Madness & Mayhem: 23 Tales of Horror and Humor

by James Aquilone

  Daddy isn’t a monster, he’s my Daddy. But I see his eyes in my brain and I’m so scared I’m shaking. Then in my brain I hear Mrs. Monster say, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you but first let’s take care of Daddy.” I turn around and crawl farther under the house, dirt getting in my mouth and nose, until I come out in the backyard. The toolshed is open. Stupid daddy.

  The Baseball Gods

  (Originally published in Every Day Fiction)

  Al Whitaker thought he handled last night’s catastrophes pretty well. He only punched his office wall. It hurt like bloody hell when he broke his hand, but he didn’t need his hand to do this job. He needed Boyd Salazar and Manny Lopez. His All-Star pitcher and MVP third baseman, however, were both on the disabled list after an accursed inning that saw Salazar knocked unconscious by a line drive and Lopez break his ankle fielding a routine grounder. They lost the game, too, their tenth in a row. It was the expansion team’s worst spring training in its five-year history. Things weren’t boding well for the upcoming season. And it was all because of that idiot rookie.

  There was a knock on his door.

  “Come in,” Whitaker said after the third knock.

  Danny Henderson looked like a ballplayer: tall, muscular, square-jawed, clean shaven. But the kid didn’t know the first thing about baseball. Whitaker saw that the first day of camp, when Henderson ran onto the field and stomped on the foul line like he was a Sasquatch. Whitaker would rather cut off his leg than step on that white chalk.

  “You wanted to see me?” the rookie said.

  Whitaker kept a Louisville Slugger, blackened and scarred from age, on a rack beside the door. Everyone who entered rubbed it for good luck. Henderson did not.

  The kid looked nervous. Of course he did. It was the last week of spring training and here he was in the manager’s office on an off-day, the rest of the team enjoying the last of the Florida sunshine before heading back up North.

  “Don’t sit,” Whitaker said, rising. “Come with me.”

  They passed through the empty locker room and entered a gloomy tunnel that ran under the ballpark.

  “You have a hell of a swing,” Whitaker said. “You could be one of the greats, but I think you’re still a little green.”

  Their footsteps clanged hollowly off the cement walls.

  “Are you cutting me?” Henderson said in a timid voice.

  Whitaker laughed. “I can’t cut the team’s best hitter, can I?” He patted the kid on the butt with his cast. While most of his teammates were mired in slumps, Henderson was leading the league in most of the batting categories. In fact, he hit two home runs in that nightmare game. “Besides, we’re going to need you now that Lopez is out. Rotten luck that was last night.”

  “Yeah,” Henderson said. He sounded concerned, but Whitaker thought he saw a tiny smirk on his lips. “And losing the no-hitter like that. Tough game.” The toughest Whitaker had ever seen as a manager. Before he punched the wall, he did everything he could not to punch Henderson. The kid broke the biggest taboo in baseball: He talked about the no-hitter to Salazar, who was pitching the damn thing. The next inning, his two star players were down.

  “You know anything about the baseball gods, Danny?”

  “I don’t pay any mind to that superstition mumbo-jumbo.”

  “Uh-huh,” Whitaker grumbled, and tapped his ancient Louisville Slugger against the floor three times. Henderson looked at the bat, surprised. He probably hadn’t noticed Whitaker slip it off its rack before they left the office. He probably hadn’t noticed Whitaker tap his doorknob three times either. All his superstitions ran in threes.

  They passed the door that led to the bullpen, and continued into the thickening shadows of the tunnel.

  “Luck is as much a part of baseball as balls and strikes,” Whitaker said, his voice low, grave. “It’s a game of inches. That inch could mean the difference between being a champion or a bum. And in case you didn’t know, the best team rarely wins it all. You need luck to go all the way, and luck is governed by the baseball gods. Anger them, kid, and you’re done.”

  “Gods, huh?” Henderson smirked.

  “Yeah, ask any Cubs fan. I’ve based my career on that mumbo-jumbo. Four straight World Series rings must mean I’m doing something right.”

  They were well beyond the ballpark when they came to the dead end. A metal ladder ran up the cement wall before them.

  “Up, kid.”

  “Is this some team ritual? Haze the rookie?”

  “Something like that.”

  When Henderson reached the top, he pushed open the hatch and climbed out.

  The sun was blinding. Henderson stood in a clearing, shielding his eyes. Then he turned, and greeted his teammates with a wary look. They stood silently, in their uniforms and dark shades. Grass as tall as a man surrounded the clearing, which was in the shape of a baseball diamond.

  “I had this place built behind the complex,” Whitaker said. “It’s my own little shrine, if you will.”

  Henderson looked around like a nervous rabbit.

  “Spring is a time for sacrifice,” Whitaker continued as he rested his bat across his shoulders. “Spring is a time for propitiation. And of course, spring is a time for baseball.” Whitaker smiled blackly. “The baseball gods are spring gods, Daniel. They need sacrifices. You angered them, you failed to heed the superstitions. Now we must make an offering.”

  Salazar struck first, firing a fastball into Henderson’s left eye. Henderson went down, hard. He didn’t even have time to scream. Damn, if Salazar didn’t hit ninety-five with that throw, concussion and all. Then Whitaker was on Henderson with the Louisville Slugger, swinging it three times with his good hand. Dark blood spread underneath the rookie, and the golden-brown dirt drank it up. Each member of the team took a turn with Whitaker’s lucky bat.

  As he led the team back to the ballpark, a path magically parting for them, Whitaker heard soft murmurings in the tall grass. It wasn’t unlike the roar of the crowd after a big win. The grass swayed like seaweed at the bottom of the ocean. Whitaker knew the 2021 championship was in the bag. The New England Pagans always won when they made the baseball gods happy.

  A Day to End All Days

  (Originally published in the Third Flatiron anthology “Ain’t Superstitious”)

  When I kicked the homeless guy in the gut, I didn’t even scuff my alligator-skin boots. The guy drunkenly got to his feet, swayed like a blade of grass in a hurricane, looked up at me with whisky eyes.

  I glared at him.

  He got the message and dashed back up the alley. I thought about hunting him down, and breaking an arm or a leg, but I didn’t feel like running. Not in that heat. Staten Island in July has to be worse than the sixth circle of Hell.

  I was still holding the scratch-off ticket. I pressed it against the brick wall, scraped off the last square with my thumbnail, and a wet-eyed kitten appeared. Looking just as dumb and pathetic as the homeless guy. Un-fucking-believable. That was the third kitty I had uncovered. All told, I had won fifteen thousand dollars!

  I shoved the winning scratch-offs into my pocket, and thought about the audacity of a stranger asking me for a handout—ninety-three cents, actually; he was very specific about it.

  Not today, buddy. I was sick of playing Mr. Nicey Nice. This was going to be a day of reckoning—despite a few early bad omens.

  I took the ferry to work.

  Work was at the Donnelly Library in Midtown Manhattan. It was a slim building, squeezed between a Starbucks and an arty gift shop. With the Moderne Museum across the street, the café and gift shop received hordes of tourists and hipsters. The library, though, was mostly patronized by pale-skinned office workers. They disgusted me. I worked in the basement, in the media room. No one went down there, which suited me fine. But there was this one girl.

  Her name was Jessie. She came into the library most days around lunchtime, read film books, occasionally photography books or Doctor Who novels. She wo
rked at the Starbucks next door. She had no idea poor Peter Palumbo existed.

  When I entered the media room, she was sitting at one of the tables beside the CD collection. She was reading. Today her hair was purple. She wore a nose ring, an emerald stud that shone like a tiny dragon’s eye, and thick-framed glasses. She looked like some kind of circus pixie. I just wanted to eat her up.

  I came stomping down the aisle toward her, clearing my throat conspicuously. But she stayed focused on her book. As I got closer, I noticed she was wearing headphones. Most likely listening to something upbeat and about death. I was about to kick the back of her chair, when Linda said, “Neil wants to see you.” Neil was the manager of the media department. Linda worked the checkout desk.

  She was behind the counter, removing books from a large canvas bin and placing them in a cart. I stood beside her.

  Linda looked up. “Neil said it was important.”

  I glared at her.

  “What are you doing?” she said. Her hair reminded me of a den of snakes. That was the only thing I liked about her.

  I said, “Gazing into your soul.”

  “What’s gotten into you, Peter? You weren’t always a jerk.”

  “All things change, Linda. Even your old reliable Peter.”

  “Yeah, well, I liked the old you better. I think those horror stories you write have gotten into your head. Or have you been reading those self-help books upstairs? The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Douchebags?” Her laugh was piercing, like a shriek from the abyss.

  “Linda, do you want to know how you’re going to die?”

  Panic washed over her wrinkled face. “Weirdo,” she said, and returned to sorting books. I went into Neil’s office.

  Neil Likpudlian was a great big fat guy, with eyes like black jujubes. He was in a constant state of trying to catch his breath, as if he had just climbed to the top of the Empire State Building.

  “Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,” he said. “Sit down.”

  He sat at his desk, hunched over a plate of chicken wings stained with a gooey, bloody red liquid.

  I sat.

  “It’s eleven-thirty in the a.m., Petey. Kinda late, isn’t it?” He raised his eyebrows, leaned forward in anticipation of an answer. I said nothing. He waved it off, gasped his fat-man gasp, held up a hand as if to say, “Wait, a minute,” caught his breath, picked up a wing, and gnawed it like a beaver, the blood-red sauce sliding down his adipose hand. “I’m sure you have your reasons for being three hours late. Maybe you can’t see your watch now that you’ve stopped wearing glasses. Contacts?” He giggled. A man should not giggle. “Anyhoo,” he said, “I want to talk to you about your career.”

  Could he be firing me? God, I hoped so.

  “You’ve been here a long time, Petey. Some might say too long.” A laugh bubbled up from his blubbering throat. “And, well, I’ve been sorely aware that in all that time you’ve never once had a promotion. Shame. Real shame, Petey. The phrase dead-end career’ comes to mind.” Again, the terrible fat-man laugh. I smiled. I liked the sound of that phrase, “dead-end career.” Something lyrical and ominous about it.

  “Couldn’t be helped,” he said. “Damn budget cuts and the like. Well—and this doesn’t leave the room—we’re up for another round of cuts. Ten percent of the staff this time. But there’s a silver lining. Always a silver lining, right? Your very own Neil has been promoted to manager of Donnelly and the Midtown Library—after they fire both managers, of course. Seems they’re making too much money. So, what this all means is we need a new media manager.” He paused.

  I said nothing. Bile was rising in my throat.

  “You’re getting that promotion finally! Opportunity is knocking, old Petes.” He grabbed another chicken wing, inhaled it, and then he rapped hard on his desk. His bobble-head Gandalf the Grey bobbled its head. He gagged, chicken-wing juice leaking out of the corners of his mouth. “Are you ready to get up and open the door? I know you can be quite bashful, Petes.”

  I got up and punched him in his fat throat. Then I took an early lunch break.

  Jessie had left by the time I exited Neil’s office. So I decided to pay her a visit.

  I sat in a big, cushiony chair in the corner of the Starbucks. It was overrun with creatures in Brooks Brothers suits, dull soulless things gazing blankly into smartphones. The place smelled like burnt asphalt. I watched them, imagining how each would die. A tall, bespectacled executive type sat next to me. He droned into his phone like a chittering locust. His death, in three months time, will come swiftly, like an eagle swooping from the sky to pluck its supper from the river. He will be intoxicated on Jack Daniel’s and OxyContin, he will be on a lake, his children watching, his mistress watching, he will be skimming along the water in a jet-ski, he will collide with a motorboat full of teenagers, the propeller vivisecting him from crotch to chin. I snickered at the thought.

  “What’s so funny?” a voice asked. I looked up. It was Jessie. She seemed out of place in her green apron.

  “Inside joke,” I said.

  “I know you, right?”

  “No. You don’t know me at all.” I winked.

  “The library, right? You work there.”

  Probably not anymore, but I said, “Smart girl.”

  “Oh, hey. It’s funny that I’ve never seen you in here before.”

  “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Really? I’m in the library almost every day. You must have seen me there.”

  Ol’ Peter Peter Pumpkin had seen her in his nightly fantasies. He had his eye on this siren with a nose ring for some time. But the old reliable Peter never uttered a word to her. Peter Peter wrote stories about her, too. Right now, three novels—unique manuscripts—were floating around the various publishing houses of New York, fantasies about a purple-haired emo girl who battles demons and incubi and ifrits and all manner of supernatural nasties. They were written in blood. I sent them special delivery first thing in the morning.

  She said, “It’s strange. I never really noticed you before. Why is that?”

  “I walk in the ways of darkness.”

  She smiled. I touched her then. Perhaps too soon. But I couldn’t help myself. I reached out, innocently, a light touch on her forearm. She didn’t pull away. I let it linger for only a moment.

  I said, “Want to know how you’ll die?”

  She smiled awkwardly but didn’t retreat. “Not particularly,” she said, and smiled again. But this time it wasn’t awkward but sweet. That smile was an abomination. I had nasty plans for that smile.

  “It’s not very interesting, actually,” I said, and flashed my most charming smile. “It’s not as if a lunatic hunts you down like a wild animal, captures you, devours your flesh, and leaves your bones for the wolves to gnaw on.”

  She threw her head back and laughed.

  I glared at her.

  I defiled the temptress in the employee bathroom, three times. She insisted. Afterwards, I told her how she’d die. I had lied to her before. She would die in a most spectacular and cruel way. Just not at the hands of a maniac. It would be a brain tumor exploding through her skull while she flew to Hawaii on her honeymoon.

  When I returned to the library to clean out my desk, I heard a croaking from Neil’s office. I walked past the door, and the blob came stumbling out. I was about to strike, when he extended his hand. But before I could grab it, twist it, and snap his ulna, he said, “I have to thank you. The medic said I would have been a goner if you hadn’t dislodged that chicken bone from my throat. I owe you my life. You’re like my guardian angel. How did you even know I was choking?”

  The bile reached the back of my tongue. I said, “Your life, Neil Likpudlian, is worth less than a flea turd. Your time on this earth is quickly fading. You will die overwhelmed with panic and terror, blood dripping red and dark from your orifices. You will lie, gasping, on the cold floor, a vile stench rising to your flared nostrils as your bowels evacuate and your life runs out throug
h your ass. Your funeral will be a sad, pitiful affair.”

  Neil looked confused, as if he were trying to figure out a tough mathematical problem. Finally, he said, “Oh, Petes, you’re probably right. I really do need to lay off the fast food. Anyhoo, I’m giving you my bobble-head collection, which you’ve always admired. Think of it as your promotion gift.”

  I went home, cursing my luck.

  Home was a cramped basement apartment in the Bulls Head section of Staten Island. Most of the place was taken up by paperbacks and magazines. Some of which weren’t pornographic. The life of Peter Paul Palumbo was pathetic.

  The phone rang.

  I hoped it was Jessie, Jessie shouting and raging about how she hated every miserable bone in my body.

  “Is this Peter Paul Palumbo?”

  “In the flesh.”

  “This is Margaret Hutcherson from Hexen Publishing. I want to talk to you about the manuscript you sent us.”

  Please, say you want to press charges, black list me from the publishing world. Time was running out.

  “We’ve read your novel Jessie and the Jor_gumo Queen,” she said, “and we—love—it! Where have you been hiding? We’re ready to offer you a three-book deal. We adored that the manuscript was written in fake blood and the paper you used—what amazing texture—felt like animal skin. This is exactly what we’ve been looking for. It has weight, a living quality to it that you can’t get with an e-book. We’re actually losing a bundle with e-books, you know.”

  Black bile rushed up my throat and geysered out of my mouth. I hurled the phone across the room and stomped on the ground like a madman. Everything was wrong.

  Then they went wronger.

  I received a text message from Jessie: “Had a great time! You’re an animal!!! Call me ;)” A great time? Did I not perform the Iron Maiden and the Angry Dragon? Divulged the terrible details of her death?