’re looking at, buster.”
Richard cackled in delight. He didn’t care if he ran into Mr. Fyuesterman. He’d been through enough already.
“I’m not hiding from you anymore!” he shouted. “I want to be free!”
He didn’t know to whom he was talking. He’d made up his mind.
A-swimmin’ he was a-goin.’
But when he tried to stand, he forgot how to operate his legs.
“Oh, come on, Rich,” he said. “Don’t let your legs get in the way.”
Free forever? Shackled and chained no more? It was worth the risk. Maybe he’d find out she’d never held sway, never been a part of his life.
He paused.
“You can’t be serious?”
He wavered, still drunk, halfway to the door. He burst out laughing, catching the joke.
“That was funny, Rich,” he said. “That was really funny. Not a part of your life, when she is the only part of your life!”
He paused again.
“I am in control! Not you! Do you hear me?”
Richard fell over and crashed to the floor. The room swayed up, then down again. He curled into a ball, laughed, then rolled over. A bottle of whiskey lay in front of him. He grabbed it, unscrewed the top, and stood up. The bottle—once he was up— slipped from his fingers, and spilled (glug-glug-glug) into the carpet.
A feeling of loss moved over him. The living room shifted when he tried to grab the doorknob. The furniture was spinning out of control again. The couch danced in circles with the recliner.
His body quivered. He tried to focus, bringing it all together. He blinked several times. The furniture slowed for a minute, then gathered momentum. He reached out, trying to steady himself, but grabbed empty air. The carpet moved again, a living sea, tugging at his ankles.
Richard finally grabbed the doorknob and steadied himself. The room had stopped spinning. It slowed, shifted, then spun in the opposite direction.
He closed his eyes, shook his head, opening them a second later. He grabbed the deadbolt and gave it a turn.
This was going to take some amount concentration, focus he didn’t have.
Richard put his head to the door and closed his eyes again. He wondered if he really had the strength for this. Blood rushed loudly between his ears. Or was that water? He opened his eyes. The furniture was spinning still.
I’m really normal like everyone else. I have a wife and kids, a good job, a nice car. We have a dog that plays in the yard. We have barbecues with the neighbors. We all get along and love each other and have a happy life. It’s like a Dickens novel.
Richard laughed out loud.
His concern was to open the door without falling over. He could make it down three flights of stairs, he told himself. Someone needed to put in an elevator.
He pulled the door wide and stepped into the hallway.
The world spun out of control. He braced one hand against the wall, steadying himself, and tried to focus.
The walls were an antique shade of white. Framed pictorials of mountainous landscapes lined both sides of the hallway.
But the end of the hall seemed miles away. There was a door down there somewhere, a stairwell leading to the first floor. Now, if only he could find it…
“Just push me down the steps when I get there,” Richard said, and chuckled.
Was that whispering behind each locked door, or the voices in his head? The tenants were conspiring against him. They didn’t like him because he spent all his time alone. He was stuck-up, selfish, arrogant.
You licentious prick!
Was he supposed to sacrifice his time for everyone else’s loneliness?
“See the way he looked at me when I gave him that pie!” he heard Miss Dall say.
“The nerve of that guy paying his rent on time, looking better than everyone else!”
A new world came to life. Richard was listening to a universe of violation, secrets distinctly audible. Behind one of the doors, someone pleaded:
“Please...she rips...she tears...”
Behind another door, the cries of a violent orgy. No, not an orgy, he realized. Torture and pain made those pleas. He heard the sound of a heavy instrument repeatedly bludgeoned into someone’s gut: loud, squelching noises. Screams issued from the far end of the hallway. A little girl’s voice erupted in song. The cackle of an old woman materialized just next to his ear. Stifled sobs emerged behind apartment 32.
“Crazy like a fox, love. So mad, my little lamb, you make me want to cry.”
“Ah, you’ve been drinking too much,” Richard said. “Your mind is bound to play tricks on you when you’ve been drinking.”
He continued down the hallway, holding the wall for balance. The stairwell still seemed miles away.
Tortured voices assaulted him from all sides, the girl singing again. Something huge and scaly breathed in the dark, coming to life.
After a time—trying to ignore it—he managed to find the stairwell door. Richard opened it and stepped inside. The door closed quietly behind him, cutting off the lunacy from the third floor. He wavered and looked over the railing.
“Man, that’s a long way down,” he said, his voice hollow in the stairwell.
He wouldn’t have to worry about swimming if he broke a leg at least. What did he care?
Shadows flickered across the walls. The sound of a cage door rattled, something trying to break free. The smell of thick, animal hide hung in the air. The sound of throaty breathing echoed from below, the stench of bad breath like second carapace. Shadowy apparitions—bulbous in shape—materialized, then diminished.
He started down the stairs, careful not to hurry in case he slipped. A broken leg would do him no good now.
After some amount of concentration, he made it all the way down. It seemed to take forever. He opened the door leading to the first floor hallway, similar to the one he’d just come from: the same color carpet and pictures on the walls. The pool to his left was through double-glass doors at the end of the hallway. Aqua colors reflected, shimmering off the glass.
Richard beamed with excitement. Why hadn’t he brought the bottle with him?
Moving to his left, Richard staggered down the hallway. A woman’s scream echoed along the corridor. Was she here already, slaughtering the entire complex?
“Tasteless murderer,” he said. “What more do you want from me?”
The little girl erupted in song again:
“So mad, my little lamb. Crazy love, like death, love. I’m all shook up.”
Laughter erupted, a mocking child, reveling in demented nature. She loved driving him mad. She came in all shapes and sizes.
Richard didn’t know if he should be surprised or aghast. This wasn’t his drunken stupor anymore.
Along the walls, the lamp fixtures dripped a steady stream of scarlet. The scenic pictures turned to splotchy patches of red. Above, the florescent lights—running along the length of the ceiling—darkened. Bulbs shattered. The hallway dimmed. Something breathed audibly in the darkness behind him.
The carpet turned sodden, his calves speckled with tiny red dots. The Coachman, he realized, was bleeding from the inside out. Was that possible? The next instant proved it. Curtains of blood poured down the walls from the ceiling. Light fixtures continued to explode, darkening the hallway. The smell of burning blood filled his nose.
&nbs
p; “Where’s my fishing pole!” Richard cried, and giggled again.
He was determined. He was going swimming. He wanted the world to see him for what he was, a simple youth tormented by his mother.
The blood deepened, coming from everywhere, rising to his knees.
You’ve fallen in love with knife-like shadows.
“Flesh does not fall from immortal bones,” someone said.
He thought about her face. Her eyes, despite their sinister glare, held salacious appeal. She’d never wanted to kill him. She wanted his boyhood in her mouth. The thought drove him—determined—through the blood. He smiled. Maybe he’d drown in all this gore. That seemed like the perfect end.
He made it to the glass doors. He didn’t think he’d be able to open them against the blood, which was already two feet deep.
Richard tried anyway, grabbing the handle, and it was like magic. The door sluiced easily through the gore. A thick, red current gushed from the hallway and into the pool area.
“Mr. Fyuesterman isn’t going to like this,” Richard said.
The blood tugged at his shins, trying to drag him inside.
He stepped within, and the door closed slowly behind him.
Plants lined the opposite wall. Normally, water would’ve reflected off the ceiling, but that wasn’t the case now. The aqua shimmer had been a delusion. The truth was directly in front of him.
The disappointment hit him like a thunderbolt. He wouldn't be swimming; that was certain. He should’ve prepared himself. He should’ve…known.
Torn, shredded, and amputated body parts—stacked on top of one another—congested the entire swimming pool. The sight was nothing more than a macabre mountain of appendages. Decapitated heads with lifeless stares lay alongside limbless torsos; severed arms and legs lay with precision, hugging each other side by side. A woman’s breasts bobbed purple and bruised in red water. A pulpous, ragged thigh rolled like a barrel.
It was art only she could create. How long had this taken? How long and arduous to paint this canvas?
The sight did not sicken him. He was bound to be a part of it in time.
Richard looked at the opposite wall. He smiled at the “Swim At Your Own Risk” sign.
He looked to the body parts again where various appendages descended from the top. A man’s head—a mat of black hair—tumbled and collided into the wall to Richard’s right.
His life’s tormentor came into view. She’d been housing herself at the bottom of these severed limbs. Her dead, limpid gaze locked onto Richard’s.
He was a child again. He was eight-years-old, but it wasn’t terror he felt. It was…love.
A hatchet dangled by her side. She’d moved up in the world.
Richard studied her, head tilting, not quite comprehending…
She crawled out from the mound of body parts, standing at the edge of the pool. She looked the same, exactly how he remembered: pale blue skin, thighs like cottage cheese. Her hair was stringy, wet, and black. She smiled—mouth coated in ink—and stepped toward him.
“So mad, my little lamb.”
Her voice was a haunting melody, somehow intermingled with that of an old hag.
Richard slipped into another realm and time. Something reached into his brain and flicked a switch. He was very comfortable all of a sudden. He had no reason to be afraid. This was familiar. He was safe.
“Crazy love, like death. The best place in the world. You know I love you, don’t you, Richard?”
Richard put his hand to his mouth and giggled, as though being introduced to her for the very first time.
“I love you, too, apple of my eye,” Richard said, his voice no longer that of a forty-six year old man. He sounded eight-years-old. “Heart’s divine. Will you…marry me?”
The woman cocked her head, smiled, and studied him.
At that moment, as if answering an age-old question, Richard uttered a single word, one that connected him to his fate, an age-old question he’d never found the answer to:
“Pieces?”
“Yes, Richard,” she said. “And all the songs you can pack in that briefcase, my little lamb.”
“Think I’m in looove with you,” he said. He cupped his hand over his mouth and giggled.
“My heart’s divine for you,” she told him, and smiled. Black ink poured over her lips.
Richard nodded and sat Indian style in the water.
Blood poured in from the cracks, the gaps in the doors. It dripped from the ceiling.
He looked at his lost love and smiled.
“...pieces...” he repeated.
Richard locked his eyes onto those of a decapitated woman, the cloudy gaze of one of her many victims. He cocked his ear at something only he could hear, as if the head were speaking to him and him alone. He did not acknowledge his tormentor. He was fine with the way things turned out.
The murderess raised the hatchet.
Richard nodded, telling himself ‘pieces’ was definitely the right decision.
Not wasting a moment, the woman swung the blade onto Richard’s skull. The sound made a dull, recoiling, crack! Blood sprayed like a fan in two directions, splitting his brain in half. Richard’s body sagged, the life going out of him, and he fell to his side in the bloody water.
Her work, however, had only just begun…She laughed, dancing around him, driving the hatchet into his flesh…
Pieces…
Reveling in her life’s work, however, this villain could not perform without song.
For Richard, the time for music was over. How could he sing with blood congesting his lungs? How could he dance if he were drowning?
None of it mattered to the slaughtered lamb. He was happier joining the rest of them.
When was the first time she came to you? he might ask.
They—these mangled souls who’d built her enterprise—shared common bonds.
Being crazy like a fox hadn’t granted peace. Richard wasn’t a colored demon or a drowning man. He did not fall in love. He was merely another voice singing in the shower. Perhaps his song echoed from the drains…
The murderess—this naked, fetid thing—continued to bury the hatchet into Richard’s flesh, as if pieces—simply, to her—were not enough.
…And the beast?
At the end of the hallway, it smiled in its complacency. It ingested shadows into its lungs and gained power…
Behind the Curtain…
Gordy Paladin did not believed in fate.
Life is what you make it, he thought. You get memories, nights of intoxication, and beautiful women.
Fate wasn’t part of it. Luck, maybe. Luck, he believed in. Luck was nothing like fate, however. He wasn’t a man made by destiny, but he was building it, whether he knew it or not, constructing and putting destiny together piece by piece. Life was not a mystery. It was simple. You played the game of life to win and for no other reason.
Once discovered, the strategy was simple. Life was a game for tyrants and champions, a tournament for kings, not something Gordy took lightly. Life was, in fact, no laughing matter, especially when tyrant and kings were involved.
For Gordy, his brother Kendall, and their good friend, Domingo, the tournament of life had become a tradition.
The game was Risk by Parker Brothers, ages eight to adult. The price on the sticker said, $21.99, virtually a steal to conquer the world. Gordy would’ve paid $49.99.
On that Friday summer evening after work, Gordy drove his green ’79 Ford pick-up into the parking lot of the Toys ‘R’ Us a bit too recklessly. The tires squealed over the asphalt. A man with his wife and two kids scowled at him through the window of their Pontiac. Gordy didn’t see them. He was too excited.
Since Kendall had lost his board in a recent move to Miller Street, Gordy finally had an opportunity to purchase one of his own, something he’d always wanted. Domingo could have brought his game over, he supposed. Gordy had been the only one without a game. Now, however, he had the perfect excuse.
It’s been a long, hot day, forever trusted to the saints and souls of summer, Gordy thought. You couldn’t ask for a more splendid moment.
Taking a moment to admire the deep plush apricot and rose to the sky, Gordy hurried to the entrance. The doors parting automatically. A blast of cool air met him when he stepped inside. A large, blonde girl wearing too much make-up stood behind one of the cash registers. She wore a red polo, the standard Toys ‘R’ Us uniform. She eyed him, smiling, trying to get his attention, but Gordy was too preoccupied. He moved quickly to the far right side of the toy store.
His brother, Kendall, and his friend, Domingo, didn’t have to worry about work the next day, either. They could get as intoxicated as they wanted and have the entire weekend to recuperate. Until the sun came up, if that’s how long it took, Gordy thought. Whoever inherited world dominance, it would be worth it.
Here along the wall was every board game imaginable, longed for by every player of games the world over. Taking a deep, appreciatory breath, and shoving his hands into his pant pockets, he smiled, feeling ten again.
He eyed the games carefully, moving farther to his left, to the more mature, adult games. Not wanting to scruple over each one separately, his brows came together. He laughed.
Tonight, they would play on Kendall’s turf. Since it would be a virgin board and his own, Gordy felt victory shift in his favor.
Fate, Gordy thought. No.
Luck was on his side.
Risk, the game of world conquest, sat by itself on the shelf, the reason for his laughter. It was the only one there. Taking a moment to soak in the sight, the bold letters, the fabricated war of men on horses, cannons blasting, Gordy thought about luck.
Not feeling his twenty-eight years, Gordy Paladin smiled, reached down, and plucked the game from the shelf.
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