by Jeff Strand
He left the kids to their mischief and went inside to make supper. Deb was celebrating her work anniversary, so he decided to cook his specialty: spicy sweet potato burritos. They burned so good coming out the back end. But that's not why he loved making them. He loved making them because they tasted delicious, and Deb agreed. And he had bought some brownies from the bakery down the street. It was going to be a really wonderful evening.
"My fingers got ated!" Grant screamed, crashing through the back door with blood spraying out of him as if it desperately needed to be someplace else, like the walls, the floor, all over Kevin's face.
Vanessa followed her brother, the dragon puppet clamped to her shoulder and gnawing deep into her flesh. "Get it off, Daddy!"
Kevin tore the writhing puppet off his daughter. It was strong. He could feel the power of its jaws as they snapped at his face, but he managed to keep the teeth far enough away that he didn't lose his nose.
Cotton spewed out of its gut wound. It squirmed out of Kevin's hands, wrapped its long tail around his torso and squeezed. Kevin felt something. Was it a rib crack? It had been so long since he had felt pain so sweet. He moaned.
But now was not the time to revel in it. With his foot, he flipped the oven door open and threw the dragon puppet inside, onto the cookie sheet full of burritos, completely ruining them. He turned the oven up as hot as it would go. The puppet flapped its wings and collided with the element, catching fire.
Vanessa screeched.
Grant yelled, "Dad, they're coming!"
Kevin looked at the door. One of the puppets had made it inside. Legless, it propelled itself on thin, hollow arms. It looked at the family and cackled through a row of sharpened teeth. Kevin ran at it and kicked it back outside, where it landed on top of its cohorts, who crowd-surfed it to the back of the pack. Kevin slammed the door shut, just as Deb entered through the front.
"I'm hoooo … oh my fucking god!" she screamed as she entered the kitchen and saw Grant's bleeding, fingerless hand. He still had his pinky bone, stripped of skin and outstretched daintily, but the rest were gone. Kevin took off his shirt and wrapped it around his son's bleeding mess.
"Puppets. Attacking. Now." That was all Kevin could think to say.
His heart beat so fast. Was it because of the excitement of having blood on his face again? He felt no urge to smear the crimson on his tattooed torso, to trace a bloodstained fingertip over the Live Fast Die logo that was once his motto, which he had now abandoned in favor of Live Slow Happy. No, his heart was beating so fast because he was in danger, because Deb was in danger, because the kids were in danger, because he cared about them. What the fuck?
Deb embraced him. His kids embraced them both. A family hug.
The puppets pounded on the back door. At first, it was cacophonous and undefined. Then it melted into a rhythm. Boom boom pow! Bang rap rap! Boom boom pow! Bang rap rap! And the puppets sang:
Violence now!
Fuck your corpse!
Brutality! Brutality!
Endless warrrrrrrr!
•
Fuck. Were those his lyrics? Did the puppets know him? Did they know the real him. But this was the real him now: normal father and husband living in a nice house. Those weren't his words. They meant nothing to him. Only his family. These fuckers that had stolen his fucking heart. Fuck them. Let them die. No!
One Eye stared in through the kitchen window, gnawing the head off a squirrel. It used the blood as lube to masturbate a little felt nub that bulged above its puppet hole. It came fast, shooting a neon-pink load all over the glass. It smeared cum and squirrel blood on the window, and then, with its now flaccid puppet dong, wrote the word "Kill."
In a voice like a derailing train, One Eye bellowed, "I'm gonna fuck your fat dead ass. I'm gonna fuck your whole family after I kill them and suck out the goodies from their stomachs!"
Kevin could picture this happening. And he was scared.
Then he thought, why the fuck am I scared? I'm fucking GG Allin!
Except he wasn't. Not anymore.
"Kevin, you have to stop them!" Deb pleaded.
But he wasn't a person who could stop them. He had grown pudgy. He had gotten weak. He was a normal, family man, and one thing a normal family man didn't do was fight off packs of cock- and cunt-hungry puppets.
"I'll call the police," he said, reaching for the phone.
"The police? Kevin, there are dozens of those things. They are going to be in here any second now, and they are going to hurt us. You need to stop them."
"I am a normal man," he whined.
"You have to protect your family!" Deb screamed.
He curled his hands into fists. He looked at his scarred knuckles. He could do it. He could open up the floodgates and let GG Allin take over, but then what? GG Allin was powerful. Kevin was not. And Kevin liked this life. It was so sublimely normal, so comfortable. He could live this life forever. Surely the police would be here in time. This was Chicago, after all.
He undid his fists and reached for the phone.
He typed in 911.
He didn't even get past the first ring before the backdoor exploded under the weight of the encroaching puppets. The biggest one led the way, a goat-horned beast with purple fur so tangled it seemed like it was strangling itself, an impression furthered by the way its black tongue dangled from its wide mouth. This puppet had legs, and it moved quickly on them, quickly toward Kevin's family.
It drove its left horn into Vanessa's stomach, ripping through her shirt, ripping through her. She cried out, hands reaching for her mother. A flank of meat hung by her side, where the horn had exited. A little shard of rib jutted out, like a horn of her own. Blood poured out like tar. She lost the strength of her legs, but Deb held her up. Vanessa's eyelids fluttered closed.
Goat Horns clamped down on Deb's leg, but Deb kicked it off and stomped on it. It seemed impervious to stomping. Just plush and stuffing. There was nothing to break. Nothing to damage. One of its eyeballs popped off and it laughed.
"I'm going to eat your womb, bitch," Goat Horns said as Deb stomped.
A cape-wearing, flesh-colored puppet with a black mask and a plastic pompadour flew at Grant. With surprisingly nimble fingers, it unwrapped the T-shirt from the boy's wound and then wrapped it's mouth around the mutilated hand, slurping up the blood as its massive eyeballs rolled back in ecstasy.
Deb swatted it away. She lifted the two kids off the ground. She kicked and stomped at the army of puppets. She glared at Kevin, who merely stood on the other side of the kitchen, sweating and crying. "Please," she begged.
And he realized he had no choice. His family would die if he didn't help them. They would die and he would die too. But he wanted to die on his own terms. Ideally by his own hand. And while drunk and high. Not by killer fucking puppets.
He spread his arms wide and roared. With both fists, he punched himself in the face, again and again. The old wounds opened up fast, remembering this. Blood poured from his forehead, from his nose. He saw red. He legitimately saw red. The blood framed his vision.
"What are you … ? Kevin?" Deb asked, out of breath from the fight.
"I'm not Kevin," he said as he snatched up the already somewhat mangled body of Goat Horns. He bit into its face and tore off a hunk of plush, which he immediately spit to the floor. "I'm GG fucking Allin."
He took another bite. Oily muck oozed out of the puppet's wounds. It tasted like black licorice on GG's tongue. He smiled and it dribbled from the corners of his mouth. He threw the now-limp puppet aside and caught another one, the superhero blood-slurper. He wrapped its cape around its neck, tighter and tighter, until its head popped off and black goo drained from its neck.
GG's cock got hard.
He didn't toss the headless puppet away. Instead, he dropped his slacks and impaled his dick in the inky stump, swabbing his member around inside the still-twitching puppet as the other puppets watched on, suddenly not so tough. He pumped and pumped and quickly eja
culated, so hard his white slime shot out through the thing's empty puppet hole.
Deb gasped. She covered Grant's eyes. Vanessa was passed out from the severity of her wound. Deb said, "Kevin, just … just kill them normal?"
"I'm not normal!" he yelled as he grabbed two more puppets by their heads and tore them asunder with his hands, hands already so soaked in cum and blood that they were starting to look familiar, they were starting to look like his hands.
Realizing they had much more of a challenge than they had anticipated, the puppets worked together now. They charged at GG, baring claws, baring teeth, baring horns. GG kicked and punched.
An anus-faced puppet latched onto GG's nipple with little pin-like teeth. Oh, but it felt good. He got hard again as blood poured from his chest wound like electricity, lighting him up. Ripping the puppet free, he got an idea.
He took a squat and, as if all his repressed bowel muscle memory suddenly overcame the self-induced amnesia, he shot a stream of feces so wet and fast it splattered off the kitchen tile and gave his backside an upside down shit shower. He scooped up handfuls and smeared them over the eyes of every puppet he could reach, blinding them and slowing them down enough to give him time to properly execute each and every one of them, which he did, as his wife watched.
When he was done, he stood, breathing heavy, ankle deep in scrap material and black puppet guts. He couldn't keep his hand off his cock.
"Kevin? I don't understand. What are you doing?" Deb asked, as if he was the bad guy, as if he had threatened to kill the family. Well maybe his family deserved to fucking die. Maybe everyone deserved to fucking die.
Before he could address that, Deb pointed to the kitchen window.
That blue-faced, one-eyed fucker was still there, sneering.
GG punched through the glass and grabbed the final puppet by its neck. He squeezed the thing's head, mushing it up and covering it with slick bodily fluids, lubing it up for easy entry. Then he jammed the puppet headfirst up his ass. Groaning, he worked it in and out, using two hands at first, before freeing one up so he could jerk his nub. He realized his wife was still watching.
"Suck my cock," he ordered.
"Wh-what?" she asked.
"Suck my fucking cock, now!"
GG stepped toward her and grabbed her by the back of her head, getting a solid grip on her soft blonde hair. He pushed her to her knees.
Grant dragged his sister to the far side of the kitchen as she blinked back into consciousness. She would die soon. Maybe Grant would too. Who could tell how the rest of the day might go?
The sound of sirens answered that question. The 911 call must have gone through. They must have traced it. Just like the fucking pigs. Too late to help, but just in time to fuck up the party.
They smashed down the front door and charged into the kitchen. Four barrel-chested boys in blue, ready to inflict the law on somebody.
GG tossed his wife aside and threw shit at the pigs.
They were on him fast. He couldn't stop them. They took him down. They cuffed him. They dragged him away in a headlock. Deb ran behind, angry now, but not at the cops. "What's wrong with you?" she screeched.
"This world is what's wrong with me. This fucking world and everything in it. I hate you! You hear me? I love nothing. I love no one. I hate everyone and everything, and I always fucking will, forever and ever until the end of fucking time!"
And then the cops pulled out their nightsticks.
EXPOSED
BY MONICA J. O'ROURKE
_____
I stalked him for weeks, as I imagined he'd done with my little girl.
•
The cops knew who he was, but they kept saying the evidence was circumstantial, that they didn't yet have a case. They had him under constant surveillance, I was told. Yet why did I see him running around on his own, unwatched? I'd see an unmarked cop car in his area, but no one really had tabs on him, which was insanely frustrating. They knew who kidnapped Rebecca—they knew who the guy was!—but what? his civil liberties trumped hers?
You need to stay out of it, they said.
Were they kidding?
I knew where to find him. Right in front of my pickup, as fate (or GPS) would sometimes have it.
I make this sound so easy: He was crossing the street against the light. I waited for him to turn the corner before I cut him off. I slammed on the brakes, and he bounced off the hood and landed on his back, momentarily dazed. I smashed him in the face with my fist—the fist with the roll of quarters in it. I made sure he was out cold before dragging him to the flatbed. I managed to get him in, tied his hands and feet with zip ties, and covered him with a canvas.
No one was around, which is a small miracle in itself—never mind the media and every amateur reporter with a smartphone who also seemed to be following this guy. Isn't that what usually happens? Even more shocking is that the cops weren't around.
An hour later I dragged his sorry ass inside the cabin and tied him to the bed. A quick scan of the woods satisfied my paranoia that I hadn't been followed. Not that it mattered. I would have done anything to save my kid, including give up my freedom. Or my life.
That's how it all started. This part of it anyway.
He started the whole goddamn thing weeks ago.
•
I build a fire in the fireplace.
Andy's waking up. I found his name on his license. Andy. Andy.
His hideous head rolls from side to side, the whites of his eyes flashing, trying to focus.
His eyes pop open. "What—" He sees me. "Are you nuts?"
Well that's an auspicious beginning … I pull up a chair and straddle it. "Where is she?" I ask quietly.
He snorts. "What? Who the hell are you? Fuck you! Untie me."
Does that ever work?
My voice gets a little louder. "Where is she?"
He laughs, glints of yellow, nicotine-stained teeth flashing. Smells, like sour mash and cheap tobacco, ooze from his pores. "Go to hell."
What if I told you this was a blue-eyed college kid? No nicotine stains. Smells more like Gray Flannel than old booze. Looks like someone who'd run for state senator.
Ted Bundy was a pretty boy too.
I slowly approach him. These are tricks I've learned from watching every episode of Law & Order and CSI and NCIS. I learned ways to make him nervous (as if being tied to a bed wasn't enough). But none of it seems to be working. It always works on TV. Even when the women are in charge, the skeevy men always cave.
"You're starting to piss me off," he says, licking his lips. "You're making a big mistake. Untie me, you asshole!"
I study his face. Is he panicking? Nervous? Shouldn't he be? But there's no panic. He's just angry.
I have a feeling he thinks I'm bluffing.
I check the bindings on his wrists and ankles, making sure they're solid. He's tied spread-eagle on top of the quilts.
He's not going anywhere.
"You're killing her," he says with a leering sideways glance. "You know that?" His face is solid, tight, the jaw line set. He gnashes his teeth.
Or maybe I'm imagining the bravado. This is a guy who stole my kid. Stole. My. Kid. He looks like a giant slug, riddled with herpes, dripping pus.
I have a hard time reconciling that with the young man lying there …
I close my eyes to fight the tears. This isn't easy; this is the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I don't even know how I'll be able to—
I open them again. "I'm not killing her," I whisper. "I'm saving her."
"I'm the only one who knows where she is." He spits in my face and struggles against the bindings.
I walk into the bathroom to wash the pig's saliva off my cheek. I stare at my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. Eyes that haven't rested in weeks stare back. Too many wrinkles on this old face that's really not that old at all. Not until recently. Too many grays where there once were none in a mane full of blonde hair. The pigshit in the bed has done this t
o me.
He's yelling, cursing at me like something possessed. Screaming for me to untie him. That's laughable. If he were to get away, I'd be dead. I was surprised I could get him in here in the first place, but a rush of adrenaline allowed me the strength. Not that I lifted him over my head or anything; I'm much smaller than him.
I sit in the chair beside him. "Where is she?"
"She's dead!"
I blanche, but I pray he's lying. "Where is she?"
He laughs again, but I can tell he's nervous.
"Look …" I say, pulling a bandana out of my back pocket. "It's obvious you won't voluntarily give me the information I want."
"What are you doing?" His eyes bulge.
After twisting the bandana into a long line of fabric, I lay it across his mouth, knotting it near his ear. He shakes his head and tries to avoid me but can't. He tries to head-butt me but doesn't get far.
"We'll try it my way for a while. If you change your mind and want to tell me …" I shrug. "Just say something."
Even if he wants to speak, he can't. It's all head games now, you see? It's the only way to make this work. I have no clue what I'm doing, but I hope he doesn't see that. The main reason I gagged him was so I wouldn't have to hear him crying and begging for help.
I grab the scissors off the counter and cut away his clothes. I'm not about to untie him and give him any opportunity to escape. He shakes his head and groans into the bandana. I let him lie in his underpants for a few moments before cutting them off as well. I figure this posturing represents the final act of stripping him of his dignity, and that maybe I can stretch it out. Being naked is one of the most vulnerable states to be in.
He looks up at the ceiling, not at me. I move closer. His eyes are filled with tears and he's trying not to cry. The highest part of his cheeks are tinged a dark pink. He says something into his gag, but of course I can't understand him.
"Are you going to tell me where she is?"
His eyes dart down and he glares at me. Hatred is radiated in that look. He doesn't bother acknowledging my question. I realize a little nudity might embarrass him, but it isn't going to convince him to confess to my baby's kidnapping.
