Insanity

by A. R. Braun

I have to look in his trunk to see if it's true, and if so, I need to turn him in.

  “Don't get that weak Subway shit,” Paul added. “Get McDonald's—Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese. Oh, I forgot, you don't have a car.” He threw his keys at Eddie and snickered, then winked. "Try not to have too much fun fucking that girl's corpse," he whispered.

  Eddie gasped.

  Paul said, “I'm just fuckin’ with you, man.” He laughed his ass off. “You're so intense.”

  “Oh, okay,” Eddie answered. “Be right back.” He walked to the break room, clocked out, and headed to the puke-green sedan.

  With shaking hands, he pulled out and searched for a quiet place to check the trunk. Eddie glanced at the rearview mirror often, wondering if he was being paranoid. Or was that just good thinking? He spotted a graveyard and drove in deep where no workers dug graves.

  The sky was overcast and cloudy. The Lord would soon piss down rain in protest of what Paul had done, Eddie was sure of it.

  If Paul was joking, boy, will I feel stupid.

  But, of course, he wasn't.

  The rain started, the cold drops of water shocking him into painful awareness. He shivered as he climbed back into Paul’s sedan.

  Finally, the shower ended. The clouds moved aside to reveal a full moon, the angry eye of God glowering down at him.

  Teenagers screamed in the distance in the park next to the graveyard. One girl sounded possessed as she uttered a cacophonous laugh. Eddie had heard that devil worshipers held their ceremonies here, and he cringed when tribal drums rang out.

  With trembling arms, he opened the trunk. The smell almost knocked him over.

  A pubescent girl with bulging eyes stared into nowhere.

  There! You see, the dead girl might have said. It's just like I told you. You're on your way. Keep going and I'll be free. Confront my murderer, then turn him into the police.

  Eddie choked on his spit.

  But where will that leave me? he thought.

  She wore a green teddy-bear shirt and white shorts, which were stained dark red in the crotch. Bruises covered her tender skin. She'd never squeal while living it up with her girlfriends again, never sleep with her teddy or cry out in excitement while sitting in the backseat of Daddy's car as a rainbow brightened the sky.

  Eddie vomited onto the ground. The taste of the bile stuck with him after he’d spat it out.

  A red Corvette pulled up behind him—Mr. Putrid’s Corvette.

  “Hey, man,” Paul said as he stepped out of the car, “thought I might find you here.”

  Mr. Putrid sneered from behind the wheel as Paul got a spade out of the backseat.

  Eddie's legs shook uncontrollably as his “buddy” advanced on him. “No, I won't help you bury her,” Eddie said as he sprinted away . . .

  . . . and was tackled upon the loamy ground.

  Eddie glanced at the Corvette; the driver's side door was now open. Hefted off the ground and forced over to Paul, Eddie craned his neck. Mr. Putrid held him in place from behind. Eddie's thin frame was no match for the business owner's toned muscles.

  “Thanks, my high priest.” Paul turned to Eddie and scowled, his piggy eyes boring a hole into his soul. “A nark—I suspected as much.”

  He slammed the shovel into Eddie's head, and everything faded to black.

  ***

  Eddie woke in pitch-black darkness. The scent of wood permeated the small space, and he knocked his head as he tried to sit up. The air circulation was terrible. He could barely breathe.

  He screamed and pounded at the top of the coffin, but he knew no one would hear. He'd stay trapped here, in this cramped space, forced to wait for the maggots and the beetles to chew upon his flesh, perhaps while he was still alive. Before he died, he'd go insane.

  Eddie shrieked like the damned.

  ***

  Danny Darkling, a thin goth kid, sat in his chair at his new job, not sure if he was going to cut it. He’d never done well at telemarketing before, but he’d needed a job and had told Mr. Putrid he could sell ice cubes in hell.

  Little did he know, he just might have to do that.

  He remembered some of the tricks of the trade the big boss had taught him at orientation and made some notes as he waited for Paul to train him.

  But the notes made themselves.

  Scelerophobia

  Sid froze as the gangbangers stepped out of the shadows.

  “ ’Sup, poindexter?” A big, buck man with a shaven head asked.

  Sid was nonplussed.

  “Hey,” the truck of a man cried. “You too good to say hi?” He got in Sid’s face. “I expect an answer. I’m a person with some worth, bitch!”

  The sodium-arc lights cast a gloomy spotlight on the warriors—men and women of different races, wearing ice chains, bandanas, and jeans falling off their waists.

  Sid thought of his family back home. His wife had left him for another man, but he still had custody of his five-year-old daughter, Hayley, because Sharon was jobless.

  I need to bring about a sane resolution here.

  If he didn’t make it out of this alive, his job as the head manager of a computer store—his means of supporting his cherubic child—was over.

  His car had broken down a couple blocks back. Unfortunate, that.

  If they attack me, I could swing this gas can and take out one of them, but what about the rest?

  A thin man in a ChiSox jersey and a backward hat waved a gun in front of his face. “What’s the matter, white bread? You want to vent?”

  “I’ll vent, too,” the huge man added. “I’ll kick his ass!”

  “L-look . . . I-I don’t want any trouble,” Sid answered.

  Laughing, the gang shoved him.

  “Coward ass,” a girl with black hair said.

  “Bitch,” a woman with cockroach-colored hair in cornrows added.

  The big man touched noses with him. His huge chain clinked against his Bulls jersey. “Give me your wallet.”

  Oh, no, not tonight! It’s my daughter’s birthday and I haven’t bought her present yet! “No, you don’t understand.”

  “Understand this.” With his left hand, the huge thug knocked the gas can out of Sid’s hand as he swung it, and with his right, he punched Sid in the face—hard, like a Mack Truck.

  Sid lay on his back, seeing stars. The enormous man violated his pants pocket and took his wallet.

  The thin, black-haired girl laughed. “Way to be money, G.”

  Sid couldn’t get up. He struggled to remain conscious.

  A bitter fluid rained down on his face. At first, he thought one of them was pouring warm lime soda on him, but as soon as the drops plopped into his mouth, he—horridly!—recognized it as . . . as . . . urine.

  “Ha-ha-ha!” the man in the baseball jersey chortled. “G-Dog’s pissin’ on his face!”

  The ultimate humiliation: a straight man forced to drink the vile penis fluid. Horror strangled him like a sociopathic home invader. He turned his head to the side and vomited on the sidewalk. The rancid juice continued to pour down.

  The brunette and the brown-and-black-haired girl laughed wildly.

  I must have died and went to hell!

  Sid fainted.

  ***

  He woke sprawled out on the street after the sun came up. It was a miracle no one had driven over him.

  Traumatized, Sid remembered the horrid event. Nothing would ever be the same. He’d never drive a clunker again. His anxiety spiraled out of control, and he felt a nervous breakdown begin to force its way into his mind. A panic attack made him hyperventilate.

  He wiped his face with his shirt, spitting the putrid, rotten-tasting fluid out of his mouth. Then he sat up and checked his body for tire tracks. Maybe a car did run me over.

  No such luck.

  A van stopped in front of him. The driver, wearing an untouchables-type hat over short hair—a fiend covered in tattoos—lay on the horn. “Get your pussy ass off the street!”


  Oh God, another fucking gangbanger. Filled with rage he could no longer hold back, Sid got up, flipped him off, and walked away.

  ***

  Once inside the gas station’s bathroom, he washed his face and rinsed his mouth.

  I thought I’d never rinse my mouth out with soap like my mom used to do when I was little. I’ve hit an all-time low.

  He yanked his broken horn-rim glasses off his face and threw them away. His dark hair was matted, and his once-handsome face had a yellowish cast which spoiled the thin, soft features. Fear ruled his blue eyes, now wide with a terror that shocked him. His suit was ruined.

  He bowed before the sink and cried. The ultimate violation—barring prison rape—had happened to him, not to a punk kicked out of the house for refusing to get a job after failing to get good grades, not to a terrorist, but to a manager of a computer store!

  He hated rap youths now. Hated their motherfucking guts.

  ***

  A year later, Sid had learned a new way of life. He kept his cash in his sock, kept most of his money in the bank, and didn’t carry a credit card or checks. He spent almost all his time indoors, taking a cab to and from work so he didn’t have to worry about the car breaking down. He’d been promoted to regional manager and was making a lot more money, so he bought a mansion on Grandview Drive in Mowquakwa, Illinois, along with a new luxury car he only used to take his daughter to fun activities on the weekend: places full of businesspeople and innocent children.

  The psychiatrist had told him he’d developed “Scelerophobia,” the fear of burglars and crooks or of being harmed by wicked people, after Sid spent a month in a psyche ward. All gangbangers and wannabe gangsters made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and made his flesh crawl. If he saw anybody who looked like a rap musician, he’d avoid the McDonald’s or wherever they were in favor of another restaurant or store.

  And deep inside lurked the feeling that he wasn’t man enough to stop the terror on the streets. It ate away at him, the heat rising in his body, the pit of emptiness in his mind, the trepidation of what would happen if that gang ever got their hands on him again . . .

  ***

  Sid’s world brightened as he took Hayley to her sixth birthday party. Bouncing up and down on the cab’s seat next to him, she squealed her delight.

  My therapist said to try to resolve my marriage, but fuck that to hell—she’s got a sewer rat for a boyfriend. Damn crack head.

  His eyes scanned the parking lot of Family Fun Pizza. No suspicious characters loomed about.

  “Yay,” she cried. “I love Wowie Bear and the Family Fun Band.”

  He stroked her baby-fine blond hair. “Let’s make this the best birthday party ever. You’re a big girl now.”

  She nodded emphatically, then pulled hard on the door handle. “Let me out!”

  Sid chuckled. “Hold on, Hayley.”

  The hackie said, “Sorry. It’s unlocked now.”

  Sid paid the man. “Let Daddy open your door.” He exited and rushed around the cab, letting her out.

  I don’t want her falling into the hands of gangbangers.

  The thought of his child growing into a teenager and getting a gangbanger boyfriend threatened to torment him, and it was too much to take. He stuffed it in the back of his mind.

  “Whoa. Slow down, princess.” Sid walked behind her, holding onto her shoulders as they went inside.

  The clatter and chatter of the staff and patrons assailed his ears. Sid winced. He’d become a bit agoraphobic, also. The crowded place offered no easy means of escape once they had their food. He trembled. It became difficult to breathe while listening to the screaming and squealing children.

  Hayley wheeled on him and jumped up and down. “Daddy, Daddy! Can I play games while you order the food?”

  Sid scanned the restaurant for gangsters. If he so much as saw one bandana, one hat on backward, or heard one young girl utter Ebonics, he’d take Hayley and leave. “No, honey, let me go with you. Besides, I have to get tokens.”

  She stomped her foot. “I wanna play now!”

  Disobedience. Was this a portend of teenage years to come?

  No! Don’t go there!

  “Come here, birthday girl.” He picked her up and held her in his arms. “My, you’re getting heavy.”

  Growing into a teenager. Sid gulped.

  Then she was back. Her frown turned upside-down and she giggled.

  “You want taco pizza?” he asked.

  She threw her arms up. “Yay, taco pizza and cookies! Cake, too!”

  Wasn’t there a rapcore band named “Cake”?

  Stop it!

  He smothered her face in kisses, bringing more giggles. “Cake, cookies, the whole works. Nothing’s good enough for my six-year-old.”

  ***

  Sid stood behind her as she rode a mechanical horsey. He’d played two-players on a number of games he couldn’t figure out. It was amazing how quickly children caught on to those silly things.

  Why, it seems like yesterday when I was a teen, going to the mall when the arcade classics had just come out. I even remember when the music channel played fucking videos.

  Teen? Like when those Run DMC clones at the mall had asked if his buddy was his girlfriend, trying to start a fight?

  No!

  He begged God to not let him have a panic attack on his daughter’s birthday, but it lurked around the corner.

  As if in answer to his anxiety-laden thought, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen strutted toward him. Her dark-brown hair draped her shoulders with curves; her full, pouty lips begged for a good smooching. The green eyes mesmerized Sid as they fixed upon him. Her curvy, young body—especially the well-endowed bosom poking out of her blue polo shirt—called to him like a siren’s song.

  He inspected her more closely.

  Good Lord, please don’t let her be a gangbanger.

  But, of course, she was, though he saw no telltale signs; she wore simple blue jeans and high-heels, had no bandana, a couple of elegant butterfly earrings hung from her earlobes, and she wasn’t clad in a Bulls jacket. She stopped right in front of him, looking him over, and the cherry-vanilla scent wafted into to his nostrils.

  The woman glanced at Hayley and smiled, then she pinned him with her eyes. It was as if they weren’t just pupils but practically dots inside of circles. He loved the way those haunting peepers put him in a trance.

  “Hey,” she said in a chirpy voice. “Don’t you recognize me?”

  It all came back to him. Kylie, the eleven-year-old who’d lived by the computer store when he’d first started as a young man. She’d stopped her bike and blitzed him on cigarette breaks with questions like: “Is this where you work?” “What do you do?” “Why are you employee of the month?” He’d loved the inquisitive nipper, wanting to have a daughter just like her one day, which he eventually had. But she’d had short hair to the collar and an ironing-board body then. This Kylie was a sex goddess.

  He chuckled. “Wow, Kylie Tardif, from the computer store?”

  She nodded quickly. “In the flesh.”

  And, boy, was she.

  “You sure grew up fast,” he said.

  She blushed. “I’m nineteen now.”

  “You look . . . great!”

  She looked at the floor and then faced him. “Oh.”

  Hayley giggled. “Yippee ki-yay!”

  Sid laughed. “Ride ‘em, cowgirl!”

  “Aw,” Kylie offered. She locked eyes with him again. “So, are you married?”

  “Divorced.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Straight. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Fear attached itself to his mind like tentacles. Gang lingo. “W-what . . . did you say?”

  “I said ‘straight.’ You know, like sweet, tight, or P.H.A.T.—pretty hot and tempting?”

  Just as he’d expected. Terror seized him; the panic attack had arrived. Was there ever any doubt? He became nauseated, his heart palpitated,
and he grew dizzy. The room twirled around him. He thought he’d faint. Sid couldn’t breathe; he gasped and retched. Puberty and new adulthood: Gangbanger 101 was all it was when one really thought about it.

  Kylie’s eyes goggled. “Are you all right?” She put her hand on his shoulder.

  Had she washed her hands before entering the line for food? Necessary to get the urine off.

  He flung his arm out, breaking her hold on him. With trembling hands, he grabbed Hayley and yanked her off the horsey.

  “Daddy! I’m not done riding yet!”

  “Holy what-in-the-fuck?” Kylie’s face turned beet-red as she clutched her hand and furrowed her brow. “The hell’s wrong with you?”

  “Get away from my child!”

  “Why?” Kylie yelled. “I’m your friend.”

  “Go away or I’ll call the cops,” he screamed.

  Yes, the police. That turned the thugs to flight.

  Seeming to prove him right, she shook her head and walked away.

  “Enough play time.” He walked over to a booth and plopped down with his wailing child.

  The Family Fun Band’s pop song seemed warped to him—a soundtrack for hell from wild beasts. Wowie B. and the Funky Bunch, yelling in front of a beat instead of singing: “Give us your daughter, give us your daughter. Keepin’ it krunk with a late-night gangbang.”

  An obese manager with circular glasses, an expensive-looking silk shirt, and a nametag hurried over to their table. “Sir?”

  Sid sat up rigidly, making sure Kylie wasn’t lurking in the shadows. He didn’t spot her anywhere. He read the man’s nametag: Craig Watson, large and in charge.

  Stop that!

  “What seems to be the problem?” the manager asked.

  “Daddy, Daddy! I’m hungry!”

  A plump African-American lady waiting in line said something about grits and collard greens.

  “Forget the food. Family Fun Time, my eye! We’ll have a party at home.” Sid called a cab on his cell phone and then looked up at the rotund man.

  “Sir, why were you shouting at that young woman?” the manager asked.

  As he remembered Kylie’s words, Sid’s heart beat too quickly and his palms became sweaty. “She threatened my child.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Well, I don’t see her here anymore. We’d like to offer you a free meal today for your trouble.”