Insanity

by A. R. Braun

  Holding the gun on his hero, Edward got in and buckled up. “I’m not a writer anymore.”

  Van fired up the engine. “That figures. You hypocrites always accuse others of what you’re guilty of.”

  “No, it’s not that. Writing didn’t work out for me because I’m not that good and because I’m not a loner.”

  Van Gone hexed Edward with squinty eyes for a few seconds. “How nice for you.”

  “Look, for what it’s worth, I’m your biggest fan. . . .”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard that?” Van stopped at a red light. The piece of shit’s engine idled, then died, and Van had to restart it.

  “You don’t know what your work does to me.”

  “You care that much, guy?” Van pulled away from the green light, turned a corner, and drove up to a dilapidated apartment building with paint chipping from the walls. The engine knocked a few times after he’d killed it.

  Edward thought it all thrilling, like being brought to Dracula’s lair. “I have to know. Why Branson?”

  Van regarded him intently. “The last place anyone would look, crowded with happy families. I suppose you think you got lucky.”

  Edward nodded.

  Van opened his car door. “Step into my office and find out how unlucky you really are.”

  ***

  The cockroach-and-rat-infested hellhole had Edward so disconcerted he hesitated after a couple of steps into the apartment. He wrinkled his nose at the scent of mildew. The yellow walls used to be white, where the paint wasn’t chipping, and the flat consisted of a living room with a tattered brown easy chair, a couch, a small TV, a tiny stereo, a foyer-like hallway with a landline phone on the floor, a very small kitchen, and a small bathroom. This closet of an abode wasn’t as big as the living room of Edward’s basement apartment at his parents’ house.

  He flinched at what sounded like vermin in the walls. Edward held the gun taut in his hand and would shoot a rat if it came too close, that he was sure of.

  Van walked over and handed him a beer.

  Edward popped the top. The cold brew loosened him up a little after he took a few swigs. I hate that lime-laced shit, but I can’t be choosy. He toasted his idol. “Thanks.”

  Van parked himself in the easy chair and gestured at the tan couch next to it. “Have a seat.”

  Edward took a few tentative steps toward the davenport.

  Van slapped the arm of his chair so hard Edward jumped. “Ha! Got him.” Van met his eyes. “That cockroach was out for blood!” He wiped his fingers on a tissue.

  Wonderful.

  Edward saw a few roaches on the wall but, thankfully, none came near the couch. “Can’t you get a better place?” Edward sounded whiny to himself, and he didn’t like it one red bit.

  Van gestured around the apartment. “The spoils of slave labor.”

  “I bet you’re lonely here.”

  Van shrugged. “That’s never bothered me. I’ve got cable and a porn package.”

  “A writing career could get you out of this hellhole.”

  Van guzzled from his can, then left the room. He pinned Edward with his eyes after returning with a couple more beers. “Actually, I did write again . . . and that was my mistake.”

  Edward had to hurry to finish the first brew; he already felt a bit buzzed, never much of a drinker. “What do you mean?”

  Van sat. The author looked forlorn, paused, and rubbed his eyes.

  An impulse to comfort his hero overtook him as Edward remembered why he was here, but he didn’t want to get too close. “What’s wrong?”

  Van pointed to the black safe next to his easy chair. Edward was surprised he hadn’t picked it out before, for he’d thought it an avant-garde end table.

  Van said, “It’s in there.”

  Edward was thrilled. With the mission almost accomplished, he rose to a rigid sitting position on the couch. “Oh, God, can I read it?” An unexpected payoff, the reason he’d come all this way, now inches from him. He was about ready to bolt over and grab it.

  Van seemed to be perturbed, and Edward gave the author time to come to himself.

  “Now don’t be greedy,” Van said, as if he could read his mind. He took a few deep breaths, sighed, and faced Edward. “I renamed the story because proofreading it led to a six-month stay in a mental hospital. It’s now called ‘The World Can’t Take It.’ ”

  The silence in the apartment threatened to suffocate Edward.

  “I can’t let anyone see it, you understand,” Van continued.

  Edward answered, “Because the world can’t take it.”

  “Exactly.” He gestured toward the safe again. “This tale is the reason I quit. It’s too bad you came all this way for nothing.”

  Edward heaved a heavy sigh, remembered why he sat there, and knew he couldn’t back down now. He pulled the handgun from his waistband and pointed it Van’s way. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. I don’t care if you’re schizophrenic. You’re talented in spades, and your illness is something I’m prepared to deal with, but I must have more tales from you, or you’re dead.”

  There it was, the gauntlet thrown down.

  Van leaned forward. With a vibrato sigh that had to have taken the record for the longest exhalation ever, he rose, then knelt and twisted the dial until the safe clicked. He grabbed the manuscript, got up, and traipsed over, wiping his face as if to wipe away this horrid situation, then handed the story to him. Van sat with a heavy thud.

  Anticipation made Edward drool a bit. He sat back and devoured the flash-fiction story.

  ***

  The few pages were filled with this curious tale:

  It wasn’t a dark and stormy night, but a perfect evening for a run, and the jogger, named Nacam Jepers, again terrorized the citizens of Akron, Ohio. He jogged through an upper-class subdivision every morning and evening, petrifying the children because he had no feet, only flat stubs. Before long, the kids had dubbed him “The Clomper,” and the nickname stuck. The Clomper needed the exercise and didn’t want to spend hard-earned money on fake feet.

  His neighbors were wearing him down, though; soon, he’d have no choice but to invest in prosthetics.

  He sounded like a horse, or more like a satyr, as he jogged down the street, making the sound of fingernails on a blackboard seem as sweet as a four-year-old girl’s voice.

  The Clomper lived quite the lonely life. Women in this hick state not only required their men to have a job and a car, but also feet. Therefore, he didn’t have much to look forward to, but what he did have was the gift of second sight or, more appropriately, the curse. Every night when The Clomper slept, a night terror came to him, a recurring dream he dreaded with every fiber of his being, even during waking hours at his job as a collegiate guidance counselor.

  A day like any other as The Clomper closed the door on the neighborhood teenagers’ blistering insults, such as “Hey horsey, you’d make good glue!” Inside his small house, he could be just plain ol’ Nacam. He ate a TV dinner, then loaded up on soda and energy drinks while watching television programs that made him solve puzzles or answer difficult questions—game shows, mostly. He preferred brain teasers because they made him feel as if he’d accomplished something, though he knew he hadn’t. He stayed up as long as he could, even suffering through late night talk shows, but he fell asleep on his couch despite his efforts.

  In his dream, Nacam walked streets of human skin as he looked up at a belly button sun that lit up a red scaly sky. Flowers with green old man faces screamed, “YOU BETTER HOPE YOU WAKE UP!”

  But he couldn’t.

  His vision shifted, and the sky intersected as if sown with nine-inch nails. Men with anteater heads, nude hermaphrodite bodies, and webbed feet, screamed to an audience that consisted of Nacam and his co-workers, along with a small part of Akron’s population, who sat in the stands made of icy-cold orange popsicles. What these otherworldly creatures cried out made Nacam’s heart sink, then jump into his th
roat:

  “RAPE THE MINDS, PROBE THE BUTTS! SEND THEM IN SEARCH OF THE BUCKS AND THE FUCKS!”

  At this moment, the Clomper woke, bolting upright. Slicked with cold sweat, he gazed out of his window to see a family of four walking their dogs past his house. They laughed and talked with one another.

  But this time . . .

  . . . they had alien faces, long green ones like in the UFO movies, with coal dots for eyes and curved mouths full of serrated teeth. They changed back to humans, then to aliens, then to humans again.

  It was then that Nacam realized he still dreamt, because, on the wall in glowing green letters, read: SOME PEOPLE ARE ALIENS IN DISGUISE. Nacam glanced at his left shoulder, then to his right, an angel on one side—Lucifer, the angel of light, a white-robed figure with an effeminate face and curly white hair—and a red devil on the other side, in the guise of Mother Theresa, but with Regan MacNeil’s cracked face. They shrieked in unison: “Which ones are aliens?”

  Nacam’s vision darkened, as if he was seated in a movie theater and a show was about to start. Then the green words popped out at him, large letters meant to drive the point home:

  ALL THOSE WHO ARE SUFFERING THIS VISION, WHOSE MEMORIES HAVE BEEN ERASED SO THEY CAN BLEND IN WITH MINDS COMATOSE WITH THE APOSTACY.

  The true waking happened as he thrashed about, followed by jabbing heart pains and a screeching Nacam assumed was a child being murdered outside until he realized that the shrieks were coming from his own mouth, his eyes blinded from the mini-pools of cold sweat flooding them.

  And now that he knew, evil urges popped into his mind, and he realized how hungry he was.

  But not for food. . . .

  ***

  So Van had penned a micro-flash-fiction piece. Putting down the manuscript, Edward sucked in a voluble breath as he did when he couldn’t believe how wonderful and shocking an event was. It hadn’t driven him mad, but he’d been spooked like never before. He turned his head to gaze at Van, who’d drained nine cans of beer and sat with his hands covering his face.

  This tale was even better than “Humanity’s Reverse Rapture,” the best story Edward had ever read. “That scared the crap out of me. It’s your best work, my man. But it’s just a horror story, nothing to be worried about.”

  Van lowered his head, looking at Edward with a wide-eyed gaze of regret. “I’m not worried for me.”

  Did his pupils change size?

  “I fear for you.”

  A foreboding feeling turned Edward’s blood to ice, and a crushing weight of helplessness descended over him.

  Van took off his boots and prosthetic feet and pulled out a University of Akron pennant from under the chair.

  ***

  Edward lay on a cold, steel table in Van’s living room, his arms held down with straps, his eyes closed tight because the horror in his mind wouldn’t allow him to open them.

  Edward had a brief memory of being rushed, but couldn’t recall passing out. Van had become a green flash rocketing toward him and, after that, nothing.

  Van Gone had hidden from the world for a good reason.

  “I’m sorry,” a voice filled with static said, as if coming from a cell phone with a connection that was breaking up. “I can’t resist.”

  The sound of a whizzing blade forced Edward’s eyes involuntarily open. “Oh, shit!”

  Van’s face had become green and oblong, with those coal dots for eyes and that curved mouth filled with serrated teeth. The worst of it: Van held a brain drill that looked as if it had come from better technology than on earth. It appeared silver, but was a bit whiter, and transparent. It had no cord, just a knob with a flashing light at the end of it: a color unrecognizable on earth. Long, bony fingers with sharp yellow claws forced Edward’s eyes closed again.

  The pain in his head, like being cut to pieces, made Edward pass out.

  ***

  Edward woke with a headache, realizing he’d been hung upside-down; straps held him in place. He risked a gaze as he craned his neck to see what lurked behind him.

  Van had a pole in one hand and, in the other, what looked like a long blade; there was no handle, just a piece of what appeared to be silver, yet a little whiter—not opaque—like the pole and the brain drill.

  Oh, no! Not anal probing and mutilation!

  Edward screamed, begged to his God.

  Van reached out and squeezed him hard between his neck and his shoulder. Edward again lost consciousness . . .

  . . . and woke, standing in front of the structure that looked like a battleship from hell, the water’s roar bringing him back to full awareness. He wheeled around, only to find the road and his vehicle, the car’s engine running, the door open.

  Edward had no memory of coming down here or why. He recognized the place from his childhood. What in the world was he doing standing in front of an immense body of water in Missouri? Of all the places to travel to! The Lake of the Ozarks!

  Weird. Must have gone on a bender.

  But I’m not much of a drinker.

  This was a new one. Edward would have to start seeing a psychotherapist—and maybe a psychiatrist—if he was going to have episodes like this. He climbed into the car and dialed his parents on his cell phone.

  His mother answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “Mom!” Edward found he had to catch his breath . . . and, for some reason, his head, the lower part of his legs, and his ass ached like bastards. Lord, tell me I’m not coming to the heart of Missouri for swinger adventures and I don’t know it. But the worst pain was in his lower legs. He wondered if he’d done drugs.

  “Eddie, are you all right?” Her voice sounded high-pitched, worried.

  “I think so. Mom, could you do me a favor?”

  “Anything, Eddie.”

  “Did I say why I wanted to drive to the Lake of the Ozarks?”

  Silence strangled the line.

  “Well . . . you don’t know?”

  Edward placed his head on his arm that lay across the steering wheel. “I’m afraid not. In fact, I’m a bit worried about myself.” His voice was shaky and it sickened him.

  “You said you were going to Branson to hunt for that writer.”

  But he wasn’t in Branson. Now he knew he’d gone insane. Desultory, he’d been on a mission of madness. Edward couldn’t for the life of him place the author she was referring to. “What writer?”

  “Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Van . . . Gogh? No, that’s the famous painter. Gone, Van Gone.”

  Edward lifted his head. He gaped at himself in the rear-view mirror. He had no idea who Van Gone was, but what had happened to his appearance made his mind lurch. Horror sparked through him as he surveyed the landscape of what used to be his face. Stores of scores defiled him, from his hairline to his chin, as if someone had scraped him with a sharp object. And one horizontal scar ran all the way around the top of his head.

  Beads of sweat broke out on his brow. His heart slugged his ribcage. Woozy, he felt like he sat on the world’s fastest jet, the centrifugal force holding him in place but, at the same time, throwing him across miles of sky like a Nordic god’s flaming spear. After a few seconds, the feeling abated. Had he come close to stroking out? Yet the true horror didn’t haunt him till he yanked off his shoes and socks because the pain in his lower legs was unbearable.

  He had prosthetic feet.

  Now, a heart attack: white-hot constricting pain traveled from his heart to his shoulder to his left arm. He panted for breath. A panic attack made him lose all control. Then it abated, but Edward wished it hadn’t. He couldn’t face this reality. In other words, he couldn’t take it.

  Edward screamed in the night.

  When Computers Attack

  Churning with lust, D.J. turned on his computer, anxious to enter the chat room at Friendburgers.com, the hottest new dating service.

  He opened the blinds, and the light assaulted him so that he had to shield his eyes with his hand. His black puppy, King—named a
fter King Diamond—ran up, barked, and draped his chin over the keyboard.

  “Good Morning, boy.” He moved King’s head gingerly and wrestled with him. “Sit.” King whined and sat in the corner. “Good rover.”

  D.J. double-clicked Internet Explorer. He brought up the site and checked his messages, finding an alluring, tanned blonde with the screen name Crazyforfun99. The message read:

  Hey, I read your profile and loved your pix. Wanna chat?

  Carla.

  He smiled, threw his long raven hair out of his eyes, and stroked his gruff goatee, which touched his chest, causing an annoying itch.

  D.J.musician: Hey, Crazyforfun99. How you doin’?

  Crazyforfun99: Straight. Is that your name, D.J.?

  D.J.musician: Duh!

  Crazyforfun99: So, I saw you’re a musician. What kind of music do you play?

  D.J.musician: I’m in a thrash band called Carrion.

  Crazyforfun99: Sweet! Do you like “Nothing Else Matters”? I think that song’s beautiful.

  His heart sank. Oh, no, Metallica’s sell-out album. I don’t want to scare her away. What should I say?

  “Hey,” Chris, Carrion’s singer and his best friend that crashed with him, yelled through the door. “What’s to eat?”

  “Get McDonald’s.”

  “Nutritious.”

  D.J. laughed.

  Crazyforfun99: Hey, bitch, quit bugging my girlfriend!

  D.J. blinked.

  What the fuck?

  D.J.musician: This is a guy, not Carla?

  Crazyforfun99: Yeah, I smacked the bitch up. She’s on the floor whimpering like the little whore she is.

  Oh, my God. This girl has a boyfriend, and he’s a psycho!

  D.J.musician: You shouldn’t hit girls.

  Crazyforfun99: Oh, yeah? Well, I prefer to throw the cross into the fire and kill everyone that’s better than me.

  D.J. gave the computer screen the bird.

  How dare this guy hit a woman and threaten my life!

  Outside his window, the sun hid behind the clouds as high-pitched sounds of children at play crept in like flying bugs through the barely cracked window.