by Murr
“Oh,” Zoe said, with all the enthusiasm I had come to expect from her. She picked up the TV remote and began surfing through the channels, settling on something about rich housewives. I tried not to let it get to me and closed my eyes. Not only was my tongue twice the size it used to be, it tasted strange, too. Something like molasses and salt and very occasionally blood. I knew the doctor was wrong, that I had not bit it while asleep. I was infected. An STD of some sort, but how could I bring that up with Zoe? How did one go about telling one’s girlfriend that they ought to get their privates checked out?
I was about to find out.
“Are you okay?” I asked, lacing my fingers through Zoe’s free hand.
“What?” Almost disinterested. The orange lady on the TV was talking about how much it cost to get her pool cleaned. How could I compete?
“You’re not theeling any… anything unuthual?” I said.
“Got a bit of wind,” she replied, which was not what I’d expected.
“Apart from that,” I said, “I mean, you’re not under the weather or anything? Maybe a little itchy downthtairth?” It turned out there was no easy way of saying it, and certainly no way of sugar-coating it.
“Of course not!” she said, pulling her hand away. “What, you think I’ve given you something, is that it?”
“Well, my tongue—”
“Your tongue looking like a football has nothing to do with me. I’m offended that you think… you think you’ve caught that disgusting thing from my… my twinkle!”
I hated it when she called it a twinkle. It had never twinkled, not in all the years we had been together. If anything, ninety-nine percent of the time it was matte. A better name for it would be ‘the nonglossy’. “I’m not thuggethting anything,” I said, even though I was and we both knew it. “All I’m thaying ith that I didn’t have this yethterday, and latht night I went down on you. You might want to conthider getting yourthelf checked out, ith all I’m thaying. It might be one of thothe thingth that doethn’t affect the carrier.”
She was on her feet now, swinging the remote control through the air as if auditioning for Game of Thrones. “So, you’ve done your work, have you, Sherlock? I’m Patient Zero, all because you bit your tongue in your sleep.” I had to duck to avoid being thwacked. She grunted, before storming out of the room, leaving me all alone to with my fat tongue and nothing to change the fucking channel over with.
Thmooth, my inner monologue said.
*
When I woke up the next morning, I was surprised to discover that the swelling had abated, somewhat. I could speak without lisping, and the strange metallic taste was almost entirely gone. I would have celebrated, were it not for the fact that I had woken on the sofa in the living room, and then it all came flooding back to me. The argument with Zoe, accusing her of infecting me, her storming off to bed, even though it was only half-past-five, and me passing out drunk in front of The Kardashians.
Certainly, a night to forget. And now that my tongue was returning to its natural size, I could get back on with my life, and hope Zoe would forgive me for what I’d said to her.
Not likely, pal, a voice said. At the time, I thought nothing of it. My inner monologue has always taunted me. Ever since I was a child, it had plagued me, made fun of me, ridiculed me whenever I made a mistake, and called me names. It was something I had, over the years, grown used to. Do we not all have that voice in our head? The one that likes to take the piss and tell us when we’re being a dick?
I gathered myself up off the sofa, read the letter Zoe had left for me on the coffee table—boy, was she angry—before heading upstairs to the bathroom to investigate my tongue more thoroughly in front of the mirror.
I looked like Hell warmed up. My pallid face stared back at me, and the bags under my eyes were dark and loose, but I felt better in myself, and that was the main thing. I would be well enough to return to work tomorrow, at least that was what I thought, for when I opened my mouth and leaned in to the mirror, I saw another face staring back at me. A tiny little face, almost translucent, with black pinhole eyes, right where my tongue used to be. Either side of the face were slim, lucent legs, which wriggled and squirmed inside my mouth, tickling the insides of my cheeks.
I clamped my mouth shut, for the thing I had just witnessed could not be real, could it? A fitful night on the sofa had left me exhausted, and I was simply seeing something that wasn’t there.
I opened my mouth once more, and this time the face inside my mouth lifted up, as if to greet me. I could only watch in abject horror as those spindly little legs spasmed and tickled, could only heave and retch as those pinhole black eyes blinked open and shut, open and shut. I screamed, and the thing inside my mouth screamed with me. It was all too much, and I dropped to the tiles, found my way across to the toilet, and proceeded to empty my stomach of all its contents.
For the longest time I sat there, head on the rim of the toilet bowl, muttering to myself about the thing inside my mouth, that it wasn’t real and that I had not yet woken. I was having a nightmare, a terrible, fucked-up nightmare, and would come to in a moment. Oh, the relief I would feel! To be awake and not have a creature living inside my head!
I’m very real, a voice said. Your tongue is all gone. I ate it while you were asleep. But don’t worry. I’m just like a tongue. You won’t even notice a difference. I’ve latched onto your muscles. I’m your tongue now—
“You’re not fucking real!” I sobbed. “This is all just a dream. A very bad dream—”
Sure, it’s just a dream, the voice said, mockingly. You’re gonna wake up in a bit, and everything’ll be all right. Except for the fact you’ve got a telepathic cymothoa exigua right where your taste-buds used to be.
I clambered to my feet and staggered across toward the mirror. “No!” I said. And then, “A fucking what now?” I opened my mouth, watched the translucent thing for any sign of movement as it answered my question.
I’m talking directly to your mind, it said. If you’re no good at Latin, and looking at you I’d say you’re not, I’m also known as a tongue-eating louse. On the bright side, you’ll probably lose a bit of weight. I might put a bit on over the years, but that’s just one of the perils of being a greedy parasite.
“I’ll fucking cut you out!” I said, reaching for my razor. It was one of those triple blade things with a safety guard, and therefore about as useful as a eunuch in a brothel, but I had to try something. I had to get this thing out of my face!
You bring that razor anywhere near me and I’ll leap down the back of your throat so fast, you’ll wish you’d never been born. Though I didn’t see the thing’s mouth move—if the microscopic jagged slit was indeed its mouth—its legs were going ten to the dozen. I could tell it was serious, that it could choke me to death at will, and that I was in no position to make threats. This thing, this grotesque see-through creature, had the better of me.
So what? I was to go around with this little bastard living in my head? Forever? The thought disgusted me, and I almost had to return to the toilet to continue bringing up what remained of yesterday’s intake.
“I… I just can’t… this is preposterous!” And it was. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I’d never even had crabs, and I’d been to Amsterdam.
You’ll get used to it, said the parasite. Like I said, you’ll hardly know I’m here.
“And you can read my mind?” I said, for wasn’t that something to do with telepathy?
Not read it, no, the creature said, in a tone which suggested I might as well have asked whether it could reach into my throat and pull out a spit-covered bunny. I can talk directly into it, but even that takes a lot of energy. You might not hear from me for days, or even weeks at a time. I’m the ninja of the parasite world.
“But why me?” I said, incredulous. “How did I catch you?”
There was an excruciating silence, as if the parasite was about to go into some long and complicated description on the myr
iad ways one could contract a tongue-eating louse, so it came as quite a surprise when it said, Fuck knows. What country are we in?
“England,” I told it. “Birmingham, if we’re being specific.” I was having a conversation with it now, which made the whole thing even more absurd.
Nope, it said, and its little translucent head went left and right, left and right. Never heard of it.
I couldn’t look at it any longer, had to close my mouth and pretend it wasn’t there. But knowing it was there, just behind my lips and teeth, caused gooseflesh to rise up all over my body. I shivered, for this was madness. Absolute madness, and if I wasn’t mad at the sight of the creature, I would be by the end of the day.
The sound of Prince’s ‘Purple Rain’ startled me, even though I often hear it dozens of times a day. The ringtone of my mobile phone, distant, and I remembered I had left it at the side of the sofa last night.
Zoe!
I left the bathroom and raced down the stairs and into the living room, hoping that I reached the phone before it stopped ringing. Lunging across the sofa, I scooped it up and slid the answer screen across to the left without even checking who the caller was. “Hello? Zoe?” She could help me. She would drop everything at work and come home to instruct me on how to get rid of the thing in my face. She would—
“Andy?” a voice that wasn’t Zoe’s replied. It was Dan, but what was Dan ringing me for? Perhaps he wanted to know how I was getting on with the best man’s speech? Well, that was out of the question now. I never wanted to speak again, let alone in front of hundreds of people, who would notice the parasite living in my mouth and tell me I was disgusting, that it wasn’t normal, that I was a filthy tramp and to stay the hell away from their children.
“Dan? Look, I can’t talk right now—”
Don’t you dare tell him about me, said the parasite, and I felt it edge toward my gullet, its spindly legs tickling at my tonsils. I wasn’t going to tell Dan about the creature living in my mouth; it wasn’t the kind of thing you went around telling people.
“I need your help,” Dan said, and I noticed a strangeness to his voice. It was as if he had been crying. “Please, come over.” He dropped to a whisper before adding, “I think it’s sleeping.”
I was about to ask him what he meant by that when the phone went dead, and I stared down at it blankly for a few moments, hoping he might call back. When he didn’t, I threw on my shoes and a coat, and headed out to the car.
Maybe Dan could help me with my problem, and I could help with his.
Whatever that might be.
*
I didn’t know what to expect when I arrived at Dan’s, but the thing in my mouth had fallen silent, which was something, and I kept my mouth firmly shut the whole drive over, because I didn’t want to offer it any chance to speak. Who knew what might set it off again: a light on red for too long, a construction site, two buses coming along at once?
Dan answered the door before I even had a chance to knock, and ushered me into the kitchen, where we stood looking at one another; two nervous gunslingers with just water-pistols as weapons.
I covered my mouth as I spoke, for I didn’t want him to see the parasite. “What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”
With a shake of his head, Dan said, “You’re not going to believe this, but… I don’t know how to say it… it’s, well, it’s disgusting and embarrassing, and I feel sick just thinking about it.”
Ha! I thought. I’ve got you beat! Whatever it is, I have you beat! I’ve got a translucent insect or… something living in my fucking pie-hole! What’s the matter with you? Found a strange mole on your scrotum?
“Whatever it is,” I told him, “I’m here for you.” I didn’t want to look at Dan’s balls, but I would if I had to. That’s what friends are for.
“Okay,” Dan said, and he stepped in close to me, so close that I was able to deduce, with just one sniff, that he hadn’t brushed his teeth yet. “Please help me,” he said, and he opened his mouth…
I couldn’t believe it. Right there where Dan’s tongue used to be, there now sat a big fat see-through parasite. I might not know the Latin for it, but I knew it was the same as the thing in my own mouth. Eyes like piss-holes in the snow, squirming legs, jagged little mouth. He had one. I had one. We were practically Parasites-in-Law, and yet I was fuming, because this meant that Dan had contracted his in the same way I had.
Zoe.
“You sonofabitch!” I screamed, swinging wildly and connecting with his jaw at least once. He went back, and I followed, snatching a kitchen knife from the block on the counter. It was a cliché, but everything truly was a red mist, and before I knew what was happening, Dan was staring at me with wide eyes, blood seeping from the corners of his mouth. The knife was embedded in his chest, and my hand was still wrapped around the hilt.
He slid down the fridge door, taking alphabet magnets with him as he went, and I staggered back, shocked at what I had done. After a while he fell still, and I knew that he was dead. I had murdered my best friend, and now I would spend the rest of my life in prison, with only a parasitic louse for company.
Ecuador! the creature suddenly blurted. That’s where we’re from! Ecuador! You know, I never would have got it if those magnets hadn’t fallen into place. See the E and the C and the U, that’s what reminded me—
“What did you say?” I asked, wiping sweat from my brow and tears from my eyes.
Um, that I’m commonly found in Ecuador? That’s where we tongue-eating lice are from.
“No, no, no,” I said, over and over as I took a step forward and pulled open the refrigerator door. One shelf was packed tightly with beer tins, and I took one out, all the time saying, “No, no, no, no, no!” And when I saw the label— “Pilsener” and beneath that “by Cervecería Nacional Ecuador”—I knew I had made a dreadful mistake.
The beer! We had caught these fucking monsters from the beer, not my girlfriend’s vagina!
The parasite couldn’t read my mind, and so it had no idea what I was about to do. I closed my mouth and reached for the knife sticking out of my dead best friend. Once the knife was free, I slowly lifted it up toward my mouth and, in one swift movement, opened up and thrust my tongue forward at the same time. I grabbed onto the parasite with my free hand as it squealed and writhed and bucked, and when I brought the knife down into its meaty spine, it fairly howled up at the kitchen lights.
I began to saw away at the creature—my tongue—and we both screeched with pain. If I was going to jail, it would be without this thing in my head. And at least not having a tongue would save me from having to explain this shit to the cops. Let them figure this grotesque business out for themselves.
Maybe I would leave the refrigerator door open, and they could try to come up with a feasible explanation over a nice, cold can of Ecuadorian Pilsner.
Jeffery X Martin
Jeffery X Martin is the creator of the Elders Keep series, available on Amazon and through Shadow Work Publishing. He lives in a secret, heavily armed compound somewhere in the Great American South with his wife, Hannah. He is a senior editor for Biff Bam Pop and a contributor to Machine Mean. In his spare time, he enjoys Italian horror movies, professional wrestling, and hallucinations.
READY TO START by Jeffery X Martin
It was okay.
The nose wasn't quite as bulbous as it needed to be. Some more shading on the jowls. Make the eyes squintier, beadier. But all in all, it was okay.
Richard considered the charcoal drawing of his father from a couple different angles before placing it in his drawer. He was aiming for photorealism, not caricature, but with his father as a reference point, who could tell?
His father, Charles Reardon The Third, cultivated the look of an old daguerreotype of a robber baron, a fat cat, an industrial giant. In reality, Reardon was worse. He was a lawyer. Mergers and acquisitions, smashing two or three horrible companies together to make one reprehensible one. It was the family business.
Now, halfway through the summer, Richard had made a decision.
Richard wanted to go to art school.
This was not something he had mentioned to Charles Reardon The Third. But with scholarship letters from law schools across the country piling up on the kitchen counter, unopened, Richard was running out of time. That conversation would have to be conducted quickly, and he needed to be the one to initiate it. He was prepared to be yelled at, kicked out of the house, disinherited. Most of that would be sheer bluster from his father, who still threw tantrums like a child when he could not get his way. None of that mattered to Richard. He had long grown immune to his father's hyperbole and verbal abuse. Besides, Richard had a plan.
He had begun to make a name for himself in the local art scene. Nights when he had told his father he was at a meeting of the local Young Republicans, he had been on the fringes of the City, sketching the locals for a few dollars per picture. He had gotten some of his art on the walls of a gastropub. People were starting to know who he was, his artistic style, and appreciated his eye. He didn't need his father's corporate way of life, the exchange of his soul for money. Richard had his art and that was his passion. It would sustain him. It would be enough.
Downstairs, the dogs were barking. The front door slammed.
Charles Reardon the Third was home.
Richard drew a deep breath and held it. No time like the present, he thought.
He walked down the slightly-curved marble staircase, holding on lightly to the mahogany railing. Noise was the enemy. His father despised loud sounds in the house. It was amazing he tolerated the dogs, grimy little yapping things, the only remnant of Mom number four. Sheryl? Sharon? Richard couldn’t remember.
