by Adam Cesare
Above in the bar, it took only minutes for the screams and barking to stop and a hush to fall on the big room. The creature in the sack let out a slight whine.
When the monster jumped down into the pit with him, Hernandez stood with his back against the wall, silent and awestruck. The larger creature gently nestled the bag and gingerly opened the twine with its claws. It let out a pained sigh and purred at the smaller one between labored breathing. The two creatures nuzzled, and the smaller one used its long prehensile tongue to lap some of the blood from its mother’s face.
The two creatures ignored Hernandez, but he still stayed as quiet as possible—like a good boy—as he watched the mother and child begin to rend Patch’s body in order to feed.
Trap
Kent was drifting off to sleep when he heard the snap and was startled awake.
“Gotcha, ya little bastard,” he mumbled, then rolled over and slipped back to unconsciousness.
In the morning, he was already halfway through breakfast before he remembered the trap. He was standing in the apartment’s small kitchen area, in his boxers and nightshirt, eating cereal and watching The Huckleberry Hound Show, when he recalled it had been sprung. He left his cereal to get soggy and went to the cupboard to get the flashlight. He then wove his considerable bulk through the numerous piles of girlie magazines, lighting equipment, and film canisters that had amassed in his living room since his last bimonthly cleaning.
He eased himself down onto his hands and knees and clicked the flashlight on, sending its beam out under the couch. The trap lay next to a dog-eared issue of Cabaret. The cleavage on that particular cover had been awe-inspiring, leading Kent to carefully study the interior photos for ideas to inform his own work. The mouse’s tiny neck was pressed against the wood of the trap to the point of nonexistence. Its eyes bulged from its head, and Kent had to wonder if it even had time to be surprised. If, when the rusty metal bar descended, the mouse had died still enveloped in the rapture of finding a lone glob of peanut butter nestled under the sofa. Despite the headache the rodent had caused him, Kent thought the instantaneous death the trap provided was pleasantly swift, if a little bland.
He used a blank 1960 census form, which he also found under the couch, to wrap the corpse up and threw it out.
It was Ginger who had first spotted the mouse. Kent had her bent over an ottoman in the only clean corner of the small apartment. He had this corner specially reserved for photo shoots. She had loosened the strap on her bikini top and just the slightest hint of areola was beginning to peek forth, winning her breasts’ lopsided battle with gravity. Kent always worked alone. It was never creepy for the girls after the first ten minutes or so. After that time had elapsed, they saw that Kent was a staunch professional, silent and to the point.
With her breasts just about to spill out and greet their adoring public, Ginger let out a scream that sent Kent toppling over an electrical cord. She was up off her stomach and standing on the ottoman in a split second. It wasn’t until several moments later, when she actually screamed the word “mouse,” that Kent had any idea what was going on. It took fifteen minutes to calm her down, and by that time she had to leave in order to make it back to the office. She worked as a secretary at some ad agency uptown when she wasn’t posing tastefully nude in the living rooms of men like Kent.
Mice were something you had to deal with quickly in New York. The city was full of all kinds of vermin, and if you gave them an inch, they’d eat you alive. Kent had just recently waged a skirmish with a local group of six-legged heavies: cockroaches. Every manner of modern spray, powder, and poison was employed in his weeklong campaign against the roaches. The only casualties on his side were a couple of boxes of cereal and the unpleasant experience of stepping on one barefoot while he was taking a late-night piss. Luckily they were a stealthy guerrilla force only moving under the cover of darkness, leaving Kent’s models to remain comfortable in their own skin while on the premises. But this mouse was bold. It had ruined a photo session and deserved to die.
When Ginger left, Kent made his way down to the corner store, the same corner store he came to on Sundays to sell and trade snapshots with the owner, Max.
It was a Wednesday and Max was visibly elated to see Kent stop by so early in the week.
“Done already?” The small store was empty except the two men, so Max dropped the usual pleasantries. “That Ginger, she’s a firecracker. I told you.” With that the gaunt man behind the counter plucked a Lucky Strike from his pocket, struck a match, and took a long self-congratulatory drag.
“Sorry, but no dirty pictures today,” Kent said, and forced a frown. The end of Max’s cigarette dipped down, as if it were disappointed too. “Got any mousetraps?”
“Well, we don’t sell them, but I think I have a spare floating around in the back. The little bastards get into everything.” Max’s skeletal body disappeared into the back room of the shop. He had to duck to keep his head from hitting the door frame.
He came back with a mousetrap so rusted it would be a miracle if Kent could arm it without either breaking the spring in half or contracting tetanus.
“I’d take two bits for it,” Max said with a smile.
“Yeah, sure,” Kent said. He scooped up the ancient trap and made a rude gesture to his friend with one of his fat fingers as he walked out the door.
Kent called Ginger back on the same day as his victory over the rodent.
“It’s all clear, sweetheart, I got the mouse,” he wheezed into the receiver.
“Gee, I don’t know,” Ginger said into her office phone, and then proceeded to rook an extra dollar out of Kent, bringing her fee up to an unheard-of five dollars.
“Better be worth it,” Kent grumbled as he hung up. He looked over at his trash can: the mouse, the census form, and the trap lay on top of a mountain of garbage. He would have to remember to take it out before she got there tonight, or at least bury it further. The whole place needed a cleaning, but it would have to wait. With such little time before the girl’s arrival, he would need to worry about setting up the camera and again clearing off an area for her to model in. Kent went into the kitchenette and stared at the dead mouse as he poured himself a glass of J&B. The census form had unfurled, revealing the poor little bastard, a tiny drop of blood on his whiskers. Kent turned his back to the can and upended the drink. Walking to the living room, he heard a sudden burst of movement behind him. The sound of rustling papers mixed with a faint scratching startled him so badly that he dropped his glass. The drink landed harmlessly on the dirty carpet with a light thud as Kent whirled around to investigate.
There was no movement in the kitchen, but the mouse and trap had fallen from the top of the pail and onto the tile floor. Must have been nerves twitching, Kent thought as he inspected the body of the mouse. The tiny cadaver had grown stiff in the heat of the apartment.
He pushed the contents of the can down with his foot and then picked the mouse up by its tail and dropped it in the trash. He shuddered to see how its glassy eyes had grown matte in the hours since its death.
With the time it took to pour another drink, he barely had enough time to fix up the camera, set up the three studio lights, and clean off his corner “studio” area before there was a knock at the door.
“Hey, bub,” the girl said as he removed the chain and opened the door. Ginger had the look of a well-endowed lady of King Arthur’s court, but her voice had a grating Brooklyn accent that even the easygoing Kent had trouble stomaching.
“Let me take your coat,” he said, as he slipped the girl’s fur off and hung it on the coat rack, which was broken and propped up against the wall by a stack of yellowing magazines.
“You’re sure you got the mouse?”
“Very sure,” Kent said. Pandering to this girl was beginning to take its toll on his politeness reserves. There was a rustle similar to the one before coming from the kitchenette. Kent just smiled and hoped she did not hear it.
“What was that then?” she asked, the happy lilt gone from her voice.
“Goddamn radiator’s on the fritz, like it needed to be any hotter in here,” he lied.
“Oh, you should talk to your super about that, doll.”
How the lie had worked he could not fathom, but he suddenly had the overwhelming feeling that it was best to get the pictures done as quickly as possible and get her out of here.
“So what I wanted to do here is the same as last time, a couple of glamour shots and then some nudie pics, nothing out of the ordinary,” he said, and then added, “Do you want a drink?”
“Oh yes, please, Scotch if you got it.”
“It’s all I got, sweetheart.” He felt silly adding the “sweetheart,” but that was the way girls like Ginger were used to being talked to, and who was he to disappoint her?
“I’m glad it’s just skin you’re interested in. Some of these guys …,” she said. “Man alive, I could tell you stories about how some of these yahoos had me dress up like a baby holding a bullwhip. I like you though. You’re real quiet and nice—could be a bit neater though.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said from inside the kitchen. He was not registering what she was saying because he was looking down into the garbage. The trap was there, but with no body inside it. The mouse was gone.
Beginning to sweat, Kent reentered the room and handed the redhead her glass.
“Thanks, hon. Are you okay?” she asked, noticing the flush in Kent’s chubby cheeks. “You don’t look so great. No offense.”
“I’m fine, just the heat,” he said. “Would you like to get started?”
There was a chair and ottoman set up in the bare corner of the apartment. The mismatched upholstery on both had seen better days. Ginger undid the first few buttons of her blouse and put one knee up on the chair, assuming her starting position. Taking his place behind the camera, Kent thought he heard a faint scratching. He tried ignoring it and snapping a few pictures. “Hey, how about some music?”
“Oh, that would be great.” Ginger smiled and undid another button.
“Yeah, I got a great new record.” Kent forced himself to sound composed, and the small talk helped. “If I could only find where I put the…” He scratched his second chin and peered around the mess of the room until his eyes fell on a small record player. He carefully removed it from the pile of junk around it and found a place for it on the couch, and after a moment of crackling the room was filled with Del Shannon’s Little Town Flirt. A great record, even if Del sounded like a woman when he hit the high notes.
Returning to the camera, Kent made a slight motion to Ginger that she should continue disrobing. The heat of the apartment was mingling with the lights and Ginger’s skin had begun to gain a nice sheen. It was when she peeled off her blouse that Kent spotted the first mouse. It was poking its nose out of a hole in the chair’s faded red upholstery. Kent tried his best to stifle a cry of surprise; he wanted to get in at least one picture of this girl before she ran off again. The mouse poked its head back in, and Kent allowed himself a small sigh of relief.
She undid her bra, and he felt something brush past his pants leg. He couldn’t help but jump. He tried to make it look like he was getting into the song, which was now entering its final refrain.
She was playing coy, crossing her arms over her chest. Kent took a couple more snaps and then made a motion with his head encouraging the girl to get to the goods. She giggled and turned her back to the camera, giving a quick seductive look over her shoulder before facing the corner. This wasn’t some professional gig. She didn’t have to waste his film on foreplay, and it was beginning to aggravate Kent. It was a good thing she turned her back though, because two mice crisscrossed paths over the carpet right in front of the camera.
“Could you just turn this way, honey,” Kent said briskly, with no attempt to hide his frustration.
“Well, if that’s the way you want it, buster,” she said, and turned around quickly. Kent was so relieved to finally see her breasts that he didn’t notice the look of stunned horror that overtook her face on turning around.
She made a confused gasp, struggling to find words as Kent kept clicking away. She finally forced a scream to the surface and grabbed for her blouse, which lay crumpled on the ottoman. Kent fell over backward onto a pile of magazines and shoeboxes full of photos. Ginger gripped the blouse tight and pressed it to her skin, and then had a renewed look of terror when she felt the half-crushed mouse squirming between her fingers. She released it and it fell, still twitching, to the floor.
Kent righted himself and took a look at the rest of his apartment. The stacks of clutter were teeming with mice. He then turned back to Ginger, who was frantically trying to wipe mouse blood from between her fingers.
“Here, let me help.” Kent hurried toward her. Her eyes had gone wild, and she put out her clean hand to stop him. His bare foot crunched down on something soft and he went toppling headlong into the naked girl. His greasy hair landed right under her chin, and the domino effect sent the two crashing into one of the lights.
There was blood in Kent’s mouth when he woke up. He could hear the whick-whick sound of the 45 as it spun on the record player, and he could feel something soft under his face. He looked up to see Ginger, her pretty face pocked with the broken glass of the shattered bulb and her neck contorted in an impossible angle under the metal stand of the light fixture.
Kent began to cry, sweeping his eyes across the rest of the apartment. There was a circle of mice around their two bodies. A hundred beady eyes, all watching the fat man. After that he did not want to cry anymore, just scream.
The New Model
I was hungry around three o’clock, so I went down to the burger joint on the corner. Usually I have Ashley cook my meals, but she can’t seem to do some foods justice. Plus I like my burgers with bacon, and when you fry bacon in a small apartment like mine, the damn place smells like grease for a week. I try to be a cleanly guy.
The girl behind the counter was cute in an all-natural kind of way. I caught her giving me the once-over, but I suspected she was lousy with diseases, so I did not pursue it. Ashley was waiting for me at home anyway.
People are nuts nowadays. They still want to screw each other’s brains out for recreation, and then they have the cojones to bitch about the consequences.
The Grant Company has made it so easy. Why don’t they just run down to the store and pick up a model like I picked up Ashley? It’s not like you have to be Grant himself to afford one. For instance, I work down at Funcogames, selling video games to pimply kids full-time. My job doesn’t pay much, but the dealerships have very reasonable leasing options for everyday guys like me.
So I ate my burger; it was very good. The girl was quick to say “Thanks for coming” as I pushed through the door and onto the streets. Dream on, girly.
The street was filthy and crowded as usual. I don’t just mean that the street hadn’t been swept in a while—it hadn’t—what I mean is the people. It’s like the city had become Derelicts ’R’ Us, and it was still sunny out! That’s why I bought the gun. It’s a 9mm Browning, like in that Lou Reed song “The Gun.” I know that song is like some kind of anti-gun statement, and I’m not a gunnut or anything like that; it’s strictly for protection.
When I got home, Ashley was at the door to meet me, like she’s supposed to be. Like she’s programmed to be.
“How was your meal?” she asked. She was always talking like that—formally. I wish they had an option to make them talk like regular people. She had on my favorite skimpy nightie. Most of her clothes were nighties, but I especially enjoyed this one. It was yellow with little red flowers stamped on the edges.
I liked it because when she wore it, she looked like some model out of an old movie. A movie made back when they couldn’t fully show breasts, but new enough that they could allude to their existence—early 1960s I’d guess.
I went redhead with my model. Whe
n the salesman heard that, he laughed. The guy had actually laughed at me. He said they would have to do a bit of “on-site maintenance” if I wanted anything other than a blonde. I couldn’t walk right out with her if I really wanted the red hair. I said I didn’t mind waiting, and then I thought how funny it was how most guys were the same: blondes all the way.
Making eyes with the girl in the burger joint had put me in the mood.
I took off my jacket and had Ashley put it in the closet while I went into the living room and switched on the stereo.
That may be the single greatest thing about Ashley. With real girls you had to listen to what they wanted while you did it. Sometimes they wouldn’t let you play music at all. I had this one girlfriend in high school that was crazy about that hippy-dippy “music” where the guy is sort of just saying the words. You know how hard it is to concentrate on what you’re doing with a girl when there is some guy in the room with you talking about misty mountains and the woes of the proletariat? It’s quite difficult.
I put on some Nirvana. I’ve found that it really gets the blood pumping. Kurt Cobain, there’s a guy who can make music. I say make music because his voice is crap and his lyrics were nonsense, but the songs all sound really human to me. I don’t buy that crap about Courtney Love killing him. The man was a manic-depressive, and it’s not like he was hiding it behind his upbeat music.
Ashley walked into the room like she knew the score. I closed the distance between us and started fooling around, kissing her and touching her.
I can tell that there was something wrong right away. She’s not making any noises. They are supposed to moan and whisper dirty things like crazy when you start to touch them. Ashley just stood there, her head kind of tilted to the side like a curious dog.
I stood back and snapped my fingers. She blinked, but nothing else. Then I heard something. She’s making a light hum. I put my ear up to her lips and she let out some kind of scream.