DOA III

by Bentley Little

  On the following Friday, he aced a math test, and Derek decided to reward himself after school by using the machine, a thought he titillated himself with all afternoon. He hurried directly home, speeding ahead of Matt and their friend Nick, holding a textbook in front of the obvious bulge in the front of his pants. Shrugging off his backpack and throwing his book on the coffee table, he rushed back to his bedroom, hoping to finish before his mom even knew he was back.

  She was sitting on his bed, waiting for him.

  Derek started, almost crying out he was so startled.

  “Looking for your little toy?” There was something accusatory in her tone.

  “No,” he lied.

  “Your dad’s using it.”

  Derek was filled with a sense of disgust. Just the thought of his dad sticking his…thing…into the hole of the machine made his stomach feel queasy, made him want to run out of the house and never come back. But there was another feeling beneath the disgust. Jealousy? Not exactly, although that was close. It was more a sense of having his space invaded, having been robbed. The machine was his, and how dare his dad take it for himself? The device had been sitting in the garage for years. Why hadn’t his dad used it before now? Why had he waited until Derek had found it to…do what he was doing?

  “He’s in the bedroom right now,” she said. “Putting his dick inside there.”

  Isn’t that what he’s supposed to do to you? Derek thought, and it was as if his mom could read his mind because she gave him a sad smile and said, “Sometimes things can’t be undone.”

  What did that mean? He suddenly felt that he was seeing his mom—and his dad—in a new light, but he didn’t know what light that was. He felt confused and frightened and wished he’d never snooped around in the garage and found the stupid thing.

  At the same time, he felt its pull.

  Not wanting to be there when his father finished, Derek left his mom on the bed, and went outside, going into the garage and stopping before the open door of the cabinet where he’d found the machine, breathing heavily. Fear, confusion and anxiety were all balled up in one heavy knot of collective dread inside him as he stared at the empty shelves.

  What was he going to do now?

  He didn’t know. But it was a school night, and, on a practical level, he had homework due tomorrow. He would like to be able to stay out here all night, would like to be able to run away and never have to face his parents again, but neither of those things were going to happen. He wandered restlessly around the inside of the garage, knocking over some of his dad’s tools, kicking a hole in a cardboard box, trying to calm down, before he finally forced himself to go back into the house. He was thirsty, and the first thing he did was get a drink of water.

  As he was filling his cup in the sink, his dad walked in, all smiles. “How goes it, Sport?”

  Derek nodded, mumbled and got away before any questions could be asked by either side.

  In his bedroom, his mom was still seated on the bed. She was holding the machine in her lap. He looked at it, revolted. The fact that his dad had used it was just gross, and acting on impulse, he grabbed the object, lifted it above his head and smashed it down on the floor. Pieces of metal broke off, but the machine was still basically intact, so he grabbed his baseball bat, leaning against the side of his dresser, and began furiously pounding on the device, using all of his strength to demolish it, stopping only when the machine was no longer recognizable but was merely a collection of metal fragments strewn about the floor. He could not even differentiate the parts that had once created the hole.

  He expected the noise to draw in his dad, but from the front of the house he heard the sound of the television and CNN, and he knew that his dad wasn’t coming.

  Derek put the bat back in place. Staring at the broken pieces of the machine, he had the sudden urge to drop to his knees, gather up the pieces and put the whole thing back together. He wanted to use the hole again, wanted to feel that wonderful building sensation and the ecstatic release and even the sadness afterward. He wanted to see the light go on, wanted the valve to pop up and whistle.

  At the same time, he knew he’d done the right thing, and he looked over at his mom for confirmation. But she only said, “You think that will make a difference?” She shook her head and gave him the same sad smile as before. “Sometimes things can’t be undone,” she said again.

  Who were his parents? he wondered. What did he really know about them? He had never felt more distant from anyone, and he wondered if they felt the same way about him, if they were all just strangers living in the same house.

  His mom stood up from the bed and walked out of the room, saying nothing.

  Maybe he could put the machine back together, Derek thought. Or maybe he could build another one. Maybe he could build two: one for himself, one for his dad.

  Maybe.

  Sometimes things can’t be undone

  Maybe.

  The world's third so-called "test tube baby" and the first to become a horror writer, Bentley Little is hated and feared in equal measure. Woe to those who try to cross him.

  POSTHUMOUS by Lloyd Kaufman & Lily Hays Kaufman

  LLOYD KAUFMAN &

  LILY HAYES KAUFMAN

  This story is dedicated to the memory of Karen Black

  A Sunday afternoon, quiet except for a faint squeaking. A fragile mouse’s face twitches in the frame of a computer screen. The image zooms out and we see the skinny rodent suffers, starving on a sticky-trap. Desperate to free himself, he pulls one leg at a time. Confusion, fear, and pain are etched into his beady eyes.

  Across the expensively decorated home office, Geoff is glued to a jumbo screen. I hope you got that spelling down; Geoff hates when people spell his name “Jeff.” The plebeian spelling his parents gave him at birth disgusts him. Geoff is a modern day “Master of the Universe.” He’s one of the smug guys out of Bonfires of the Vanities meets the creep from American Psycho. He’s clean cut and wears nice suits. He’s got the right haircut. “You can take him anywhere,” your mother would probably say.

  Geoff’s apartment is a typical nouveau riche bachelor pad. A full-size pool table stands where a dining room table might otherwise go. Although the apartment has four bedrooms, Geoff converted one to his home office. Another is a wall-to-wall temperature controlled wine storage room, the third he turned into his gym, and the fourth bedroom, where he sleeps, hosts a stripper pole. Sharp angled furniture and cream suede walls scream “I am built to be harmed by, or harm, little kids who come in contact with me.” Geoff happens to have two kids. But it’s not like he lets them visit his man palace.

  Geoff turns a second webcam towards his own face. He clicks UPLOAD LIVE TO YOUTUBE on his computer and voilá, his webcast House of Worth is streaming. A split-screen pops up on the monitor: suffering mouse on one side, Geoff’s sweaty face on the other.

  The idea occurred to Geoff yesterday that the mouse might help him tap into a new market, so het set up his camera to film the suffering. Geoff checks his account statistics—250,000 people have tuned in to the webcast this afternoon. He clicks to the “Trending” tab and scans the list of the internet’s most popular webcasts: How To Straighten A Pig’s Tail, Weird Things Couples Do With Their Dogs, Extra Body Parts You Won’t Believe! Nope, Geoff’s webcast, House of Worth, is not trending.

  “What the fuck.” Geoff slams his fist on the table. He is determined to get 1 million subscribers. He’s tried all the dirty tricks—paying a sleazy online service for the first 150,000 subscribers, and then forking over another $200k to advertise his channel. The next 100,000 sheep subscribed on their own for 6-11 hours a night of live Geoff. Now he’s got a quarter of a million subscribers, but no, he isn’t fucking trending yet. Even after torturing a mouse!

  With House of Worth running as smoothly as it can without trending, Geoff settles back in his Herman Miller desk chair and bites into his lunch of spare ribs. The mouse activity is heating up—in a last ditch measure to free hi
mself, the mouse chews through his own leg to escape. He is bleeding and defecating, fluids are coming out of all orifices. Mouse juice is about to spill off the trap and onto Geoff’s pristine white marble floor.

  Geoff heads over and stands above the mouse’s sticky torture pad. “You goddamn incompetent mouse trap. Can’t you do your job without making a mess on my floor!”

  The mouse breathes faster, his little heart races. He rips one leg free. Geoff jolts back, startled. Angered, he steps on the trap to crush the mouse. The trap sticks to the sole of his Gucci loafer. Geoff slaps his foot on the floor to free himself. He uses his other foot to step on the edge of the trap and frees his right foot, only to find his left foot is stuck.

  “Oh good one, stick to my foot, you bastard.” Geoff kicks his foot angrily to free himself. “Goddamn sticky trap. Get off my foot.” The sticky pad has trapped him like flypaper. Geoff is no different than the mouse. “How dare you?” Geoff yells at the sticky trap. “Get off my foot! What are you stupid or something? Do I look like a mouse to you? You dumb piece of sticky shit.”

  Geoff hops around on the other foot and tries to pull off the trap. He doesn’t want to touch it with his hand so he tries to remove the sticky trap with his other shoe…again. He passes the trap from one shoe to the other and back again, hopping side to side. With the right dramatic lighting and minimal music, if you were just channel surfing the internet and landed on Geoff’s webcast, you might think he was performing an interpretive dance. Is this the Martha Graham channel? A YouTube channel surfer asks herself, clicking on the webcast. A traditional Riverdance performance? Geoff’s subscriber base ticks up to 275,000 viewers.

  The choreography comes to the grand finale as Geoff bends over into a port-de-bras. He sweeps his hand down to his foot and with one final swing of the arm he frees the sticky trap and mouse carcass from his shoe and tosses it into the garbage.

  Geoff looks at the stove clock. It’s flashing 12:00. Not again! The clock is always resetting on him. Geoff checks his Rolex. “Great! Thanks a lot. I’m twenty minutes late.” He has to prepare for his next show this evening.

  Washed, shaved and perfumed, Geoff directs a beautiful redhead. He doesn’t remember the woman’s name, but he made sure to spell his when they met. He’s sitting on the love seat while the redhead is now dancing with her back to him, leaning forward on a stripper pole. The pole fits perfectly in Geoff’s bachelor pad.

  “You like that,” the woman says.

  “Mmmhmm,” Geoff says, though he’s more interested in adjusting the camera angle. He has to make sure he gets shots that are perfect for his channel, but he can’t get it tilted just right. “Fucking camera,” he mumbles. “You are just as worthless as the stove clock.”

  “Just relax, baby.” She coos. Geoff figures she’s probably too stoned to know or care about his filming or that Geoff cares more about getting a good angle on himself than her anyway. He has to look good for his viewers.

  When they’re done, the woman asks for water.

  “You’ve got legs, don’t you?” Geoff sneers from his office where’s he’s already back at the computer again.

  She leaves the love seat and makes her way to the kitchen.

  “The fridge light’s burned out,” she says when she returns. She takes a sip of water. “Just thought I should tell you.”

  Geoff ignores her. He’s done with her. And besides, it’s not important. He can buy new fridges and clocks for that matter. What he needs is more subscribers. He is addicted to collecting followers, obsessed with making people appreciate his worth. Now if only she would leave him alone to work.

  “I guess I’m gonna leave,” the redhead says. Geoff is relieved she’s gotten the hint. He adjusts the camera until he’s pleased that in the background you can see pictures of him on a yacht. More bonuses from his marriage.

  “You don’t have to be so angry all the time. It’s not like it’s going to help anything,” she adds.

  “Get the fuck out!” Geoff snaps.

  Ding! 290,000 subscribers. Geoff smiles. His cruelty to her is better ratings than her striptease.

  The Next Day

  Park Avenue: the epicenter of the Upper East Side Elite. A jam-packed Christmas Caroling session is in full swing. Mink and Manolo Blahniks crush against one another for a glimpse of the excessively cheerful children’s choir singing on the steps of an excessively charming church. Even the toy pedigree dogs are wrapped in pashminas.

  But fashion isn’t the point; these rosy-cheeked carolers are here to celebrate Christmas, the holiday of family, giving and love. The annual event is always three weeks before Jesus’s Birthday. And for that one sacred hour, dads put away iPhones, stay-at-home moms tune out of Facebook, kids turn off their Xboxes, all for an hour of quality time together.

  Geoff is here with his family, but only at his wife Isabella’s insistence. It’s part of the deal they have: Isabella refills his bank account each month, Geoff makes appearances at family events and charity benefits a couple times a year. He charges extra for photo opportunities. That was the agreement they came to when Geoff tried to cash in his marriage.

  Marrying Isabella was the best investment Geoff ever made. A doyenne of New York Society, Isabella’s family roots go back centuries. The family bank accounts, trusts, properties, businesses, jets and yachts generate an endless stream of wealth which will ensure a billionaire legacy for future generations to come.

  Geoff charmed his way into her family. He proposed to Isabella with an heirloom diamond Isabella’s grandmother provided (at no cost to Geoff of course). He wisely refused to sign the prenup and less than two years later, when Isabelle was eight months pregnant with twins, Geoff announced over a filet mignon that he was ready to split.

  Isabella refused to divorce him; whether she loved him or not was irrelevant, it was just about the money. The two were able to agree on a comfortable monthly stipend Isabella would continue to put into his account after Geoff moved out. For the benefit of the kids, and to maintain her own pride, Isabella insisted Geoff agree to show up at a couple family events.

  So here Geoff is, making his appearance. He doesn’t hoist his daughter onto his shoulders. Even if he were to put his arm around Isabella, she would surely shrug it off and step away from him. Unlike the joyful carolers singing around him, Geoff instead is deep in conversation talking business with Monty, another Park Avenue Dad. The choir leads the carolers into an elaborate round of everyone’s favorite holiday classic “Jingle Bells”. Over the singing, Geoff is trying to tell Monty about a new deal. It won’t be public info for another week or so. The damn singing is so loud though that Monty can’t quite hear him.

  Geoff repeats himself: “Uniforms, for the military.” Monty leans in; he still didn’t get it. “Uniforms!” Geoff sees nothing obscene about combining war profiteering and this touching holiday gathering to celebrate peace and love. After all, a deal involving 3 million uniforms, plus accessories, is one hell of a sale.

  Now hundreds of carolers dig deep into their pockets and pull out sets of keys attached to silver Tiffany & Co. key chains. They shake the keys to the chorus of “Jingle Bells”.

  Monty leans in closer to hear Geoff, but it’s a losing battle against the tinkling baubles. “Soldiers!” Geoff repeats, screaming. No use, Monty can’t hear. “You stupid keys! Why do you have to be so damn loud?” Geoff yells at the sea of keys around him. “Damn you all, I’m trying to have an important conversation here.”

  Geoff indiscriminately reaches into the crowd of hands and keys. Before anyone sees him, Geoff snatches a set of keys out of a random child’s hand unobserved by the victim, and hurls them. Forget it, he’ll talk to Monty some other time.

  Later that night

  Back at his immaculate apartment, Geoff closes the front door behind him and tosses his own keys onto a silver tray. He breathes in, relieved to be alone. The cleaning lady has left and the marble floor glistens with no trace of the dead mouse. Geoff loves the wealt
h that is expressed throughout this apartment. It makes him so happy every time he walks in the door to know that he lives here—without his kids.

  In his bedroom, Geoff unwinds and takes his shirt off to get comfortable for the evening. He switches on the computer and camera to record the next installment of House of Worth, allowing his followers to enjoy every moment of his godlike existence. He catches his reflection in a big mirror that hangs by his bed and flexes his pecs. A notification beeps on Geoff’s iPhone and alerts him to the number of viewers who are watching at this moment: 270,000 subscribers.

  Evaluating his tan hairless chest in the mirror, Geoff uses his iPhone home automation app to dim the overhead lights. The lights lower and flicker, casting eerie shadows around the apartment. Geoff thinks the dimmed lights make him look even more attractive. He can’t take his eyes off the reflection of his tan hairless chest. He slowly dances for his viewers. The iPhone beeps notifying Geoff: 295,000 subscribers.

  Encouraged, Geoff dances across the bedroom to his stripper pole. His iPhone beeps again—297,000 subscribers. Geoff turns to look into the camera while he swings himself around the stripper pole. A monitor just next to the camera shows Geoff the scene his viewers are enjoying. Geoff is entirely absorbed in watching his own dance on the monitor. He becomes aroused by his own appeal.

  Dinner time

  In the kitchen, Geoff hangs a collection of expensive Japanese knives on a magnet over the stove. He selects a banana from a bowl of fruit. Nearby, a screen on his kitchen counter keeps track of the number of followers currently tuned into his webcast.

  The viewers have dropped down to 250,000. Distracted by the disappointment, Geoff reaches for a knife. Somehow the knife slips from his hand; it’s almost as if it intentionally jumped from him. The blade flies past the counter and falls, slicing through his limited edition Nike shoe. The knife stands straight up. Holy shit.