Tales of Sin and Madness

by Brett McBean

  It was as unbelievable and grotesque as anything he had ever seen.

  The sign read: Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.

  That was ghoulish enough, but it was what was written beside it, crudely, in fading red paint that really appealed to Craig’s sense of the macabre: Souls for sale.

  Wearing only jeans and a cap, Craig Becker stepped out of the dust-coloured Jeep Cherokee (its air conditioner had been on the blink for the past few days, since around Montgomery) and towelled the sweat from his face with his black Easy Rider T-shirt which stank of long drives, cheap motels and, suitably, of weed. His body was tanned and, despite the love handles that were creeping over the sides of his jeans and the curls on his chest that were starting to gray, in good shape.

  Flinging the damp shirt across the back of his neck and shoulders to block the fiery sun, Craig crunched over dirt to the stand by the side of the road. The stench of dead flesh was strong

  Contrary to what the sign proclaimed, the road kill looked neither good nor fresh – flies swarmed the collection of dead possum, fox, deer and other assorted road kill and buzzed around the scores of tins.

  “Howdy,” the man sitting behind the stand said, accent typically southern.

  “G’day,” Craig said. “Hot.”

  The man stood, looked up at the rich blue sky and nodded. “Suppose it is. What can I do you for?”

  The man was stick-thin and ugly. Not ugly in the deformed, inbred way that Craig had seen in countless films, but in a ‘poor son-of-a-bitch got the bad end of the deal, looks like a monkey crossed with a weasel, no woman with one good eye would ever go near’, sort of way.

  “Saw your sign. Thought I’d stop and take a look. It’s not every day you see this kind of thing for sale.”

  Thin lips peeled back, unveiling stubby yellow teeth. “No, don’t suppose you would see this kind of thing in…England?”

  Craig shook his head. “Right blood-line, wrong country. Australia. Melbourne.”

  “Aus..tra…li…a,” the man said thickly. “What brings ya’ll the way down here? Grand Canyon’s about a thousand miles that away.”

  “I’m no tourist,” Craig said, pointing to his cap. “I’m a regular Joe.”

  The rat-like man squinted up at the cap. “I love Bush,” he read. “That supposed to be some kinda joke? Who’s Bush?”

  Lordy, Craig thought, but smiled and said, “It’s a play on words. You know…George Dubya as opposed to a lady’s…” Craig could tell by the man’s blank stare that this guy knew a hell of a lot about road kill, and that was about it. “Anyway,” Craig said, scanning the array of dead animals, “I’m driving around America, doing the quest thing, trying to find the real America, just like Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper.” Craig went for his T-shirt, but decided against it. If the guy didn’t know who the President of his own country was, then he surely wouldn’t know…

  “You mean like in that movie? Easy Rider?”

  “That’s right,” Craig said, surprised. “Except I’m riding in a Jeep, not on a Harley. Not nearly as romantic, but hell, don’t wanna die before I see this country. Don’t wanna end up as road…” Craig swallowed. “Name’s Craig, by the way.”

  “Almus,” the man said. “You hungry?”

  Craig hadn’t eaten anything since the bacon and eggs this morning. He wasn’t a big fan of either food, but the diner – Patty’s Good Eat In – had offered little else that wasn’t deep fried, or that didn’t require him to look up a dictionary to find out what it was.

  “Sure,” he said. “You got a barbecue going nearby or something?” Craig looked past the stand and into the woods, but couldn’t see a house.

  “No,” Almus squawked. “I meant did ya want to buy some road kill?”

  Craig’s stomach lurched. Was this guy serious?

  A distant cry cut Almus’s laughter short. It had sounded like some big cat or a wolf. Almus looked over his shoulder, and when he turned back, he looked unnerved. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to laugh at ya.”

  “Forget it. So people buy these dead animals…for food?”

  “’Course. Why else?”

  Craig thought for a moment. “To get stuffed and mounted?” he offered.

  “This here’s good eatin’. You’d be surprised how tasty these critters are. An’ it’s a good business, too. It don’t cost nothing for me to get them; I just wait ‘til some animal is run over, then I scrape it off the road, clean it up a bit, an’ sell it.”

  “You sell many?”

  “I do all right.” He turned to the line of strung up, flat-as-a-pancake carcasses, tails hanging limply, fur bloody, dead eyes glaring. “Now, I’ve got fox, beaver, wild cat, deer…”

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” Craig said, the hot afternoon air making it difficult for him to breathe. All he could smell was baking meat. “I’m suddenly not that hungry.”

  Almus shrugged. “Suit yourself.” A gleam sparkled in his otherwise glassy eyes. He moved over to the table next to the one that housed the road kill. Craig followed. “Would you be more interested in one of these?”

  Tins of varying sizes sat atop a splintery table. There were around twenty, the smallest being the size of a coffee tin, the largest the size of a paint can. Most of them were rusted and full of dints; some still bore their labels, though most of the brands were faded, and those that Craig could read he had never heard of.

  “These the souls?” Craig asked.

  Almus nodded, the twinkle in his eyes growing more fervent.

  There was something distinctly odd about this man – and it wasn’t just his homely looks or that he sold road kill and souls by the side of the road in backwater, USA. Craig sensed purpose in him, a deeper intelligence that he was trying desperately to cover up.

  “When a varmint is killed, their soul escapes and floats up to heaven…or down to hell, depending on what God sees fit. Only, if you’re quick enough, you can catch the dead critter’s soul. You have to be quick, mind you, or else you’ll miss your chance. And you gotta know how to catch it.”

  “And you know how to?”

  “I got ‘em right here, don’t I?”

  Craig eyed the rows of tins, could barely contain his smile, but was fascinated by this man and what his bizarre roadside stand represented. It was capitalism at its most primitive. Yessiree, he had definitely found the spirit of America.

  “Whose souls are they?”

  “These road kill, mostly.”

  “Can I see one?”

  Almus shook his head. “’Fraid not. You have to buy one first before you can open a tin up. These are mighty powerful things. They may be the souls of simple animals, but they’re souls all the same.”

  “What do you do with them?”

  “Buy one and find out.”

  It was all bullshit, of course. Craig knew this was just a clever, albeit morbid, way of making money off of stupid and equally morbid tourists. During his two-month road trip, he had seen roadside vendors selling bottled air, water that was supposed to cure cancer, even locks of pubic hair from virgins. In a land where everything was for sale and nothing was too absurd, selling the souls of dead animals was just another way of squeezing every bit of milk and sucking all the honey from her generous and bountiful supply.

  Craig could do without the moldering carrion being passed off as edible food…

  Surely people can’t really buy and eat the animals…

  …But the idea that souls could be captured and contained, and then sold on the side of the road was wondrous and ghastly at the same time. What kind of mind thinks up something like this? Craig wondered. Either a really clever one, or a delusional crackpot who really believes he has the essence of life for sale. Craig hadn’t decided which one Almus was yet.

  “You got a wife?”

  Craig looked up into the archaic face of Almus. “No. I mean I had one, but she’s…dead.”

  Pain ripped through Craig’s chest.

  Sorry, Rachel. />
  “Just thought you could buy one for her, or yer kids. Make a nice present.”

  “No kids either.”

  Just as well, he thought. Wouldn’t have wanted them to go through what I went through with Rachel.

  Annoyed at Almus for dredging up memories he had tried so hard to forget, had driven so many miles to put behind him, Craig decided it was time to hit the road again, so he plucked his wallet from his back jeans pocket. “How much for one of the tins?”

  “Depends on the soul. The bigger the tin, the bigger the animal, the bigger and more powerful the soul.”

  Craig scanned the assortment of tins. His eyes locked on to the large one. “That big tin, what animal was it and how much?”

  If he was going to buy one, why not make the most of it? He could afford it and this guy looked like he could use the money.

  Almus breathed a long sigh. When he smiled, his lips trembled. “Glad you asked.”

  A howl, long and sorrowful cut the still afternoon air like a blade through flesh. It sent chills up and down Craig’s back.

  He noticed Almus grin, and once the cry had stopped, Almus said, “That tin contains the most powerful soul of all. A human’s.”

  Craig blanched. “A human’s? As in a person, a human being?”

  “That’s right.”

  This was taking the gimmick a little too far, but he had to ask. “Where’s the body?”

  “Long gone,” Almus said. “Besides, that would be in plain bad taste, hanging a human like it was ordinary road kill.”

  Craig almost laughed.

  Bad taste? Take a look around you, bud.

  He guessed it didn’t really matter what was supposed to be in the tin; it was all bull anyway. He was in it for the funhouse aspect of it, not for any magical power it may contain.

  Hell, if there really is a human soul in there, maybe I could take it home with me and give it to Rachel. It might help her. Craig felt the sting of regret. Not funny, he thought.

  “Okay, how much?”

  “Twe…thirty bucks.”

  Craig was used to haggling prices – he worked at a used car lot back home – and had used his bargaining skills countless times during his trip around the States, but decided not to bother this time. After all, thirty dollars was a good price for a human soul.

  Craig handed Almus the money.

  Almus thanked him, then handed Craig the tin.

  It was heavier than Craig expected.

  “Well, I guess that’s it then,” Craig said, cradling the tin under his arm.

  “Just remember, a soul is a powerful thing.” Almus winked.

  “Right,” Craig said. “I’ll be careful.”

  “You made the right choice. I think you’ll be happy.”

  I’ll be using it to piss in, but thanks all the same.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to buy some road kill? I’ll do you a special price. I’ve got a nice fresh one killed this morning. There’s not much to eat around here and it’ll be dark in a few hours. If you’re planning on camping, you might want some fresh meat.”

  Craig was planning on camping out tonight. He had provisions in the Jeep that he had bought at a store after eating at Patty’s – some beef jerky, canned cheese and crackers, a chocolate bar and a six pack of beer – but a nice bit of meat would be damn delicious. Craig took one last glance at the fly-ridden corpses, pictured himself cooking the fox over an open fire, and knew it was something he just couldn’t stomach.

  “Sorry. Maybe some other time.”

  Almus nodded and smiled.

  It was a sly smile, one of secrets untold.

  And for the second time since stopping at this roadside stand, Craig sensed that its vendor knew more than he let on.

  It’s just the heat, Craig told himself, turning and heading back to the Jeep. It’s frying your brain.

  Yet he couldn’t shake the presence of Almus and his smile, even after he was far away from the dead animals and cheap souls.

  * * *

  The sun cast a pinkish glow over the horizon. The world was settling in for the night, and Almus was still sitting behind the stand. Waiting.

  It had been hours since the man left, coasting down the defunct highway in his swank Jeep, unaware of what he had in his possession. How much longer was he going to wait until he opened the tin? Even if the man from Australia didn’t believe what was inside the tin to be real, surely human curiosity would be getting the better of him by now.

  The waiting was killing Almus. Not literally, of course, but the caustic pain he had been enduring for thousands of sunsets was nothing now compared with the waiting.

  Hopefully, the pain would end tonight.

  As the sun was swapped for the moon, Almus lit the gas lamps and the purple landscape turned to blackness. He didn’t need the light, didn’t need the sign to be seen by a passing car now (not that many vehicles came by this stretch of highway anymore – that man had been a stroke of luck), but it did keep the creatures at bay, only if by sight.

  As the mosquitoes started swarming the light, Almus looked down at the crumpled money that lay on the table – a twenty and a ten – and smiled.

  He had thought thirty sounded like a fair enough price. The man had seemed willing enough to pay.

  More than willing, Almus thought, and wondered what the man had been hiding, what thing from his past was he running away from?

  Something to do with his wife, Almus figured. Dead? No. She was alive, Almus sensed. He had met a lot of people sitting by the side of the road, and none of them had bought what the man had. It takes a special kind of person to hand over their soul; someone hurting, lost.

  Almus knew about pain all too well.

  Not much longer, Almus hoped.

  He wasn’t particularly worried. He knew the man would open the tin eventually.

  Beside the man’s payment was another ten. Except this note was a lot older; Alexander Hamilton was fading and lines streaked the green paper like a cracked mirror. A reminder. As if he needed another one.

  Everything was cheaper in those days, Almus thought ruefully.

  He had really played up the country hick for the man from Australia. Almus wasn’t what you would call sophisticated, but he wasn’t quite the rube the man thought he was. It was all about the sale, and Almus had known what he needed to do and say to make it, without forcing the man to buy the tin.

  Night was in full bloom, and, right on schedule, the creatures started in chorus – wolves howled, foxes barked, owls hooted, crickets chirped.

  “I hear you,” Almus bellowed. “Hound me all you want to, I ain’t gonna budge.”

  He could tell – they all knew he was leaving tonight.

  He also knew that beyond the glow of the lamps, a thousand eyes stared at him, hating him, haunting him.

  Wishing they had what he had; or rather, that the man had bought one of their tins instead.

  Almus looked up at the hanging carcasses swamped with insects.

  The howls and hoots and hisses sounded like a symphony of scorn, but Almus didn’t care anymore; just like the constant pain that ebbed and flowed through his emaciated body, he would be rid of them soon.

  The back of his head where he had been shot caused him the most grief, but his body, where the car had run over him, also made it most uncomfortable for him to move without pain shooting through his body. There was nothing he could do or take for the pain; all he could do was what he had been doing for well over thirty years now – he waited.

  * * *

  Craig popped open a can of Coors Light and took a much-needed drink.

  The beer was too warm for his tastes, but it helped take the sting out of what Almus had unwittingly dredged up. Besides, after half a dozen more he wouldn’t care if it was tepid.

  Road kill for sale. Good ‘n’ fresh.

  Souls for sale.

  Christ, Craig thought.

  Rachel.

  Double Christ.

  He be
lched a combination of jerky, cheese and Snickers (which had been almost completely melted), then drank another can of beer. His tent was up, he had eaten, and as the night had grown cooler, had made a fire in the middle of the small clearing he had happened upon for the night’s camp. There was nothing left to do now but drown his memories and try and sleep.

  The night creatures called out to one another, their purpose known only to them. To Craig, their howls and hoots were mocking laughter. Somehow, they knew about Rachel, what she had become, how he had abandoned her. Knew about his stop at Almus’s. The tin he had bought. The sly smile that even now as he gazed into the licking orange flames he could see on that hick’s dog-ugly face.

  Thirty bucks! The animals were laughing to each other. The Aussie fool paid thirty smackers for an empty tin. Ha! What was he trying to prove? Who was he really buying it for? Himself? Hardly. What was he thinking? Fool. Ha!

  It was the hillbilly’s fault. Asking if he had a wife. Whose business was it of anyone’s but Craig’s? He had just started to get his life back. He was enjoying the open road, no responsibilities, no work, no wife…

  Now, that was all gone. All because of Almus.

  How was he to know? Craig thought. He didn’t know about Rachel, how she had changed. Didn’t know the kind of person she once was.

  Craig choked up, remembering her laughter – a sweet giggle that rolled into a belly of laughter.

  He finished the beer and wiped his eyes.

  The laughter grew less frequent, while the manic episodes slowly clouded her life. Oh sure, the doctors said she wasn’t manic, nor was she suffering from dementia.

  Yet they couldn’t explain her violent, abusive outbursts. Her hateful words, full of bad language she never, ever used to speak.

  Her entire outlook on life changed. The people around her, those she loved most, became her enemies – at least in her mind.

  Craig received most of her hate.

  “I wish I’d never met you” she would shout. “You damn fucking cunt! Our son would never have died if I had never met you!”

  Irrational.

  Their son had died during labor. It was hard for the both of them in the years that followed, but their love had held them strong like crazy glue.