Bebbel doesn’t move yet. He can’t. Not freely. For the moment he watches through his stained goggles, looking past the deformed monsters dancing before him, straining to make out the faces in the audience.
The more agile take up positions at the front of the stage. Emery hangs his head over the edge, great flapping mouth opening wide as he roars as only a beast could. People in the audience laugh and cheer, instantly taken with the slithering behemoth. Behind him, Lupi, Ignit, and a few others are brought forward. Not Bebbel. Not yet. These members of the troupe don’t enjoy the luxury of free movement. They’re wrapped in chains, attached to machines or otherwise restrained. Some, like Ignit, are little more than quivering torsos, limbs long lost. She hangs in a mechanical bracket, operating on a piston that drives her to and from the front of the stage. Nails have been driven into her bald scalp from which dangle threads of razor-sharp metal. It has the appearance of long, silver hair and when she snaps her head from side to side, the threads strike the iron arms of her truss, creating sparks. The effect is quite striking and impossibly cruel.
Lupi is operated via remote control. Somewhere off-stage a switch is thrown and she rumbles into life. Her body begins to shake, shoulders quivering, head lurching. The exhaust pipes jutting out from between her ribs belch black smoke. Blood seeps out through her gritted teeth. There’s a motorcycle engine in her belly. The block is visible where the metal has split the skin. Under her seat is a single motorcycle wheel, and it starts to roll now, inching her towards the front. When the revs get up, Lupi vomits blood. She can’t make a sound, poor Lupi. Her throat is full of liquid. Can’t speak, laugh, or moan. But her eyes are screaming.
Sally announces every one of her creations. She has a little to say about each. Their personalities, talents, history. Most of it nonsense. Each gets a round of applause from the audience. Some get more than that. Then, at long last, it’s time for Bebbel to move center stage.
The band, which has till now been building to a crescendo, suddenly quiets to a whisper. The troupe hold their positions and limit their noise. Emery ceases his beastly roars. The audience steal themselves to witness Sally’s prized attraction.
The overhead crane conveys Bebbel to the edge of the stage and past. At no point do his feet touch the floor. He glides slowly out over the audience, hanging above their heads. The guests in the first three rows are forced to turn in their seats, craning their necks to keep in sight of him.
The movement causes him no small amount of pain. When he and the rest are locked away in storage, in the dark and the silence, his body seems almost to forget the wrongs that have been done to it. He doesn’t feel his scars. Can’t sense the cold metal under his skin.
But now his back burns.
The crane finally brings him to an abrupt halt over the center of the crowd. He can see them clearly now, beneath him. Almost close enough to touch. Almost. Up until now he has kept himself tightly coiled; legs folded close to his chest, head bent forward, arms wrapped about his knees and face. He sways like a pendulum in this position a few moments more, then slowly begins to unfurl himself.
“Bebbel…” says Sally.
He lowers his legs, keeping one foot crossed over the other, and spreads his arms out to the sides, head bowed, suspended in space. Unknowingly he emulates Christ on the cross.
There are no cheers for Bebbel. No applause. No cries of laughter. No gasps of horror. All Bebbel gets is silence. Which seems fitting.
Thing is, Bebbel isn’t quite like the rest. He is still, for the most part, intact. He has all his limbs. No scars on his hands, feet, arms, or legs. He still has his genitals, dangling hairless between his legs, the same dead gray color as the rest of his body. His head is encased in a modified gas-mask, with a long hose attached, drooping down, like the trunk of an elephant. The idea of a lifetime spent behind that mask would surely horrify the claustrophobic, but compared with some of the troupe, it seems he’s gotten off lightly.
In Sally’s expert opinion, it is Bebbel’s wholeness that makes him special. It is the restraint she showed in his mutilation that gives him such presence. Sometimes less is more. Not so monstrous, is Bebbel. He is a freak. In a show of freaks. But he is still recognizably human. When the audience looks upon him they see themselves. The sight gives them pause.
Bebbel’s back has seen the most abuse. 667 steel fish-hooks dig into skin and muscle. 667 wire cables connect the hooks to the crane from which dear Bebbel slowly swings. A life-sized marionette, is Bebbel. A pale-skinned puppet.
And what’s more… A puppet with a talent.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says Sally, “With your indulgence, Bebbel would like to dance.”
The band begins to play something new. A slow, lilting waltz. Bebbel’s theme. Written especially for him. He raises his head, cocks one leg and begins to sway, back and forth, his arms outstretched. The wires in his back prevent any great dramatic movement, but he does the best he can, does Bebbel. It’s a neat little dance he’s devised, swinging back and forth, gracefully arcing movements of the arms and legs. He’s as theatrical as he’s capable. It’s certainly more complex than any of his fellow freaks’ displays and is further indicative of how much of him is still man.
It earns him some slight applause. A few smiles.
Seconds later they’ll all be laughing at him.
Behind him, Sally draws audience attention her way. She holds up a thick black remote control with a single red button and aims it at Bebbel like a pistol. Bebbel ought to know what’s coming, but he makes no sign. He focuses on the dance. Sally grins and, when she does, Bebbel can see people below him grinning back. They’re all smiling. Every last one. Almost.
Sally presses her thumb down on the button and 20,000 volts of electricity surge through the crane, down the wire cables and into Bebbel’s body. He does a new dance then, does Bebbel. Legs kick, arms thrash. Spit and blood spatter the inside of his mask. The band accompanies with a frantic gypsy jig.
The audience erupts with laughter. Cheering. Applause. All laughing. Every last one. Almost.
Sally releases the button after far too long and Bebbel goes limp. Smoke hisses upwards from his mask. A few hooks have come out of his back in the fit. A few always do. They’ve taken small chunks of flesh with them. He can feel hot blood running down the backs of his legs.
Someone below shouts for an encore. A moment later there’s a chorus. Bebbel doesn’t mind. Sally can shock him as much as she wants. He’s used to the pain and the torture by now. It’s all the same. In any case, his attention is elsewhere. He’s watching the back row. He’s watching the only two people in the whole audience who don’t look like they’re enjoying themselves. The couple. The boy and the girl seated one beside the other. Her hand clasped in his. Her face pale and twisted in disgust. His a map of confusion. Look at them. So much younger than the rest of the crowd. Look at their clothes. Him, jeans and t-shirt. Her, denim cut-offs and pink halter-top. Poor kids. They look like they’ve come dressed for the fair. What, one might have cause to wonder, could they possibly be doing here?
Bebbel knows how they ended up here and why, but he’s not saying. Can’t speak a word, can Bebbel. He’d say if he could. He’d cry out. Warn them. Tell them to run. But he can’t. In any case, it’s already far too late.
Sally obliges the crowd and shocks Bebbel a second time. He dances his frenetic jig.
In the back row the girl in the pink top rises, turning her head away, blocking the sight of Bebbel with her hands and telling her boyfriend she wants to leave. Right now. He agrees with her, cursing himself for letting the fat man in the cowboy hat talk him into coming to this tent. Convinced him the show was unmissable. The pair begins pushing their way along the row, past the long skirts and starched collars to get to the exit.
Sally is watching them from the stage. Abruptly, Bebbel’s dancing comes to a stop. His performance is over. “For this next part of the show,” says Sally, “I will require a volunteer from the au
dience...”
Amazingly, more than a couple of hands shoot up. Idiots. Sally ignores them, directing her attention to the back row. One of the stage-hands anticipates her whim and turns the spotlight on the girl in pink. She halts, frozen with fear as all eyes fall upon her.
“You,” says Sally, curling a silver ringed-finger. “Young miss. Would you come up to the stage, please?”
The girl can’t speak. She shakes her head ‘no’. Her boyfriend hurries her along to the end of the row. Sally looks to Hokk, her most loyal subject. She signals him with a nod of her head, which he sees without eyes and comprehends. He launches himself from the stage, hitting the ground hard on one wheel and racing around to the left and up the aisle to catch the girl, getting between her and the exit. She shrieks as he clamps his gray claw on her wrist. Her boyfriend grabs her other arm, tugging her towards the flap in the tent. “Come on!” he shouts. “Come on!”
Hokk digs in, dragging the girl back to the stage. She tries to twist her arm free but his grip only tightens. She yelps with pain and is wrenched from her boyfriend’s grasp. “Josh!” she screams.
Josh means to answer, but is for a moment preoccupied with the grand shadow looming into view before him. A silhouetted figure stands at the tent flap, blocking their escape. Josh recognizes him as the guy who sold them the tickets to the show. The guy in the cowboy hat. Fat Charlie.
“Josh!” the girl screams again and she’s already lost a lot of ground to Hokk. They’re almost halfway to the stage.
“Yeah, hold on,” Josh answers, a moment before Fat Charlie plants a hatchet in his skull. The boy takes three steps back and crumples to the ground. Fat Charlie earns his first round of applause of the night. He doesn’t bow.
The girl doesn’t register her boyfriend’s death. Not immediately. It’s all too quick. She’s on the stage before she realizes she’s all alone. She starts to scream, then, but she’s almost into Sally’s arms, so any hysterics are certain to be short-lived.
Bebbel continues to dangle limply above the audience, who seem to have very quickly forgotten about him. He has his back to the stage, can’t turn, can’t see what’s happening to the girl, but the scene doesn’t interest him. It’s all much too familiar.
Sally steps forward to enclose the girl in a warm embrace and the girl, against all sense, finds herself running into her arms. Better to be in Sally’s clutches than Hokk’s, one might assume. And be disastrously mistaken. “Come now,” the Keeper of the Dark Secrets coos, clutching the quivering girl’s head to her breast. “Just relax. You needn’t fear us. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Tiffany,” the girl sobs. “Please don’t kill me…”
Chuckles from the spectators.
Sally’s lips curl into a soft smile. “Kill you?” she says. “My goodness, no. Far from it. Tiffany, honey, you don’t realize how lucky you are. You’re going to live… forever.”
The girl raises her head at that, blinking tears out of her blue eyes and staring up at Sally with a quivering chin. Sally cups Tiffany’s head in her hands and kisses her mouth. It’s not a passionate kiss, nor does it last particularly long, but even the thickest in the room can recognize something special in it. There’s a change in the atmosphere. Not electric. Ethereal. As though, for the briefest of moments, the air turns thin. A strange taste on the tongue. Just for a second. Then gone. No one can doubt the cause. When Sally kisses the girl something magical takes place.
Tiffany knows it. When Sally breaks the kiss the girl shuffles back two steps, her eyes still closed, her head still tilted, lips pouting, kissing air. She’s just beginning to sense the power of the gift Sally has given her. There’s a new light inside, warming her heart. A paranormal energy courses through her veins. Changing her from the inside out. When Tiffany finally opens her eyes and looks at her hands, she sees that her skin is glowing. It’s strange and wonderful and transfixes her so that for the longest time she doesn’t even notice she’s surrounded.
Five more of Sally’s freaks have entered from the wings. These aren’t quite like the rest, however. Not part of Bebbel’s troupe. These five are Sally’s Favorites. They all have hands. They all have eyes. They all have teeth, filed to points. And they all carry knives.
Sally nods her head and her Favorites begin.
Tiffany doesn’t scream when they grab her and pull her to the floor. Still dizzy from Sally’s kiss. She wakes up a bit when the Favorites draw their blades and start cutting away her clothes. Murmurs some kind of protest, but still doesn’t quite seem to understand what’s going on. The Favorites enclose around her like a pack of hungry dogs, obscuring her from the audience. Torn scraps of fabric are thrown over their shoulders. Pink cloth first, then denim, then strips of white cotton—presumably her underwear. She really starts to holler when the Favorites get to laying their nasty paws on her naked body. Then the first real scream comes. She shrieks. And the next scrap thrown over the shoulder hits the floor with a wet smack!
Backstage a switch is thrown and now Bebbel’s moving again. Back the way he came. The crane conveys him over the heads of the enraptured audience, back across the stage. For a brief few moments he passes above Tiffany and has an unspoiled view as the Favorites skin her alive. Not that he finds it particularly interesting. His part of the show is over. The crane takes him backstage. Soon he’ll be in the dark again, while the audience gorge themselves on the delightful torment wrought upon the girl center stage.
She’s really screaming now. Horrific wails of agony as they strip her skin from muscle, splashing her blood up and down the boards. She’ll scream and scream, kick and claw, but it doesn’t matter. None of it makes a difference to the Favorites. Whatever she does, they will not stop. They will subject her flesh to cruelty beyond imagination. They will force her to endure unspeakable pain. Till the end of days. And she will endure. For however much she may pray, whatever they do, tonight or for a thousand years… she will not die.
***
Hours later and Bebbel’s back in the black and pain. Nothing to do but hate and wait. He’s suspended in the void, is Bebbel. Listening to the silence. How he hates the silence.
Then…
Metal on metal. Keys in the padlock. The side door opens and Fat Charlie enters. Not alone. He’s got someone with him. A new exhibit. “Give her a hearty welcome, folks!” says Charlie. “She’s one of the family now.”
Bebbel studies her through his stained goggles. A quivering red thing of raw muscle and bone, speared through on a knot of spikes, like a giant cocktail onion. Charlie unloads her off the trolley and makes his exit. Closing the door, he informs them that Sally has named her… Azelea.
Azelea spends the rest of the night in the black screaming.
Screams and screams and screams…
Bebbel likes it.
Sanctity of Passion
by Daniel Fabiani
Psychiatry is my dark art of vast and endless capabilities. It mutates exponentially as much as it shrinks my patients’ minds into a coercible slack. I wake up most days and have already predetermined the work load. Continual frowns, suicidal tendencies, angst-ridden and adolescent-minded yuppies who have delved so far into the voracious world of superficiality that they cannot dig themselves back is usually what I get. Welcome to the culture of the Upper East Side.
I also specialize in the power of persuasion. If you are reading this, you have broken into my private journal and are now going to read the sticky labyrinth of my thoughts; this is the first entry. I am here to say that I have an unjustifiable and parasitic need of watching feeble-minded people punish themselves to satiate the barbarity of my ways.
My training in the medical field is exquisite. I have received my PhD in psychiatry from an Ivy League institution in New York City and I am also a board certified medical doctor. If you were to ever seek help by way of my knowledge, you would see that my office here on the Upper East Side would not spark any sense of morbidity in you, albeit the latter occurs regularl
y here; my facade is even greater than perfect.
You will find omnipresent accolades hanging on the walls in shining frames and would never think that the nefarious intentions on my client’s beaten souls could actually progress here. It just looks too pretty. If you were ever a client of mine (or patient, if you will) you would see that my suite is nothing short of a typical professional plunder.
My building is a classic style 1940’s edifice with a slight New York City attitude and sneer. Giant translucent windows line the outside like a diamond prism. Sunlight smiles though the glass and changes the shapes within. No one would ever know what I conduct behind the walls of my building. My staff is completely oblivious to the obliteration I perform onto one’s vulnerable subconscious. I can read the human condition like a children’s book from the moment a client struts into my office and sprawls their flaccid, depressed limbs upon my black leather lounge chair. I am dutiful master of my execrable practice.
I can easily bend your mind into tangents beyond physical recollection and mold it in ways that you never knew were possible. My abilities can override any person’s will power. When a new patient is being treated, my cerulean eyes scrunch innocuously at their sorrows and they soon begin to understand that I am a friend.
You would never know, as my patient, that it would turn out to be a game for my affection when you first walked into my office. You would not be aware that you acquiesce to my mental enslavement as I envelop your thoughts accordingly. Lusting for me is a common ground, nearly a funeral. My emollient words, the melody of my charm and laughter, the corn silk blonde fur hugging my face—are connections you make, lulled by the tranquility of my voice.
Pleasure groans within you, then soon turns to pain when you are turned away for the day. You never want your session to end. To come to terms with the notion that there is no other person like me out there drives you mad. It will haunt you like the nagging of your most despised in-law, or be culpable for the arguments between you and your lover. You want to be with me forever.
Ruthless: An Extreme Shock Horror Collection Page 2
