1920: The Roaring Anthology

by Union Combine

  Horsemouth clawed at Charlie uselessly with his bone stick arm, scraping against Charlie’s neck and shoulder.

  And again.

  A gristly click. Horsemouth’s jaw unhinged and his head deformed.

  And again.

  Horsemouth’s neck snapped and his skull caved in. His spongy brain stuck to Charlie’s hand like a mass of cobwebs and crushed spiders. Horsemouth jerked. A quick, tense spasm that twisted and flipped his body away.

  “Allez…”

  A dribble.

  Charlie felt The Weeper stumbling above him. Dripping. A thick leg thumped blindly against his side. He heard the metallic click of a useless trigger on a shattered weapon.

  “Allez…”

  A heave.

  Charlie lunged forward, scrambling on all fours through blood grime. Grainy slop stuck to his fingers as he clawed his way through the liquefied guts that spilled from The Weeper’s burst, distended flesh. His belt lamp, covered in dirt and muck, cast a warped amber glow flecked with oversized shadowed bits that stuck to the lens. An abstract kaleidoscope of human remains.

  Charlie tried to blink away dust and blood as he pulled himself across the floor. He rolled onto his back. A sudden rip saw of pain caused his body to buckle involuntarily. Somewhere in the dimness of the bunker The Weeper shambled toward him. Dripping in the darkness. Closer.

  And closer.

  Lying on his back Charlie wiped his face with a muck caked sleeve. He could feel raw gashes, warm with blood as bits of Horsemouth’s compost brains slicked across his forehead. His ears thrummed along with his pulse. He unclipped his holster and closed his hand around the smooth, polished wood handle of his revolver.

  A moment later The Weeper emerged through the orange lamp haze, his mouth slightly agape, leaking curdled vomit. His uniform soaked with fresh, melted horror. He stared at Charlie, through Charlie, straight ahead and unfocused.

  A whistle.

  “Allez…”

  Charlie fired.

  The Weeper’s stomach popped soundlessly as the bullet plunked through him, drowned out in the reverb roar of the pistol. A gassy, liquid spray wheezed from the bullet hole and Charlie could see misty driplets glitter in the hazy lamplight. It reminded Charlie of the atomized spray of an artillery geyser. Sudden bits of men disappearing in a quick, humid thunder, Charlie thought.

  Don’t think.

  The Weeper let out a huff and wobbled backward.

  Charlie fired again.

  The noise was deafening, bouncing off of the tunnel walls, echoing in the darkness. The second shot thunked into The Weeper’s chest like a baseball into mud and a gurgling soup of mucus and maggots slopped out of his back and splashed thickly to the floor. The Weeper tipped to the side, dragged by the momentum of the shot, slipping in his own slime. For a moment, Charlie caught the Wight’s eye. A blink.

  Charlie fired again.

  There was no noise. Only the ringing in Charlie’s ears and the pressurized thrum of his heartbeat keeping time with the throbbing of the gashes in his head. A synchronized double drum of blood pulsing even as it crusted and clotted.

  Over there, over there.

  He could see the Wight highlighted in the brief flash from the muzzle like a popped bulb on good old George Walton’s Brownie before its head exploded. It flopped backward into darkness.

  Silence.

  * * * * *

  Charlie wasn’t sure just how long he lingered in darkness. The tornado echo in his ears had subsided and the bunker was so thoroughly buried in thick, still blackness that he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. Half-formed thoughts slipped and echoed in his head.

  Don’t think.

  Tired fingers instinctively groped at his belt lamp feeling only cold metal and the haphazard edges of broken glass.

  Lights out.

  From some forgotten turn deep in the darkness of a bunkered crack that was once a matter of life and death a dead officer’s whistle continued to screech, floating on stale air. Desperately calling soldiers over the top.

  Charlie hauled himself up from the dirt, standing unevenly.

  He went off to kill.

  Again.

  Comedy Is Pain

  “Charlie Chaplin is a sissy!”

  The conversation died down suddenly, and Hank McKee paused to sip his whiskey. Chuck Cooper was looking at him with that gape-jawed goofy look that made him a popular Keystone Kop. Burt Silver was polishing his badge, but looked up with an eyebrow raised. All around the large dressing room, men paused, half in or out of their Keystone Kop uniforms, cigarettes dangling from lips. In the silence, all you could hear was the ice clinking around in Hank’s whiskey glass. Artie Peters, the newest member of the group, laughed nervously and trailed off when no one joined in.

  “Hey Hank,” Chuck said, “You shouldn’t say that. Charlie’s a nice guy.”

  “I just don’t get it, is all,” Hank replied, “Any one of us is funnier than he is. Why does he get paid so much?”

  Burt stood up, looking down on Hank. “He’s an actor and a comedian,” he said, “He’s a star.”

  “So what are we? Chopped liver?”

  “We are not actors or comedians, we are Keystone Kops, and we get paid for one reason only. Because we can take a beating and keep going. That’s all.”

  “That ain’t all. We got talent.”

  “Really? Then how come we are out of work and Chaplin has a new picture every week? You should be grateful. The only reason we got dusted off and pulled out of retirement is cus Charlie asked for us.”

  “Yer crazy!” Hank said, “Retired? We make pictures all the time.”

  “Every time we make a picture,” Burt said, “They call it a Revival.”

  Burt sat down and continued polishing his badge. Chuck admired him. He wasn’t afraid to speak up to Hank, the oldest Kop among them. Also, he was handsome, maybe handsome enough to be a romantic lead. Chuck looked at his own reflection in the make-up mirror. His hound dog droopy face was only good for comedy. He noticed his jaw was hanging open, so he clapped it shut.

  The door opened and Ed Mulvaney entered. Everyone glanced at him and quickly glanced away. Ed was their newest director, and according to Hank, he didn’t get it. He didn’t know why the Keystone Kops were funny. He was a gangly stuck up Brit who thought comedy hadn’t evolved since Shakespeare. At least, that’s what Hank would say.

  “Hank,” Ed said, “What are you drinking?”

  “Whiskey,” Hank replied, his bushy eyebrows lowered into that angry expression that got him more than one close-up over the years.

  “Put it away, it’s illegal.”

  “I bought this bottle fair and square before Prohibition kicked in.”

  “Then put it away because you’re working! I want to discuss today’s shots. Which one of you wouldn’t mind getting tossed off the back of a truck into a bush?”

  * * * * *

  “Action!”

  The police van coughed and hiccupped a bit, then started rolling. Chuck was hanging onto the legs of a man who was hanging onto the back of the paddy wagon, and behind him, Artie was hanging onto his legs. As the new guy, Artie got to be the end of the chain. As the van picked up speed, Chuck felt the dirt and grit of the road sliding underneath him, every pebble working him over. He felt a painful flare-up in his knee as it was yanked out of a pothole, but he ignored it. His pant leg tore, and he felt Artie grip his legs tighter.

  The van picked up some speed, and Chuck held his breath. Any moment now, the van would turn suddenly, and they would be tossed to the side of the road. He waited and worried. He was distracted when the man in front of him lost a shoe and it whacked him in the nose. A moment later, the van lurched to the left, and he felt the Kop-Chain sway. Suddenly, his legs were free and Artie was bouncing past him. He let go and he was rolling away, elbows tucked in tight, ribs bouncing off the hard packed dirt, then there was grass in his face and the wind was forced out of his lungs a
s his body wrapped itself around a tree.

  “Cut!”

  Dimly, Chuck could hear Ed yelling at the stunt driver, who apparently had driven too fast and turned too early. He lifted himself up on an elbow, then began peeling himself off the tree. His costume tugged at the bark and he had to tear it free. He got to his knees, which were scraped and throbbing, then took a breath and stood up. Pain flared up all over his body, but he ignored it. He remembered what Burt had said. He was paid for his ability to take a beating and keep going. He only noticed the ringing in his ears when it started to fade.

  Someone was shaking his arm. He looked up, his jaw hanging loosely, and looked into the worried eyes of his director.

  “Are you all right, Chuck?” Ed asked.

  “Did we get the shot?”

  There was a pause, and then Ed laughed. Everyone around him started laughing. Chuck rubbed his elbow and smiled.

  Back in the dressing room, Chuck peeled off his jacket, feeling it tug at the clotted scrapes and lacerations on his back. He felt a dull throb in his jaw, his old injury flaring up. Years ago, he had cracked his jaw during a pratfall. It’s the reason his mouth hung open so often, at a slightly crooked angle. Of course, the off center jaw was what gave him his peculiar comedic look, and he had made some money off it over the years, so he didn’t regret it. Still, sometimes it still hurt.

  Looking around the room, he saw most everyone was in a similar state. Artie looked okay, just a few bruises, but he was young and resilient, when he did a pratfall, he had a remarkable ability to make it look like his body was made of rubber. Hank had ice on his knee and was scowling. That made Chuck smile. Hank’s scowl was famous.

  Burt looked fine. He was even clean. Ed never let Burt do the dangerous stunts.

  “Look at him,” Hank whispered, “Not a scrape on him.”

  “Whatcha got going on tonight?” Chuck asked, trying to change the subject.

  “I’m going dancing!” Hank said, brightening up, “I’m taking my lady out for a night on the town.”

  Chuck couldn’t help a glance at Hank’s iced up knee. Hank saw it.

  “Well, I’m not the one who’s gonna be dancing. Sofia can dance without me. I’ll be in my booth sippin’ hooch.”

  “You don’t mind your girl dancing with other guys?” Burt asked.

  “What am I gonna do? Tell her she can’t have fun just cus I got bad knees? She wouldn’t have it. She’s one of them hot-blooded Italian dames, know what I mean? As long as I’m there keeping an eye on her, she can do what she likes. Say, why don’t you come along, Chuck? I’ll ask Sofia to bring a friend.”

  “Oh, I’m not so good at dancing.”

  “So you can keep me company in the booth.”

  “Mind if I tag along?” Burt asked, “I like dancing.”

  “Sure. Everybody’s welcome.”

  Burt nodded and walked away. Hank leaned close to Chuck and said, “Now you have to come. Don’t leave me alone with Pretty Boy.”

  “Sure thing, Hank.”

  “Thanks, Chuck. By the way, you’re catching flies again.”

  Chuck raised a finger and gently pushed his jaw closed. Hank laughed.

  * * * * *

  Chuck walked towards the club nervously, unaware that his mouth was hanging open again. He pulled out a comb and tried to neaten up, but his cowlick resisted any effort to tame it. By the front door, he saw Ed smoking a cigarette. He wondered who invited him, not Hank certainly.

  “Evening Ed.”

  “Chuck! You were marvelous today,” Ed said in his droll English accent, “I think we got a great shot of you wrapped around that tree.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Classic Keystone, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “I hope so.”

  Ed nodded and puffed his cigarette. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “That’s the problem though, you know.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The Keystone Kops. They’re old news. It’s 1920, a new decade, and people don’t care anymore. Do you know why Chaplin is famous?”

  “He’s funny?”

  “Yes, he’s funny, he does the pratfalls too, but he… you know, he also makes the audience care about him. There’s an element of pathos to his Little Tramp. That’s why he’s so successful.”

  “Well, good for him.”

  “Yes... Tell me, Chuck, do you know what Comedy is?”

  “Yup. Comedy is pain.”

  Ed nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, quite right. But we take it too literally, don’t you see? Comedy doesn’t have to be physical pain…”

  Ed trailed off, looking at nothing. Chuck waited a moment, decided Ed was done with him and went inside.

  * * * * *

  There was a black band playing some Jazz on the stage, with one guy blowing a trumpet so hard, he looked like a blowfish. The music was good, bouncy and lively, Chuck felt his head bobbing involuntarily to the music. His eye was drawn immediately to a woman on the dance floor. She was spinning around, making her blue beaded skirt flare out around her long legs. She was kicking her heels and her face was lit up by a large white smile. She wore her hair short, and she was exotic and beautiful, the kind of girl that made Chuck gulp involuntarily like a frog. A man was dancing with her, and it took Chuck a moment to realize it was Burt. He moved slowly but gracefully, gliding around his partner in a way that seemed both random and purposeful. Even when Chuck was younger and less banged up, he could never move like that. Once again, he found himself admiring Burt, his ease with women, his confidence, his good looks. He wondered why Burt was a Keystone Kop and not a star on his own. He supposed he would be, someday.

  His attention drifted and he saw Hank, sitting at a booth and waving to him. Hank’s pudgy face was flushed red. He was smiling at Chuck, but even his smile made him look angry. Chuck weaved through the dancers, giving Burt and his partner a wide berth. He collapsed into the booth next to Hank.

  “Look at him, Chuck!” Hank said.

  “Who?”

  “Burt! The man’s too pretty for his own good. I swear, you put a wig on him and you wouldn’t be able to distinguish him from the girls.”

  “Where’s Sofia?”

  “That’s her dancing with Burt, that no account little Lord Fauntleroy.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t mind other fellas dancing with your girl?”

  “I don’t mind her dancing with other guys, I mind her dancing with Burt.”

  Just then, the song rose to crescendo and stopped with a flourish of symbols and drums. Sofia did one last twirl and fell backwards, Burt had swiveled around and caught her effortlessly in his arms. Everyone applauded. The band announced they’d be back in ten, and Burt guided Sofia back to the booth. She sat down and slid up to Hank, Burt sat down next to Chuck.

  “Hank, Honeycakes, did you see me dancing?” Sofia asked. She grabbed Hank’s arm. She was so pretty, Chuck wondered how Hank landed her. He imagined her on his own arm, batting her eyelashes and calling him Honeycakes. He gulped.

  “I saw you, Sweet Cheeks. I saw.” Hank put his hand over hers and looked over at Burt.

  “She’s a great dancer, Hank,” Burt said, “You’re a lucky guy.”

  “Didn’t you bring a date of your own?” Hank asked.

  “I thought you said Sofia was bringing a friend?”

  “Yes, for Chuck.”

  “Where is she?” Chuck asked.

  “She’ll be here soon,” Sofia said.

  “Here comes another one!” Hank grumbled.

  Ed was walking towards them with a girl on his arm. She was a little taller than Ed, and she walked stiffly but proud. Chuck was about to stand, but Hank waved for him to stay seated.

  “Gentlemen!” Ed said, “I’d like you to meet my wife, Edna, she just arrived from London. Edna, this is Burt Silver, Chuck Cooper, Hank McKee and… you must be Sofia.”

  “Won’t you join us?” Burt asked, “Slide down Chuck, slide down.”

&
nbsp; Chuck scooted over and Ed and his wife sat.

  “So,” Chuck said, “Ed and Edna?”

  “I know, I know! Well, we can’t change our names, can we?”

  “Why not?” Burt asked, “This is Hollywood! Everyone changes their name! My name isn’t really Silver, you know.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, it’s Silveira. It’s Portuguese.”

  “My name’s really Cooper,” Chuck said.

  “Well ain’t you always the exception?” Hank muttered.

  “Well I think he’s Exceptional!” Ed said. He raised a glass, “Here’s to the marvelous stunt you pulled this afternoon. I hope you’re recovering nicely?”

  “I am.” Chuck raised his own glass and clinked it to Ed’s.

  “Who wants a real drink?” Hank asked.

  “That’s illegal,” Edna said.

  “It’s ok, I know the owner. Whiskey? Whiskeys around?” Hank waved to the waitress.

  “I wouldn’t mind…” Ed trailed off under the disapproving gaze of his wife, “You know, we have to work tomorrow, so maybe I’d rather not.”

  Chuck raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Ed was a director, used to ordering people around. He had no trouble standing up to people, but one withering glance from his straight-laced wife and he backed down.

  After the drinks arrived, Chuck had a good time. He saw a pretty blonde girl in a silver dress looking at him, but she looked away when he glanced in her direction. Chuck didn’t let it get him down, she probably just recognized him from the pictures. He briefly entertained the thought of approaching her anyway, but when he looked around again, she was gone.

  Ed and Edna left early, before Hank’s nose got really red, confirming Chuck’s suspicion that Edna had her husband on a short leash. Bert told some jokes and everyone laughed, but Hank frowned. He kept glancing over at Sofia, and Chuck wondered if maybe she was laughing just a little too hard. He chalked it up to the whiskey.

  The following day, Chuck found himself eating lunch under the same tree he’d smacked into the day before, thinking about last night. Sofia’s friend had never shown up, and though he’d been disappointed, he was also somewhat relieved. There were two sides to Chuck that were constantly at war, his bashful side and his lonely side.