by Stuart Keane
Angela wipes her lips with her honey coloured forearm. I'm waiting for more vomit to join us, but it doesn’t. Angela keeps the contents down in an amazing display of gumption. I might have underestimated her. Maybe she thinks keeping it down is part of the ritual – it isn't, but I can wait for the puking – so she suffers for the cause.
"Well, I'm impressed," I speak truthfully. Angela nods with a broken smile on her face. Her concentration seems to be on keeping the bodily fluids in her stomach. "You'll let me go now?"
"Oh yes, in due course. Get your bearings first."
"No, now."
"In due course, I'm still amazed you kept it down."
"That was … that …" Angela doesn’t finish her sentence. I sense a wave of nausea is keeping her balanced and jittery. I get the same feeling when I eat Brussel sprouts.
"It was disgusting. You're doing well to keep it down. I'm –"
"–let me go! I did what you asked. Let me go!"
"You didn’t let me finish," I say, a hint of menace in my voice. "I'm impressed you kept it down since Bob over there has HIV."
"What?"
"Bob is HIV positive. His blood was in the mixture." I hold up the empty bucket, the blood still stains the interior. Angela looks from it to the glass, back to me.
I smile. "You just drank HIV."
Angela's eyes widen and within seconds, her mouth opens. I spot lumps in her teeth, a yellow paste on her tongue. She retches. Once, then twice. Seconds later, the concoction comes back up, bringing her stomach contents with it. I see more lumps as the acidic smell almost becomes overpowering.
I grab the back of her head and aim it into the bucket once more, adding to the cooling puke there. After she is set, she groans and leans on the table. I pat her on the back. "Nice job, very nice job."
"You sick fuck," she screams.
"What?" I protest my fake innocence.
"If I've caught HIV because of you –"
"– pull the other one. A stripper who fucks all and sundry. You probably already have it."
"I get checked. I'm clean."
"You think I would have fucked you if you weren't?"
That silences her. For a moment. "You checked up on me?"
"Of course. I have my ways. I have an active sex life. As psychotic as I am, I wouldn’t enjoy spreading HIV amongst the masses."
"Why did you do this?"
"The LegReg determines it."
"You sick fuck!"
I smile. "I wouldn’t worry, Bob is clean."
"What?"
"He doesn’t have HIV," I lie. It’s a brazen one, but she buys it.
"What …" Angela sags in exhaustion, both physical and mental.
"What do you take me for …?" I hold my hands out, an 'innocent' man. I deserve an Oscar. Call the Academy. Angela stumbles past me, leaning on the table for support.
"So he didn’t have HIV?"
"Nope," I lie again. Once more and I might reveal my deception. I pray she doesn’t ask for a third confirmation. Instead, she nods. "Can I … can I go … now … now, please?"
Please? Bless her cotton socks. "You can. A promise is a promise."
I pull a knife from the magnetized strip on the wall, step forward and slit her throat. A glorious ruby arterial spray arcs across the room, some going into the bucket too, as planned. I hold her head above it for ten seconds. I don’t need too much or too little. When done, I throw Angela back into the corner and leave her to die.
She served her purpose.
A rumbling from across the room alerts me to phase three. I quickly grab a spare bucket from the wall and leap over to Ed. The fat man is shuffling on the floor, rubbing his sore-ridden torso. His stomach is trying to escape from within and I smile. What a glutton. He didn’t even taste the laxatives in the food.
I kick Ed in the back and he squeals again. He rolls onto his stomach and starts to shake.
"Uh oh."
I realise the error of my ways as Ed groans loudly. A gigantic wet fart fills the room, stinging my nostrils with its cloying, egg-like stench. His body weight pushes on his stomach and I don’t see it coming until the last minute. I'm aware of a dark movement between his exposed, mottled butt-cheeks. That’s when a typhoon of shit sprays into the air, like a successful oil drill. It smacks wetly against the ceiling, spraying brown excrement everywhere. I run for cover beneath the table but it's too late. Shit splats on my expensive suit, lands in my hair and flicks in my eyes. I hold back a scream as the torrent of excrement comes to a standstill. Luckily, I've placed the bucket right beside it. Phase three, thank fuck, will not need repeating.
Phase Four remains. The LegReg is nearly complete.
But first, I need a shower. Bob can wait.
I'm back. Not only did I shower, I also decided to clean up a little. Ed is still dormant on the floor. I doubt the fat fuck will move anytime soon. He's played his part for now; I have other plans for him. As planned, I came away with a small bucket of shit from his 'outburst'.
Chortle chortle.
In my absence, I added that to the bucket. To recap, I now have a cocktail mixed with HIV infected blood, two types of alcohol – both have been regurgitated – two types of vomit, combined together, fresh arterial spray, and shit, from a gluttonous man with a severe stomach problem. As you can imagine, this doesn’t smell too pleasant. The essence is ever changing as it brews. Kind of like old skid marks. Or a dead dogs corpse, left to rot in the hot summer sun.
That’s enough of my childhood.
I turn to Bob and smile. I relinquished my suit in favour of a white coat. I already ruined one with the flying shit from hell, why waste another? Nothing looks quite as spectacular as a white coat smothered in blood anyhow. You want a dramatic effect. Rule 101. Red on white.
I amble over to Bob, checking my fingernails. Bob, after a huge effort, lifts his head to look at me. He tries to shake his head. "No … no more."
"Who made you the boss?"
"Please … just … let me go."
"Out of the question."
"What … what do you want from me?"
I grab Bob by the chin, squeezing his withered face between my lean fingers. I clench them, feeling his teeth beneath his thin, stubbly cheeks. He moans in pain as I squeeze a little too hard. I don’t care. "You know what I want."
Bob's eyes show no hint, no recognition. I don't expect him to; he probably forgets his own name on occasion. I move in closer, no smile on my face this time. I'm done with the fucking jokes. My eyes bore into his, piercing his very soul.
Then, the recognition appears.
Just for a second, but it's there. Like a figment of the imagination, in the dilation of the pupil, a frown of the eyebrow. He knows what I want, what he did all those years ago. His body contorts, fear ratcheting up his yellow fucking spine. I don’t release my grip.
"Does the name Cheryl Knight ring any bells?"
Initially, his wide stare is blank, still petrified at my hard gaze. When the name hits his brain, recalls the memories, digs up the dark secrets in his past, he starts to struggle. Only then, do I smile, my grin acknowledging his recognition.
Then I go to work.
I point behind me, roaming my hand around the warehouse. "You see, this is all for you. In theory. In reality, it's for Cheryl, poor defenseless Cheryl, the woman you abused and slaughtered several years ago. You remember that?"
Bob shakes his head defiantly. I slap him, hard. The sound reverberates around the room. He will soon learn that lying to me is pointless, and he will suffer for doing so. "Cheryl was your wife, don’t you dare deny her existence in this world. There are documents; signed papers that confirm you were married once. The only reason your diseased arse is walking around is on a fucking technicality. A weak one at that."
"I don't know what you're talking about …" Bob stutters. I feel his fear trembling through his clammy skin. His lies infuriate me. I slap him again. "Lying, Bob, is not going to help you here."
&
nbsp; "I never met any Cheryl …"
"Why do you insist on lying, Bob? I saw the recognition in your eyes. I know it was you."
"You have the wrong guy, pal."
"I'm not your pal, Bob. Don’t you ever think what we are doing here is anything short of a confrontation. We aren’t bantering, we aren’t sharing a brew and we certainly aren't fucking pals. You're here because you need to be punished, and because the crooked justice system talked itself out of doing anything to you."
He cries and pleads on deaf ears. "Seriously –"
"– stop lying, Bob!" I roar, finally tired of his deceit. I'm a patient man, but this has gone far enough. "Bob, let me put it this way. I know what you did. Now, you may have had a lucky escape and it might give you a reason to pretend it didn’t happen, denial, protecting your false image, whatever it is. You can't pull that shit with me."
Bob said nothing, remaining silent. I see him eyeing me, trying to figure me out. It'll take him a while. His parents probably named him Bob so he could remember it. One syllable. Maybe Robert was too much for his miniscule brain.
"The silent treatment, huh? Well, let me tell you what I know. Cheryl, I don’t know, maybe it was blind love or something, finds you. For whatever reason, she falls head over heels in love with you. You have nothing, no money, and no home. She takes you in and keeps you. She works; you lie on the sofa, shoving nachos into your lazy face, all day. You blame society for your failures as a man. You suck and leech from her for a couple of years until she realizes you're taking her for granted. You propose, delaying the inevitable. She gladly accepts since her demure attitude is a sucker for such chivalry and romance. However, the honeymoon period wears off. Cheryl, being an innocent woman, leaves it another year before having the balls to face up to you. She realizes nothing has changed and nothing will. How am I doing so far?"
Bob remains silent. Still no reaction. I expected as such.
"So, she stands up to you. It takes a lot of bravado, but she does it. You react by breaking her arm. She cries, and it irritates you. This woman is now disturbing your marathon session of your favourite TV show. Your wife is a hindrance, a nuisance. Therefore, you punch her. She falls and smashes her eye socket on the table. You enjoy it; maybe even get off on it. Hitting a woman is a thrill beyond your TV, and your shows, and the internet porn funded by your punch bag wife's credit card. You keep doing it. Until, one day, you hit her so hard, it causes an aneurysm in her brain and she dies. The doctors label it an accident, a freak incident, and you walk free, despite a history of violence reconstructed through her autopsy. You're a free man."
Bob looks down, groaning. His arms flex beneath the barbed wire. The pain seems to have vanished from his arms. Maybe they're numb, who knows. Who cares?
Then, something odd happens.
He laughs.
This I did not expect.
"Well, that's a hell of a story. You write that on a napkin? I'm telling you, you got the wrong guy."
"And I'm telling you, stop lying. I know I have the right guy."
"Oh, and how do you know that, wise-arse?"
I smile, stand up and turn around. I grab the bodily cocktail and shake it a little, stirring it with the broom handle. I notice flecks of blood have dried on the wood. I wonder how far he'll push this untruth. I'm sick of it now. Time to shut him up.
"You want to know how I know?"
Bob sneers at me. "Surprise me."
"I know because Cheryl was my sister."
Bob says nothing.
"Surprised enough?"
Bob chuckles. "Like I said, you got the wrong guy."
"You beat and abused and killed my sister. Admit it," I say calmly.
"Wrong guy."
"You murdered her, you lazy degenerate, selfish sonofabitch."
"Wrong guy, wrong guy, wrong guy."
"Cheryl was my sister …"
"You got the wrong guy. How many times do I have to say it?"
"Cheryl was my sister, and you infected her with your HIV."
"I didn’t, we used a condom …" Bob falls silent, realising his error.
A smile creeps across my face. Busted. Humans are predictable.
I nod. "Thank you, Bob."
"I … you tricked me."
"Yeah, well, how the foolish fall." I lift the bucket of vomit and place it on the floor beside me. "You ever heard of the Legend of Regurgitation, Bob?"
"Fuck you."
"That's a popular retort today. I sense society as a whole is becoming less and less coherent with the English language. Swearing is neither clever nor intelligent. You sick fuck." I laugh at the irony of my statement. "LegReg is popular amongst urban legend. I know many have heard about it. You must have heard about it, Bob?"
Bob shakes his head. Fool.
"The legend states that a poisoned soul, one who treats his fellow man like an animal, his wife like a punch bag, and his general duty as a man like scum on his shoe, will be forever healed by the Legend of Regurgitation. Am I paraphrasing? A little. I'm sure religion and sanity were featured somewhere, but let's move on. After all, everything needs an update now and then."
I kick the bucket of vomit closer and stand in front of Bob. I notice a spool of blood hanging from his chapped lips.
"The LegReg is, of course, legendary. Sure, it started as a hoax, a party game, a dare. Originally, you just had to drink your preferred beverage, throw it up, and drink it again. Childs play. Students could do that in their sleep … when they have any. It became a phenomenon and much like Chinese whispers, the thing grew way out of proportion. Many different people now practice it around the world. The aim of LegReg is to cleanse the soul. I think it's pretty apt for a person like you, don’t you?"
Bob looked up, his lips glistening with blood. "If you come anywhere … anywhere near …"
"What you going to do, Bob? I tied your arms down; you’re weak in both body and mind. It's pathetic. I can do what I want, when I want to."
"Try it –"
I punch Bob in the face, breaking a tooth. I hear it crunch beneath my knuckle. As if to confirm, I see his face screw up in agony. His arms might be shredded and numb, but his face is relatively untouched. I imagine pain is coursing through him now. Shit happens.
"Now, Bob. The LegReg is notorious for curing alcoholism. Did you know that? The legend states that any person who drinks the concoction of the LegReg, male or female, will never drink a sip of alcohol again. It's been proven, psychologically. I suppose it's the same as seeing what goes into hamburgers or sausages. It puts people off. However, you don’t have that problem, and nor do millions of other Americans. Therefore, they converted it. Now, it can cure anything. Racism, homophobia, obesity. It can also cure psychopathic tendencies but hey, I'm happy as I am. What you have, my friend, is an attitude problem."
Bob smiles. "Is that so?"
I nod, saying nothing.
"Well, your luck is out. I don’t hate niggers, I don’t hate queers and I certainly ain't a fat shit like that loser behind you." He's referring to Ed who, I finally notice, is snoring peacefully. I look at the brown stain on the ceiling and remember the horror of earlier. I shudder. I then realise Bob is trying to sass me.
Bad idea, Bob.
"Oh, Bob, my disillusioned friend. I'm not here to cure your hatred of the minorities. You think your privy to the ordinary rules of the LegReg? You're mistaken. As I mentioned, the LegReg has evolved, become its own beast. This, Bob, is my incarnation of it. Yes, I used a few rules from previous versions, but this is mine. No one has attempted this. I will. I'm a pioneer and, well, let's face it. Cheryl deserved better. Bob, I'm not here to cure you of any ailment or trait, I'm here to cure the world of you."
Bob remains silent, processing the idea in his brain.
"I'm going to kill you, Bob."
Bob's eyes widen and he bucks, thrashing against the chair. The barbed wire opens new cuts and gashes on his flesh, spraying blood droplets all over the floor. The wooden legs o
f the chair squeak under his unbalanced weight.
"You can't kill me, the cops will find you."
"Who'll miss you, Bob? You don’t think I did my research. The only person who would have noticed your existence is six feet in the ground. My fucking sister."
"You fucking cunt!"
I wait for him to wear himself out, standing on the spot with my arms crossed.
It takes about two minutes. He comes to a standstill, sweat pouring off his face, his breath coming in exhausted gasps. His arms gleam with new blood, underlined by the older, black blood. I step forward, leaning in. "Are you ready, Bob?"
"Fuck you."
"Like I said, popular retort today. However, I think you're the one who's fucked." I hold his face up, clenching his cheeks. I locate his broken tooth and push, making him scream. I hear it click beneath my thumb. His mouth opens, filling the room with noise.
I slip the transparent tube into his mouth and stop when the end reaches the back of his throat. Using a roll of duct tape, I spool the silver material around his head three times, taping the tube to his face. He protests in the form of muffled murmurs, but who's listening? Spitting noises come from behind the tape as he tries to remove the invasive tube from his throat.
"That tube isn't going anywhere, Bob."
I step backwards, lift the bucket and pour it into the silver device beside him. He hasn’t noticed it until now, but his mind goes to work. He knows what it is. Bob's frantic eyes follow the tube and see it disappears into the machine. On the side, embossed in the metal are a red square and a green square, the former illuminated, casting a small, red glow on Bob's leg.
The bucket empties and I throw it behind me. I won't need it anymore since this is the finale of the LegReg. We are nearly done.
"Any last words, Bob?"
"Urgmhpppppps …"
"You're welcome." I flick the switch to green and the machine grinds to life. It takes a second – I'm worried initially thinking it won't work and I'll look a fool – until the fluid passes up the tube, heading for Bob's mouth. His eyes bulge as the tube fills, becoming yellow rather than transparent. I have just enough time to warn him.
