Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre
11 Stories of Fear, Obsession and Killer Clowns Edited by Tim Lieder
Dybbuk Press
http://www.dybbuk-press.com
New York, NY
Copyright © Dybbuk Press, LLC
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Dybbuk Press, 516 W 188th Street, Ste 25, New York, NY 10040.
Library of Congress Control Number:2005932130
ISBN: 0-9766546-0-1
First Edition: May 2005
"Doof Doof Doof" copyright © 2005 by Paul Haines
"Peppercorn Rent" copyright © 2005 by Roberta Rogow "Rats. Wrong Alley" copyright © 2005 by Tim Johnson "Brilliant Suspension" copyright © 2005 by Trina Shealy Orton "Blue Elephants" copyright © 2005 by Jenifer Jourdanne "Hermetic Crab" copyright © 2005 by Cameron Hill
"Formaldehyde" copyright © 2005 by C.C. Parker
"Head Drippers" copyright © 2005 by the estate of Hugh Thomas Smith
"Clob" copyright © 2005 by Michael Stone
"Something Funny is Going On" copyright © 2005 by Brian Rosenberger
"Berries Under Snow" copyright © 2005 by William Brock
Cover Art by Amanda Rehagen
Table of Contents
Formaldehyde by C.C. Parker 7
Doof Doof Doof by Paul Haines 13
Peppercorn Rent by Roberta Rogow 21
Rats, Wrong Alley by Tim Johnson 45
Brilliant Suspension by Trina Shealy Orton 57
Blue Elephants by Jenifer Jourdanne 61
Hermetic Crab by Cameron Hill 81
Head Drippers by Rob Steussi 99
Something Funny is Going On 111 by Brian Rosenberger
Clob by Michael Stone 117
Berries Under Snow by William Brock 135
Formaldehyde by C. C. Parker
Everything was leaking out of him; out of every pore. Terry was pretty fucking sick. Bad mushrooms. Bad high. He got outside just fast enough so as to not puke on his brother's carpet. Just the thought color swirling around his brain made him sick; made him think of Salvador Dali, Francis Bacon, Picasso. He'd wanted to be a painter himself at one time, but it had never been enough to sustain him.
"Shit, man . . . you okay?"
Terry hadn't seen Carl standing there.
"Too many," he said. "I told you."
"Fuck you, Carl!"
"Yeah . . . whatever."
"No, I mean it."
Terry left on one of his classic walks. He did this
often when he was either too high or depressed to deal with the real world . . . not that Carl was a very good example. Carl was three years older than Terry, which really didn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference. When he came back Carl was watching a Bill Hicks video: Sane Man.
"Where'd you go?"
"I don't know . . . everywhere."
"You know what I thought about," said Carl. "When
you were gone?"
"What?"
"That time in school when you refused to dissect
that worm."
"It was a living thing," explained Terry.
"It was a worm shit-fuck."
"Bill Hicks is dead in ninety-four. Same as Kurt
Cobain. The day the music died."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" "That was the year."
Carl sprawled on the couch reading a battered horror novel. It made Terry think about all the stories his brother used to read him when they were kids. Mostly, they were stories about zombies; flesh eating bitches that sucked the brains out of their victims.
"You still reading that shit," he said.
"Fuck, dude . . . you scared me."
"I've only been standing there for the last five
minutes."
"How you feeling?"
"A little queasy, still . . . I probably should force
some food down."
"There's should be some juice . . . or beer, if you
want."
Terry knew some dude in high school who thought
he was a zombie. Lance Freed. Typical small town bullshit.
He got busted for digging a body out of the graveyard with
this metal head tweaker – Jack or Brad or who cares. They
were both on acid. They cut the woman's head off, stuck a
broom handle through her neck and set off across town in
Lance’s Camaro with it stuck out the window.
Terry sat on the couch with a red tumbler between
his legs. Carl loaded a bowl, after he put on a Simpsons
tapes. Terry'd been taping them since the second season. "You were kind of out of your head last night." "You were right."
"Fuck yeah, I was."
"All I could think about when I woke up was the
worm."
"Jesus, I don't remember."
"You don't remember mentioning the worm?" "Maybe."
"You ever smell formaldehyde?"
"You mean the shit coroners use to keep bodies
fresh."
"The very same."
"Sure . . . What about it?"
"I could smell it last night. Like some kind of a
relapse."
"Relapse to what?"
"The worm."
"Fuck man."
Terry like the way the Simpsons looked as a
backdrop. He couldn’t say much for reality these days.
Maybe if he gave painting a serious shot it would make
sense. Maybe not.
Just because he wouldn't kill a fucking worm.
"I gotta get out here," said Terry. "I told mom I'd go to the store for her."
"When are you gonna finally get your own place?"
"When there's a reason."
"Isn't not having to live with mom reason enough."
"I could move in with you."
"Bullshit, fucker . . . I earned my sovereignty."
"It's Alex that I get sick of." Alex, their step dad. Their real dad died in a logging accident when Terry was eleven. It had been the year of the worm. The same year that Lance Freed crept into the Marshfield Cemetery and dug Harriet Banks out of the ground. The year of the zombie.
"I started painting that year."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Fuck, Terry . . . you need to dip your stick into some pussy or something. You’re starting to worry me."
"I'll see you."
"Late."
On the way home, Terry half promised himself to quit doing so many drugs, but he was just bullshitting himself. Drugs helped sink him deeper into the abyss of himself. Stupid. He was stupid forever wanting to quit.
His mom was resting on the couch when he walked in.
"Terry," she said "I was half asleep."
"Sorry."
"Are you ready to go to the store."
"I guess."
"What do you mean 'I guess?'"
"Fine."
"I made a list." She got up awkwardly and lumbered to the kitchen. Her breath lingered heavy behind her. "If you want beer you'll have to buy it."
"What about Alex?"
"He wants you to take care of your own beer from now on."
"But he's always smoking my weed."
She handed him the list, which he crushed.
"What are you doing?"
"It's okay." He stuffed it in his pocket. She handed him three twenties.
"Can I at least get some cigarettes?"
"Only one pack."
/> Terry drove his mom's station wagon into town. Marshfield High School blurred past on his right, the cemetery settled gray beside it. His mother's breath had smelled like formaldehyde.
Safeway's door slid open. Seven cash registers rattled endlessly. It looked like the end of the world. People's carts were heaped with bounty; they would be back in a week, and the week after that . . . unless something stopped them. Maybe he had missed something; a holiday, a war . . . anything that caused so much confusion and avarice. It was Saturday. That's all that he could think of.
He brought the items home and set them on the table.
"Your brother called," said his mom.
"All right."
"Carl?"
"Hey, man."
"Mom said you called."
"I was just think about all that worm shit."
"What about it?"
"You said I mentioned it last night, but I don't remember."
"Did you eat more?"
"Nah."
"I don't know what to say."
"They use that stuff you were talking about on dead worms too; before they're dissected."
"Do you remember a dude named Lance Freed?"
"The guy that dug up that old lady and sliced her head off. He used to mow her lawn. I think maybe he was in love with her."
"That's fucked, man."
"A lot of shit is."
"Did you ever talk to him or anything?"
"Nah . . . he was a couple grades under me."
"So."
"I don't know . . . he seemed pretty fucking strange. I heard he used to crack the skulls of cats and suck out their brains."
"Fuck, Carl."
"You asked?"
"Whatever happened to him?"
"He killed himself, man . . . a week before they were going to put him away."
Terry remembered hearing something like it; a null extension of the eternal rumor. It seemed like bullshit; like the stuff in Carl's books. It wasn't.
"Do you believe in Zombies, Carl?"
"Nah."
"Cool . . . late."
"Late."
Click.
Doof Doof Doof by Paul Haines
“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” she murmured, pretending to pick a piece of fluff from off his coat, “but I think I’m falling in love with you.”
She left her hand upon his arm after she finished speaking, stroking him with short, delicate movements.
“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear those words,” he said, as blood soared throughout his veins. He swam deep into the green grass of her eyes. The scent of her body, her perfume strong and seductive, her lips soft, red and full, her hair gold and shining in this perfect summer afternoon.
She moved closer, pressing against him, her bosom firm but yielding against his chest. He fought to control and hide his instant reaction.
She smiled shyly, moving her mouth inches from his own and whispered “Would it be too much to ask for a kiss?”
An orchestra of a thousand fluting birds piped into his brain, almost dizzy, blood rushing behind his eyes.
“Of course, my beloved Little Red Riding Hood,” he replied, bending towards her, preparing finally to taste her tongue, to drink the sweet nectar from her lips.
“Oh, but wait,” she said, stepping back from his arms. “Listen. Can you hear it?”
A low doof-doof-doof grew louder and louder, until the sound surrounded them, overwhelmingly powerful and deafening. Little Red Riding Hood began to dance wildly, throwing her arms and legs around maniacally, pumping her body to the beat.
Doof-Doof-Doof!
“I love this song!” she said jerking her head up and down. “Sorry Wolfie, gotta dance, Ciao!”
“Nnnooooo!!!!” screamed the Wolf. “Wait, wait! I’m so close, she loves me, she finally loves - “
Wolf awoke to the ceiling fan above him shuddering to the doof-doof heavy bass of music thudding through the walls of his apartment, the ecstasy of his dream ripped quickly from his head.
His raging hard-on rapidly failed as he glanced despondently towards his alarm clock.
“It’s three in the fuckin' mornin',” he growled, climbing out of bed and throwing on a beaten old yellow bathrobe he’d stolen from Papa Bear’s place a few months ago. And in case he had to venture out, he whipped on his kippa, and had to adjust the skullcap slightly as it slid upon his bald patch.
He bleared his way towards the kitchen, flicked on the light, grabbed a broom and beat futilely on the ceiling against the bubblegum squeak chanting soullessly to the thudding beats.
Ooh Baby, boogie baby, yeah yeah yeah,
Everybody, everyone, yeah yeah yeah.
“Turn that shit down!” he screamed, bashing the ceiling with the broom again, punching little round holes into the plaster.
Ooh baby, yeah baby, yeah yeah yeah.
Wolf shook his head in despair, eyeing the half eaten chickens strewn around his lounge floor, the beard of mould that grew stubbornly and silently across his kitchen bench, and his grubby, disheveled, barely rooted-on, double-bed. This wasn’t the best place in the world, hell all it needed was some new wallpaper really and maybe a bit of a clean, but this was where he called home. His fucking home for Christ’s sake! All he could afford if he wanted to live anywhere near Little Red Riding, who had the Penthouse suite in the very same building.
“But I can’t fuckin” stalk her if I can’t get any fuckin” sleep!” he yelled, pounding the ceiling.
Doof doof doof.
Yeah baby yeah baby
“Fuck you!” he howled, swinging the broom into the cordless phone on the wall next to Miss December. It splintered into little black pieces of plastic across the brown and orange checkered lino. He’d been disconnected last week for not paying his bill.
Not much satisfaction though.
Doof doof doof.
Not much at all.
He opened the cupboard beneath the sink. Shoving aside some old plates caked in grime, he found a fried egg sporting greenish veins over the yolk. Pleasantly surprised, he peeled it from the congealed fat in the roasting dish and popped it into his mouth and then pulled out his trusty crowbar from behind garbage bags he’d filled and discarded some weeks back.
He felt reassured with the cold weight in his hand. Made of tungsten too. Heavy duty, twice the cost and worth every cent. He knew where that beat was coming from.
Wolf stormed out of his apartment, slamming the door behind him. He marched up the stairs to the third floor, nostrils flaring, a mistake as the stairwell stunk of stale dwarf vomit and piss. Those little bastards must have crept in through the fire escape door again.
He threw open the third floor entry door and stomped down the hallway towards the noise. For sure, this time he would be the hero.
Doof doof doof.
This sort of carry-on was unacceptable, especially mid-week. Good God, this racket would even wake Little Red Riding Hood, asleep in her Penthouse suite. Maybe she’d thank him for this later, this heroic deed of his. Yeah, maybe she would.
Christ, he’d almost kissed her. And then that bloody music had woken him up just as he - just as – it was just too much.
Wolf watched the walls vibrating as he stood outside the guilty apartment. On the wooden door a gold plaque proclaimed to the world “412”. Big gold lock. Tiny silver peephole.
He thumped on the door.
Doof doof doof.
He thumped again trying to thump his thumps between the drumbeat, but the bpms were too fast.
“Little Pig, Little Pig,” Wolf yelled, cracking the crowbar against the door, “Let me come in!”
The music grew louder.
“Right then,” he muttered under his breath, and swung the crowbar into the door. This baby would even rip through brick. Special designs for special purposes. He grinned, and swung again. The door splintered and Wolf laughed, ripping away large strips of wood with the crowbar, his energy high, his blood boiling.
And behind the wooden door stood another, a door of thick solid steel. Cold, hard, unrelenting steel. Impenetrable.
Wolf stood there stunned; defeat rose in his mind, eroding the anger infused in his limbs. He howled and beat upon the steel door with the last of his strength, steel on steel clanging, bouncing from wall to wall down the hallway, staccato with his sobbing.
Broken, Wolf ceased his hammering and faced the distant stairwell. It’s what’s always happened, he thought bitterly. To his father, to his grandfather, and to his father before him. An endless cycle of losers, eventually beaten down and whipped.
Suddenly the volume went down. He heard bolts being drawn from behind thick inches of steel. It opened silently, ominously and a high pitched voice squealed from behind it.
“Hey guys, I think the pizzas are here.”
A savage grin crept across Wolf’s visage.
A pig wearing a bright blue shirt thrust his head out the door. His eyes were unfocused, the pupils dilated.
“Hey, you ain’t the pizza guy!” said Stupid Pig.
Wolf saw flecks of white powder crystallizing in the snot dripping from Stupid Pig’s nostrils. He remembered smashing down Stupid Pig’s wire-mesh fly-screen door last year and beating the shit out of him for late night drug parties. Thought he’d fucked off since then.
“Nope, I’m not the pizza guy, but I got something for you anyway,” Wolf growled, pushing Stupid Pig back through the doorway and clubbing him around the head with the crowbar.
Stupid Pig fell to the floor, already unconscious, and Wolf put in the boot until blood leaked from Stupid Pig’s ears.
Feeling invincible, Wolf strode into the room and stopped speechless, his heart frozen, the scene in the room burned in his brain. His first instinct was to tear them limb from limb, but he knew he couldn’t. It wasn’t allowed according to the scriptures.
Little Pig lay grinning, sprawled naked on the rotating king-size four-poster bed. He was handcuffed to the headposts. Little Red Riding Hood, clad only in her satin red cloak, kneeled over him, her head bobbing up and down over Little Pig’s groin. Little Pig squealed in delight thrusting upwards, ever upwards.
Fat Pig grunted frantically, thrusting his fat little hips against Little Red Riding Hood’s arse as he fucked her from behind. His body was slick with sweat, he looked like he had been at it for a long time.
Wolf could hear Little Red Riding Hood moaning with every thrust, as Fat Pig porked her, and Wolf threw up over himself and began choking.
“What the fuck?” said Little Pig, noticing Wolf for the first time.
Teddy Bear Cannibal Massacre Page 1
