by A. R. Braun
Dirty put Dave in a headlock and Dave struggled with him. He could hardly breathe for the chokehold. Dave backed him into the wall, hard.
“Mangy,” Dirty yelled, “get over here and help me or I’ll cut your throat later.”
Dave watched Mangy’s red face and panic-stricken eyes as he sighed and traipsed over to help Dirty. Dave lowered his head forcefully out of the choke hold, but now Dirty and Mangy had him, one by each arm. Dave felt stings of pain where they held him tautly. He started to sweat because of the panic racing through his head.
“Lolli!” Dave cried. “Call nine-one-one!”
“Like hell I will,” Lolli said in a sultry tone, as she strutted over to trace Charlie’s curves with her finger.
Oh, fuck! Even Lolli!
Dave struggled, but to no avail. “You fuckers let me go right now or you’ll regret the day you were born.”
Luke chuckled. “Relax, boss, no need to worry about prison. Satan will protect us.”
Charlie, groaning in pain, started to cry.
“That’s my sister. Who’ll protect you, you fuck?” Dave yelled, still struggling against the men.
Luke cackled. “Why, my boys will, that’s who. You’re not bein high priest over us.”
Charlie looked about to faint, her eyes wide; her body breaking out in a sweat. Her heaving medium-sized breasts stuck out of the pink pentacle shirt she wore as she gasped for breath. Charlie didn’t dare move. Being a practicing Wiccan, she’d never had an interest in heavy metal and never cared to watch Dave’s band play or even meet them.
“Who are these people?” Charlie cried.
“Legion,” Luke answered, laughing.
Lolli giggled and reached to grab Charlie’s breasts. Dave turned his head away.
“Oh no,” Charlie sobbed. “Please don’t.”
Mangy and Dirty dragged Dave into the kitchen while he struggled harder than ever.
“Lolli,” Luke said from the living room. “Go in the fuckin garage and get some rope. I saw some by the lawn mower.”
Lolli strutted into the kitchen, giving Dave a perverse, sideways glance.
“You fuckin bitch!” Dave spat. “You’re as nuts as they are!”
Lolli stopped and bowed down to where they held him in the wooden kitchen chair. “Oh-ho-ho; but isn’t this a need? What were you gonna do tonight, wash your socks?” She cackled, rose, and strutted into the garage.
Oh no, I’ve lost control of the coven.
Dirty punched Dave in the stomach. He doubled over, out of breath. “Say goodnight, Gracie,” Dirty said.
Dirty’s knockout punch put out the lights.
When Dave came to, his brain pricked him with shock when he heard the moaning sounds of sex coming from the living room. Panic took him as he remembered how they’d kidnapped
Charlie. Dave wanted more than anything to run away from it all, go back in time, call the guys on the phone, and quit the band. He wished he’d never met Lolli, either.
Somebody help us! My baby sister!
Dave forced himself to turn his head—slowly!—toward the living room. What he saw made his mind swim with torment. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. The coven had Charlie sprawled out on the piano, and pools of blood dripped off the keys, staining Dave’s tan carpet dark red. Luke penetrated her while Lolli was perched atop Charlie’s face. Dirty and Mangy fondled Charlie’s breasts.
Where had his band gotten the animal heads they wore? From their van?
Dave struggled—silently!—against the ropes. Then the shock of the horror came at him full-force, and he fainted.
When Dave came to again, the house had fallen silent. He looked at the wall clock. It read 3:00. Dave craned his neck to look out the window, and it was still dark outside. He began to struggle against the ropes with all his might. Then an idea smacked him in the face.
“Lord Satan,” Dave whispered. “It was my idea to put together the coven. Help me overcome those unworthy servants and get free of these ropes. So mote it be.”
Dave found a second wind and thrashed with all his might, fighting to keep his grunts as silent as he could. His wrists and ankles chafed with rope burns from the restraints, causing stinging pain and leaving red marks as if he’d been wearing thorn bracelets.
Miraculously, the ropes binding his wrists untangled and he was able to squeeze out of the knots. Dave sighed with relief, rubbing each of his wrists. Then he untied his ankles. He had to squeeze and rub his legs a few times to get them to work.
It was a long walk into the living room.
Dave wrinkled his nose at the stench as he trudged over to look down on his sister. Her dead eyes stared back at him; her throat slit from ear to ear, her nude, bony body and face covered with cum stains. Oh no. All the pain Dave had ever felt in his life reached a pinnacle then, filling him with vehement fury: his father saying, “You worthless goth freak,” his mother scolding him for his “pride” because he wouldn’t work the cornfields in the summer with the bullies from school, and those same bullies making fun of him in grade and high school for having long hair, threatening to hold him down and cut it off.
Last of all, his band’s betrayal—even his girlfriend’s betrayal.
Dave shook with rage.
Dave couldn’t let them rape and kill his sister . . . and let them live.
He drank their blood from his chalice on Sunday. Dave dined on breakfast at noon while looking over the Sunday funnies. His band’s dead bodies, along with Lolli’s, were propped up in the other kitchen chairs, never again to question his leadership.
Lolli’s head had been removed and set in the toilet.
Funny what a difference a day brought.
Dave had grabbed the athame—sloppily left on the altar by a hopeless bunch of lazy bums—and had crept into the bedroom, where in his own bed Luke and Dirty slept on both sides of Lolli. He’d stabbed them each in the crotch, over and over again, while they’d woken up screaming. Dave had laughed while a good amount of blood leaked onto the bed. Then he’d shoved the dagger in their hearts as they’d weakly grabbed for him.
Next, Dave had headed for the guest room, where Mangy had fallen asleep with LaVey’s Bible curled up in his egghead fingers. Dave had sliced his throat and then shoved the paperback Bible in his mouth.
Dave washed down more eggs, toast and bacon with the blood in the chalice, draining it.
Then his eyes grew wide while he gagged at the stink of the corpses as the realization hit home. Dave had broken the very law he’d fought to uphold. He put his face in his hands while he started to shake and sweat.
“What have I done?” Dave whimpered.
Acid baths. It’s the only way to cover it up.
As Dave rose to perform the obsequious duty, he wondered what he’d tell the police when they’d come calling with questions . . . and wanting answers. He felt his mind begin to totally give way to anxiety, as if it had been set aflame.
“Dave,” a raspy, choked voice called from the living room.
Oh no. Please! Tell me I’m not hearing that!
Dave walked around the table with shaking knees, which he soon fell upon as the living corpse of his sister walked over to him, reeking with rot.
Dave started to cry when her cold hand perched atop his head. Her stomach caked with dried blood caressed his forehead as he bent his head down, staring at her light blue toenail polish.
“Do not fear darkness,” Charlie breathed.
And it was funny, but in this moment, he didn’t fear, not anymore; though he had a monumental question he didn’t think he had the strength to ask. One thing Dave did know, Charlie’s website had a slogan from a comparative religion to Wicca right by her profile picture. It read: TREAT OTHERS HOW YOU WANT TO BE TREATED.
Dave looked up into her glazed eyes, and his tears abated.
Enemies from the Sky
Annoyed by the stifling atmosphere in his apartment, Mem-Dog cursed the Nashville Indian summer. His fan buzzed, unable to do the job an
air-conditioner would’ve. He couldn’t afford the latter.
Mem-Dog shook his head at the memory of his girlfriend’s silly warning, as if he hadn’t seen it coming a mile away.
“Did I ever tell you my parents were abducted by aliens?” Sienna had asked. “It happened on Halloween.”
“Girl, don’t try to scare me with no science fiction shit,” Mem-Dog answered.
“I wouldn’t shit you, you’re my favorite turd. My mom and dad were aggressive—like you. They tried to get away. That’s why the aliens captured them and tortured them, to teach them a lesson.”
I ain’t afraid of aliens. Like this is a sci-fi flick.
All his possessions were crammed together in his closet of an apartment, as if they’d fall onto each other if someone banged on the door hard enough. This was what a dishwasher’s salary bought. He wiped the sweat from his face and walked toward the bathroom to pour cold water on a towel and wear it on his head.
He wondered if his rap name carried enough street cred. “How you doing in Memphis, Memphis?” had gotten old, hence the move to Nashville and his rap nickname. He stood before the mirror because he’d just shaved his head. A strapping African-American man, Mem-Dog’s ripped abs and huge muscles made for a menacing presence. He flared his nostrils and tried his best to give the evil eye, scrunching up his face to look like a gorilla in the mist.
Mem-Dog knew his father was disappointed in him, worried sick, he hoped. When he was a child, Businessman Daddy had found out his wife was violently abusive to their kid. His response was to walk out of the room and go to work, not caring for his son’s welfare. Mem-Dog had decided right then and there he didn’t want to be like his father. The rap music had created the perfect division in their relationship. It had done its job.
Was that an otherworldly, electronic sound coming from outside? Like a spaceship taking off?
Deciding it was probably a nearby rave or somebody’s Halloween album, Mem-Dog went back into the living room and plugged his iPod in the stereo, blasting Jay-Z performing “Young Forever.”
The neighbor banged on the wall. “Turn it down!”
“You turn it down, peckerwood! Stop yellin!”
He didn’t stop yelling. “I’ll call the police.”
Mem-Dog hissed like a snake. “Then when I get out of jail, I’ll bust a cap in your ass!” He kicked the wall, shaking the building’s foundation. “So, you done?”
He was done.
Jams from outside battled Mem-Dog’s music as a car pulled up. The speakers blasted Nas performing “You Can’t Stop Us Now.”
Sienna turned the doorknob and strutted into the apartment. Her turned-up nose, rosy cheeks, milky-white skin, full lips and blond hair hanging down like silk drove Mem-Dog crazy. She was his shorty, a twenty-one-year-old.
Mem-Dog turned down the stereo so he could hear her. “There you go, Whitey!”
She laughed and kissed him. “Happy Halloween, baby.”
He slapped her ass. “Ooh girl, you so fly.”
“Woo, Memphis, you’re already hard.”
“Come on, girl. I told you to call me Mem-Dog. I’m a rapper, remember?”
“You got to win a rap battle before I can call you that.”
He sighed. “Girl, quit starin at my gut.”
Mem-Dog had learned he wasn’t invincible the hard way, on a late-night walk back from his dishwashing shift; the scar where he’d been stabbed by a real gang member, while a couple of other gangsters looked on, screamed defeat to everyone who saw him shirtless. The flesh bowed inward there, like a sealed vagina.
Sienna reached into her purse. “Look what I scored.” She held out a dime bag, plus German liqueur bearing a cross, and a couple of energy drinks.
“Bangin. Let’s party, girl.” Mem-Dog turned the stereo back up.
He and Sienna got good and tanked, kissed passionately, then French-kissed. Sienna had that look in her eyes.
“I love you, Memphis.”
“Shit, girl, you just love my—”
The neighbor’s door slammed, and Mem-Dog pulled aside the curtains. The bastard was dressed as Count Dracula and his wife as Elvira. He hopped into his PT Cruiser after holding the door open for his better half. The wrinkled gray-haired man fired up the engine and drove away.
“Least we got rid of the cracker,” Mem-Dog said. “So, we gonna crash a Halloween party or what?”
Sienna smiled as she got up and walked toward the door. “Not a good idea, remember? The mothership’s landing tonight. I told you.”
“Quit trying to scare me with that UFO bullshit.”
“I’ve gotta go. The bar examination’s tomorrow.”
Mem-Dog crossed his arms. “So, that’s why you’re trying to scare me; you got an exam.”
“By the way, you need to go to your court date tomorrow. You almost got another battery charge tonight, from the way you were yelling at your neighbor.”
“Screw the court date. You women, always worryin.”
“Is this a new gun?” She walked over to the mantle and picked up the black beast.
“Yee-uh, it’s a magnum. Goes well with my A.K., .22, luger, swords and throwing stars.”
Sienna set it down. “Why do you always buy weapons? Doesn’t that get expensive?”
“I save up and collect them in case someone breaks in.”
“I see.” Sienna kissed him, then strutted through the threshold. She stopped and turned around. “I love you.”
“Yeah, right. You’re just goin where the money is, ho.”
Mem-Dog slammed the door, then locked it. Oh well, might as well watch monster movies on cable. Unfortunately, all he could find were flicks he’d already seen: Halloween, Nightmare on Elm Street and Dementia 13. Mem-Dog almost watched Independence Day, but shuddered when he thought of what Sienna had said. He sighed.
“I give up.”
He flicked off the TV and strutted into the bedroom. His cell phone’s ringtone played “Party Like A Rock Star” by the Shop Boyz.
Mem-Dog answered, “What is it?”
“Memphis? It’s Dad. I wanted to wish you a happy Halloween.”
“I know who it is,” he barked. “I saw you on caller ID. And it’s Mem-Dog now, not Memphis.”
His father sighed. “Still chasing those worthless dreams of rap stardom?”
Mem-Dog hissed, feeling serpentine. “How do you know it’s worthless? You won’t be sayin shit when I hit the big time.”
“Son, that’s a very competitive field. You have to be practical. Did you sign up for those college classes like I told you to?”
“Hell nah, Dad. Who can afford it?”
Another disappointed, fatherly sigh. “Are you even working?”
“Yee-uh, I’m washin dishes for da man.”
“Memphis.” His father had raised his high-pitched voice. “When are you going to grow up?”
“If growin up means I’ll become a Steve Urkel twin like you, forget it, you coward-ass, wannabe honky. How could you let Mom abuse me when I was a little boy?”
His father cleared his throat. “About that; Memphis, your mother’s sick.”
“Good. I hope she dies.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Yeah I do. And I mean this, too: get outta my life!” Mem-Dog hung up the phone, feeling heartless, but the neglecter deserved it. His father had never gotten over his son’s teenage “rap phase,” as he’d called it, and still wouldn’t have him over for Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners.
Shaking his head, Mem-Dog stripped down to his boxers and went to bed. He put his hands behind his head and looked at the ceiling until his eyes adjusted to the night vision.
Someone struggled with his lock, trying to get in. Mem-Dog rose to a sitting position with just the muscles in his back like Michael Myers from the original Halloween.
“Sienna? You forget something, girl?”
No reply, just more rustling. Whoever it was bashed into the door as a burglar would.
“Oh shit!” This was it, the break-in he’d been preparing for. Mem-Dog clapped on the light. He grabbed the Magnum on the nightstand and aimed at the open doorway of the bedroom.
The front door crashed to the floor.
A green alien with black eyes peered in at him from the darkness. When the TV people said they were little green men, they should’ve checked their information. This one was taller than Mem-Dog. The creature inched toward the bedroom, ducking to fit under the archway, and peered into the threshold.
Mem-Dog was frozen with fear.
My God, Sienna was right.
The alien let out an ethereal shriek, sounding as if a hundred cats were being killed. Mem-Dog trembled, then came to himself, and shot the creature in the chest.
The wound healed itself in seconds.
I’ve amassed weapons for nothing. I shoot them and they don’t die!
A bellowing shriek sounded out from behind him. The creature in the bedroom door’s threshold made a sweeping motion at Mem-Dog’s lamp with his long black claws, and it crashed to the floor in many pieces. Somehow, the light still faintly highlighted the grotesquerie like some eerie B-movie stage.
Innumerable wails continued from behind him. Mem-Dog whipped his head around and saw another tall, green creature peering into his window, with a few of his buddies lurking behind him.
They’re all over the place.
He turned his head to look forward. The first creature now crouched on the bed with him, glaring into his eyes.
Mem-Dog hadn’t thought himself capable of it, but he screamed.
The alien rocked its head back, then shrieked in his face even more vehemently than before—a sound like 1,000 babies born in hell—sending Mem-Dog onto his back. The window behind him shattered and rained glass onto eyes he’d mercifully shut just in time. The alien reached in and grabbed Mem-Dog by the neck. His death grip choked the wind out of him. The alien in the room leapt on top of him, the creature’s skin mushy and scaly. Mem-Dog emptied the gun into him, also shooting the arm of the alien outside. This enabled him to yank off the hand in back, wriggle out from under the creature on top of him and sprint out the door faster than he had as a high school running back.
