Dead Bait

by Romana Baotic (ed. )

  Christ, is he going to jerk off right in front of me? Ben wondered. A moment later, he got his answer. Holding the carp at waist level with both hands, Ed worked the head of his penis into the fish’s mouth. He then slowly pulled the fish toward his crotch, as more and more of his erection disappeared inside its gullet. “Aw man, that’s nice,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

  Ben just sat there and stared. What was he supposed to do? Sure, he could look away, but there was something perversely fascinating about this. He watched as Ed pushed the carp up his shaft and shoved it back down again –- all the way down this time, until the fish’s face was mashed against his pubic hair. “Yeah, that’s right,” Ed said. “Gag on it, you fucking bitch!”

  Ed’s tempo began to increase, sliding the fish up and down, up and down, up and down. “Oh God...oh fuck...” Ed closed his eyes as he ejaculated into the carp’s mouth. For the first time, Ben turned and looked the other way. He stared back toward the pier, where Ed’s mutt, Rosco, chased a squirrel across the muddy shore. Rosco ran and ran until the end of his staked leash choked him into giving up his pursuit. After a few moments, Ben checked out Ed from the corner of his eye: he had already zipped himself up, and he held out the lifeless fish like an offering.

  “Here you go, buddy...give her a ride.”

  “What?”

  “She’ll be extra juicy for you, with all my pecker-snot in there!”

  “Umm...no thanks.”

  Ed looked baffled, as if Ben had just won the lottery and turned down the prize money. “What do you mean, no thanks?”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “Are you some kinda homo or something?”

  “I’m a homo because I don’t want to fuck a fish?” Ben said this in an attempt to joke around, to get him and Ed shooting the shit again. But he could tell from Ed’s hardened expression that it hadn’t worked.

  “I suppose you don’t need to whack off, because you’re gonna be nailing Ann Cody.”

  Ben shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

  “You’re damn right it’s not!” Ed exploded. “You’re never gonna fuck her –- hell, you’re never even gonna go out with her! You’re a fucking loser, just like me. Guys like us don’t get the chicks – we get the chum. So have at it!” Ed shoved the carp into Ben’s chest like he was handing off a football, and Ben instinctively grabbed hold of it.

  He was shocked to see that it was still alive –- barely alive, but alive nonetheless. The carp slowly kissed the air as globs of semen fell onto the raft. Its pink, gaping mouth looked like it belonged on a blow-up sex doll. Is that what had first given Ed the idea to stick his dick in there? Whatever the case, Ben wasn’t in the mood for sloppy seconds –- especially from a smelly gutter fish! I’m going to throw this disgusting thing overboard, he decided.

  As if he had read Ben’s mind, Ed pulled out his pocketknife and popped open the blade. He didn’t say a word, just waved it in Ben’s general direction. A few weeks earlier, Ben had watched Ed use this very same knife to cut through a bunch of empty beer cans as effortlessly as if they were overripe plums. He knew the knife could filet him just as easily as the carp he held in his hands.

  But Ed wouldn’t hurt me, would he?

  Are you kidding? the carp mouthed in silent response. He put his own father into a coma, for Christ’s sake!

  That was his stepfather. And it probably never even happened!

  Are you willing to take that chance?

  What choice do I have?

  Fuck me.

  I can’t! It’s too gross!

  Oh, it won’t be so bad. See these feelers on the sides of my mouth? Get a nice rhythm going and they’ll slap right against your balls.

  Shut the hell up!

  Look, do you want Ed to think that you’re not really his friend? That you’ve been slumming with him this year?

  Of course not!

  Then prove your loyalty. Fuck me, Ben. Fuck meeeeeeeeeeee!

  As Ben contemplated this most unnatural of acts, the sounds of nature filled the air: Rosco barking, crickets chirping, pussywillows rustling, a telephone ringing...

  A telephone ringing?

  “Ben...telephone! Is for you!”

  Liora’s voice startled Ben back to the present. Who the hell would be calling at this hour? He opened the bathroom door and marched back to the bedroom, where Liora stood in her floor-length nightgown, looking sad and confused, holding out the receiver for him. Ben grabbed it from her.

  “Hello!”

  “If you want to meet with me, go to the Third Street Fish Market at noon tomorrow. Order a pound of carp and await further instructions.”

  It was the same voice from earlier that day. Except this time, Ben knew exactly who it was.

  “I’ll be there,” Ben said, with the steely resolve of someone determined to settle an old score once and for all.

  Ben was exhausted when he arrived at the Third Street Fish Market at quarter to twelve the next day. He had spent most of the night holding a sobbing Liora, apologizing for how he’d been acting lately, promising that he still loved her very, very much. When her tears finally subsided, Liora wanted to know who Ben had been talking with on the phone. He was glad he didn’t have to lie when he told her, “An old friend.”

  The market was bustling with people –- there were three men working behind the counter, and Ben still needed to take a number. Most of the customers appeared to be housewives, buying fresh seafood for their evening meals. They ordered from a large menu board on the wall, which listed the specials of the day. There was tuna, salmon, halibut, cod, trout, sea bass, red snapper –- just about any kind of fish you could want. Except carp, of course.

  Ben hadn’t expected it to be on the menu. He knew there was a good possibility that this trip to the market was nothing more than a prank. Something to throw him off the trail –- a red herring, no pun intended. But if there was even the slightest chance that it would bring this madness to an end, Ben was prepared to follow his instructions to the letter.

  “Number thirty-two!”

  Hearing his number called, Ben stepped up to the counter, where a fat, sweaty fishmonger awaited his order.

  “Could I get a pound of carp, please?”

  For a moment the man just stared. Probably coming up with a wise-ass response, Ben thought. Very good, sir. And would you like some pigeon or sewer rat with that?

  But instead, the man lifted a partition in the counter and said, “Follow me.”

  He led Ben to a door at the rear of the market, down a flight of stairs, and through a long, narrow hallway, illuminated only by an occasional dangling bulb. Finally they arrived at a closed door. Ben heard music on the other side -- deep, funky bass lines rattled the doorknob.

  “That’ll be ten dollars,” the man said, holding out a grubby hand that desperately needed to be washed with lemon.

  “A pound of carp is ten dollars?” Ben asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Ben opened his wallet, stealing a quick glance at the photo of his lovely Liora, before removing a ten and handing it to the man.

  “Enjoy yourself,” he said as he pushed the door open. “The afternoon entertainment will be starting shortly.”

  With the door open, Ben could clearly hear the song playing inside. It was “Sushi Girl” by The Tubes. He stepped through the doorway and found himself in a large, classy looking nightclub. No, wait. Runways...interconnected stages...dance poles.

  It was a strip club.

  The place was nearly empty –- no customers, just a few workers. Two bouncers wearing red SECURITY t-shirts flanked the main stage, waiting for the first dancers of the day to make their entrance. Ben did a double-take at the sight of the guys. They were the construction workers he had overheard the day before.

  Going out with Brenda again?

  Yep, I’m finally gonna get me some fish mouth.

  Ben glanced toward the bar, where the bartender wa
s busy washing glasses for the lunch-hour crowd. It was Andrew J. Magnus III.

  Those mail-order bride companies seem kind of fishy to me!

  And there at a table by himself, in a roped-off portion of the club reserved for lap dances, sat Ed Obluck. He looked older, heavier, and balder than he did back at Woodside High, but it was definitely Ed. He poured two glasses of champagne. “Ben, there you are! Please, come and join me.”

  There wasn’t even a trace of his old redneck drawl in Ed’s voice. It was one of the reasons Ben had such a difficult time identifying him on the phone. Ben walked over to Ed’s table but didn’t sit down. Ed was drinking Dom Perignon, and his suit looked like it cost a couple grand. Ben wanted to haul off and deck Ed right then and there. But he knew he needed to be patient, needed to wait and see how this thing would play out.

  “Welcome to my grand opening,” Ed said with a smile. He pushed a glass of champagne toward Ben. “Sit down. Since you’re my very first customer, drinks are on the house.”

  Ben remained standing and ignored the drink. “You own this place? So what’s with all the secrecy? Strip clubs aren’t illegal in this town, are they?”

  “No, but city ordinances only allow for topless dancing, whereas I feature full nudity. But by paying off the right local politicians and policemen –- as well as keeping a low profile –- I have no doubt that this venture will be quite successful. After all, why go to another club and see some titties, when you can come here and see it all?”

  “How are you going to get any customers if you have to keep things hush-hush? You don’t even have a sign out front!”

  “I’ll rely on word of mouth.” Ed’s smile broadened. “Or should I say, word of fish-mouth?”

  Enough waiting: Ben punched Ed in the face as hard as he could. Considering he had never hit anyone in his life, Ben was quite pleased with the results. Sure, his hand hurt like hell, but it was worth it to see Ed topple backwards off his chair, knocking over his glass of Dom Perignon on the way to the floor.

  “That’s for what you did to me on Nelson Lake!” Ben growled.

  The bouncers/construction workers bolted toward the fracas, but Ed quickly sat up and held out a hand like a policeman halting traffic. “Stay put, boys,” he said. “I’ve got this under control.” But Ed’s wild eyes made him appear anything but composed. A red stream flowed from his nose, covered his mouth with bloody lipstick, and continued down his chin.

  “I almost completely repressed my memories of that day,” Ben continued. “I convinced myself that you and I just happened to drift out of touch junior and senior year. No particular reason. Sometimes friends grow apart, right? But as it turns out, sometimes one friend forces the other to fuck a fish at knifepoint.”

  Ed laughed so hard that he began to cough, hacking up blood as he cackled, looking like a deranged plague victim.

  Ben silenced him with a kick to the ribs. “You think this is funny? Do you have any idea how badly that repressed memory messed me up? It turned me into a thirty-year-old virgin, for Christ’s sake! And now that I’m married, it’s even managed to fuck up my relationship with my wife.”

  “Ah yes, your lovely Liora.”

  “Listen, you piece of shit. It’s one thing for you and your employees to mess with my head. But leave my wife out of this!”

  Ed stood up and smoothed his suit. He wiped the blood from his face, and his rage seemed to disappear right along with it. “You’re right, Ben –- we have been messing with you. But it was all in good fun, one old buddy to another. I didn’t mean to send you off the deep end! After all, the whole reason I invited you here today was to see if you wanted to invest in this place.”

  Ben couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Not at all. I need money to conduct a world-wide search for more dancers.”

  “Put an ad in the paper. Strippers are a dime a dozen.”

  “Not the kind I’m looking for. My taste in women is...unique. I finally found twelve in Volochayevka that met my specifications.”

  “Twelve...?”

  That monster terrorize Volochayevka for a year. Twelve women dead before he is finally caught.

  “The victims of the Butcher of Volochayevka,” Ed said, as if he was relaying a perfectly mundane piece of information.

  “You’re insane. Those women are dead.”

  “You’d be surprised by all the new procedures that Russian doctors have discovered from studying Chernobyl victims. Everything from the mutation of living flesh to the re-animation of dead flesh. Take a look for yourself –- here comes the first dancer of the afternoon right now.”

  A dark-haired beauty hit the stage, completely naked, except for her high heels. It took Ben a few moments to recognize her. Maybe it was because he was viewing her in such a foreign context. Or perhaps it was because he had never seen an enormous pair of red-glitter platform heels in the shoe closet at home. But whatever the case, it wasn’t until the dancer smiled, waved, and said “Hello, Ben” that he realized he was staring at his lovely Liora.

  So much for spending her afternoons at home, studying her English! She climbed down from the stage, walked over to Ben and Ed, and gave Ed a long, passionate kiss. When they finally finished with their tongue wrestling, Liora turned to face Ben. “Thank you so much for helping me get Green Card so I can come to America and work for Mr. Ed.”

  “Yeah, we really appreciate that, buddy,” Ed said, giving Ben a friendly punch in the arm.

  Ben felt his stomach roiling. Dear god, was he really married to the re-animated victim of a Russian serial killer? Had Liora been lying to him all along? Lying to him about everything?

  As if on cue, Liora hopped up on the table, planted her butt in a puddle of champagne, and spread her legs wide open. For the first time in his life, Ben got a clear view of Liora’s crotch.

  It looked like she was giving birth to a fish.

  The thing between her legs appeared to be a seamless extension of Liora’s own flesh, the smooth, white skin of her inner thighs curving upward to form a slimy, black head. Its jaws moved in a wildly animated fashion, like one of those novelty-mounted fish that sings Christmas songs. But this one wasn’t trying to belt out a tune –- it was searching for food, desperate for sustenance.

  That hungry little mouth...

  DAWES

  BY

  Steve Ruthenbeck

  Blood misted out the hotel window. The five-gallon spray can Dawes used sat next to a triangular steel frame that was bolted to the floor and housed an oversized fishing reel. Rope from the reel played out the third-story window and was attached to a six-foot leader made of dog chain. The leader dangled a baling hook baited with mutton over the patio.

  Dawes read the Bible while he waited — Romans chapter six now. He started reading the book after Melissa’s death. Sometimes he found answers; sometimes he didn’t, but the ratio leaned far enough to the positive to keep him searching the pages. At one time, he wouldn’t have had the patience or the perspective. Now he had nothing else.

  The bedside clock said three-sixteen in the morning when the rope twitched.

  Dawes looked up from verse eleven, a man who had recently entered his thirties but exited life years ago. His hair was buzz-cut by his own hand, and stubble darkened his features. He was thin — but not because he took care of himself.

  The rope tightened over the windowsill…and went slack once more.

  Dawes set the spray can nozzle on the floor and the Bible on top of the newspaper lying on the bed. The newspaper’s front page had stories about war, energy conservation and a cat who predicted the deaths of nursing home patients.

  The reel clicked once, softly under the sound of surf whispering through the window.

  Dawes rose from his chair and seated himself behind the triangular steel frame. He stuck his legs through its base and pulled on a pair of work gloves.

  The rope and reel sat motionless now.

  Dawes made sure the other i
tem on the bed was within easy reach. The tip of the spear gun gleamed silver and pointed to the fourth story on the newspaper’s front page — a story about a shark attack. The victim was a thirty-year-old father of three who took his kids for a Saturday swim. His body was recovered sans head.

  A similar story ran in the paper two years ago when Dawes and Melissa were in the same beachfront hotel on their honeymoon. Dawes read that paper while Melissa changed into her bathing suit. Later, when they walked down to the ocean, the laughter of beachgoers rang up and down the sand. The water was cold, but Dawes and Melissa soon grew accustomed to it. They floated on their backs, holding hands. Being buoyed by the water made Dawes feel like Melissa’s touch was the only thing that tethered him to the world. The next sensation he felt was like being hit by a Volkswagen. Clouds were moved along by the sun. Seagulls dipped in the wind. As Dawes flipped in midair, he saw the shark’s head breaking the surface of the water. It seemed to grin, a welcome-home-old-chum smile that widened into a gaping hole ringed with buzz-saw teeth. Its eyes were as blue as Melissa’s, who looked up at Dawes with surprise. Then she went under. They found no body sans head. They found no body at all.

  The rope started running over the windowsill with a liquid hiss. Dawes didn’t try the crank yet, nor did he tighten the drag. He was afraid those actions would tear the hook loose. Let it set first. Even though Dawes’s heart pounded and sweat dotted his brow, these decisions comforted him. They were the products of rational thought. During his years of waiting and watching, Dawes had begun to question if he was still capable of such a thing.

  That final swim with Melissa was certainly the last time he felt rational. The next thing he remembered was being in a hospital bed. Every thought felt muffled with mentholated cotton and his body and soul felt like they floated among the Zombies of the Stratosphere. Melissa couldn’t be gone — not like that. And it was more than just Melissa gone. It was every plan they made and every hope they had. They stopped being we’re and started being were.