Bone Chimes

by Kristopher Rufty

  Brandy’s eyebrows lifted. “Sample?”

  “Right. At Bruce Smiley Industries, we care about the customer. And we would not even dream of selling something as profound as the Ultimate Death Machine if the customer couldn’t try it out first.”

  “A freebie?”

  “Correct.”

  Brandy laughed. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” Though he grinned, there was nothing on his face that suggested humor. His skin looked as if it didn’t quite match his head, as if it were either the wrong size or belonged to someone else.

  Why would I think that?

  Brandy didn’t know, but Marvin from Bruce Smiley Industries didn’t seem real.

  Maybe I’m dreaming.

  She could only hope.

  “I thank you for the offer, and the free sample, but I just couldn’t even begin to think of somebody I’d want to…um…”

  “Suffer an ultimate death?”

  “Right.”

  “Too bad. Because somebody wanted you to suffer one.”

  A cold flutter worked through Brandy’s chest. “What did you say?”

  “Oh, sure. Just yesterday morning, to be precise.”

  “Who?”

  Marvin wagged a finger. “What kind of salesman would I be to betray our honor code. That would be divulging private information and I just couldn’t…”

  “I’ll sample the machine if you tell me.”

  “Wanda Baker.”

  “That bitch.”

  Marvin smiled. “She didn’t even have to think about it. When I’d convinced her the machine could work for her and offered her the free sample, your name just fired right out of her.”

  Heat flowed under Brandy’s skin. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see her flesh bubbling. “Let me guess. Because I got to go to Paris instead of her?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “That’s why she picked me. Right? We work together. Used to be pretty close, but we were both up for the trip to Paris for the training seminar and promotion. The higher-ups liked me better and picked me. I got the trip, the pay raise, and the nice office on the upper floor.”

  “Oh, that. It was your affair with Mr. Buxton and how you used the cell phone video of your sex acts to bribe your way into it that really upset her. She feels betrayed. But she doesn’t understand competition in the workplace. It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and you’re a wolf.”

  Brandy’s mouth dropped open. How the hell did Wanda even know about that? She hadn’t told anyone, other than Hal Buxton, that the video existed.

  There’s no way she could’ve known!

  “So what, she thinks she’s going to take my place with me out of the way?”

  Marvin shrugged. “I just sell the machine, ma’am. I can’t vouch for the customers’ intentions. I like you, though, Brandy. Can I call you Brandy?” Before she could grant him the permission, he was already talking again. “That’s why I wanted to make sure you knew all you needed to know.”

  He removed his hat. His black hair was slicked back and shined in the light of the room. It looked as if he’d placed a helmet of glossy, dark plastic on his head.

  “So, if you’re sure you aren’t interested in trying out the machine, then I will wish you a good day and be on my way.”

  He set the leather satchel he’d carried the machine inside of on the table, opened it, and lifted the machine. He was starting to put it in when Brandy stood up.

  “Wait!”

  The man looked up at her. A corner of his mouth lifted. “Yes?”

  Brandy held out her finger. “I pick Wanda Baker.”

  “Good choice, Brandy.” Marvin pushed the leather case aside. He pulled the Ultimate Death Machine to the center of the table, turned it around so the bulky gadget faced Brandy. It was tan in color, the dial on the side was like a small joystick, and the thumbtack-sized pricker was in the center of the bottom.

  “I told you the name,” she said.

  “Yes, you did.” He put on a sympathetic face. “But you have to be the one to put it into the machine.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fine.”

  Brandy got on her knees in front of the coffee table. She tugged up her pants up to make sure her ass wasn’t poking out the top. Then she put her hands on the device. The body felt cold as ice, and hard. Though it looked like the kind of thin material a DVD player would be made out of, it felt as if it were bulletproof.

  “So I just use this?” she asked, pinching the tips of the dial.

  “Right. Up until you find the right letter, then click it to the right for the next. When you’re done, you just push the dial in, like ringing a doorbell.”

  “Okay.”

  Moments ago, Brandy had been more than willing to see Wanda’s name inside the narrow bar, but now that she knew she had to be the one to type it in, she wasn’t so eager.

  It’s like pulling the trigger myself.

  Then she realized that Wanda must not have been so hesitant with Marvin yesterday. She needed to beat Wanda or it meant her own ultimate death.

  Brandy pushed the joystick up. Letters whirred by. She stopped on W.

  “One down,” said Marvin.

  Brandy wiped the sweat from her brow. Then she gripped the stick again and found the next letter. She kept going until WANDA BAKER had been spelled out.

  “The tiny blood offering,” said Marvin.

  Brandy gulped. She lowered her index finger down to the sharp point. It looked clean. The metal gleamed. She’d had her finger pricked more than once. It had always been a sharp sting, but quick. She doubted this would be much different.

  She was wrong. It felt less like a sting and more like a bite. The pain shot up her arm, making it go instantly numb. But it was quickly forgotten when the dial started to spin. The ribbon inside had been white, but Brandy watched in shock as her blood striped it in red, giving it a candy cane appearance until it was completely crimson.

  The dials stopped spinning. The red began to soak into the white until it could no longer be seen. She heard something like raspy laughter inside her head. It faded away as soon as it had begun.

  When she looked at the dial again, it was white.

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Marvin.

  “So that’s it?” asked Brandy. She looked up. Marvin was setting the satchel back on the table. He reached into the flap inside the lid and brandished an odd knife that looked like bone with a wavy blade.

  “Yes,” he said. “The ultimate death has been ordered.” He stood up, stepped around the table. “And now I have another customer’s order that I must see fulfilled.”

  “Wanda’s?” asked Brandy.

  Marvin smiled. “Correct!” He held the knife up, smiling as he showed her the blade.

  “But…I just told you I wanted her to…suffer…” Brandy was starting to feel strange. Her arm had gone numb and the tingling effect was working its way through her body.

  “An ultimate death, right. But you seem to have forgotten, she ordered an ultimate death on you first. Just because you ordered one on her doesn’t cancel her order.”

  Brandy couldn’t believe she hadn’t realized that before. All of this had done nothing to deter her own fate.

  “And now,” said Marvin, “thanks to you, I can collect two deaths’ commission. It’s been a good month and you have made it my best one yet! I figured that since Wanda had been so easy to coerce by telling her about your cell phone video, you would be just as quick to get back at her when you found out about her ultimate death request.”

  Confused, Brandy said, “You told her?” Marvin nodded. “How…did you know?”

  “A good salesman thoroughly researches all his possible clients, Brandy. That’s what makes me so good at my job.”

  Marvin crouched beside Brandy. He reached out and ripped her shirt open. Her breasts were covered by a bra which he used the knife to cut between the cu
ps. The bra sagged, exposing her mounds to him.

  Brandy wanted to cover herself, but couldn’t move her arms. She could only sit there on her knees, watching as Marvin lowered the tip of the blade to her breasts.

  “See, we’re not selling the machine itself,” he said. “That’s sort of a common misunderstanding. We’re selling the ultimate deaths themselves. The machine just sees to it that the deaths are carried out. Once you offer the blood, it’s a done deal and, I’m afraid to say, there are no cancelations.”

  Brandy wanted to run away, but couldn’t. She felt as if she’d been strapped to the floor.

  “So I have one more question for you before you receive your ultimate death from Bruce Smiley Industries.”

  Brandy’s throat felt swollen and dry. She couldn’t find her voice.

  “What kind of ultimate death would you like Wanda Baker to endure?” Marvin stared at her. A smile formed, curling the corners of his mouth. “Oh, you’re a twisted girl.”

  Brandy wanted to tell him she hadn’t said anything. But an image had flashed in Brandy’s head of that knife being used on Wanda in areas that were meant for pleasure. Somehow, he’d known what she was thinking, just as he’d known about her cell phone videos.

  Marvin laughed. It sounded much like the inhuman chortle she’d heard in her head moments ago. “I’m surprised you and Wanda didn’t get along better. You’re a lot alike. You want this knife to bring her to a bloody release. And she wanted your breasts cut off and shoved down your throat.”

  Brandy tried to scream. Couldn’t. Her throat felt as if it were being slowly squeezed.

  “And don’t you worry none, Brandy. Soon as I’m done here, I’m going to head right over to Wanda Baker’s house and deliver her ultimate death.”

  Smiling, Marvin lowered the blade to her right breast.

  He began to slice.

  Story Notes:

  A silly little story that popped in my head one night while taking a shower. I’ve always wanted to write one of those strange salesman-type stories and I thought this idea would work. I wrote it in one sitting, wearing the Bentley Little influence on my sleeve.

  Bedside Manner

  Melanie pulled at the duct tape strapping her arms to the bedposts. Might as well have been cement holding her there. “Please,” she said through the gag. “Let me go!”

  The man, bracing himself up by one arm between her legs, stroked her shin. The light from the ceiling left a shiny bar across his freshly shaved scalp. His chest-length beard was the color of pumpkins, and his bushy mustache dangled over his lip, making his tongue look like a slug squirming back and forth as he licked his lips. “Let you go?” he said in a heavy southern drawl. “We haven’t even started yet.”

  Melanie cried, hating herself for it. Her tears made her vision blurry. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried.

  When Jon left for college. Watching him drive off got me going.

  In private, in the bathroom, with the door shut. That way Harold couldn’t see. He’d have really made an ordeal out of it.

  Where are you, Harold?

  Work. He’d left thirty minutes ago. Most days, he wasn’t gone five minutes before he rushed back to get his cell phone. Always on the charger. He was usually in such a hurry that he’d walk out without it.

  Had he forgotten it this morning?

  The man between her legs leaned back on his knees. Legs folded under him, he put his hands flat on his thighs. He was staring at Melanie’s robe, the pink cotton that was partially open. The slope of her left breast was exposed and that was where the man’s eyes were focused.

  Reaching out, he grabbed the edges of the robe and threw them wide, exposing both breasts. Pulling her eyes away from his hands, Melanie stared at the ceiling, trembled.

  He’s going to rape me. God, he’s going to rape me and kill me. No way he’ll let me live after seeing his face.

  This wasn’t her first time seeing his face. Yesterday morning, he’d rung the front doorbell. When she’d answered it, he’d claimed he was a landscaper looking for work. She’d noticed even then how his eyes had searched her, had searched over her shoulder, looking around at the two-story house she shared with Harold.

  And she hadn’t even told Harold about the guy coming by yesterday.

  Wouldn’t have mattered.

  Harold would have nodded while reading the paper, pretending to listen but not really. That was what he did. Tuned her out. He conducted the marriage with blinders on, oblivious to everything that wasn’t directly in front of him.

  Or maybe he’d just grown so used to her complaining, he no longer heard it.

  I still should’ve told him.

  Something made a soft clicking sound in front of her. Looking above her breasts, Melanie saw the man had pulled out the blade of a very large pocket knife. The teeth on the bottom were sharp and seemed to shine under the light.

  Melanie’s breaths quickened. Her stomach sucked in and shot out in quick flutters. Seeing this made the man’s mouth arch into a strange half grin. He lowered the blade to her stomach. Feeling the cold kiss on her skin, Melanie held her breath. If she breathed, she might slice herself open.

  The man turned the knife sideways, sliding it down her stomach. She felt the sharp point slip into her navel, then slide downward. It paused above her panties. She felt his hand twitching, like an anxious kid.

  “Please,” Melanie said again, not knowing what else to say. Then an idea hit her. “My husband…my husband!”

  “What?” the man said.

  “My husband.” Her words were muffled behind the rag stuffed in her mouth. It was held there by the bandanna that had been on his head when she’d answered the door.

  Such an idiot! Opened the door right up because I thought it was Harold!

  “What about him?” the man asked.

  “He’ll be back any minute! He’ll come home. He’s big and strong and will…kick the shit out of you!” Melanie knew she sounded like a bratty little girl telling a bully about her big brother, but she didn’t care. If the man believed her, maybe he’d think twice about doing what he was inevitably about to do.

  The man threw back his head, laughed. He stayed that way for good while, staring at the ceiling, his throat clucking. When he looked back down, he knuckled tears from his eyes. She saw shiny trails down his cheeks, vanishing in his thick beard. “Kick my ass?” He laughed again. “Oh, that’s a good one. I saw your big and strong husband yesterday. Watched him leave, watched him leave this morning too. He won’t be back until after five. And even if he did come home early, he can’t kick my ass. Not that short, scrawny piece of shit. He’d get his ass handed to him by a child.”

  Melanie loosed deep, chest-heaving sobs. He was right. Harold wouldn’t be able to help her. Even if he walked in right now, there would be nothing Harold could do to stop this. He’d probably be too scared to even attempt anything. The timid, shy guy she’d met in the library in her early twenties when she used to work there had been cute and sweet. It had worked for her then. Over the years, feelings changed on both sides. Harold made a ton of money at the software company he worked for, but he was not in any shape to be a physical threat to this man, or much of anybody.

  “I like how your crying makes your tits jiggle. Damn them are some big titties.” He grabbed one, squeezed it, shook it like somebody mixing an energy drink. “Sweet mercy.” He whistled.

  His touch sent sick tingles through her body. She felt her skin harden with gooseflesh. The man took a deep, quivery breath.

  “You like it, don’t you?” he asked.

  “No…”

  “Yeah, you do. You like it when ol’ Ernest plays, huh?”

  “No…”

  Ernest laughed. He pinched her nipple, flattening it between his thumb and forefinger. Melanie sucked air through her nostrils. Snot fired down her throat, choking her. She coughed. Because of the gag, she couldn’t get the air she needed to sooth the tickle in her throat. It felt as
if she might swallow the rag. Forcing herself to breath slowly through her nose, she shut her eyes and let Ernest grope and paw her breasts. He moved down to her stomach, fingered her navel. He gripped the top of her panties.

  And paused.

  Melanie waited, recumbent and tensed, for him to delve. But he continued to wait.

  “Thought I heard something…” he muttered. Sounded as if he was talking to himself more than Melanie.

  Listening intently, Melanie hoped for any kind of sound. A car coming up the long driveway to their house, the soft crackles of tires on the gravel. Footsteps in the house. Maybe somebody from the power company was about to check their meter.

  Do they even still do that?

  She didn’t know. Didn’t matter, though. She didn’t hear anything.

  And Ernest must have been convinced he hadn’t either. He ripped her panties open in one vicious yank. She felt the air of the room wash over her groin.

  Ernest whistled. “Not shaved bald, but I like how you keep it trimmed.” His fingers shoved into her.

  Melanie jerked rigid, groaning behind the gag. She clamped her thighs around his hand. Not to keep him there. It had been an instant reaction. But Ernest laughed as if he thought she wanted his fingers inside.

  “Hang on, lady,” he said, laughing. “I’m ready too.”

  She felt the knife press against her belly. Slowly, she parted her thighs. He removed his fingers. The sounds of a zipper being lowered filled the room. It was so quiet in here, the soft taps of the zipper going down sounded like a chainsaw.

  Melanie peaked an eye open. It looked as if Ernest was hatching from his navy blue coveralls. His chest, pale and thick with orange fur, emerged from the gaping blue mouth of his clothes. He shoved the torso section down to his waist, pushed them lower.

  He wore nothing underneath. His bloated penis dropped out, springy and stiff. Pale and long, it looked as if he’d coated it in grease. It shimmered in the light of the room.

  That was going to be inside her.

  Melanie wanted to kick him. But she knew if she flung her leg forward, his knife would punch into her side right above her hip. And even if she succeeded in knocking him off the bed, what could she do afterward? She was taped to the bed, heavily. She’d still be stuck when Ernest got up.