by Stuart Keane
The car veered left, than balanced and returned to the centre of the road. Alex's agonising screams filled the interior of the Benz. Mike smiled, watching the carnage before him. Alex's chin flopped forward, blood loss and the tight seatbelt causing all sorts of biological problems within his body. "What … what do you …?"
"You raped and murdered my sister. Why would I go through the legal system when I have the best person to help me?"
"Who?"
"Sadie."
Alex's tired eyes roamed the mirror and, for the first time, saw Sadie in the back seat, beside her brother. She was beautiful and elegant, innocent, just like the day they'd found her on the road. The day they'd violated her, killed her, tossed her broken body over the cliff. Her smile, a smile that could stop traffic and sign modelling contracts, was present. Alex, for a brief second, felt a clutch of regret, of guilt. He tried to speak, but the pain was unbearable.
Then, Sadie wasn't beautiful anymore. Her skin darkened and started to flake as her eyes turned red, blood seeping into her sclera, which faded into a brown-yellow. Her grin became one of stolen innocence and murderous vengeance. Mike watched her change, smiling as she did so. Both siblings returned their demonic eyes to Alex, who finally puked in his lap, the vomit blending with the blood that cascaded down his front.
Alex uttered the words, chunks of puke on his chin. "I'm … sorry."
Mike leaned forward and grinned. "Too late."
"Huh?" Alex stuttered, before the steering wheel spun all the way to the left. He looked at his broken arms, unable to stop it.
Alex screamed as the car veered off the road, flipped over, and bounced into a ditch, rolling as it did so. Glass and metal flew into the air, scraping and sparking off the tall mountainsides that flanked the road. The car span to a stop, flames licking the engine. The stench of petrol and death filled the air.
On the side of the road, two figures observed. Sadie and Mike smiled at one another. Sadie faded until Mike stood alone, returning to human form. He stared.
Watching.
Waiting.
The door dinged and Jamie saw several customers pour into the Donut Diner. It was a Thursday; one of their quieter shifts, but it didn’t mean a lazy shift by any means. Quieter meant a stream of customers with minimal queues. Donut Diner was always busy, especially since the malarkey with Sadie Barker.
Donut Diner was minutes away from the site of her death, an urban legend that, he believed, tripled business within the diner. When he was young, Jamie's father had purchased shares in the diner and since Sadie's passing, he'd reaped the financial rewards. His father had passed the shares onto him, an employee. Now, he had a front seat, a direct link to the success of Donut Diner.
As he wiped the worktop with a soggy cloth, he smiled, knowing he was the brains behind the death. He remembered five years ago as if it was yesterday. Him and that rich kid. What was his name? Alex? Yeah, that was the one. A rich kid is always prime for such a scheme. They feel entitled to do as they please and he was no different.
When they stumbled on her, alone and isolated, it couldn’t have gone better.
He remembered sliding into her, hearing her groan beneath him. He stepped to the counter, hiding his now-forming bulge. That memory would always sit in his mind.
It happened quite by accident. Fate beamed down on them that day.
He'd heard that Alex had died in a car crash last year. He didn’t keep in touch with him; they decided to go their own ways for obvious reasons. It wasn’t a surprise – Alex loved his sports cars. He probably took a bend too quick or something.
Jamie didn’t have time for the details.
The money lining his pockets was the only thing that mattered.
The door dinged again. Jamie looked up and smiled. "Welcome to Donut Diner, may I take your order?"
"Yeah, I'll have a six pack and a large coffee, please."
"Eat in or takeaway?"
"Eat in." The customer placed a ten on the counter and looked up, smiling. "Say, you're Jamie, right?"
Jamie smiled, fear prickling at his skin. "Yeah, that's me." He tapped his name badge. Beneath his name were the words GENERAL MANAGER.
"I have a proposition for you, a business idea. You have a break coming up?"
Jamie smiled. He smelt money. The guy was dressed differently, like he didn’t come from Widow's Peak. He dressed with style, a style afforded by wealth. Jamie couldn’t say no. After all, he was a shrewd businessman.
"Sure, sure thing. Give me five. Take a seat and I'll bring your donuts over."
"That's mighty generous of you."
"You're the customer. I'll be right over. What's your name?"
"Mike. The name is Mike."
Urban Legend
"Are you familiar with the Legend of Regurgitation?"
I ask the question nonchalantly. The woman with the tight gag across her bruised, battered face shakes her head quickly, denying all knowledge of 'the legend.' I know she's lying, everyone has heard of the legend before. It's like Roswell or ghost stories or the moon landing. Some people believe in them, some don’t, but it happened nonethefuckingless.
"Why do you lie to me?" I step a foot closer. Her blond locks, matted with dried blood and dog shit, hang in her face, tickling her cheek. They shake as she backs away, cowering in the corner. I look at her scuffed knees, her bound ankles, the flesh now red raw from the binds I so vigorously remember tying, and I smile.
I remember tackling her to the ground, shoving her face into the dirt, rubbing it in a pile of curled dog shit in the tall grass. I get an erection at the thought and I smile again. She sobs into her gag, weakening as the moments pass.
She thinks I'm crazy. I might be, I never got the tests done, and I have too much to do with my precious time. If I had to worry about normal human activities, I'd put a fucking gun in my mouth and blast the back of my head off. Mundane isn't in my vocabulary or agenda.
I know I'm a functioning human being; I don’t need a cunt in a white jacket to confirm otherwise.
I address my victim. "Do you know why you're here, Angela?"
Her eyes widen at the mention of her stage name. Her real name is Brittany – funny, for a stripper, you'd think they were the other way around – and she pushes herself into the wall, aching to escape my vehement, yet subtle, clutches. It also shows she knows who I am, having visited her bar, her place of work, two weeks previously. She danced, I paid, and we fucked.
Fond memories.
"You're here because strippers are a special breed. The Legend of Regurgitation, or LegReg for short, speaks of three kinds of people. The greedy, the lustful and the rich. Each of these has their own trait, a quality that enhances the effects of the LegReg. Today, I aim to find out if that is true. That, my darling Angela, is why you're here."
Angela is confused more than scared. I can read it in her face. I admire her. Strippers really are a special breed. They expose their bodies for money, to the sick, perverse, lecherous and, in my case, psychopathic. They don’t bat an eyelid. They'd fuck you to pay their rent without hesitation.
Dignity? It really makes the difference sometimes.
I address Angela once more. "You fall into the lustful category. You're probably wondering why I didn’t find a whore instead. Well, that's easier to do. However, I didn’t want to risk an STD compromising the results today. You, Angela, are clean. Not an STD, a filthy pussy or a yeast infection in sight – trust me, you know I know. If all goes well, this will go down in history." As if to confirm the previous statement, I lick my lips, reminding her of the cunnilingus we shared mere weeks earlier. She retches and I chuckle.
The cunt tasted exquisite … but that's another story for another time.
I kneel down and lower her gag, a smirk on my face. In another situation, I might be charming or friendly. Today - surrounded by rusting meat hooks, barbaric weapons, and bloodstained tiles, I come across as something completely different. Angela, in her lowered position on th
e floor, is yet to see these delights.
One thing at a time.
I remove the gag from her face, shocked at the bruising. "Man, I hit you really hard. I do apologise."
"Fuck you, pig," Angela snarls, before spitting in my face. I don’t flinch, surprising myself. I feel her sputum roll down my cheek, miss my mouth and land on my lapel. I chortle. "I'll let you have that. After all, you did inhale dog shit because of me."
Angela spits again, but I'm ready. I move, she misses, and I short punch her in the face, knocking her head against the wall. I felt her nose crack too, ouch! She crumples to the ground in an unconscious heap.
Never mind, she can wait.
Ungrateful bitch.
I secure her binds again, ensuring she can't move, and return to other business. I stride across the room, observing the meat hooks. One or two could do with an oiling and a polish. I make a mental note and add it to my itinerary.
"And you must be Bob?"
I slide to a halt on the opposite side of the room, the slick floor carrying me effortlessly. Tied to a chair is Bob, an unemployed bum from London, England. His cheap, job-seeking suit lies in tatters around him, his tattooed arms crudely pinned down with barbed wire. His arms are an array of welts, cuts and smeared, black blood. The blood is still oozing from several cuts. It took him long enough to realise that struggling wouldn’t achieve anything. You'd think he'd have learned quicker, and prevented any bloodshed.
I smile at Bob. He nods, exhausted and nauseous.
"You'll be first. You're behaving well. Good boys go first."
I turn and open a box behind me. I take out a bottle of vodka, a bottle of Gin, two bottles of bourbon and a variety of schnapps. I also remove a box of wine and several small shots stolen from a hotel mini bar just yesterday. Better to be prepared. I arrange the bottles on the desk and perform 'eeny, meeny, miny, moe' to select one. I land on the one litre bottle of vodka, the Russian's favourite. I scoop up the bottle and turn to Bob. "Open wide, Bob."
He opens his eyes and flinches, the barbed wire causing several more cuts. I nod at him. "If I were you, I wouldn’t fight this. You want to retain the use of your arms, after all." I throw the lid away and move the bottle to Bob's lips. "You ready? This will help dull the pain."
Bob, initially hesitant, nods. I place the bottle to his lips and lift. He gulps down half a bottle of vodka slowly, but with no real effort. A few drops trickle down his face. I pause, knowing this is enough to get the ball rolling. "Well done."
Bob's eyes flicker several times, blinking away tears, and he coughs violently, the burning alcohol going to work on his throat and stomach. I step away. He's done his part. For now.
I grab a plastic container from the box, leaving the vodka behind. My eyes turn to Edward, who is lying on the floor behind Bob. Edward is an obese, rotund man with pockmarked skin, blemished complexion and clothes that are too tight. On inspection, I notice red sores all over his body. He obviously doesn’t shower enough. His lank, greasy hair slicks to the side of his chubby neck. I kick him in the leg, inducing a squeal from his piggy mouth. He sits up, staring at me. His petrified eyes, buried behind flabby cheeks, stare at me in pain.
"Hi, Edward."
"What … do … what do ya want from me?"
"Nothing, yet. I have some food for you. I find going to work on a full stomach makes you more productive, do you agree?"
His fat face nods, bouncing saggy flesh all over the place. He was always going to agree. For a man who consumes nine-thousand calories a day, the offer of food was too easy. I place the plastic container on the floor before him. "It's all yours."
Edward is suspicious for about one second, before tearing off the lid and revealing the contents - a six-pack of beer, four steaks and three boiled eggs. His eyes bulge, nearly out of their sockets, and his roly-poly hands dive in. Within seconds, two steaks disappear into his maw. He pops the tab on a beer and downs the can in eight seconds flat. The eggs follow, then another can of beer, and finally the remaining steaks. The feat is both disgusting and impressive. I time the whole process. It takes him two minutes dead on. A record … maybe, somewhere in the world.
"Better?"
Edward nods, belching loudly. In France, that means yes. So I heard. "Good."
I wait, arms folded and observant, for seven minutes. Edward is slowly nodding into a food coma. I smile, checking my watch, following the guidelines for the LegReg. I have five more minutes before he becomes useful again. I turn back to Bob.
"I don’t feel too well."
"You did just huff half a litre of vodka."
"You made me –"
"– if I remember rightly, you didn’t stop me. So, who really is to blame?"
Bob grunts, not responding. I walk over to him. "I have something else for you." I place an empty bucket below Bob. "How about a prawn sandwich?"
Predicting someone's response takes time and effort. Or psychological manipulation. On this occasion, his stomach can't settle due to the overwhelming dose of alcohol in his bloodstream. Don’t forget, Bob is injured too; his blood is compromised by the wounds to his arms. I also happen to know that Bob despises prawns. However, research shows that food associated with pungent smells, like seafood, is more than likely to make someone with a flip-flopping stomach hurl on introduction.
And that's exactly what Bob does.
The vomit flies from his mouth, projectile-like if you will. He misses the bucket initially. I have to kick the chair for him to move into range. He wobbles slightly before the vomit splatters into the bucket with a loud clanging. I hear each individual lump rattle the metal. After a moment, Bob comes to a rest, spent. "Good boy, Bob."
Phase one is complete.
I remove the warm bucket of vomit from his feet. I also unlatch the small bucket below his chair. My eyes light up as I see it's half filled with dark blood. The metal chutes beneath the chair ensured that any blood shed would not go to waste. I glance over at Edward, who is still nodding off, and smile.
I turn my attention to Angela, who is stirring. I walk over and tap her with my toe. She leaps up, expectedly, and goes for my throat. I kick her in the stomach, crippling her, and she collapses again. I grab her by the throat and pin her against the wall. My temper is fraying with this one.
"Who do you think you are?" She hisses at me.
"Me? That isn't relevant right now. What is relevant is what your part in this macabre, but delightful little play is. I hope you're ready?"
"Fuck you."
"Did that, didn’t enjoy it so much. Shame." I punch her in the ribs and let her fall to the floor. Short breaths emit from her bloodied mouth. I turn to the table beside me. I glance at the bucket of vomit and the smaller container filled with blood. Perfect.
I pour the blood into the vomit, watching as the dark life serum curdles into the hot, acidic mess. Lumps spin, turning pink as they bob below the surface, remerging as the blood turns the mixture a dark purple. I take a broken broom handle from the table and stir the mixture smoothly, slowly. The strong essence of stomach fluid and brazen copper makes me grin, like sniffing the chilled aroma of cocaine, or a bakery at six in the morning. After a moment, the mixture is smooth, hardly lumpy. I spot a slice of mangled carrot and realise it's actually stomach lining.
Leaving the handle in the bucket – after all, I don’t want to make a mess – I turn and snatch a bottle of bourbon from the table. I toss the lid aside and pour the bottle into the mixture, the splashing and glooping noises music to my ears. With one final stir, the concoction is ready. I take a small tumbler from the table and use it as a scoop. After a bit of balancing with my hands, I manage to fill the glass without spilling any of the vital cocktail.
I spin and see Angela, who is now on her knees. "Ah, perfect timing." She looks up at me with absolute fury, her eyes ablaze with venom. She stumbles to her feet and prepares for a fight. What is it with the youth of today? Violence solves fuck all.
"Do you want to walk out
of here alive?"
Angela doesn’t react.
"Don’t ignore me, I was asking a valid question."
Angela's eyes scan left and right beyond me, taking in the sights of the room. She probably sees bloody Bob, Ed is below her vision, blocked by a table, and the various weapons around the room are out of my reach. She takes this all in; I can see her brain processing the information. Her nose twitches, sniffing the air. I hold back a smile. After half a minute, she nods.
"Is that a yes?" I ask. She nods again, her eyes now on me.
"Good. Drink this." I hold out the cocktail to her. It doesn’t look the least bit tempting, what with the orange smears on the glass, the stomach lining disguised as carrot and the smell, which, if my research serves me correctly, is only attractive to a miniscule minority. Angela, by the aghast look on her face, isn't one of them. "Drink it," I repeat.
"No."
"Drink it, or you die."
"Fuck you."
"Haven't we been here already? Either you drink this or I will drown you in this glorious bucket of amazement. You don’t want me to do that. I have plans for this concoction, big plans that are more relevant and important than your tiny existence on this very earth. Bob over there suffered for this cause, don’t make me go out and find someone else to repeat the whole process. Because … well, you know I will." I smirk, making Angela uneasy.
She gulps, contemplates her situation.
"Drink it and I will let you go," I chide.
More contemplation. After a moment, she steps forward.
"Atta girl." I hand her the concoction. She starts to raise it to her mouth. I hold a hand in the air, signaling for her to wait. "Not yet … come over here."
Angela sighs and hobbles over to me, feet bound. I place her before the bodily cocktail. "If you feel the urge to be sick, do it in here. This is phase two." I step back, wishing to keep my clothing somewhat vomit free. "You drink it … and you go free." I steal a glance at Bob, who is still conscious. Ed is asleep now. I check my watch. Still on schedule.
Angela eyes me with absolute distrust. I smile mischievously. After a moment, she lifts the puke cocktail to her lips and, hesitantly, realising her life is on the line, downs it in one. Her face grimaces as the warm, alcohol laden, bloody lumps slide down her parched throat. I'm so impressed I actually whoop and clap. One can only imagine how that tasted. Like sucking off the devil himself, I bet. "Well done."
