Tales of Sin and Madness

by Brett McBean

  When Hartford spotted them on the corner, he let out a squeal of delight. Most of the street lamps had been smashed, but a few remained lit, and from the glare, he could see they were just what he was looking for. He pulled up alongside the two men and wound down his window. Hot, garbage-filled air blasted in.

  “Hey there,” the one wearing the purple fedora said. He wandered over to the car. The other stayed back, smoking a cigarette and scouting the neighbourhood for potential customers and cops.

  “You after a good time?” he said, leaning into the open window.

  “Sure,” Hartford said. “The best.”

  “Well you’ve come to the right place,” the man said, and giggled. “I’m the best in Queens. But you’re not a cop are you?”

  “A cop? Hell no,” Hartford said.

  “Well that’s good. I was hoping a cutie like you wasn’t no cop. That would’ve been a shame. So, what’re you after?”

  “I want the works,” Hartford said, remembering what the hooker had said to him last night.

  “Well that requires a lot of dough, baby.” The man straightened and looked over Hartford’s car. “You sure you can afford me?”

  “Sure,” Hartford said. “I can afford both of you.”

  “Both,” the man gasped. He scratched his black skin, a dubious look on his face. “Boy, how much cash have you got?”

  “A thousand,” Hartford said and showed him a thick stack of notes.

  “Well I’ll be,” the man said. “You just wait right there, honeybunch.”

  Hartford watched as the dude with the purple fedora hurried over to the man smoking the cigarette. He spoke to him for a short time, then they both came over. “You’ve got yourself two of the finest loving that money can buy,” purple fedora said. They hopped in and slammed the door. “Ooh, it’s nice and cool in here,” purple fedora said.

  In the rear-view mirror, Hartford could see the other man – solid and rather mean-looking. A complete contrast to the petite features of purple fedora.

  “You’re right,” the man with the cigarette said. “He is cute.”

  “So where’re we going?” purple fedora said. “To some great big penthouse in Manhattan?”

  “Afraid not,” Hartford said. “A regular house in Newark.”

  “Boy,” purple fedora said. “You sure are a long way from Kansas, Dorothy.”

  Hartford laughed. “Yeah. But the best men are found in Queens.”

  “Don’t you know it,” purple fedora giggled.

  “You’re kinda quiet, aren’t ya?” Hartford said to the smoker.

  The man wound down the window, tossed the cigarette stub out, then rolled the window back up. He shrugged.

  “My boy here is just shy. But he’s real good. You’ll see. He can suck cock like you wouldn’t believe. So, what’s your name, anyway?”

  “Just call me Ed.”

  “Ed huh?” purple fedora said. “Okay.”

  “And what’s yours?”

  “Just call me Tom.”

  “And what’s his? Dick or Harry?”

  Tom laughed. “I’ll let you find that out for yourself.”

  * * *

  Hartford was in the bathroom, naked and sticky with blood, gazing down at two severed heads. His arms were a little sore from the work last night, but he had powered through both men and had their heads off in less than two hours.

  It had gone a lot smoother than it had the previous night. Both men had happily gone into the bathroom (this time Hartford had told them he wanted them all to have a shower first), and stripped without hesitation or question. And neither of the men had put up a fight when, all naked and in the bathtub, Hartford had plunged two kitchen knives into their throats. They hadn’t put up a fight because they weren’t at all expecting it. One moment Hartford was bending down to grab some (nonexistent) condoms from the pockets of his pants; the next each man had a wooden handle sticking out of his jugular.

  It was as simple as that. And Hartford didn’t have to bother about performing any sexual acts. That sort of thing didn’t interest him in the slightest – he was much more excited about making his project.

  Now came the real messy work.

  He had found out last night just how messy stripping the skin off bodies was (cutting out the brain wasn’t exactly a charm, either). You not only had blood to contend with, but tissue, fat, and bone. Which, he had to be careful not to cut or chip in any way. He had been up all night and most of the morning working on the first part of his project. He then took a quick two-hour nap before spending the rest of the day stitching and sewing and cutting and fitting.

  He had become somewhat proficient during that time, and would only get better.

  So, with the razor-sharp scalpel clenched tightly in his hand, Hartford began slicing away the face of purple fedora.

  * * *

  It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Hartford finished the second part of his project. And he was very proud of his work. It had taken him less time to make three, than it had to make just one. The smaller ones he had made exactly the same as the first. As for the larger one, he had to strip the skin off the two bodies, as per usual, but this time he had to go further. He had to cut out the ribcage from one of the men. And that proved to be awkward, time consuming, and oh so messy. By the end, he had seemingly endless coils of intestines, some fatty livers, a heart, kidney, black sticky things that Hartford guessed were lungs, a stomach, piles of flesh, and a whole lot of gooey muck that didn’t seem to be anything.

  Hartford had vomited a few times from the rank stench, and he of course had to be careful when taking the ribcage out, as any damage to it would destroy the quality of the work, and he would have to go through it all again just to procure another ribcage. But it had all gone smoothly. And with his magic touch with a needle and thread, Hartford had constructed his best ever.

  It was drawing near. His project was almost complete.

  Night three – a Bass Act

  Hartford was too worn out to drive all the way to New York that night. Working almost non-stop for two days and nights, with about two hours sleep, had taken its toll. However, he wanted to finish his project. He longed to see and feel it.

  So he called two of his work mates (ex work mates now, Hartford thought with some bitterness) – Dave and Rochelle. Dave was his second cousin, a tall, lanky guy, funny, popular at work. Rochelle was attractive enough, was also popular at work, but not especially funny. They had been married for about two years now. He didn’t particularly like either one of them, but he had worked with them both for about five years, and Dave was a relative, so it was a sure bet they would come over. He figured it’d be a good time to settle some scores. Plus, he needed two spines.

  “Hi Dave.”

  “Hartford?”

  “Yeah, of course it’s me. How are ya?”

  “Yeah, fine. Ah, what’s up?”

  “You busy tonight, buddy? You and Rochelle?”

  There was murmuring in the background. Then: “Why?”

  “I thought maybe you two would like to come over for some drinks. Talk about what happened. Words were said in the heat of the moment, things I’m sure we all regret. It would be nice if we could all make up. I don’t want my old job back or anything. I just thought we could settle things. Whaddya say?”

  A long pause. Finally: “Ah, I guess. Okay. Sure. We’ll be over in an hour.”

  “Super. See you then.”

  * * *

  Just over an hour later, Dave and Rochelle turned up. “Evening Hartford,” Dave said.

  “It’s good to see you,” Rochelle said as she followed Dave into the house.

  “Glad you both could make it. Come in and sit down.” Hartford led them into the lounge room. Dave and Rochelle took a seat on the sofa. “Drinks?”

  “Please. I’ll have a whiskey. On the rocks.”

  “And I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Rochelle said.

  Hartford nodded, hurried over to the
drink cabinet and made the drinks. When he returned, Dave smiled up at him. “So. What’re you up to? Things going well?”

  “Can’t complain. Been working on a new project, as a matter of fact. Top secret, though. So I’m keeping busy.”

  “Is that so?” Dave said and took a sip of his drink.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ve got snacks in the kitchen. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  “Really, there’s no need,” Rochelle said.

  “No, it’s my pleasure.” Hartford hurried into the kitchen and grabbed the frying pan. He then strolled back.

  “Really, we’re not hun…” Dave started, but when he saw the pan raised in the air, he gasped.

  Hartford brought the pan down hard, and it cracked Dave’s head with a loud thong!

  As Dave flopped to the floor, Rochelle screamed and dropped the glass of gin and tonic. “OHMYGOD!!” she cried, and that was the last utterance she ever spoke.

  * * *

  There were a few annoyances Hartford had to deal with. Namely, cleaning the small amount of blood that had soaked into the carpet, dragging the two bodies into the bathroom and taking off their clothes. He found these tasks menial and uninteresting. But, as he was too tired to bother about getting a prostitute, they were unavoidable.

  After doing those bothersome jobs, Hartford settled down to the real work. He hacked off their heads and sawed off the tops (Dave had a real big head, which was perfect for Hartford’s needs). Then he opened up their chests and stomachs and tore out all their organs. He didn’t mind the mess and smell anymore. And he didn’t even vomit once. Finally he had Dave and Rochelle’s spinal cords. He held one up and tested its elasticity. It bent nicely.

  “Sensational,” Hartford muttered and felt a warm tingle surge through his naked body.

  He washed himself off in the shower, just to cool off, then took a long drink of Sprite.

  Next he sliced off the skin. And as with all the other times, he only cut the skin from the torso: this had the most surface area, therefore was the most useful. When he had four gory slabs of skin (one complete with two saggy breasts), Hartford scrubbed them free of all flesh, tendons and blood, then dried them using the hair dryer. He took the two spines, the slabs of yellow, wrinkled skin and the two skull tops into his work shed. In there he also had hordes of leg and arm bones, three more skull tops and two spines he got from the hooker and purple fedora. He spent the rest of the night and early morning making the final parts of his project.

  * * *

  By seven o’clock he was finished. Done hammering the final nail into the leg bone, he fell back into his chair and cried. They were tears of exhaustion, but mostly they were tears of happiness, because he was finally going to have one. All he had to do was put all the pieces together, and then it would be over. Well, not quite. He still had one more thing to do. But that could wait.

  So, wiping the tears from his blood-streaked face, he gathered all the parts and took them into the house, into his special room. Afterwards he got dressed, stuffed all the remains of Dave and Rochelle into a garbage bag and carted them outside. Along with all the other remains, which he had kept in his shed, he built a huge fire in his backyard.

  He stood and watched the blaze for about an hour, transfixed by the glorious and soothing motions of the flames. And to him, the rancid odour of cooking flesh was the nicest smell in the world.

  Finally, after stacking more wood on the fire, Hartford headed inside. He took a shower, cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, and with a can of Sprite in his hand, sat down in the chair by the phone.

  * * *

  Frank Wainwright stepped out of his car, slammed the door then turned and gazed at the house. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered and coughed. “This is freakin’ nuts.”

  He threw his cigar to the pavement, hitched up his pants and headed for the front door.

  Ten years, he thought. It’s been ten damn years and then what? A damn phone call. Son-of-a-bitch wants to see me.

  He shuffled up the steps and stood by the door. And waited. And coughed. Was he really ready for this? Did he really want to see him after all this time?

  Then why did you drive all the way over here? You’re curious, that’s why. Haven’t seen your boy in ten years.

  He took a shallow, phlegm-filled breath then rapped on the door.

  Maybe he’s broke. Needs some cash. Yeah, that’s probably it. Got no friends, so who does he call? His dear old dad.

  The door opened and Hartford smiled out at him. “Dad! It’s good to see you.”

  Frank nodded. He wanted to say: Jesus Christ, but held back. His son looked terrible. Sagging eyes, pale complexion and a gaunt face. He was barely recognisable.

  “Come in, Dad.”

  Frank stepped inside the darkened house. The door shut behind him. “You could use some light in here, Hartford. A bit of fresh air, too.”

  Frank’s senses weren’t exactly in tiptop form, but even his crusty old nose could detect some strange smell underneath the thin layer of pine-scented cleaner.

  Christ, he’s really let himself go, Frank thought.

  “So I was surprised when you called me. I was watching the game. Didn’t even know who it was for a moment.”

  “Yeah, it has been a while, hasn’t it Dad.”

  “Please, call me Frank.” He coughed.

  “You sick? Because you look well, Dad. I’m sorry, Frank.”

  “Ah, you know. Just the perks of getting old. You’re looking well, too. Keeping busy and all that?”

  Hell this is awkward, Frank thought. He would much rather be at home, getting drunk, watching the tube. He didn’t even know why Hartford wanted to see him. To catch up? To try and mend broken ties?

  “Yeah. I’ve got things to keep me busy. But my life isn’t all work. Matter of fact, I had Dave and Rochelle over last night for some drinks.”

  “Dave and Rochelle? You mean your cousin Dave and his wife?”

  Hartford nodded.

  What the fuck? Frank thought. He knew that Hartford had been fired from that tailoring place a month ago. Apparently Dave and Rochelle fired him for constantly being late and not working hard enough. Well at least that’s what Charlene had told him. It was the last time he had spoken with her before she died.

  Why would he want to have them over for drinks? Frank wondered, but he found he didn’t care. There were more pressing matters that needed to be dealt with.

  “Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, Hartford. But why did you call me? Why did you want to see me after all this time?”

  Hartford grinned. Frank was reminded of a skeleton.

  “I’m glad you asked. There’s something I want to show you.”

  Hartford led Frank down the gloomy house, to some double doors. He stopped. He turned and faced Frank. His face had suddenly become hard and distant, a remarkable change from the sickly skeleton of just a few moments ago. “You remember when I wanted that drum kit, and you wouldn’t let me? How I asked and pleaded, but you refused?”

  Frank nodded.

  “How I cried and cried? Mom wanted me to have one, told me I could. But you refused and said no.”

  “You were only ten,” Frank said and coughed. “That was twenty years ago. Why are you bringing it up now?”

  Hartford smiled, turned and flung open the doors. “Well I have one now, Daddy.”

  Frank stepped into the room. And in that room, lighted by reds and yellows and blues, he saw pictures covering the wall – all photos, and of a woman at different ages. It didn’t sink into Frank’s head straightaway, but when it did, it felt like he had been punched in the stomach. Every picture was of Charlene.

  “Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered and turned away from the shrine to Hartford’s mother, to the exhibit that sat in the middle of the room. Garish lights at the back lit its grotesque form. “Jesus Christ,” he said again, this time in a soft, high voice.

  Hartford came around and sat behind the –

  What the fuck is th
at!

  - and grinned. “Do you like it? I made it all by myself. You see, Daddy, I finally have a drum kit.”

  Frank took one look at the cymbals made from shards of skull, mounted on leg bones; drums that were made from human skins, pulled tight over laughing skulls; and the large bass drum that had two dried, wrinkled breasts hanging at the front, and vomited. He staggered to the doors, but they were locked.

  “You’re not leaving. I need an audience for my maiden performance,” Hartford called.

  Frank wiped the spittle from his mouth, turned and looked at his son through bleary eyes. Hartford picked up two whittled arm bones, twirled them between his fingers and began to play.

  NOTES:

  This is one of my early stories, written years ago as a tribute to three of my favourite subjects (for lack of a better term): serial killers (in this case, specifically Ed Gein), seedy New York movies (like Taxi Driver and Driller Killer), and, of course, drumming (I have a degree in music, majoring in drums/percussion).

  And no, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never been tempted to make a drum kit like the one in the story, but I do wonder how it would sound like when played…

  THE SCARY PLACE

  “Hey kiddo, wanna help me mow the lawn?”

  This was the day I had been waiting for.

  “Really? You mean it?” I said, gazing up at Dad wide-eyed.

  Dad, standing by my bedroom door, smiled, then nodded. He was wearing his usual weekend gardening clothes: old ripped jeans, faded blue flannelette shirt, and his thinning silver hair was concealed under a much loved Collingwood Magpies football hat.

  I tossed aside the computer magazine I had been lazily flicking through, jumped off the bed and followed Dad through the house, down to the back door. Mum was out food shopping, so there was an air of mischief, of naughty boys doing naughty things. I knew this wasn’t true, I knew Dad would have discussed me helping him mow with Mum, but it was far more fun to pretend that we were doing this behind her back, that we were carrying out some important secret mission.