Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

by Ochse, Weston

  The skinhead’s eyes were crazy with fear as he watched Davey’s every movement.

  Coleman stood and glanced around the clearing.

  “I wished we didn’t have to carry this boy all the way in.”

  “You can wish all you want,” said Davey. “John Henry likes his privacy.” He cocked his head and picked up the far sound of a howl. “Do ya really blame him?”

  A savage zest of unearthly howling raged from the roaring maw of a house that appeared to grow like a tangle of wood from amidst a mound of carefully collected junk. The brown-gray boards vibrated and the black plastic garbage bags, taped over windowless frames, puffed in and out with frustrated rage.

  An old man sat on the second step of the three-step porch, leaning back on elbows, feet kicked out. He stared at the approaching boys. The only movement was his left foot keeping beat to an internal song, the switch on his hearing aid turned to off.

  They came dragging their burden by his arms, heels drawing snake-like furrows that surely traveled back the two miles to the car. As they approached, Coleman smiled and nodded twice. Davey patted the large swastika tattooed on the head between them.

  “‘Bout time you boys made it around. Vivi’s getting righteous. Done scared the dogs away thinking I’d have to send them in, instead.”

  “You won’t believe where we found this one, John Henry,” said Davey, yelling over the demonic noise and making sure to look directly at the old man when he talked.

  “Yeah, he was shit-kicking the hell out of this black dude right in the middle of Martin Luther King Boulevard. Old Hitler here was acting like Mike Tyson at a Beauty Pageant and he never even saw Davey get him. Ain’t that right, Hitler?” asked Coleman, wrapping hard on the man’s head.

  The skinhead’s eyes bulged like a road-kill cat as he stared at the open door of the house, entirely unable to fathom the source of the sound. A pool of yellow began to mix with the mud below him.

  “That’s not fair, Coleman. It wasn’t like I snuck up on him. If he’d been paying attention he could have blocked the crowbar.” Davey cast a wounded glance at his friend.

  “Aw shit. Looky here. Old Hitler soiled hisself”

  Davey glared at the limp form between them like a mother to a child and whipped his fist into the face—five, ten times.

  “Hey, Boy! This here’s the home of John Henry Wordsworth and it ain’t polite to take a crap without first askin’,” said Davey, leaning close in so the man could hear him over the noise.

  John Henry reached over and mussed Davey’s thick mop of brown hair. “Remember, Son. There is nothing neither good or bad. It’s thinking it that makes it so,” said John Henry, standing up and digging his hands in his pockets. “I got yer money. And I swear, if you’d taken any longer I was gonna have to find where the dogs had gotten to.”

  “What you gonna do when I leave?” asked Davey, his face a little sad.

  “Fear not, my boy. Hunting season’s in two months and will provide a supply to last old Vivi through the winter. I’ll miss ya, but don’t you worry.”

  John Henry scratched his beard and leaned down to look into the skinhead’s rheumy eyes. He pulled out a wickedly long knife and lifted the man’s chin up with the tip to get a better view.

  “Let’s see who we have here. Coleman, run and get the chair.”

  The muscular boy let go of his burden and the skinhead immediately sagged to the ground. Davey let his side go, as well, and wiped his hands on the sides of his pants, upset about the dirt and blood that had soiled them. Coleman scampered around the side of the house and picked through a spiky pile of junk. He returned a few minutes later with a grimy chair, made from white PVC tubing.

  John Henry cut the tape around the wrists and ankles and the boys levered the captive heavily into the chair. Within moments, the skinhead’s wrists were retaped to the chair’s arms, his ankles to its legs, and his forehead to a length of pipe that protruded two feet up from the back of the chair.

  “Let’s see if he can talk,” said John Henry, glancing at Davey.

  The gangly boy grasped the edge of the tape and jerked it free. The skinhead immediately broke out into a scream, bubbles of blood popping through the ruined mouth and floating gently down to the dusty earth. As loud as he was, it was a mere undertone to the rage blasting from the house. Still, Coleman brought his boot up and into the man’s stomach, cutting off the scream in mid-terror.

  John Henry leaned in, knelt down and perched an elbow on the skinhead’s leg. “Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once. So why don’t you be our little Prince Valiant and just stop yer yammerin’. Stop worrying what’s going on with old Vivi and pay attention to what’s going on here.” He locked eyes with the man and spoke to the boys. “Check his wallet?”

  Davey dug deep in his back pocket and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet. Flipping it open, he said, “Lemme see. He’s got eleven dollars, a few business cards. Hey. Here’s a coupon for two-for-one subs.” He shoved the coupon and the money into his pocket and glanced happily at Coleman. “Finder’s keepers. Okay, he also has a rubber. Says, ribbed and lubricated.”

  “Maybe that means he’s a clean one,” said Coleman.

  “That would be nice for a change. Sure make Vivi happy,” said John Henry.

  “Okay, here it is,” said Davey, pulling out the driver’s license. He looked from the license to the skinhead and back to the license several times. “Ha. You know I think he looks better bald. His name is Edwin James Roomer. Edwin. I think Hitler is more fitting.”

  “Come on, Davey. Get on with it,” said Coleman, tracing his finger back and forth across the swastika design on the man’s head.

  “Sorry man. Says he’s not an organ donor. Not very considerate of him. Also says he’s AB negative.” He looked excitedly at John Henry who had broken into a smile. “Hey! That’s her favorite, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is,” said Coleman, who had been looking hard at Davey as he spoke. “I think it’s time to ask him a few questions. Get something to clean his mouth out, will ya, Coleman? There’s too much blood for me to get a good gander at what he’s saying.”

  Coleman scampered off again, but only went as far as the porch before he returned with a large Mason jar of clear liquid.

  “Is this okay, John Henry?” he asked breathlessly. “Alcohol kills germs on contact, right?”

  John Henry nodded. “So they say. So they say. It’s some nasty shit anyway. Just some more of that old Bloodsucker Special.”

  Coleman poured the white lightning over the skinhead’s face, making sure to get a liberal amount into the cracked and broken mouth. A reciprocal scream erupted immediately, but it took a few moments before it crescendoed enough to be heard over the already agonizing din from the house. The skinhead tossed his head back and forth, his eyes rolling up and arms struggling to rise as if to wipe the blistering toxin clear of his wounds. His legs undulated and his entire frame rose in an arced bow that only returned to the chair after Davey’s fist buried itself into the man’s sternum. It took several moments before the skinhead finally swooned back into fearful reality.

  His eyes had locked once again on the howling door and it wasn’t until John Henry had tapped the knife on the man’s forehead several times that he looked at the old man kneeling, once again, before him. A thin rivulet of blood ran the length of skinhead’s nose and dripped like an hourglass.

  “Listen to what I have to say, boy. It’s important. Do I have your attention?”

  It took two more pokes of the knife before the skinhead nodded.

  “What were you doin’ beating on that black man?”

  The skinhead blinked twice, his bloody, cracked lips trembling.

  “Come on, Son. You gotta answer the question.”

  The skinhead tried to struggle, but stopped after a few small attempts. His body sagged in the chair, as if it realized, finally, that it couldn’t escape. He struggled to speak and it t
ook him several tries before the words formed successfully.

  “I didn’t really mean to hurt him bad. I was just... ”

  “Now, Now. There’s no reason to be making up stories. No reason at all. You don’t want to meet your maker with a lie on your lips, now do ya?” asked John Henry, standing up stiffly.

  He shoved the knife back in the sheath dangling from his leather belt. He stepped back and appraised his prize, huddled and small in the chair. He ran his hands through his thick mane of wild silver hair and knelt down once again.

  “You have one chance. One chance in the world to save yourself. Are you ready?” asked John Henry.

  The skinhead nodded, his head picking up pace until it threatened to come free from the body.

  “Alright. Here it is. Tell me a riddle.”

  John Henry, Coleman and Davey stared at the Skinhead, expectant looks on each face. The skinhead blinked several times and tried to speak but each time stopped, as if to reconsider these words of life importance. It wasn’t until the tears began to pour freely that he spoke.

  “My mother... my mother, she loved me,” he said simply.

  Coleman and Davey glanced at each other, faces creased with sadness.

  John Henry reached up and stroked the boy’s cheek. “Yep. That’s certainly a riddle.”

  He stood and craned his neck towards the house and held it there for several ponderous seconds before he turned back to the skinhead. He sighed and looked hard at each boy. “Davey, Coleman. Grab the chair, let’s take it inside. Vivi’s waiting.”

  The skinhead screamed. “You told me it was a riddle. You told me it was a riddle. You said I had a chance!”

  “You did, my boy. But you see, everyone has that riddle.”

  The skinhead’s screams merged with the roar from the house as the boys carried the chair up the porch steps, Coleman behind and guiding. The warped wood was most surely groaning beneath their feet, but the sounds went unheard. Coleman turned and shouted something to Davey, but, this close to the house, it was lost in the hurricane of screams.

  Davey understood though and head-butted the struggling skinhead. The boys halted by the front door and waited for John Henry, who inched his way past, crossed himself twice and then stepped over the threshold.

  The interior was a museum of peeling wallpaper, faded furniture and mustiness. As with the windows, picture frames and mirrors hung glassless along the vibrating walls. The boys could feel the tremors in the floor, now, and tightened their grips on the chair. Their steps became smaller as they edged along the hall. At the head of the basement stairs, they stopped completely. Each cast terrified looks at the darkness below, the wind of a thousand screams pushing their hair back like a hot desert wind. The corrupt stench wrapped them in a cloying grasp and began to tease Davey’s dinner forth. He gulped three times, his mouth sandpaper dry. Descending the stairs was always like a descent into hell. Halfway down, the skinhead came to.

  Then he fainted.

  They could feel Vivi’s bulk before they could see. Her presence displaced air and space, adding claustrophobia to the list of fears she induced. John Henry snapped on a heavy-duty plastic flashlight and the boys dropped the skinhead when Vivi came into view.

  The chair landed upright, then flipped sideways, falling hard to the dirt floor. Out of the corner of his eye, Davey saw the skinhead awaken and his mouth open in an unheard scream. Then Davey joined him.

  It took several moments, but Davey gained control of his own mouth and gazed upon Vivi. There were still vestiges of humanity — bulges of flesh where arms should be, a foot peeking out from the great press of fat and a single blue eye. But it stopped there. Her flesh flowed from the far corner in great putrid waves until they covered almost the entire basement. Her head, impossibly large, leaned against the building’s foundation. Vivi’s mouth hung open — a gaping maw, easily three feet wide, from which the greatest of the screaming chorus came.

  As the beam of John Henry’s flashlight worked its way over the body, the boys saw the hundreds of other screaming mouths, lips peeled back in agony. Each mouth set within the flesh of her immense body, part of it. Each one screamed in a different key, completing the unrelenting chorus of rage..

  John Henry turned and fixed the beam of light on the skinhead. The boys turned shakily and quickly sliced the tape. Their prisoner made no move to run. His limbs were no longer his to control as they spasmed with fear. The boy’s grabbed him by two limp arms and tossed him onto Vivi’s flesh. The effect was instantaneous.

  Silence.

  Unreal, complete silence.

  The skinhead began slowly to move towards Vivi’s still- wide maw, each mouth gripping the body and propelling it incrementally forward. The process took several minutes until the skinhead had been moved to the head where he was able to stare into Vivi’s depths. But the mouths continued their urging and first his head, then his torso, and finally his feet disappeared until the skinhead was swallowed hole.

  John Henry walked back to the boys, righted the chair and sat down heavily. He flipped a cigarette into his mouth, lit it and sighed.

  “Too bad really,” he said. “The boy had promise.”

  Davey and Coleman could only stare as the mouths along the body opened and shut as if each was tasting — or chewing.

  John Henry finished his cigarette and snuffed it out with two fingers. He placed the butt in his pocket and stood.

  The tension in the room was mounting. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane and each boy knew the violence would continue with redoubled efforts.

  The sound began as a thin whine, something far away and barely heard. It grew louder and louder. The boys stared at the waves of flesh and with a pop another mouth appeared, screaming its rage to the world — its singular tone, deep and new. The new mouth screamed a monotone lament for a full minute before the hundreds of other mouths joined it in an ear shattering blast of loss. A blast of sound that would continue, until the next member of the unholy choir was delivered.

  Them Bats is Smart, They Use Radar

  by David Whitman

  Judd had fallen asleep a few hours earlier, a can of Budweiser in one hand, the pussy stick clutched firmly in the other. He sat in his chair and fingered the stick, his thoughts on having a good time later that night with Max and the Butler brothers-Kenny Joe and Bailey.

  Feeling the urge to pee, he got up and trudged over to the bathroom, scratching his ass as he walked. Max would arrive in about ten minutes, so it was probably a good time to get ready. He walked over to the toilet and lifted up the seat before unzipping his fly.

  He reached down to grab his penis and his hand came away empty.

  He stood rigid, feeling like someone had stuck a five-foot long, icy rod up his ass, eyes widening as he stopped breathing. Afraid to look, he slowly brought his hand back down into his jeans and felt around. His fingers traveled through his thick pubic hair, but where his penis should have been there was only a moist wrinkle of skin. Although he hadn’t had any in a year, he knew it was a pussy.

  “Hey Judd, how’s it going?” Max asked from the bathroom door, causing Judd to shriek and wrench his hands from his jeans.

  “You almost gave me a fucking heart attack!” Judd howled.

  Max pulled at his perfectly trimmed mustache and grinned. “Jesus! You screamed just like a woman.”

  Judd stiffened, the words hitting a little closer to home than they were intended. “I did not!” Realizing how high his voice sounded, he repeated his words, much deeper this time. “I did not.”

  “Did too.”

  Judd remembered stealing the pussy stick from the old voodoo woman while he did yard work and he shuddered. It was supposed to guarantee pussy. How could he not have stolen it?

  “Max, you take that shit back now, or we’re gonna be wrestling right here in this bathroom,” Judd said, being careful to keep his voice as manly as possible.

  Max studied his friend. “What the hell is up your ass?” />
  Judd decided he needed help. “Max, remember when I got bit by that snake and you sucked the poison out?”

  Max sighed. “Yeah. Let’s not bring that shit up again, though. It’s not exactly a situation I want to re-live. Although, Lord knows, I’ve experienced it enough times in my nightmares.”

  “Well, the point is I consider you a close and personal friend.”

  “Judd, this better not be going where it sounds like it’s going.” Max grinned and fluttered his eyes femininely. “You’re not coming out of the closet or something on me, are you?”

  “Godammit, Max!” Judd screamed. “This is serious, man! I have a problem here, a very serious one!”

  “Okay, okay. Jesus. What the hell is wrong?”

  “If I show you, you need to promise to keep it between us.”

  “Judd, you know I will.”

  “Yeah, uh huh, like that time you told Kenny Joe and Bailey about my Mr. T dream.”

  Max laughed. “Well, you couldn’t hardly expect me to keep that secret. That was hysterical. I still think you need to go to a therapist to sort that one out. Being spanked and tickled by Mr. T while he chants ‘Them bats is smart, they use radar, fool!’ is just fucking scary.”

  Judd frowned. “The point is that Kenny Joe still makes Mr. T jokes, and that was two years ago. You need to promise to keep this secret.”

  “I promise.”

  Judd gulped, a thin bead of sweat running down his forehead. Although he wanted to show his friend, his hand refused to move. He closed his eyes and tried to bring himself under control, inhaling deeply. Finally, he unzipped his pants and pulled them down.

  Max leaned down almost like he was studying the engine of his beloved Ford and nodded casually, his brain trying to come to terms with the fact that it was real. Every time he looked up at Judd’s face, all he could do was shiver.

  “If you fucking laugh, I will choke you until you die,” Judd said, his face flushed with embarrassment. He ran his fingers through the bush of pubic hair just above the labia and shook his head, a tear in his eye. When he finally spoke, his voice was quivering. “I just woke up and my dick was gone.”