Shock Totem 3: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted

by John Haggerty

  Ed K. had a talent for compartmentalizing. He could hang out with the goth-punk beat crowd in the West Bank, smoking and drinking cheap wine, just after he told a congregation of well-meaning farm folk that hell awaited everyone. Don’t think that he was missionizing to the punks, either. He was scoring drugs and fucking Wanda and Jenny just the same as anyone.

  He liked to preach in a faraway Assemblies of God church because they still called him exotic. He was about as exotic as chicken chow mien. That Sunday, he had a kimono in my backseat. He was wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt espousing a positive Christian message. It showed off his tattoos.

  Many Sundays, he’d finish preaching in Stacy and tell me to drive him to Nimrod for the late services. Then his friends from the Christian Academies would invite him to free verse Christian mission bop sessions.

  He was intense about it. The first time I drove him, he stayed silent in the car. From the first hello to the last thank you, he didn’t say a word. I can’t tell you about his sermon. I waited outside. The second time, he was the same, except I went inside and heard him. He preached hellfire and Jesus.

  By the third drive, I said something innocuous like “Nice weather” or “So what are you preaching about?”

  “Just drive and shut the fuck up,” he said. I shut the fuck up. I knew better than to interrupt Ed K. when he was quiet. He was the talker and when the words disappeared, you couldn’t fill the silence with chatter. On the way home he said a few words about the sermon.

  • • •

  I know you read the papers and I know what you think happened. You can’t believe that garbage. That Sunday was quiet. Peaceful. She appeared on the side of the road like a banshee. She was standing on the shoulder with her thumb out, holding a small bag in her left hand. Her face was squinting and frowning. She was wearing a red checkerboard dress under a German Army jacket. She had tied her long red hair back. I didn’t know her name was Mary Abigail Gunderson until I read the papers.

  She grinned at our car like she knew we were going to pick her up. Maybe she had been grinning like that all day; the smile made my hands sweat. I hated her on sight. Ed K. told me to stop.

  “No,” I said.

  “Stop this fucking car or I strand you in Stacy.”

  “You don’t drive.”

  “Brother O’Connor drives and always wanted to drive a Ford.”

  “No one wants to drive a Ford,” I said, but I was slowing for her.

  When Mary ran to the car, she was full of “thank you” and “it’s so nice of you”; pitching her voice up to cheerleader. She touched Ed K. on the shoulder and she almost kissed me. I smelled her vanilla perfume and I wanted to break her beaky nose. She thanked us again. She slid back on the brown seat and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. She was a tall girl with large arms and breasts that no dress could hide.

  I gave Ed K. a bewildered look but he just put his head forward and scratched that space near his cheekbone; the one he could never shave right. For the next twenty minutes, Mary remained silent. The radio played an angry R&B song that didn’t make sense on a lonely country road.

  I drove under the speed limit. Ed K’s midnight poetry baked in my head. The church loomed on the next horizon. I was becoming a good God-fearing Christian. If they wanted me to donate money to fetuses, coming out of homosexuality funds or missions in India, I’d be cool. I didn’t need to stay in the car. I could go inside. I could clap. I could sing. I could throw a dollar bill into the hat and shout “Praise Jesus” with my hands dancing and my eyes closed. I was hiding the porn-loving, pot-smoking, whore-renting fucker from Minnetonka. I was a clean boy, just a little rough around the edges. Not all my tattoos were Jesus, but I was Ed K’s bud, homie, dude—all the cool words that Ed K’s flock used on me.

  We drove for just over twelve miles before Mary opened her mouth. I jumped a little when she spoke. I had been getting into the road, working the road, making the road my friend. I guess I had stopped believing in Backseat Mary.

  “So, you guys fags?”

  “No,” said Ed K.

  “Okay. It’s cool if you are.”

  “No. It’s not,” said Ed K.

  “Sure it is.”

  “It’s a sin.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I saw the red on Ed K’s face and I needed to lighten the mood, but I was empty. Had we been going the other way, her question wouldn’t have stung. I was hoping that her words didn’t inspire him. It was a hot day. I didn’t want to sit in the back of a church listening to Ed K. give his Dead Fag sermon. I had heard it twice before. I was hoping for Jesus Punk. I could listen to the Punk Jesus one for hours. Hell, I could even tolerate a Hippie Jesus sermon. Anything but the Dead Fag one.

  Mary was lapsing into a hopeful silence; looking out the windows. She was young but she knew enough to shut up. She flipped her hair once but it was affecting. She was a hip little redhead with a face that said “Yeah I fucked him, what’s it to ya?” The happy, grateful Mary was losing ground to the angry, nasty little bitch.

  “Stop here,” she said. The roads stretched out empty, save for the dead rabbits. Rows of wheat surrounded us.

  “Here?”

  “Yes. Here.”

  I looked at Ed K. Ed K glared at me. I didn’t stop. Mary was going to church whether she liked it or not. The preacher groove was on and Ed K. never let any cute redhead fuck with Jesus.

  “Here!” she said again.

  “He has to slow down,” said Ed K. His voice was tough. No church was going to take his anger. Hell was bopping. Rage was hopping. We were speeding.

  “Shut up, fag!” she said, as if she were joking. Her voice pitched up higher. Ed K. never hit women, never thought of hitting women. Ed K. was a talker, but Ed K. was going to say something. Something bad. Something that would turn that beautiful spring morning into a gray day at the Laundromat.

  I’m telling you everything so you know why I gunned the engine. I liked Ed K. He was my best friend, and I wasn’t going to start hating him just because a creature of destiny taunted us. I heard her screaming. I stifled a laugh. Ed K. drummed “Wipe Out” on the dash board; the engine was cranking. I smelled cow shit.

  “My boyfriend is going to kill you when he finds out about this.”

  “Relax,” said Ed K.

  “You know this is kidnapping, right? You know that you’re in big shit if anyone catches you, and I will...”

  She trailed off, but not because Ed K. was snapping his fingers. I think she realized what she was telling us.

  “Please,” she finally said, “please don’t make me miss him. He’s going to be mad if I don’t get to the diner on time.”

  “Then he’s going to be mad.”

  “You don’t understand.”

  I was trying not to talk. The road was throwing up church signs. Two miles away. Little Mary would have to walk. I smiled teeth into the rearview mirror.

  The sun was clinging to the interior, washing us all in yellow. The sky was shimmering baby blue like a sweater from 2002. I bopped my head pretending that I trusted Ed K. She was yelling and then she was crying. I turned up the radio. Girl singers were giving their lives to Christ.

  I pretended that Mary was someone else, doing something besides sitting in my backseat calling me a faggot. She was holding a large green canvas bag and I understood that bag. Mary Jailbait-girl was running off, packing what she could carry. Her boyfriend was going to be in trouble if anyone talked to the police. I should’ve thanked her for making my Sunday so joyous. She had her thing going. Going the way the things go. You know what I’m saying. Don’t pretend you don’t.

  Then she stopped. I didn’t know if she was giving up or acting petulant. Ed K. laughed. He took all the misery of the drive and buried it under a chuckle. The radio screamed something fat, mean and desperate. Hey. Hey, you. It’s all just a fucking dream.

  “Tell me about your boyfriend,” said Ed K.

  “He’ll kick your ass.”


  “More.”

  “He’ll really kick your ass.”

  “Is he tall, short, thin, fat? Is he gay? Does he have a temper? Does he get you in a headlock and never let go.”

  “He’s tall. He’s built well.”

  “Good. What does he do for a living.”

  “He’s a photographer,” she said.

  The music sped up. The music said get the hell off this road. The music said that the church was waiting and even if Ed K. never gave it honest respect, it wanted him. Patient churches eat impatient students. Hurt me.

  Mary was sweating under her canvas jacket. Once she stopped arguing, she seemed strangely calm. She didn’t know if we were going to kill her, abandon her or rape her. She didn’t seem to care.

  Ten minutes later, eight miles out of her way, Ed K. told me to stop. Ed K. jumped out, opened her door and ordered her out. She left with her head down and her shoulder bag in her hands.

  “Just walk back the way you came,” he said very friendly, as if we had just done her a favor. She didn’t snivel. She didn’t whine. She was walking away.

  “If you’re lucky someone will give you a ride back.”

  “Fuck you,” she yelled. She didn’t mean it. And that’s the last we were supposed to hear of Mary Gunderson with the red hair and the canvas bag.

  Ed K. changed into his kimono. The church looked like a barn. It could hold four hundred lovers of Christ. Most Sundays, three hundred showed up. I was hoping that he’d preach against the accumulation of useless wealth. Truth? I didn’t care. I told Ed K. to go inside without me. I had wanted to go inside but Mary ruined it. I needed to catch up on sleep. Ed K. didn’t argue. I had my reasons. He didn’t want to hear them.

  • • •

  I closed my eyes and I didn’t open them for an hour. I woke to the screams and the flames. With my keys in the ignition, I heard that great roar of the world falling on itself. I saw a fat man, a man whose hand had grabbed mine only weeks before. He was running. His face was bleeding and his belly was jiggling; he wasn’t jolly.

  I thought I saw Mary Gunderson, walking up to the church. Everything was tearing at reality. I knew the angels were looking out for Ed K. as he approached my car. He was still wrapped in his kimono and a beatific half-smile. I said hello and he said hello and that’s what you get when you dance the two-step.

  Ed K. knocked on the window and began speaking in tongues. I’m not talking about Korean. I’m talking about that charlatan snake-oil tongue—the bidda bidda boop tongue. The didi didi dididi di di HEY tongue sounds so impressive when you are in the room full of the big boppers from the high and mighty; suck on the dark roots. When Jesus is coming to your room and grabs you by your cheap suit, you need to take your head and put it between your legs. When you speak, let the biddy-bopping angels take you by the mouth.

  That was Ed K. at my car door, speaking with that wholehearted balderdash, that lip-smacking arrogance. The church was burning and it came from Heaven. Ed K. forgave hipsters, hippies and redheads. I heard the angels in Ed K’s voice and I knew. I knew. I knew how it was all going down. The fire had reached the earth and the clouds were opening up to pour blessing upon us all—rain, glory, and fancy dancing.

  Hooka hay. Hoka hey. Heyka. Heyka. Yeah.

  I know you heard the way demons burned in that church. You heard about their screams and their anguish but you never saw the peace in their eyes. You never heard the demons casting out flames, leaving sinless souls for Jesus. Fifty-two dead. Fifty-two dead in a church on a Sunday morning. Ed K. with his double life and me with my rude flesh, my sinful eyes and my debased hypocrisies. We heard it.

  And you know how it is when you’re sitting in a bar and you’re thinking that you want to go home, but you need one more drink. One more exchange with the personal trainer from down the street even though you know that she doesn’t want to fuck you. You heard yourself blow it when you could have said something funny but you went for sincere. Then you tried be funny, and you sounded creepy. You opened up your mouth and the banal shit came marching forth. And you said to yourself, fuck, maybe I can just get this started again, but nothing will work when you’re that drunk and stupid.

  Ed K. jumped into the passenger seat. “Drive,” he said, and I said “Yeah,” and I said “Hallelujah,” and my foot hit the gas and the road zoomed beneath us. I heard screams echoing past my ears. I put on the music of the saved and soulful, the damned and bitter. I hear you, God. I hear you, Jesus. And Ed K. said, “Don’t repeat that shit.”

  I wanted to stop the car. No silence. No peace. No love. Hear you maidens of Israel. Hear this and weep. Your breasts are bouncing gazelles, but one day they’ll be paper bags. That’s your world, unless you fall in the pits. Fall in the shit. Fall into salvation. Hallelujah.

  Ed K. laughed holy fire. Ed K. hummed. And Ed K. sang. I just drove, hoping for instructions. Hear me and make me your slave, Lord. Again I shouted hallelujah.

  The clouds took the sky and the wind tortured the chrome. The trees broke. Dead rabbits fell to that lonely pavement. I heard a trumpet; only one trumpet. The angel of death was busy. And then I heard it again. I heard the words of my intoxicated father. Words that made me suspect that life wasn’t right. Dad always told me that I had a nice ass. He’d take out a ruler and I wondered if I measured up. He never touched me. I wanted Jesus to whisk me away from sin. I wanted Jesus to steal my sins, my memories, my pain, my degradation. The sky was breaking.

  And there she was again, walking down the road. Walking toward us, her jean jacket muddy and her red hair out for all the world to see. Her lips formed in a smile.

  “Keep driving,” said Ed K., but he was not my master. Nor was I. I heard my voice say something unkind. I wanted to break my own windows. I wanted to buy forgiveness with thirty cloves of silver.

  “Hello,” she said, leaning into the car. She looked taller. The rains came, splattering everything in a hazy deluge. She didn’t try to get inside; she just leaned in and looked at us. Her eyes were mean but she didn’t let loose the words sulking on her lips.

  “Would you like a ride?” I said. Ed K’s face got tight. I heard my voice again ask the question. The question stalked the air.

  She took the back door handle and crawled inside. I drove back to the church. She didn’t speak. She knew that she was in good company. The Jesus radio sang loud. The road beckoned us dark and wet. Some days I talk to trees. Some days I talk to Jesus.

  “Stop here,” she said when we were back at the church. The fire trucks blocked our path. Ed K. trembled. She released her body from the backseat and walked to the fire. Her dress was clinging to her legs.

  “Should we go?” I said.

  “No,” said Ed K.

  I almost turned the key to spite him. I watched her walk to a fire truck and tear her denim jacket from her arms. She was wearing a black bra under her thin dress. I didn’t hear Ed K. crying. She tore her clothes as she walked to the ambulance. She screamed and cried in perfect deception.

  I watched her act. I saw her deception. And then the cops dragged Ed K. from my passenger seat; I heard the crime dockets. I didn’t believe in anything but Jesus and the road.

  Mary Gunderson is a state’s witness. I don’t know what she thinks she saw when she was on the road walking away. She definitely wasn’t inside the church. She wouldn’t have been alive if she was inside. Mary Gunderson was in my rearview mirror. I did not drive her all the way to church. Ed K. did not invite her inside. She did not see Ed K. light a lamp and throw it into the flowers. She did not see him light all the Easter decorations at once. She did not hear him order the congregation to stay, sit, and burn in purification. She couldn’t have seen a bemused look on his face as his brethren held her down and tried to save her from sin. She’s lying. The whole story is bullshit.

  The sefirot keep bopping. I no longer listen to country music or gospel. I listen to jazz and I hear the Lord coming through the silences. Slap. Pop. Bang. God’s fucking with you.<
br />
  Tim Lieder has been published in publications like Everyday Fiction and Silverthought, but this is his first pro-rate sale. In 1995, he accidentally founded Dybbuk Press by editing a short story collection and losing the original publisher. Recently, he edited She Nailed a Stake Through His Head: Tales of Biblical Terror, a multi-author horror anthology where all of the horror stories are based on Bible stories.

  His blog is at marlowe1.livejournal.com.

  THE MEAT FOREST

  by John Haggerty

  The shot-callers had been fighting over the fresh meat for half an hour when Dmitri showed up. The new kid was covered in mud, the thin drizzle doing nothing to clean him off, but it was clear he was a prime cut. He was tall and good-looking, with the sort of smooth, clear skin and big slabs of muscle that you can only get if you have a lot of time on your hands. He was obviously an owner, but they dropped him just like they had the rest of us—laid down some tear gas, gyroed in, and then kicked him out into the rain and stinking mud without even touching down. When the yard boys got a look at him and word spread, the shot-callers were there in a flash, swarming him like sharks, looking for their piece.

  A circle had formed, and everyone was gathered around, jeering, making lewd suggestions, showing their hardest faces while the big boys argued. The kid just stood there. He looked paralyzed, as though he couldn’t believe how bad his life had gotten, and how quickly. I watched him from the edge of the crowd. He was probably in his early twenties, but his face was soft like a child’s, as if nothing had ever been demanded of him. Surrounded by the mob of shouting, emaciated men, I imagine he had never felt so alone and lost and afraid in his life.

  Nobody was backing down and it looked certain that there was going to be a beef. And then Dmitri arrived—just walked right into the middle of everything—and that was enough to shut all of those chainiks up. Suddenly, there was complete silence, everybody standing nervously around, waiting to see what would happen next. Dmitri circled around the boy a couple of times, a thin smile on his face. The kid stood rigid and still, even when Dmitri playfully slapped him across the buttocks. After a few moments, he turned to the shot-callers. “Nobody touches him. He’s mine.”