Know you that I shall marry the king only after I have received these fine items of wedding apparel: a gown of diamonds as bright as the sun; emerald shoes as green as grass; and a ruby necklace as red as human blood.
Know you that I shall sleep in the king’s chambers only after I have received a fine blanket made from snippings from the skins of one-thousand humans.
Know you that I shall bear the king’s young only after I have received these fine kitten toys: a wee metal bird that sings; a wee metal flower that blooms; and a wee metal human that dances.
Princess Shush was sure that these demands would bring an end to the king’s wedding plans. The sun was hurtful to goblin flesh, and bird songs pained goblin ears. Grass and flowers were foul-smelling, poisonous things, and furless humans were utterly noxious beings.
These demands repelled the king, and for a moment he thought seriously of forsaking his plans. But he dearly wanted a son to whom to give his throne. He summoned his army and sent them into the world to find and steal the items requested by the princess.
The royal court waited for the soldiers to return. The princess spent many days searching the palace library for volumes on humans. She found just a few very old books, but they told her much.
At last the soldiers returned with the gifts. The ladies of the court stitched together the thousand bits of skin—light, dark, young, old—harvested by the soldiers. The goblin women despised the task, for they found it abhorrent to touch smooth human hide.
The old advisor presented Princess Shush with her niceties. The princess nodded by way of thanks. When she was alone, she gathered her sewing instruments and fashioned a curious garment from the blanket. This strange suit fit her body like a second skin. She slipped into this garment and then put on her hooded robe. Carrying her other gifts in a filthy sack, the princess left the goblin palace.
Down moonstone lanes and through blackwood forests walked Princess Shush, out of the goblin-land and into the realm of humans. The suit of one-thousand skins protected her from the burning sun. Her piebald appearance frightened the humans she met along the way, and they screamed as they ran from her.
Soon the princess came to a human castle. She rang the tin bell at the kitchen entryway and presented a letter to the cook who answered the door. This letter explained that its bearer, Thousandskins, was a sad quiet creature who wanted to be left alone (and surely, this was the truth). The letter went on to state that the bearer was more than willing to labor for the right to be ignored.
“I am a homely thing,” said the old cook, “but you, Thousandskins, are homelier still. You may work in the kitchen, so that I may feel pretty when I hand you pots to scrub.”
For a good long time, the princess lived as happily as one of her melancholy nature can. She washed dishes and swept stairs and helped to prepare meals. She ate the mold from old bread and the rancid fat from cooking pans. Her room was in the dark stone corridors beneath the kitchen. Late at night, she would leave the castle through a forgotten servant’s door and sit in the courtyard, there to stare at the moon’s dead face.
One evening, she happened to notice a pale young man looking out of a window. He too was staring at the moon. His cheeks were sunken and his eyes were dark and hollow. The princess felt a strange fire in her heart. Was this love? she wondered. She had read of love in the library of the goblin palace. She regarded the human’s repulsively smooth skin and his forlorn expression and knew that yes, she loved him truly.
The cook had tidings for Thousandskins in the morning. They were to work hard for many days, in preparation for three nights of revelry. “It is time for Prince Veldor to choose a bride,” the cook said, “and he will be meeting all the ladies of the kingdom. All except you and I—and I would not want him, even to become queen. He is a miserable ghoul of a boy.”
The cook and Thousandskins peeled potatoes and sliced onions and kneaded dough. They skinned and roasted ducks and lambs. They made exquisite desserts from fruits, brandies and rare spices. On the last day of the preparations, the cook said to Thousandskins, “You shall keep to your room during the balls. You are a frightful thing and I would not want you to be seen.”
Night came, and Thousandskins took a bucket of water to her room. She removed the suit of skins and for the first time in her life, scrubbed her golden goblin fur. She put on her diamond gown, her emerald shoes, and her ruby necklace. She pinned the metal bird to her sleeve and used the forgotten door to slip into the night.
Princess Shush entered the ball through the castle’s gilded gates. The people of the kingdom were amazed by this strange and beautiful maiden. Her gown, her shoes, even her skin glittered—she seemed to be covered with a fine, velvety coat of gold dust. True, her fingers were a bit overlong, and her eyes held a strange glow…but perhaps these were the markings of exotic aristocracy.
The princess pressed a small lever in the throat of the metal bird and the automaton began to sing. She waltzed with every nobleman at the ball except Prince Veldor. The shy, pale man danced with no one. He sat on his throne and stared longingly at Princess Shush. He could not bring himself to address her. He did try to catch her eye, but she only looked away. At the end of the ball, the golden woman approached the prince and handed him the singing bird. He wanted to thank her, but could not find the words. She simply smiled at the prince and walked out of the castle.
The next evening, Princess Shush entered the ball with the metal flower pinned to her sleeve. Again she danced with many noblemen. In a moment of rare bravado, Prince Veldor instructed a serving boy to deliver a note to her. In vain, in vain. She ignored the prince until the last minute, when she gave him the flower. This time the prince said, “Thank you, dear lady. And thank you for last evening’s beautiful song bird.” Again the princess smiled and began to walk away. “You did not tell me your name,” the pale man cried. The princess stopped and gestured for him to follow her. The prince took one step, then another, and then stopped. He could go no further.
On the third night, the princess led the wee metal dancing man into the ball on a leash. The king and queen of the land watched her with interest, for their son had told them of her beauty and her fine gifts. “Dance with her, for she is cultured and graceful,” the queen whispered into her son’s ear. “Ask for her hand, for surely she is a princess,” whispered the king into the prince’s other ear.
Prince Veldor walked up to the golden woman and asked if she wished to dance. She unfastened the leash from the throat of her dolly. Then she nodded to the prince and they waltzed without speaking. The wee metal man made its way across the room and hopped onto the prince’s throne. At that point, a curious thing transpired: the king and queen mistook the metal man for their son and both whispered into its tiny ears. Perhaps the princess had enchanted the metal man. Perhaps not.
At the end of the evening, the princess fastened the leash around Prince Veldor’s neck—he did not resist—and led him out of the castle. No one tried to stop them. “Where are you taking me?” the prince whispered. The golden woman said nothing. They walked through the night, over bridges and through dark valleys to the land of the goblins.
Princess Shush put a finger over the lips of her paramour as they entered the goblin palace. Thus warned, the prince kept his silence.
From that moment on, silence served them well.
The goblins considered humans unspeakably vile, and the prince was no exception. No one uttered a word about the revolting desires of the princess, and the goblin king dared not claim his tainted daughter for marriage. He wished to punish her, but did not know how: to do so would only bring attention to her transgressions. And really, wasn’t the awful touch of a human punishment enough?
Princess Shush and Prince Veldor cared not what the world thought. They had each other, and that was enough.
And so the lovers lived in blissful shame for the rest of their goblin-land n
ights.
MR. STICKY-LIPS
If you’re ever traveling by bus across the country and you see a smiling, grubby, thirtyish man in a purple baseball cap…a filthy, jaundiced weirdo who really enjoys his chocolate, bar after sticky bar.…
Don’t make eye contact.
I did—and from Chicago to Cleveland, he decided I was his best friend ever, so he shared his life story with me.
He didn’t know I had a tape recorder in my duffel bag, because I was going to be taping an interview at the literary convention where I was going.
He didn’t hear the soft click as I hit RECORD.
I don’t really know why I taped his ramblings. I suppose it was because he had such a sad look in his eyes. Ever see that painting, “The Last Supper”? He had eyes like one of those guys.
He had a big plastic bag of chocolate bars on his lap, and his lips glistened with thick brown goo as he chewed and spoke, chewed and spoke. I got off the bus about five minutes after he finished speaking. I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing these days.
His whereabouts are anyone’s guess.
This is what Mr. Sticky-Lips had to say:
* * * *
My dad was a mechanic and my mom was just mom. But being mom was really a full-time job because there were nine of us kids. I was the youngest. My dad didn’t help out much around the house. He just sat on the swing on the back porch, drinking beer and looking at the sky. We didn’t bother him none, because if we did, he’d whip off his belt and snap us with it. Mom was deaf in her right ear because he once snapped her on that side of her head and I guess he did it too hard. I always stood on her left side when I talked to her.
Mom disappeared when I was eight. She didn’t take any clothes or make-up or nothing. She still had the TV on, and a pot roast in the oven. I think the aliens came and got her. I mean, what other explanation could there be? It wasn’t like her to miss her favorite soap opera.
I ran away when I was fourteen. My dad probably didn’t even notice. I did leave a goodbye note, though. That’s just what it said. “Goodbye. Signed, Steve.” That’s my name. Steve.
I bummed around from city to city. I hitchhiked a lot. I was big for my age. A guy on the road can make a few bucks here and there, if he’s not too picky. You know, doing people favors, stuff like that. Sometimes I even got a chocolate bar.
My mom and dad never bought us candy because they said it would rot our teeth out and we couldn’t afford a dentist. I haven’t been to a dentist in my whole life, but that’s okay. My teeth are really strong. I always carry a toothbrush, too. I’ve got one on me right now, tucked in my sock.
For a few months there, I belonged to what I thought was a church. They were nice to me at first. Even gave me my own room. There were a lot of us in that house. We had to pick sweet corn in work-shifts and we weren’t allowed to smoke or read newspapers or ever leave. It took me a while, but I figured it out. That was what folks call a cult.
They kept adding new rules, like, “don’t call your relatives” and “don’t wear anything with purple in it” and “don’t eat any of the sweet corn you pick.” One day they said, “don’t eat anything with sugar in it.” That’s when I figured out they were evil.
One night I set fire to the community room and in all the confusion, I escaped. Half the cult got burned up, and some jumped out of windows to get out of there and busted some bones, but like my dad used to say, you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few legs. I think maybe he meant eggs.
Eventually I found a nice mall with really crappy security and I was able to live off that place for a whole summer. One of the stores had crummy air-conditioning, and they’d wedge the employee entrance open to let in a breeze. I’d sneak in and out that way, and hide stuff under the stairs by that entrance. It was pretty slick. Sometimes I’d sleep under those stairs. It was really dark under there. Nobody could see me. I felt like some kind of movie-star cat-burglar-type secret spy.
I got my hands on some new clothes, some suitcases, and some money from a couple different cash registers. I got me a driver’s license from a lost-and-found box—the guy even looked a little bit like me. So for a while I was able to travel in style. You’d be surprised by some of the jobs I’ve had. Of course, they weren’t exactly what you’d call nine-to-five jobs. They all paid in cash. A little nude modeling, though we weren’t the kind of models who just stood around. Some videos, too. Never had a desk job, though on one of those videos, they’ve got me strapped to a desk with duct tape.
Like I said, I never got to have any candy when I was little, so whenever I had a few extra bucks, I always bought myself some chocolate bars. Chocolate tastes so good, so yummy—so much better than anything else on this planet. Eventually I figured out that aliens must have brought it to Earth. I mean, what other explanation could there be?
So some nights, I’d stand outside and cry out to outer space, “Aliens, take me to your chocolate world so I can be with my mom you stole! You owe me that much!”
But even though aliens are usually chomping at the bit to steal humans, they never came for me. I think my advanced intellect must have scared them off.
Then! Then I figured out a way I could trick the aliens. A way to join them through the back door. A person’s got to be really clever whenever they’re dealing with aliens. They have those giant brains, you know. They think really big thoughts. The biggest.
I discovered that if I ate enough chocolate, I mean a lot, really a lot, I could elevate my mind to a higher plane of existence. I figured, if I got my mind high enough, I’d be able to reach the plane of the aliens. I could actually feel my mind rising up, up, up—soaring up to the chocolate door of the alien’s secret dimension. Way past Mars, and that’s pretty far off. A few times, I think I pushed my mind past Uranus. It helped if I drank a lot of coffee.
I wanted to see what else I could add to the mix, to get to that door faster, but the police caught me trying to break into a pharmacy, and that ended that. For a few months, anyway.
Since then I’ve been in and out of funny farms. They’re not really very funny, though. I once got out of one by setting a fire, because really, those places are no better than cults. These days, I just cooperate with the doctors, since I’ve found out my meds sometimes work with the chocolate. Especially if I wash them down with coffee. And vodka. Or whiskey. Or tequila. Any old booze, really. Booze is made out of fermented plant juice, you know. They say folks should eat three or four vegetables a day, right? Same thing. In fact, they go down better if they’re liquid.
Tastes better, too.
Every time some doctor sees me, he’ll say my liver is going to hell and I’ll probably be dead in three months. Ha! They’ve been saying that for five years now. What do they know? Maybe whatever I’m doing to my liver is good for me. Making me live longer. Or, maybe it’s going to make me live in a different way. After all, once I get past the chocolate door, everything will change. Maybe I’ll leave my body behind, all dead and everything, but the real soul-ghost of me will still be alive, having been prepared for any future lack of a body by my amazing liver!
I bet that’s why it’s called a liver. Makes sense to me.
You know what I think? I think the doctors don’t want me to know the truth about how things really are. Each day, I feel myself getting a little bit closer to the chocolate door, and soon, I’ll find out what’s behind it. I’ll be able to join the aliens and my mom. I’ll even let the aliens probe my soul-ghost, since I know how much they need information on us humans.
It’s the least I can do for them. They’ve been taking care of my mom all this time, letting her watch alien soap operas and make pot roasts out of yummy alien animals.
When we get back together again, I’ll always stand on my mom’s left side, just like when I was little, so she can hear everything I have to say. Un
less the aliens have fixed her bad ear. Yeah, I bet they have. Why, I bet they can fix anything. Maybe they’ll make a new body for my soul-ghost. Stuff like that is probably really easy for them.
Me and mom, we’ll walk through fields of chocolate flowers and laugh under a chocolate sky. I know that probably doesn’t sound pretty. Kind of sounds like poop, doesn’t it? Like a big stinky poop world. But that chocolate won’t be stinky at all, and we’ll get so used to everything being chocolate, all the different shades of brown will start looking like a whole rainbow of colors, sweet magical colors. Oh, I know it will be beautiful. So beautiful.
I can hardly wait to get there.
Wow, look at me, what a big pig I am—eating all this yummy chocolate in front of you without offering to share.
Have some. It’s really good.
Not hungry? Oh. Okay. Suit yourself.
I think I’m going to take a little nap now. Don’t be sad or anything if I never wake up.
That’s just means I’m with mom.
IT ISN’T WHAT YOU GNAW, IT’S WHO YOU GNAW
Wilma Website: Yeah, I was a Deathquaker. I suppose I still am, but I really can’t call myself one, since Dandy Voorhees isn’t around anymore.
The Deathquakers without Dandy? Unthinkable! That would be like the Youthquakers from the Sixties without Andy Warhol. Everybody knows that Dandy modeled his every movement, every utterance, every moment of his existence after Andy Warhol. Andy was an artist and a genius, and so was Dandy. But Dandy gave everything a dark twist—a Goth sensibility—so he could take it one step beyond and call it his own.
Andy had a hangout called The Factory, with everything spray-painted silver. Dandy had The Funeral Parlor, with everything draped in black velvet. Andy had his paintings of Campbell Soup cans and his Brillo box sculptures. Dandy did the same thing with formaldehyde bottles and clove cigarette packs. Andy looked like a pathetic corpse—and Dandy…?
Hideous Faces, Beautiful Skulls: Tales of Horror and the Bizarre Page 17
