Everything Has Teeth

by Strand, Jeff

  * * *

  When he opened his eyes, it was still dark.

  And cold.

  He lifted his hand. His fingers touched wood.

  Dear God, they'd buried him alive.

  Now, John Henry was braver than you or I, but don't let that fool you into thinking that he didn't let out a howl of primal anguish. Anybody else would have done the same, and there was no shame in it.

  And then he cried.

  I'll be honest—I wish he hadn't done that. It was a predicament to be sure, but that doesn't mean you need to go and blubber about it. Maybe I would have wept and maybe I wouldn't have; I just feel that, all things considered, a man should be a man when it comes to these matters.

  Most men, upon waking up and discovering that they'd been buried alive, would claw at the underside of the coffin for a while, and then go back to sleep until their oxygen ran out. But not John Henry. They'd buried him with his beloved hammer. He picked up that hammer, and even though there wasn't much room to maneuver, he went and busted his way right out of that grave.

  "John Henry!" Charles shouted. "Thank goodness you're out!"

  Polly Ann gave him a great big hug and a kiss. "I love you so much, John Henry!"

  "Why were you two standing around by my grave?"

  "We were about ninety percent sure that you were dead," Charles explained. "It wasn't enough not to bury you, but it was enough that we felt we should keep watch for a while, just in case."

  "I appreciate that."

  "And now we need your help," said Charles. "They say there are dragons! With one tap of their enormous talons, they can drive in steel faster than any man alive! We're all gonna lose our jobs!"

  "Why would you lose your jobs?" John Henry asked. "Surely they need workers to ride the dragons and make sure they don't fly off and kidnap maidens."

  Charles shook his head. "They've got this new invention, this newfangled thing called hypnotherapy, and those dragons wouldn't touch a maiden even if she were rubbing up against their scaly tail!"

  "There have to be other jobs out there."

  "There aren't! We need you!"

  "What about the poor dragons? Why should they be unemployed?"

  "Please! Just one more race! That's all we ask!"

  "My hands are covered with blisters," said John Henry, "and those blisters have even bigger blisters on the tips, and those blisters have even bigger blisters on the tips!"

  "Exaggeration is not an admirable trait in a man," said Charles.

  "You're right. I'll do it. I'll drive in that steel faster than that dragon!"

  "Dragons. Plural. Four of 'em."

  "Well...then...all of us workers will be racing as a team, right?"

  Charles shook his head. "Nobody said it was a fair challenge."

  Now, John Henry could have crawled right back down into that grave and nobody would have thought less of him. But that's not the kind of man he was. He stood up real tall, and he puffed out his chest, and he held his hammer up high and he vowed that he would beat those dragons, or die trying!

  You may think you know how this story goes. "No man could beat a quartet of steel-drivin' dragons!" you're saying, "so clearly John Henry lost the challenge, and all of the workers lost their jobs, and everybody was sad."

  Well, that's not how it happened.

  He swung that hammer so fast that even the wings of a hummingbird had more visual clarity. And when the dust settled, it was a tie.

  But you know what? One of those silly dragons had driven in a spike all crooked, so John Henry was declared the winner!

  Hooray for John Henry!

  Seriously, that was one hell of an impressive accomplishment. I don't care how jaded you are to superhuman feats of strength and endurance...that was impressive. It's difficult for my mind to even process what he did. He beat four dragons! Four! If he'd beat only one dragon, the world would be shouting "Oh my God! John Henry beat a dragon!" But he beat four of them! That just doesn't happen!

  The dragons were taken away and put to death. All of the workers gave John Henry a great big pat on the back and told him what a fine job he'd done. He'd never shaken so many hands in his life.

  He didn't even try to die this time. And before too long, sure enough, Charles hurried over to him, his eyes wide with panic.

  "John Henry, we need you! They say they've got a man who can drive in steel faster than a steam-powered hammer, a more advanced steam-powered hammer, a warlock, and four dragons! We're all gonna lose our jobs!"

  "Oh?"

  Charles gave a frantic nod. "You have to beat him in a race! You're the only one who can..." He trailed off. "John Henry, you're gonna steal our jobs!"

  "Or you could let me die."

  "Yeah, I think maybe we'll do that."

  And so, John Henry shook Charles' hand, and then he gave Polly Ann a hug, and he went off to die in peace. They say that late at night, if you're real quiet and you listen real close, you can hear the sounds of his hammer. Though I guess that means he's stuck doing this shit in the afterlife for all eternity, so it's not such a happy ending.

  FAIR TRADE

  "If you're going to cheat on me," said Heather, "could you at least not post about it on Facebook?"

  Nick just stood there in the open doorway. His palms immediately began to sweat, dampening the junk mail that was in his right hand. It had been a brutal day at the office, and he'd really been looking forward to a delicious home-cooked dinner and a couple hours of television, but that plan seemed to have changed.

  He frowned, expressing confusion that was partially real and partially feigned. He certainly hadn't posted anything like "Thrusting away inside of Elizabeth," even though that's how he'd spent the previous evening. Maybe Heather was kidding.

  After they stared at each other for a few more moments, Nick decided that Heather was not kidding.

  "Are you going to come in?" Heather asked.

  Nick walked into the living room. The mail had stuck to his hand, so he peeled it off and set it on the coffee table.

  "How about closing the door?"

  "Oh. Right. Sorry." Nick went back to the door and pulled it closed. He was sweating like crazy, which was going to make it difficult to sell the lies he was prepared to tell.

  Heather folded her arms across her chest. He'd seen her looking mad on a great many occasions during their eight years of marriage, but suspicions of infidelity made her look much angrier than when he forgot to take out the garbage.

  She didn't speak. Nick wasn't sure what to say, so he went with the obvious: "I don't know what you're talking about?"

  "Don't you?"

  "No."

  "Last night, at 6:32 PM, your status update was 'Stuck in the office. Will this meeting never end? BO-ring.'"

  "Right. I was in a really boring meeting."

  "It says you posted it from Lakewood."

  "Oh." Nick had never developed a headache so quickly. "I didn't know that Facebook says where you posted from."

  "It does if you do it from your cell phone and you didn't turn that option off."

  "Oh."

  "Elizabeth is in Lakewood, isn't she?"

  "Yes."

  Damn. He'd thought his alibi was pretty clever, but instead it had doomed him. If he had a few minutes, Nick thought that he could probably come up with some sort of credible explanation for why he was updating Facebook from Lakewood, but he didn't have a few minutes, so it was best to just confess.

  "Did you sleep with her?"

  "No."

  "Why did I find a receipt for Trojans in your pocket when I was doing the laundry today?"

  Jesus. He was really bad at this.

  "What I meant was, we didn't sleep." Okay, that sounded much worse. "I mean...yes, we, uh, had sex. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

  "Why did you do it?"

  "I don't know."

  "Bullshit. Is it because she's prettier than I am?"

  Even at his stupidest, which was extremely stupid, Nick w
asn't dumb enough to answer that question truthfully. "Of course not!"

  "Then why?"

  "I don't know!"

  "You're going to lose everything in the divorce. You know that, right?"

  "Can't we seek counseling or something? Why does this have to end in divorce? We should talk about this."

  "I've been thinking about this all day, and I really don't see how I can forgive you. Unless we even things out."

  "What do you mean?"

  "What do you think I mean?"

  Nick couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Are you saying you want to sleep with somebody else?"

  "That would make it fair, wouldn't it?"

  "I guess."

  "So do we have a deal?"

  Nick shook his head. "I couldn't handle you being with another guy. I'm sorry, I know it's a double standard, but that's just the way it is."

  "Who said anything about another guy? You got lucky with Elizabeth, so now it's my turn."

  "Excuse me?"

  "It's the only way I can forgive you."

  "Are you talking about...a threesome?"

  "No, I'm not talking about a threesome! What's the matter with you? How the hell would that make things even?"

  "Sorry, sorry, this just isn't what I was expecting to hear." He had no idea that Heather had bisexual tendencies. If he'd known that, he never would have cheated on her.

  "Do you think you could set it up?"

  "I don't know. It's not anything we ever discussed."

  "Well, if you don't want to lose your house, I recommend that you make it happen."

  "Would I be watching?"

  "Do you really believe that I'm trying to fulfill your pervo fantasies?"

  "No."

  "I need to know if we can repair this marriage or if I need to move on with my life. I'll go get ready."

  * * *

  They didn't speak much during the drive.

  * * *

  "Nick! What are you doing here?" Elizabeth seemed pleased but very surprised to see him at her front door. She looked past him and frowned. "Is that Heather in the car?"

  "Yes. She doesn't usually wear that much makeup. Can I come in?"

  "Um, sure. Should I be worried?"

  "No, it's okay. We just need to talk." They went inside and Nick immediately plopped down on the couch. "Could I have a whiskey?"

  "Yes, but first tell me if your wife has a gun."

  "It's nothing like that." His mouth had gone completely dry. "A drink, please?"

  Elizabeth went into the kitchen and came out a moment later with a glass of whiskey. Nick thanked her and took a sip.

  "So...?"

  "Heather knows."

  "Aw, shit."

  "But it's okay."

  Elizabeth looked like she wanted to throw up. "How is it okay?"

  "I don't quite know how to explain this, so I'm just going to come out and say it: she wants to make love to you."

  "She what?"

  "She's proposing a fair trade. I had sex with you, so if she has sex with you, we're even."

  "Are you kidding me?"

  "I know, it's totally insane, but she won't divorce me if we do this. Are you up for it?"

  "Did you seriously just ask me that?"

  "It's the only way!"

  "You think that I'm going to turn gay to save your marriage?"

  "It's not gay, it's bi. And why not?"

  "Because, one, I'm not a total slut, two, I don't swing that way, and three, your wife is clearly mentally ill."

  "You've never experimented or anything? Not even in college?"

  "No."

  "I don't know exactly what she has planned. Maybe you'd only have to receive."

  "Nick, I'm not doing anything with your psycho wife. Get out of my house."

  "Please. You have to do this for me. I'm begging you."

  "I said, get out."

  Nick sobbed for a few minutes, but that didn't change Elizabeth's mind. He walked out of the house and returned to the car, sniffling.

  "What'd she say?" Heather asked.

  "No."

  "Did you describe my lingerie?"

  "She didn't care."

  Heather sighed. "I guess you have to kill her, then."

  "What?"

  "If this marriage is going to last, I can't have the woman you cheated on me with still be alive. If you kill her, maybe we can work this out."

  "Are you serious?"

  "Quit asking me that. Everything I say from now on is serious. You can kill her, or you can call up your mother and tell her that I'm divorcing you because you couldn't keep your dick in your pants."

  "I can't murder somebody!"

  "Why not?"

  "Why not? Because it's murder! You don't just go around murdering people!"

  "Don't be a jerk. Nobody said anything about going around murdering people. I'm asking you to kill one person, the person you shattered your marital vows with. But if you think our marriage isn't worth saving..."

  "I don't think I can do that."

  "Then get out of the car. My car. At least, that's what the judge will say."

  "How would I even do it?"

  "However you want! She's petite. You could probably strangle her with one hand. One quick snap of her neck, and plop, one dead whore. Or I think we have a hammer in the trunk."

  * * *

  Elizabeth glared at Nick as she opened the door. "Look, Nick, I need you to stay the—"

  Her head shot back with a spray of blood as he smashed the hammer into her face. As she stumbled backwards, he stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind him. He took another swing, and though she successfully blocked it, there was an unnerving crunch as the hammer struck her fingers.

  She fell to the floor, gurgling blood. She was screaming less than Nick would have expected, but she was still making enough noise to alert the neighbors, so he had to make this quick. He smashed her with the hammer, over and over, not enjoying the experience but knowing it had to be done.

  Elizabeth wasn't dying very quickly. It was probably because he couldn't quite bring himself to bash her with his full strength, even though that would be the merciful thing to do.

  His right arm was getting tired, so he switched to the left.

  Soon there was blood all over his clothes and he could barely recognize Elizabeth through the gore, but she was still alive. For God's sake, how many hits with a hammer did it take to kill somebody? This was embarrassing.

  Now his left arm was tired. He dropped the hammer, went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a butcher knife.

  He stabbed her in the stomach seven or eight times, practically disemboweling her, but she still drew breath. He knew he could end it if he simply jammed the blade directly into her throat, but deep inside he didn't really want to be stabbing the object of his lust to death.

  He had to do this. She was a ruined, grotesque mess, and it was time to end this. He held the tip of the blade over her throat, whispered a prayer for forgiveness, then slammed it into her. A geyser of blood spurted into the air, more blood ran down each side of her mouth, and then she lay still.

  Nick cried for a while, then he called Heather on her cell phone to let her know the deed was done. Less than thirty seconds later she opened the door and gazed upon the mutilated corpse that had been her competition.

  "So do you promise not to get mad at what I'm going to say?" she asked.

  Nick nodded.

  "I've changed my mind. Let's have the threesome."

  CHIGGERS

  "All you get to do is kill him."

  Mr. Simon nodded. "I understand."

  "I'm very serious about this. This is not going to turn into some sadistic torture session. You will press this gun against his forehead," Neal said, sliding the pistol across the desk, "and you will pull the trigger. If you want to make a speech before you do it, be my guest, but keep it brief."

  Mr. Simon picked up the gun. "I'm ready."

  "If you ba
ck out, I will not finish the job for you. So if you think you might not be able to go through with it, I'd advise you not to walk into that room. We can still turn him over to the police, no problem."

  "And no refund."

  Neal smiled. "Correct."

  Mr. Simon pushed back his chair and stood up. "I won't be backing out. I'm going to enjoy every minute of this."

  "Okay, now, see, I'm getting a torture vibe from that. I don't care what he did to your daughter. This is a quick, painless kill. There's only one bullet in that gun, and if it goes anywhere but his brain, you and I are going to have a problem. Are we clear?"

  "One hundred percent."

  "All right, then. Avenge away."

  Mr. Simon walked out through the open door of Neal's office. Neal took a sip of his coffee, leaned back in his chair, and sighed.

  He knew exactly how this was going to play out. Mr. Simon would walk into the room, shut the door, lock it, and shoot nineteen-year-old Derrick Naylor in the gut. Screw the consequences. When Neal got in there and broke his nose, well, Mr. Simon would decide that it had been worth it for Derrick's extra couple minutes of agony.

  Mr. Simon's daughter, Vivian, had been beaten, raped, and left for dead. She had yet to emerge from her coma. Odds were, she never would. So Neal could understand why her dad might want the guy who'd done this to his sweet, beautiful, thirteen-year-old daughter to suffer.

  He deserved much worse than a quick gunshot to the head.

  He deserved to die slowly, screaming for hours.

  Whoever he was.

  It sure as hell wasn't Derrick. Poor kid just happened to match the age, build, and hair color of somebody a witness claimed to have seen walking past the park where Vivian was abducted. The case against Derrick wouldn't hold up for thirty seconds with actual law enforcement, but the burden of proof was significantly less when dealing with a devastated father whose mind was poisoned with thoughts of revenge.

  Neal had no criminal-tracking skills whatsoever, but he was pretty good at kidnapping, and excellent at using Photoshop to provide some damning evidence.