The Skin Show

by Kristopher Rufty

  Monica yanked her arm, flinging Miles forward in a single lunge. His forehead knocked against the oil pan. Stars burst in front of him, shattering in a variety of bright colors. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go.

  So, Monica tried again, this time yanking with all her might.

  Right when Monica’s weight heaved back, Miles released her wrist.

  And watched the creature tumble.

  She landed on her rump, legs flying up as she rolled back.

  Laughing, Miles was momentarily stunned that his plan had worked. Now that she was down, he could go out the other side and run like hell. The laughter, along with the short-winded feeling of accomplishment was strangled when Monica sprung to her feet like a cat.

  “Oh, I’m dead meat!”

  Monica charged with her head down like a rhino about to gore. Screaming, Miles wormed his way back, realized he wasn’t going to make it out in time, and ducked his head. He covered himself with his arms.

  He heard the thunderous crash of Monica colliding with the car. Felt it lift slightly. A wave of defeat rushed through him when he realized he was about to die.

  Monica’s growls were right in his ear.

  Then the car dropped back down.

  The shocks groaned as the car rocked, things inside clamoring around. When the car stopped shaking, Miles heard the weakened moans to his right. Slowly, he lifted his head between his entwined fingers in his hair.

  Monica had been pinned down by the car when it landed on the back of her shoulders, pressing her down to the ground. Her mouth slowly opened and closed like a fish slowly dying on a pier. One arm was stuffed between the muffler pipes, and the other was squeezed against her so she couldn’t move it.

  Miles couldn’t believe his idea had worked, although a variation of the original. Wanting to celebrate, he knew he couldn’t take the time to enjoy his victory. Miles grabbed the machete, squirming away from Monica in reverse, working his way out from under the car, feet first.

  On his knees, Miles enjoyed a moment of freedom without the car’s confinements. He took several deep breaths.

  And noticed how quiet it was.

  The music had stopped. There were no sounds of chatter or partying. No one talking. Nothing.

  Standing up, he gazed at The Skin Show. It looked deserted up there. No line, no lingerers, no one standing guard.

  Something was happening. Or it already had and he was too late.

  He might have stood there pondering for a long time if the deep squeak of the car shifting hadn’t pulled his attention. Eyes rounding, Miles spun around. The car was starting to lift up as Monica performed a push-up underneath it.

  “Shit!”

  Running over to Monica, he stood at her hip. He raised the machete up like it was an ax, bringing it down in a vicious swipe. The blade hit the lumpy hardness of her back, yelped with a sparkly pop, and recoiled off. Miles felt the painful vibrations traveling up his arms.

  The stuff on her back was some kind of armor. The blade couldn’t puncture it. Holding the machete up, he checked it for damage. It seemed fine, but he knew there was no use trying again.

  He ran for the duffel bag, dropping to his knees when he reached it. He jerked it open and rummaged around inside. He felt Hoffman’s sawed-off shotgun, and decided against it.

  The car shook with Monica’s wiggling hips. In a moment she’d have her head pried free.

  Panic threatened to seize Miles. Holding it back, he plowed through the contents inside the bag. And his fingers formed around a cool ball of metal.

  He smiled.

  Standing up, Miles draped the bag over his shoulder and walked over to where Monica struggled to free herself. He removed the grenade from the duffel bag. A ring dangled from the top, softly clinking against the metal surface. Raising it up, he put his other hand underneath to support its weight.

  He’d never used one before, but understood how they worked from watching movies. Slipping his finger through the ring, he pulled. The pin resisted, so he pulled harder, gritting his teeth. When it felt as if the ring might slice through his finger, the pin suddenly shot out, nearly twirling him around. He quickly brought his hands together, clutching the clip so strongly it grated against the grenade’s metal surface.

  Then he tossed the grenade, underhanded. It rolled under the car.

  Pressing the bag close to his side, he ran as fast as he could. Ignored the soreness in his body, the pain in his head and feet, and ran.

  When he reached the other row, the grenade detonated in a shower of fire. Miles looked back, seeing the Mustang shooting off the ground, fire reaching up from underneath and around the car like a blazing hand. Fingers of fire curled around the top, and snatched it back down in a heap of burning metal.

  Miles pumped his fist in the air. “Yeah!” Then he turned back, running for the club.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Victoria had Hoffman’s pants around his knees as she gingerly played with his penis. It was limp and shriveled, so far withstanding her defiling efforts. Karen doubted he could persevere much longer before his body responded to Victoria’s courting.

  “I told you I don’t feel comfortable…” Crouched beside Karen, Heather’s nose wrinkled as if she was about to change a diaper for the first time.

  “I have to help him. Do you think this is right? This?” She thrust her shoulders to specify the audience watching the depraved display on stage. “This place is evil. Haven’t you realized that? Didn’t you see the glowing giant monsters trolling around outside?”

  “I just thought they were people in costumes.”

  “That’s what they want you to think, if it’ll get you in here. Once you’re in here, it no longer matters. They have you at their disposal then. Put on these sex shows to lure you into their world. Once you fall for it, they can do whatever they want to you.”

  “I don’t know about that. But, I don’t like it here. I only came with my husband because he wants to try new things.”

  “If you try The Skin Show, it will be last thing you ever try. Please, untie me.”

  “I shouldn’t…” She swayed, nearly falling back. “I’m dizzy.”

  “They drugged you. They look at you as a threat, so they’re taking you out of the equation.”

  “What…?”

  “Please.”

  “I just can’t believe what you’re telling me. Demons? Monsters? And now they’re giving me drugs?”

  Karen thought about arguing what they really were, but figured it was hard enough for Heather to comprehend demons, let alone nymphs. “Don’t worry about what you believe. Just please untie me and then get the hell out of here.”

  Heather thought about it a moment longer. “Okay…I’ll untie you. Harold’s gonna be pissed at me for interfering with someone else’s foreplay, though.”

  “This is not foreplay.”

  Heather reached behind the chair and started fumbling with the rope.

  Karen checked the stage again, inspecting Hoffman’s penis. No longer shriveled, it was starting to expand as Victoria milked his testicles. Hoffman continued to strain, as if his mind was a stampede of conflicting thoughts. Then he stopped trying, letting his head fall back on the pillow. Huffing for air, tears dotted the corners of his eyes.

  “Forgive me,” he said.

  His penis sprang to life in Victoria’s hand. The crowd cheered, shouting their approvals and endorsements at Hoffman.

  “And it begins!” screamed Victoria. “He resisted until he could no longer, and now he has acquiesced. I will take him as my own servant, to satisfy me until I grow bored of him.”

  “How’s those ropes coming back there?” Karen asked.

  “Sorry. Got my stupid nails done today for Harold. Just broke one of them trying to get this knot loose.”

  “I really appreciate your helping me, but please hurry.”

  “I’m trying! My body feels like it’s trying to go to sleep.”

  “Fight it. Keep mov
ing around so your adrenaline burns it out of your system. How many drinks have you had?”

  “I was on my second.”

  “You should be fine.”

  Victoria threw her leg across Hoffman’s lap, settling on her knees, folding her legs under her. She reached between her thighs and grabbed his erection.

  “Got it!” cried Heather.

  Karen wriggled her wrists, feeling the rope’s searing hold drop away. She jerked her arms in front of her. Ruddy bracelets circled her wrists, purpling with bruises around the edges. Her arms tingled as she moved them.

  “Thank you. Now go!”

  Karen stood up.

  Alexia spotted her from the stage. Her proud smile twisted into a scowl as she stepped forward.

  The explosion outside rocked the club. The floor trembled. Glasses rattled, some smashing when they fell.

  “What the hell was that?” somebody called.

  “A damn explosion!” called another.

  Victoria, straddling Hoffman’s lap, held his penis between her legs. It was softening in her hand. Noticing, Victoria screamed. “No! You will not repent! I will have you!”

  Gunshots resounded from somewhere outside. The deep pops of gunfire caused the crowd to scramble in all directions. What had been laughter and applause had turned into screams and stomps of countless feet heading for the exit.

  “Get out there!” cried Victoria.

  The naked servants began to change. Karen counted four of them, their skin splitting as horns came through. Wings unfurled from their backs. They tore their faces away like cheap masks, unveiling hideous features underneath. The rest of their fake skin hung from their bodies like clothes that didn’t fit right.

  Wings flapping, they shot off the ground.

  “Summon the imps!” Victoria added.

  A softly sweet and pleasant melody came from the flying nymphs humming mouths as they swirled together like moths around a light. When the melody ended, they shot off, tearing through the crowd and throwing fleeing bodies out of their way as they zipped into the hallway.

  Heather, still squatting behind Karen’s chair, ducked to avoid being trampled by the remaining customers on their way out. Karen helped her up, holding her on her feet. Heather’s legs felt jellied, weak. “Listen to me!”

  Heather blinked, then looked at Karen as if noticing her for the first time. “What’s happening?”

  “Our help has arrived! Get out of here!”

  Heather turned, searching the bolting crowd. “Where’s Harold?!”

  “He probably left already! Go! And, thank you!”

  She shoved Heather away from her. When she saw that Heather’s feet had taken over her departure, Karen turned away, and grabbed her chair. She raised it up and smashed it on the floor. She picked up two broken, jagged legs, and ran for the stage.

  “It’s the boy!” she heard Alexia say. “He’s here! What’d he do to my Vern?!”

  Victoria, still holding Hoffman’s deflated member, noticed Karen. “Stop her!”

  Her order was too late. She’d already leapt onto the stage, and shoved the broken chair leg through Ginger’s back. It burst through her stomach in a spray of blood.

  Shrieking, Ginger dropped to her knees, gripping the leg jutting from her. Karen raised the other chair leg and brought it down with both hands. The sharp tip met the back of Ginger’s head, exiting through her mouth, and silencing her shrieks. Karen wrenched it out, pushing Ginger’s body out of her way.

  By the time her body touched the stage floor, it was bubbling and turning to liquid. Seeing Ginger’s body melting on the stage brought an enraged roar from Alexia. As Alexia screamed, her false flesh pared down her body like the skin of a banana. Underneath were navy green scales, a pointy nose, elongated chin, and tattered black wings. A Mohawk of horns ran up her skull in tiny points.

  Alexia launched herself forward. Karen was just starting to swing the improvised club as she was snatched up. The floor went out from under her feet, and she started to rise by the arms hugging around her back. Alexia glared at her through yellow, mucus-filled eyes, rage furrowing the already distorted features and miniscule sharp teeth.

  “You will die!” growled Alexia.

  Of course she would. It was inevitable. But, knowing something that Alexia had failed to notice brought out laughter in trilling hysterics. The frown that appeared on Alexia’s demonic face made the laughter even more intense.

  Karen still had the club.

  Which she thrust into Alexia’s stomach.

  Crying, Alexia released Karen from the embrace.

  Karen felt as if she just hovered in the air for several long moments. Then gravity seemed to be tired of seeing her up near the high ceiling and yanked her back down.

  In her descent, Karen glimpsed Hoffman watching her from the bed, his mouth an opened gasp. Then she felt the floor underneath her, and to her surprise, its solidity gave way, letting her drop some more.

  Head back, arms extended above her, she could see the hole she’d caused becoming smaller.

  Like the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland…

  Her feet hit something hard, then her body followed. She landed on her front and rolled over. With the rough surface under her back, she continued to plunge, bouncing along the rugged slide.

  Her speed began to decrease as the slope’s girth became skinnier. Clods of dirt dug into her back through her shirt, pulling it up her body as if to shove its minimal protection out of the way of her skin. Serrated tips gouged and scraped welts until she finally came to a halt near the bottom where the slope leveled against a flat shallow.

  ****

  Hanging onto the imp’s shoulders, Miles brought the machete around the front and slit its throat. Blood vomited from the wound, dousing the blade as he ran it back. Letting go, Miles dropped, landing in a crouch. He scurried between the creature’s legs, saw another one clambering up from underground, pulling itself to the surface, and jumped. In the air, arms bent back, he held the machete in both hands as if it were a sacrificial tool.

  The blade punched through the top of its skull. Miles yanked the machete through the front of the creature’s face.

  Both monsters burst into tiny slivers.

  Panting, he checked the sky. Cutting across the washed-out darkness were winged nymphs, circling like vultures. Watching, the imps were attacking everyone they could. Imps had been crawling out of the ground, like zombies rising from the grave.

  “I can’t find my husband!”

  Miles whirled around. A blonde woman stood before him, hugging herself. She was pretty without being trashy like a lot of the women he’d seen fleeing the club. Though, her eyeliner had smeared from tears, leaving a black trail down one cheek.

  A car sped away behind the woman, barely swerving to avoid hitting her, and not bothering to stop.

  “Your husband?”

  “He left me inside…I can’t find him!”

  Miles ran to her. “I can’t help you look for him. I have to save my friends.”

  “The woman and old man?”

  “You know them?”

  “They’re inside.” Her face suddenly stretched into a scream. “Look out!”

  Miles turned as the nymph swooped for him. He ducked under grabbing arms, thrusting the machete up in a blind move. He felt it strike something solid and push in. Holding on tightly, the nymph slid across the puncturing blade, slicing herself from the stomach down. She released a pain-filled shriek.

  Yanking the machete down, he spun around. The nymph dipped to the side missing the woman, and crashed into the backdoors of a van. Not checking to see if he’d killed the nymph, Miles grabbed the woman’s hand and pulled her away from the van. She came without any conflict.

  Running, they stepped down on a patch of grass that had started to shiver under them. “Come on!” Miles called, pulling her away from the grass as an imp’s arm came through. “Imps are coming out of the ground!”

  “What’s coming out o
f the ground?!”

  “Things we want to get away from!”

  Miles saw a man on his back, using his elbows to crawl away from an imp. Miles skidded to a halt, dropping the bag in front of him. Crouching, he reached into the bag, grabbed a .45, and stood up. He’d already spent the rounds in the 9mm.

  “You’ve got guns?” asked the woman.

  “Hush!” he said.

  Miles jacked the cylinder. Raised the gun. And fired once.

  The bullet pierced the imp’s left eye, throwing its head back. Its body followed. The imp shattered when it hit the ground.

  Rolling onto his stomach, the man gazed at Miles. “You saved me?”

  Ignoring the question, Miles picked up the bag, and threw it over his shoulder. Then he snatched up the machete, keeping it in his left hand, the gun in his right.

  “Where are you going?” asked the woman.

  “I have to go inside.”

  “No, don’t! It’s awful in there. Don’t go!”

  “I’m not leaving them!”

  “What about me?” the woman cried. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Miles stared at her, feeling sorry. Such a pretty woman, married to an asshole that would leave her when things got scary. Shaking his head, Miles held the pistol out to her. “Take it.”

  “Wha…?”

  “What about me?” called the man. “I need a gun, too!”

  Miles acted as if he hadn’t heard the man. “Take this. I have to go.”

  The woman held out a trembling hand, taking the gun. “Thank you.”

  Miles nodded, turning away from her.

  “Hey kid,” she said.

  Miles stopped, looked back. “Yeah.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  He started for The Skin Show. The man was on his knees, arms held out as if he’d been insulted.

  Three quick shots rang out. Miles dropped to a crouch, looking back. The woman held the gun out, both hands clutching it tightly. A spiraling trail of smoke swirled from the barrel.

  A nymph dropped from the sky, landing on its side between them. Miles’s mouth slacked open.

  “Keep going,” she said. “I’ll cover you.”