by Billy Wells
Abramson hit a button on his desk, and eight beefy strongmen entered the room and grabbed Marlowe and his father and escorted them to a padded cell in the basement. The massive steel doors slammed shut like a bank vault.
The promoter spoke into a microphone, and the two prisoners heard his voice resonating from the ceiling. “Our partnership has ended. From now on you will do what I say if you want to continue not being like all the other werewolves.”
“You wouldn’t do that. I beg you not to. What kind of monster are you?”
“You’re the monster, not me.” Abramson snickered. “I promote big box office attractions, and you are it. I got the idea from watching King Kong last night. Carl Denim didn’t share his profits with the big ape, he simply put him in a cell until show time.”
During the next full moon, the promoter’s men turned Marlowe’s father loose in the red-light district. He had not eaten for several days and was ravenous. As the night progressed, he brutally devoured three prostitutes and left the pieces of their body strewn about the streets. The police sirens were blaring continuously while Marlowe was the main event at the Garden. The promoter’s cronies followed Marlowe’s father and even watched the carnage with the prostitutes. Once his blood lust was satisfied and he returned to human form, they fell upon him with a stun gun and returned him to his cell.
Several months passed, and Abramson received a proposition from ten Saudi oil barons that they would pay handsomely to see a special show where several young women were placed in the cage with Marlowe rather than the steer. They offered to pay five million dollars to film the werewolf devouring the three young women, who were to be purchased on the black market in Mexico.
Abramson agreed to the terms and arranged for the special show to follow the Garden show at his home in Greenwich.
As planned, after the main event at the Garden, Marlowe was taken in chains in a Brinks truck to Abramson’s mansion. A small auditorium was set up with the steel cage with fifty seats for spectators. Oil barons filled about half of the seats and the promoter and his men filled the rest.
The full moon hung suspended in the sky as several of Abramson’s stooges went into the cage and started beating Marlowe with a bullwhip until his anger caused him to begin his transformation into a wolf for the second time that evening. The men exited the cage and took a seat in the audience. From high above the stage, a scantily clad young woman with enormous breasts, who was chained to a platform, was lowered into the cage from above. A film director screamed commands to various members of the crew that began filming the event from eight different vantage points around the stage. Creepy music began to build as Marlowe glared at the women’s body stretched across the platform. Strobe lights began to pulse as the room lights dimmed, and spotlights filled the interior of the cage.
Suddenly unbridled shrieks and screams filled the room, not from the cage, but from the audience, as the house lights flooded the entire interior. The camera crew swiveled their cameras toward the oil barons and at Abramson and his henchmen. About half of the Saudi’s had been ripped apart by a pack of werewolves who were making their rounds in the audience. The yellow blood-splatter slickers the spectators were wearing were becoming drenched with their own blood as the sound of gnashing teeth and breaking bones filled the room. Abramson was escorted in chains into the cage to face Marlowe, who had been joined by his father.
Marlowe ripped a piece of flesh from the promoter’s cheek and popped it into his bloody mouth. Abramson was sobbing violently and begging for mercy as Marlowe continued to slice off bits of meat from his paunchy jowls with his long claws and explained, “Let me introduce a few more members of my family who are all werewolves that have lived undercover for a hundred years.”
The sound of sucking and slurping continued as Marlowe’s brothers and sisters continued to devour all the spectators, but the promoter.
“Three years ago, our sister, Rosy, was slaughtered in one of your snuff movies. We developed the Werewolf on Broadway ruse to flush out the Saudi bastards who paid you to make the film. Finally, we have our revenge for her death and a considerable amount of money to boot.”
Marlowe’s father began chewing on Abramson’s right ear as Marlowe skewered his eyeball like an olive with his index claw. Blood sprayed across the promoter’s lips as Marlowe, savoring each morsel, said, “We purposely saved you for last. After all the pain and suffering you have caused our family, we really have a bone to pick with you.”
* * *
The Rapture
Bobby Russell announced to his congregation from the pulpit of his magnificent Palace Cathedral that God had come to him in the night and told him the world would end October 13. Having the rapture come in six months would give him adequate time to convince the poor saps watching his televised service every Sunday, that sharing their money with the less fortunate for the final months on earth would secure their place in heaven. He had received over ten million dollars in contributions after making the same announcement five years earlier. Now that he preached from the beautiful, but expensive Palace Cathedral on national TV, he knew the possibilities to increase that number to fifty million dollars was in the ballpark.
“Help me help the poor people of Missouri who’ve lost their homes in the tornado to have a few months of sustenance before the rapture. Why hoard your money when you won’t be able to spend it only six short months from now? God has a lot of work to do on earth before the chosen go up yonder and you can help,” the minister pleaded with tears flowing down his face, helped by the raw onions he’d cut up and placed in the handkerchief he held to his face right before taking the stage.
Three distinguished gentlemen in black suits passed the collection plates around the pews of the massive structure. Bobby smiled when he saw the greenbacks piling up in the stainless steel bowls twice the size as they once were.
“Don’t forget the people displaced by the Mississippi River flooding. Imagine the little children’s happy faces when they find they won’t have to go hungry again tonight.”
He already owned thirty-two new automobiles and twelve sprawling estates in various parts of the country, but this time he wanted to go international. Sprucing up his shiatsu’s air-conditioned miniature palace and restocking the pet’s subzero refrigerator with choice filets and caviar headed his list of things most needing his immediate attention.
“It’s so much more blessed to give than receive. When we reach the pearly gates, God will reward our unselfish generosity ten fold,” Bobby shouted to the congregation. “Remember Jesus is coming October 13. Please make plans to be here with the true believers when we take each other’s hands and rise to heaven. God have mercy on the poor souls that are bound for Hell when the end comes on the final day. Glory. Glory. Hallelujah!”
As the months went by, Bobby couldn’t believe the unparalleled donations he’d received. Many hard-core believers had withdrawn most of their life savings and donated it to one of the many rescue funds he’d created. It was an extraordinary year for national disasters, the best he could remember.
A brief pang of guilt crept into his psyche as he wondered how many of the gullible lowlifes would commit suicide when they could no longer provide for their families. Puffing his expensive Cuban cigar, he made an appointment with his favorite call girl for his weekly blowjob. She was expensive, but worth it. She knew all of the right buttons to push.
He watched a small hunched over young man with a pregnant wife dump a hatful of money into the poor box of his Palace Cathedral, which had always been the biggest scam of all. The weekly, televised service produced millions from around the world.
On the morning of October thirteenth, Bobby pushed the buxom young prostitute to the side and peered out the window. The weather report called for thundershowers most of the day, which he considered a true godsend in bolstering collections. He prayed for a spectacular showing of lightning so all who believed in the rapture would get a cheap thrill for at least a few minutes befor
e the sun came out.
He sent the eighteen-year-old bimbo with the sixty-inch bust packing in a taxi then took a long shower. Afterward, he put on his best Armani suit and prepared for the noon telecast where he planned to announce God had told him personally the rapture would not occur today after all.
At twelve noon, the cameras began to roll from five locations as Bobby looked into the red light and proudly showed off his $25,000 dental implants. He’d also had a tummy tuck specifically for this auspicious occasion. As if on cue, the sky turned black and loud claps of booming thunder rocked the very foundation of the Palace Cathedral. A massive bolt of lightning split the sky as twenty-five million people began to witness a strange meteor shower in living color. He couldn’t have planned the weather any better if Mother Nature was his best friend. Bobby’s smile disintegrated into a grimace of excruciating pain as he quickly covered his ears from the earsplitting blasts of lightning bolts. Blood started running through his fingers onto his beige suit.
Camera two panned in for a close-up of the sudden clamping of the minister’s jaws, which caught his protruding tongue between his teeth. Bobby started dancing about the podium as a high keening sound emerged from his throat.
Camera three zoomed in at the right angle showing in graphic HD quality the minister’s tongue falling on the floor with blood spraying his $2,000 Armani shirt and $2,000 tie.
Camera four zoomed in to film Bobby’s eyes bulging from their sockets until they exploded into a viscous cloud of grisly liquid. More blood began to stream from his nose and ears as the meteor shower ended, and the sky began to brighten.
Finally, the beleaguered religious icon teetered in his Gucci loafers, then toppled to the floor. Pandemonium fell over the church as some of the members ran amok in all directions. Others sat paralyzed in shock from the horrible atrocities they’d just witnessed. As suddenly as the storm had come, it was gone.
NBC had captured the entire bloodbath and continued to replay it repeatedly for the entire world to see. Shortly thereafter, the medics confirmed Bobby Russell was irreversibly blind, deaf, and dumb.
Then one by one from across the United States, television stations reported 22 televangelists out of hundreds had befallen the same fate. All of the victims, like Bobby, had survived the horrible ordeal, but all of them had lost their sight, hearing, and speech forever. Also, during the time the broadcast aired, all the contributions that this group of ministers collected over many years reappeared in the accounts of the contributors. Miraculously, years of bank statements had no record of the original transaction. All the churches of the ministers affected disappeared in the flash of an eye with no trace they had ever been constructed. During the next 24 hours, no one in the world remembered what had happened on October 13, and no one recalled the names of the 22 televangelists.
* * *
One year later, on October 13, Bobby Russell sat on a stool on the corner of Times Square with a tin cup and a sign that read, “Please help me, I’m blind, deaf, and dumb. A victim of the rapture on October 13, 2011.
A reporter passing by saw the sign and paused to look at the pitiful beggar. “How strange,” he thought. “The old man’s sign referred to the date no one on earth could remember that would probably remain a mystery until the end of time.” Some scientists speculated an asteroid might have sprinkled a strange powder of forgetfulness on the earth as it raced through the solar system. Some had even more ridiculous conjectures, but no one could furnish a shred of proof to substantiate any of them.
The Pulitzer would be in the bag for any reporter who could tell the world what actually happened on that day. He thought about interviewing the poor man, but if he couldn’t see, hear, or speak, how could he communicate with him. He placed a dollar in the tin cup, and, concluding the interview would be more difficult than it was worth, walked briskly away.
Bobby felt in his cup, pulled out the dollar, and placed it in his shirt pocket. He’d begged enough for one day, and the pickings had been slim. It was time for the soup kitchen and Henry, another derelict, would be there soon to pick him up and share the day’s collections.
Twenty-two people on earth remembered and would never forget the rapture that occurred for them on October 13, 2011. Bobby was one of them.
* * *
The Babysitter
The sun disappeared behind the trees as the bonfire was ignited. Hundreds of high school students were getting ready for a pep-rally. Mount Vernon was coming to play the Eagles on Saturday. The cheerleaders were getting into position to perform their first cheer as Lisa Sloan, a very bad seed, climbed the bleachers and found a seat among the spectators who were beginning to assemble from all directions. Her winter coat was shabby, and she didn’t seem the type to care about football.
“Who are we fooling?” Lisa mused. The Eagles were going to be obliterated all over the field come Saturday. She looked at the candy-ass quarterback flirting with all the girls with big boobs while his homecoming queen honey was busy turning cartwheels with the cheerleaders. His perfect teeth were sparkling in the firelight. God, how she loathed his kind. She thought of how much fun it would be to run over his ass.
Lisa was a loner. Her old lady had run off with some loser, and the cash she saved as a waitress the previous summer was almost gone. Going to school was a waste of time, and she hated everything about it. Education was not going to make a big difference in her life. The only jobs she could look forward to were dead-end jobs like those her mother always had. She wasn’t going to marry someone who was born with a silver spoon. Few men were drawn to her for anything but a quick piece of ass. The only real girlfriend she ever had was cleaning up turning tricks in Vegas, and Lisa wanted a piece of that action.
She lit a cigarette and contemplated how she was going to get her traveling money together and kick the dust of this crummy town off her worn-out Reeboks.
Two prim and proper female geeks climbed the bleachers and sat down nearby. She could throw up just listening to them talking. The taller girl moved a little bit farther away when she spotted Lisa, but Lisa could still hear them blabbering.
“I’ll be in Europe with my folks for a whole month,” said Stephanie, “and the Pidcocks are going to need a substitute babysitter. Do you think you’d be interested?”
“Pidcock? Are those the people who live in that huge mansion up on Knob Hill?” Maria questioned.
“The same, and they pay twelve dollars an hour.”
“I guess that must mean their little brat is a real monster,” Maria said sarcastically.
“Not at all, Matthew is the sweetest little boy I’ve ever babysat for.”
“Sounds too good to be true, but tell the Pidcocks they’ve found their new babysitter. When do they need me?”
“Saturday night, seven o’clock,” Stephanie remarked, pulling her wool coat tighter around her neck as the winter wind whistled across the bleachers.
“Perfect,” Maria chimed as she winced from another gust of bitter-cold wind.
The two young girls kept looking back at Lisa like she had the plague and finally got up and descended the bleachers to get closer to the bonfire and away from her. Lisa glared at them in disgust, but kept watching them laughing and making small talk. If looks could kill, they would have been dead meat. She had never seen them before, but hoped she would see them again in some dark alley when she was wielding a chain saw. The school was so large it was hard to really know anyone except the students in your own classes.
Lisa saw a piece of paper fall from a stack of books one of them was carrying as the girls walked away. Neither of them noticed it. Lisa waited. After they were out of sight, she picked up the paper and realized it had all the information she had heard them discussing: names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the bitches and Mr. and Mrs. Pidcock. This was too good to be true. Lady Luck was smiling on her at last. She had been waiting for this opportunity.
Lisa continued to think about what they had said. Those stupid bitches didn
’t know she had heard everything. Now she had all the information she needed to get inside the Pidcock mansion and take as much as she could carry. Lisa was smiling from ear to ear as she left the fire and the fanfare behind and headed home.
She loved trouble and was always on the take. Shoplifting had been a way of life for her since she was seven. Her mother had taught her the ropes and she felt a rush every time she left a store with the goods. She had even sold drugs to eleven-year-olds to make a buck until her contact dried up. Did she care that she may have ruined their lives or that because of her they may have become addicts for life? Everybody has a cross of some kind to bear. These rich kids had too much money for their own good.
Most comfortable in a black leather motorcycle jacket, Lisa was the first in all her classes to sport a huge spider tattoo on her upper arm. When she really wanted to mess somebody up, she always loved the snap, crackle, and pop of a good baseball bat. She had made her living stealing from derelicts that inhabited the alleys in her part of town. Ever since she saw A Clockwork Orange, she had never taken prisoners, and she’d never been caught.
She couldn’t imagine how much easy loot—silver, diamonds—could be lying around that big house on Knob Hill. She had to do a little homework to come up with a dress suitable for such a special occasion. She hated the rich with a passion and never dreamed such a grand opportunity would arise for her to do a little number on them and garner some road money at the same time. It was going to be like taking candy from a baby.
She hadn’t anticipated having this much fun since she poisoned old Mrs. Hearn’s dog and drowned her four cats in North River last month.
The week passed, and Lisa stole most of what she needed to impersonate a respectable member of the teen community.
At five o’clock Saturday night, Maria received the call from Lisa, pretending to be Mrs. Pidcock. “I’m really sorry to have to call you at this late hour to tell you that my husband is very ill with the flu, and we have to cancel our plans for this evening. We are truly sorry for the inconvenience and want to compensate you the next time you babysit, which, I hope, could be next Saturday, if possible.”