Arty held up a calm hand. “Easy there, pal.”
The passenger door opened. Out stepped the woman, adorned in money, and with a face that was about to ruin the beauty it held by opening its mouth. “What is wrong with you? Do you know people who drive that slow cause more accidents than people who drive fast?”
“I didn’t know that, no,” Arty said.
“Well they do.”
“I find that hard to believe,” Arty said.
The woman’s disgust looked as if she meant to spit on Arty; he still hadn’t ruled it out as a possibility. “Well I find it hard to believe you even have a license,” she said.
Arty splayed his hands and sighed. “Well I do. And I pulled over for you to pass. So why are you still here?”
The kid stepped forward. “Fuck you, man. We’ll leave whenever the fuck we feel like leaving.”
“I’d appreciate it if you watched the language. My mother is in the car. She was the reason I was driving so cautiously.”
“Man, fuck your mom.”
Arty’s face changed. He was not aware of the specifics of the change, but knew it had to reflect the rage he felt the instant his mother was cursed. That, and both the kid and his date took two cautious steps back.
Slowly and clearly, Arty said, “I think it would be best if you got in your car and left now.”
Still the cautious two steps back, but no less deterred, a lifetime of spoils superseding common sense, the kid said: “Do you know who I am?”
Arty shook his head. “I don’t. But I’d love to know.”
The woman now, her moment of wariness effortlessly back to bitchiness. “His name is Kyle Bonnar.” She pecked her head forward and nodded emphatically with each condescending syllable. “You might wanna look it up.”
“Never heard of you,” Arty said. “I imagine the name is supposed to mean something to me?”
“What it means,” Kyle Bonnar began, “is that I could have you, and your mother disappear if I fucking wanted.”
Arty dropped his head and nodded. “I see.” He lifted his head. “What was the name again?”
“Bonnar,” the woman blurted. “B-o-n-n-a-r.” She smiled with great pleasure after spelling the name.
Arty nodded again. “Got it. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
The kid opened the driver door and puffed out his chest. “Damn right you’re sorry.”
The woman opened the passenger door. “Asshole.”
The black Mercedes sped away. Arty stood very still for a moment. He took several deep, calming breaths to tame the atrocities in his mind that begged letting. Certain he had them leashed—and only leashed; not caged, no way—he headed back to the car.
“What happened?” Maria Fannelli asked. “I couldn’t hear much. Were they shouting at you?”
“Everything’s fine, Ma. It was like you said; they were lost. They were only shouting because we were outside, you know? Cars going past and everything?”
Except no cars had gone past. Strange…and sad. Such a missed opportunity. If Jim had been here, dickhead and bitch would be in the trunk of their own Mercedes right now. A missed opportunity, but not a lost one. It could and would be salvaged—somehow. Fuck whatever connections the little prick boasted.
“Ma, do you mind if we skip ice cream tonight? I’m not feeling so hot.”
Maria Fannelli immediately placed a hand to her son’s forehead. “Do you feel like you’re coming down with something?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. You mind if we just head home?”
“Of course not.”
“Ma, do you know the name Bonnar?”
“Bonnar?”
“B-o-n-n-a-r.”
“The name does sound familiar.”
“Politicians?”
Maria scrunched her brow in thought. “I don’t think so. I have heard it before though. I wonder if it’s not the people who own that restaurant.”
“What restaurant?”
“There’s a restaurant on the Mainline called Bonnar’s. Very swanky. I hear that big director from around here goes often. The one who did the film about the boy who sees ghosts.”
“So these Bonnars…they’re just people from the Mainline who own a restaurant? That’s it?”
“Assuming it’s who I’m thinking of.”
“No politicians or judges or…?”
“Arthur, what on Earth are you getting at?”
“Nothing, Ma. Never mind.” So that was it. Mere restaurateurs. The kid he’d encountered a spoiled little prick from the Mainline who fancied himself untouchable. Probably didn’t lift a finger in the place unless it was to help himself to his folks’ income.
Arty headed home. He hoped Jim was there so they could start right away. He wondered what Jim would say when he told him what the prick had said about Mom. He wondered what Jim would do. Even Arty’s mind had trouble fathoming.
2
Kyle Bonnar stood naked at the oak bar in his bedroom, pouring himself a scotch. His girlfriend Amber was showering.
The doorbell rang, followed by three hard knocks.
Kyle cursed under his breath as he gathered his scattered clothes off the floor.
The doorbell rang again. More knocks.
“Alright!” he yelled downstairs, hopping on one leg as he snaked the other through his jeans. Screw a shirt, let whoever it is see him bare-chested; see what kind of inconvenience they’re causing knocking on his door at this time of night. His door of all things. Better be a goddamn emergency.
Kyle arrived at the front door and peeked through the adjacent window. He saw a cop.
“Christ,” he muttered, opening the door.
The cop was solid. Nearly six feet. His head was shaved.
“Mr. Bonnar?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re following up on a traffic complaint; wondered if you could help us out?”
“Traffic complaint? What the hell is that?”
The cop ignored the question and dove in with his own. “Were you involved in an incident earlier this evening with another motorist?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“Did you, or did you not tell a motorist to go fuck his mother?”
Kyle retracted his chin in disbelief. “Is this a joke?”
“No, sir, this is no joke. Please answer the question.”
Kyle snorted. “Since when is telling some guy to go fuck his mother against the law?”
“Anyone else in the house with you, Mr. Bonnar?”
“Yeah, my girlfriend. What’s that got to do with anything?”
The officer dipped his torso to one side and snuck a peek around Kyle, into the house. “And where is she now, sir?”
Kyle dipped too, blocking the officer’s view. “Well not that it’s any of your business, but she’s in the shower.”
“Nice,” the officer said.
“What?”
The officer pulled his baton and rammed the butt into Kyle’s solar plexus. Kyle stumbled back into his house, doubled-over and struggling to breathe.
“So you told my brother to go fuck my mother, huh?” The officer raised the baton. A split second before turning Kyle’s world black, he added: “You have no idea how fun this is going to be.”
3
Amber Calloway was applying an expensive color-care shampoo to her long blonde hair when she heard the bathroom door open.
Eyes shut tight for fear of the shampoo dripping its way in, she asked: “That you, sexy?”
A hungry groan was her reply.
She smiled. “You gonna join me?”
She heard the glass door slide open behind her. Then a pause. Then a waft of cool air entered the steamy glass box, and she turned her front into the stream of hot water. She continued shampooing blind. “Are you just gonna watch, you perv?”
She heard him enter the shower behind her. Heard the glass door slide shut. Felt his hands reach around and begin kneading her breasts. Felt his erection pressing
against her.
And it was all wrong.
The hands were too rough, the erection too large.
Amber spun and opened her eyes. She screamed.
* * *
Arty heard the scream from the bedroom. He could only assume Kyle Bonnar did too—bound and gagged on the floor, the kid writhed and grunted and fought his binds the moment it sounded.
The screaming soon stopped. Arty stood over Kyle and grinned down at him. “She’s quiet now. Maybe she’s diggin’ it, yeah?”
Kyle hollered something incoherent into his gag.
“What are they doing, you ask? Well…” Arty mimed holding a pad and pen, began running down a list of citations. “We have you on three charges, Mr. Bonnar. Riding one’s ass; high beams; and incessant honking of the horn. Now, my brother is handling the ‘riding one’s ass’ punishment—good thing they’re in the shower; soap will help such a tight squeeze—but I’m afraid you will be receiving the brunt of the remaining two charges.” Arty put away his imaginary notebook, and produced a very real ice pick. “Ready to pay your debt to society?”
4
Jim exited the bathroom as naked as he’d entered.
“All good?” Arty asked.
“For me? Oh yes.”
Arty smirked. “What about her?”
“You know that joke, how does a real man know if a woman has an orgasm? A real man doesn’t care?”
Arty bit back laughter. “I do.”
Jim touched the tip of his nose and grinned.
Arty lost it. He was still laughing as he walked past his brother and into the bathroom. Before their visit tonight, the bathroom had been an extravagant show of décor. It resembled a crime scene now. Arty could only wonder how his brother had managed blood on all four walls. And with his bare hands no less.
“So what’s up with hotshot here?” Jim asked, still nude, his birthday suit like a badge of honor commemorating his recent conquest.
“Cited him for high beams and horns,” Arty said, reentering the bedroom.
“He’s still alive,” Jim said, kicking Kyle Bonnar’s fetal body and getting a moan in return.
“Yes, I know.”
Jim squatted next to Kyle and inspected him. Kyle’s eyeballs had been punctured. Blood leaked from both ears. “High beams and horns,” Jim said.
Arty twirled the ice pick between his fingers. “I did his eardrums first. I wanted to see the pain in his eyes before I did those.”
Jim stood and faced his brother. “But he’s still alive.”
“We don’t have to kill everyone, Jim.”
Jim cocked his head. “This wasn’t a game though. This was for Mom. They deserve to be dead.”
“It’s always a game. We just adjust the rules accordingly.” Arty stopped twirling the ice pick and gripped the handle. “And who said I was done with him?
* * *
Both brothers stood over Kyle Bonnar’s corpse. His entire torso was slick with red. His face was unrecognizable.
“This was pretty big, bro,” Arty said.
Jim, still naked, said, “Yeah.”
Arty turned and looked at his brother. “We’re gonna have to lay low for a while. Leave Philly.”
Jim frowned. “This isn’t Philly. It’s the Mainline.”
“Exactly. They’re going to turn the world upside down to find out who did this.”
Jim’s frown faded. He gave a reluctant nod.
Arty said: “Maybe now might be the perfect time to move Mom where she wants.”
Jim groaned. “Western PA? We’re gonna be out in the fucking sticks, man.”
“Don’t be so down on it yet, Jim,” Arty said, rubbing his brother’s shoulder. “We might have some fun.”
THE END
About The Author
A native of the Philadelphia area, Jeff has published multiple works in both fiction and non-fiction. In 2011 he was the recipient of the Red Adept Reviews Indie Award for Horror.
Jeff's debut novel Bad Games was a #1 bestseller that spawned two acclaimed sequels (Vengeful Games and Bad Games: Hellbent) and now all three books in the trilogy have been optioned as feature films and are currently being translated for foreign audiences. His other novels, along with his award-winning short works, have also received international acclaim and are eagerly waiting to give you plenty of sleepless nights.
Free time for Jeff is spent watching horror movies, The Three Stooges, and mixed martial arts. He loves steak and more steak, thinks the original 1974 Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the greatest movie ever, wants to pet a lion someday, and hates spiders.
He currently lives in Pennsylvania with his wife Kelly and their cats Sammy and Bear.
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Author’s Note
Thank you so much for taking the time to read Warped. Whenever I’m asked what my writing goals are, my number one answer, without pause, is to entertain.
I want you to have fun reading what I write. I want to make your heart race. I want you to get paper cuts (or Kindle thumb?) from turning the pages so fast. Again—I want to entertain you.
If I succeeded in doing that, I would be very grateful if you took a few minutes to write a review on Amazon for Warped. Good reviews can be very helpful, and I absolutely love to read the various insights from satisfied readers.
Thank you so very much, my friends. Until next time…
Jeff Menapace
Copyright © 2014 by Jeff Menapace
Published by Mind Mess Press
All Rights Reserved
WARPED: A MENAPACE COLLECTION OF SHORT HORROR, THRILLER, AND SUSPENSE FICTION
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner or the publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
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