Everyone Is a Moon

by Sawney Hatton

  Gregori’s mind blazed with rekindled passions.

  He leaned toward her, opened his misshapen maw and wiggled out his black, wormish tongue. He inserted it between her slightly parted lips in a pretense of a lovers’ kiss. He then merged his face with Emma’s, licking the inside of her skull, lapping at her brain, and slipping down her throat…

  *****

  Dee shook the Jiffy Pop pan on the gas burner until its foil cover was fully inflated and the popping nearly stopped. She removed it from the stove and gingerly sliced the foil open with a steak knife, releasing a billow of steam.

  The smell of the popcorn evoked memories of when their mother had made it for her and her little sister. Those were happy times, innocent times, before Dee recognized true evil in the world. Of course the Lord inspired her in her works, but it was the guileful influence of the Devil on God’s children that compelled Dee to become a minister. Though she supposed she’d always displayed a natural propensity for defending the vulnerable.

  She thought about growing up with Emma. Her sister had been such a delicate, whimsical child, believing in fairies and unicorns and mermaids to the degree where she would cry buckets if anyone told her they were not real. While Emma ceased believing in them long ago, by her teenage years she began exhibiting more disturbing delusions—shadowy figures following her, standing outside her window, above her bed, watching her. A psychiatrist had prescribed medications to curb these frightening sensations, and Emma had been seemingly fine for the past ten years.

  And now this breathing business.

  Dee worried that her sister had gone off her meds. When she asked her if she were still taking them, Emma acted offended. She insisted, over and over, that her mind was not playing tricks on her. But she wouldn’t answer Dee’s question.

  Dee poured the popcorn into a bowl and sprinkled salt on it. Despite the circumstances, she was glad to be spending this time with her sister. It almost felt like they were kids again, to be sitting in front of the TV, gossiping and giggling and being goofballs together. Maybe that’s what Emma really needed, to feel carefree for a while, without any shadows in her world.

  Heartened, Dee headed back into the den.

  *****

  “What in Hell?!”

  Gregori withdrew from Emma and whirled toward the shrieking voice. Her pious sister stood at the threshold of the room, mouth agape, eyes drawn in shock.

  The God-glorifying skag could see him!

  “What’s wrong?” Emma yelled.

  “Get away from her!”

  Her sister dropped the bowl of popcorn she held and snatched the bronze statuette of praying hands from the credenza. She charged at the monster. On reflex, Gregori flinched, but didn’t dodge the oncoming bludgeon. He did not fear injury for he could not be hurt.

  The statuette struck his shoulder, sending ripples of intense pain, of recalled agonies through him. His nerves ignited like fuses, bursting like fireworks. The blow stunned Gregori, stirring him as spectacularly as any orgasm he could dream of having.

  Oh, you sweet angel. She made him feel something!

  Emma’s sister raised the statuette again to smite the infernal creature. Gregori regained his wits and went on the offensive. He leapt at his attacker, sinking his jagged fangs into her neck. She gagged as Gregori rent flesh and muscle like a ravenous wild beast.

  Emma screamed.

  Mr. Gregori tasted blood. It tasted exquisite.

  *****

  Emma never returned to the apartment after that night. She had been, quite reasonably, the prime suspect in her sister’s death. Her assertion that Dee’s throat just ruptured itself was of course met with much skepticism by the investigating detectives. Yet they could never account for how she had received the wounds, which the autopsy concluded were characteristic of some large animal bite. There was no foreign blood or saliva; no weapon was found that explained it. Without corroborating evidence of her guilt, Emma was released. She relocated to Pittsburgh to reside with her mother. The case remains unsolved.

  Nobody wanted to live in the third-floor apartment. Within months, the other tenants in the building also left. As it proved difficult to lease any of the apartments for their fair market value, the owner chose to sell the property to a restaurateur, who converted the space into an upscale bar and grill named DARK. The gruesome death that had taken place on the premises only seemed to attract more customers. The establishment has become a stop on many ghost tours in the city.

  The interior is appropriately dim, with walnut woods, brick walls, and oil lamps. Zagat’s gave it a respectable 22 rating. The service is excellent, the menu on par for a restaurant of its caliber, touted for its marinated ribeye, crusted halibut, and glazed lamb shank.

  The entire third floor is a roomy cocktail lounge with clustered high top tables set with votive candles. It’s an appealingly ambient venue for couples and businesspeople, one presenting only a single drawback. Despite their best efforts, the proprietors never could eliminate the odd-occurring drafts that some patrons likened to cold, quiet breaths.

  FYVP

  Steve climbs the subway stairwell, emerging from the deserted bowels of the city into its dark, dirty asshole. Closed for hours, the shells of auto body shops, secondhand appliance dealers, and ghetto churches line the block. The footsteps of his Doc Martens echo off their weathered brick facades. Towering streetlamps hazily illuminate the pavement, still wet from an earlier rainfall. Rats and roaches fearlessly scavenge cracks and crevices. Used condoms and hypo needles litter the gutters, graffiti and puke spray the walls.

  Downtown, a haven for the lost and the hiding.

  Over the past six months, Steve has become a proud connoisseur of body modification. He pierced three holes in each lobe, strung dangling chains from them linked to the gold bone plugged through his nose. His forehead is dotted with chrome-plated studs. Kaiser spikes jut out from his eyebrows. Bull’s rings punch through each of his nipples. He’d treated himself to seven lip hoops and a tongue barbell for Christmas, making the holiday uncommonly joyous for him.

  And tonight, just picturing that ribbed loop inserted through the glans of his cock excites him beyond reason. He fantasizes about hanging tackle weights from it, stretching it to the brink of breaking.

  Steve is heavily tattooed with vivid images of death and damnation, a gallery he had begun a decade ago when attending community college in the ’burbs, but that sort of shallow decoration does nothing for him anymore. He wants to push his flesh to its limits, not just mark it.

  He supposes he’s a masochist, though he doesn’t like leather whips or hot wax or even clover clamps. He needs to feel the ecstasy of pronged metal puncturing his skin, sliding through meat and muscle.

  Yeah, it’s way better than fucking, he thinks. And he has to admit, he likes the attention, be it from the shocked old fogey on her way to her bingo game or the rocker chick with a taste for the weird and wild. He loves any looks he gets, because he hates not being noticed. Can’t stand being ignored.

  By now he figures he is pretty impossible to ignore. But that doesn’t stop him from adding more shiny embellishments to himself.

  He’s hooked.

  Steve learned about FYVP from a flyer handed to him by a stunning platinum blonde at the Volcano Club where he bartends. She told him they specialize in exotic cosmetic piercings at affordable prices, no appointment necessary. And, being open until four in the morning, it fit Steve’s after-hours lifestyle.

  He fishes the flyer from his back pocket to recheck the address. One block down, on Carver Street.

  The parlor is housed on the ground level of a squat five-story tenement, identified only by a small plastic sign designating its name and business hours. He almost walks by the entrance.

  Sporting a black T-shirt and leather pants adorned with superfluous zippers, Steve steps into the sparsely furnished lobby. A half dozen empty folding chairs are set along the pastel-colored walls. A slim young receptionist with too much ma
scara, her raven hair tied up in a bun, sits at a desk, focused on filing her purple lacquered nails with an emery board.

  Steve gives the area the once-over and, with an approving nod, swaggers up to the girl.

  He fake-coughs to get her attention.

  The girl raises her eyes from her manicure. “May I help you?”

  “Yeah,” he answers, feeling more awkward than he expected himself to be. “I’m here to get my penis pierced.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Yeah,” he smirks. “Just me and my weenie.”

  “Through there,” she directs Steve with a gesture of her thumb. “End of the hall. Mister Holland will service you.”

  “Thanks, babe.” He winks at her. She blows the dust off her fingernails.

  Steve slips through a Bali bead curtain and advances down the long, narrow corridor. A naked light bulb on the ceiling flickers, its harsh glow casting his blurry reflection on the glossy wood paneling.

  At the end of the corridor, he reaches the threshold of a spacious white room, antiseptically bright. In the center of the room is a vinyl-upholstered table, bolted to the floor, about the size of a twin bed. Maroon drapes cover a substantial portion of the far wall. In one corner is a tall metal cabinet with several shallow drawers.

  Hunched at the cabinet rummaging in a drawer, Steve presumes, is Mister Holland, tall and lean. He turns toward his customer with a toothy grin.

  “Hello, sir! Welcome to FYVP,” he greets Steve in a hotel-hospitality tone. “Come on in.”

  Mister Holland wears brown suede shoes, expensive ones, and beige pants and a white buttoned shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He has a permanently furrowed brow above wire-rimmed glasses. He is older than Steve had anticipated, well into his fifties, his dark hair streaked with gray.

  “Hey. I’m interested in a Prince Albert.”

  “I know! Marybee has already informed me.”

  Steve guesses Marybee is the receptionist’s name. He’ll use it after he’s done here to strike up a conversation with her. Maybe she can be the first to try out his new tricked-out dick.

  “Please. Lie down on the table.”

  Steve hoists himself onto the table while Mister Holland shuts the heavy door to the hallway.

  “Were you aware the Prince Albert piercing was named after Queen Victoria’s husband and consort Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha? He invented it in order to subdue the appearance of his well-endowed penis in tight trousers. At least, so says the urban legend.”

  “Oh yeah?” Steve replies, casually adjusting himself. “That’s cool.”

  “All rightee. Please put your arms at your sides.”

  “You take credit cards, don’t ya?”

  “Indeed we do. Now, arms at your sides.”

  Steve thrusts his fists to his thighs. “Shouldn’t I take my pants off, or whip it out?”

  “No need,” Mister Holland says as he fastens one of Steve’s wrists taut to the table with a looped thong, pulls a connecting tether across his midsection, then binds down his other wrist.

  “What ya doin’?”

  “Just relax, sir,” Holland reassures him. “It’s only a precaution. Some people, as a reflex, try to knock my hand away as soon as I puncture the skin.” He chuckles, circling Steve. “We don’t want to make this any more difficult than necessary.”

  Makes sense, Steve supposes.

  Mister Holland then, more forcibly, straps his ankles down.

  “What the hell, man?” Steve squeals. “Is this really… I mean, I can handle it. You don’t have to tie me up like this.”

  “It’s part of the ritual.”

  Steve scoffs. “What ritual?”

  “Preparing you,” Holland informs him as he lastly, roughly, straps Steve’s head down so he can hardly move it.

  “For what?” Steve barks.

  “To be a star!”

  “Get these fucking things off me!” Steve yells, his every muscle rigid from anger and alarm.

  Mister Holland ignores him, tearing off his T-shirt with the quick snip of a scissor. He then rotates the table, tilting it upward at a sixty-degree angle. Steve, now facing the drapes, watches Mister Holland flip a switch by them. There is an amplified pop, followed by the faint hum of feedback. Holland then tugs a cord next to the curtain. It parts to reveal an enormous window. Beyond it is a company of elegantly dressed people, middle-aged men and women, some seated at a counter at the window, others standing behind them. Everyone holds a flute of champagne. All gaze at Steve.

  “Can you all hear me alright out there?” Holland bellows.

  The crowd whoops in affirmation.

  “Excellent! Then without further ado,” Holland announces, displaying all the zeal of a ringmaster, “it’s showtime, folks!”

  The audience cheers.

  “Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure, I present to you… What’s your name, son?”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Mister Fuk Yu. Must be of Asian heritage.”

  The crowd laughs, raising their glasses in toast.

  “Tonight’s theme, as suggested by the ravishing Ms. Corva—good evening, madame—will be the eminent German author Franz Kafka!”

  The audience nods.

  “In 1915, Kafka published his seminal modernist work Die Verwandlung, aka ‘The Metamorphosis’, about a man’s transformation into an insect. What better inspiration could we have for our production here, yes?”

  His audience agrees.

  Mister Holland again consults the cabinet, rubbing his chin while scanning the contents of the open drawer.

  “Hmmm. Where shall we begin?”

  With an air of theatricality, he snaps on a pair of latex gloves. He then lifts from the drawer a handheld pneumatic riveter.

  Mister Holland looms over Steve, squirming in his restraints.

  “I’ll kill ya, you crazy fuck!”

  Holland stoops to whisper into his ear. “Clear your mind of everything but the pain. Concentrate on the pain. Experience it. Express it. Let your pain speak for you.” A broad smile stretches across his face. “Now let’s give ’em their money’s worth.”

  Mister Holland steps away, returning moments later wheeling in a large steel cart set with a variety of strange golden accoutrements. He parks it beside Steve.

  “Please. Whatever you’re doing… don’t…”

  “You’re gonna be fine, son. Better than that. I’m making you into a work of art.”

  From the cart Mister Holland picks up a near perfect replica of a bug’s leg. Near perfect except for its size—must be four feet long. Steve thinks it the freakiest thing he’s ever seen.

  Holland raises the object for the audience to behold.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I shall begin with the midlegs, modeled aptly enough after Blattella germanica, the German cockroach. These will not be functional as the replacement limbs will be, but here at FYVP we never skimp on authenticity.”

  Holland places the flattened upmost segment of the leg against Steve’s flesh, between his fifth and sixth ribs … “No. Stop. Please!” … and with the riveter fastens the piece onto Steve’s body.

  Steve’s pain screams for him.

  The audience applauds wildly, as they do when the next leg is attached to the opposite side of Steve’s torso.

  Tears stream down Steve’s face, the unbearable agony beyond anything he has known before. He begs for mercy, but even he can’t make out his own words now.

  Mister Holland pats him on the head. “Great show, son! We’re killing ’em.”

  From the cabinet drawer Holland produces a rock hammer and chisel.

  Steve’s eyes widen in terror.

  “Now to give you a proper mandible,” Holland chimes and begins to chip away at Steve’s jaw…

  THE DARK AT THE DEEP END

  “Nothing quite encourages as does one’s first unpunished crime.”

  —Marquis de Sade, from The 120 Days of Sodom
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  We lived near the water. The ocean had always been part of us. The smell of brine in the air. Nautical arts and crafts in every store, even Sal’s Pizzeria. Plentiful seafood, seagulls. The sand in our clothes that never seemed to completely shake or wash out. Year round we went to the beach. It took twenty minutes to reach by bike, less than five by car. It was most crowded in the summer, of course. People love to swim and play in the water. Not me. I would only go in if it was really hot out, and I’d never go out too far. Up to my waist, maybe my chest, my feet always touching the bottom. I was afraid of man-eating sharks and giant squids and fearsome creatures of the deep yet undiscovered. People disappeared in the ocean, so I stayed close to shore. The land was safer. I knew my land—its roads, its neighborhoods, its Dunkin’ Donuts and 7-Elevens and 24-hour diners.

  I could hide here.

  *****

  I didn’t know what Brad had against Steve Higgleman. I’d heard they had some sort of altercation in the locker room during gym class, but I wasn’t present for that and Brad told me nothing about what had happened. He was obviously mad about it. He wanted payback.

  Three weeks later—you always waited a while before you carried out a revenge mission—we visited Captain Bob’s Fish Market on the canal. With our part-time job money we bought twenty mackerel and a few porgies. These were the cheapest and would serve our purpose just fine. Hours later, after 2 a.m., we struck.

  We snuck into Higgleman’s neighbor’s yard. There were tall hedges dividing the two properties. Brad had previously scoped out Higgleman’s house, that’s how he found out they had an inground pool in their yard. But we couldn’t see it in the dark from behind those hedges. I could smell the fish we had, going bad. I wanted to get this over with.