Jackpot

by David Bernstein

  Winona thought the other one was dead too, but once she lifted her face by the chin, a soft whimper slithered from her throat. This one’s face had been sliced off, but the skin from her palms and soles was glued over her forehead, cheeks, and chin. There were still exposed areas, though, and the facial muscles glistened and throbbed.

  Winona hadn’t even noticed the machine until it had exploded into life behind her.

  She gasped, accidentally kicked her shotgun a few feet away from her. Before turning to face the noise, she rushed forward, grabbed hold of her gun, then swung it around in front of her.

  Just behind the television and sex doll stood who could only have been Booker. Nude and covered in blood. A light bulb hung over his head, his fingers pinching the chain. He wore a woman’s face, and Winona knew instantly it used to belong to the broad hanging beside Tonya.

  Next to him was a massive, plastic lottery machine, just like the one on TV now, only much bigger. It had some kind of generator hooked up to it which was making all the noise, and inside, ping pong balls swirled and hovered. Six plastic pipes sat at the top where the balls would be vacuumed into, but for now, they were empty. Above the machine was a row of severed heads, floating in an amber liquid inside five large glass jars sitting on a wooden shelf. It looked like numbers had been etched into the scalps, but Winona couldn’t make them out.

  Booker stepped toward Winona, cradling something small and pink in his arms.

  Winona took a step back, running into Tonya who let off with another shriek. Winona pointed her gun, the barrel shaking.

  “Welcome,” Booker said, his voice resembling a game show host. “Are you feeling lucky tonight?”

  ***

  Rocky Road. That’s why Booker recognized this woman. She had been in the store that day buying Rocky Road ice cream. The day he bought his ticket. The day his life changed forever.

  And here she is. It’s destiny.

  She had been screaming about her money since she walked into the house, and Booker had to figure she was here to try and take his winnings from him. Which was why she had been following him, why she had her granddaughter try and fool him, why she brought those two young men and that big ass dog.

  “The money,” Booker said.

  “The…the what?” The old woman made a face like she was trying to act tough, but it only made her look more comical. Adorable really. Booker thought he might fix her up like he did Elaine, dear old mom, so she’d have someone to keep her company. And so Booker could have another octogenarian pussy to play with. He’d call them his Golden Girls.

  “The money,” he said. “You’re here for the money. Isn’t that right?”

  The woman lowered the gun, let it fall to her side. She sighed, ran her arm across her face to wipe the sweat away. Then her eyes went soft, wrinkled lips trembled. “At first…yeah. I was angry with you, Booker. Because that money’s s’posed to be mine. But now…now I see different. I see what the lord wants now.”

  “My name. You know my name.”

  She nodded. “I’m Winona. Winona—”

  “Did Hamid tell you my name before you killed him? That’s what you said, isn’t it? That you killed him and he’s in your trunk?”

  “Listen—”

  “I liked him. Bought him a car. But I’m sure you know that. Where is it, by the way? Did you keep it? That’s fine, you can have it. You’ve earned that much, don’t you think?”

  Booker stayed in his spot as he spoke, didn’t move, just stared at the old woman through Selena’s eyeholes. He ran a loving hand over his precious Powerball which was still dripping pungent formaldehyde from its spongy, wrinkled body. Booker hadn’t held his power ball since the day he won, and it felt good to feel its lucky flesh against his.

  Tonight would be a special night. The last night of his old life.

  And the whole gang is here.

  “Things’ve changed,” Winona said, eyeing the baby’s body in Booker’s arms. “I understand why God brought me here now. It’s not fer your money…it’s fer you.”

  Booker chuckled. “Me?”

  “Me and you, Booker. We could be family. Don’t you reckon there’s a reason we were in that store at the same time that day? It’s fate, that’s what. We’re s’posed to be together, me and you. God’s will.”

  Booker pointed to the big breasted girl hanging behind Winona. “Isn’t she your family?”

  The girl, whose mouth had been ripped back open and was leaking blood over her torso and onto the floor, lifted her eyes and whimpered. The old woman turned to look at her, and they stared at each other for about a minute.

  “Me-maw—”

  The old woman lifted her shotgun and blew the girl’s head nearly off her shoulders. Blood and brain and skull fragments exploded into the air and splashed across the garage floor. The body bucked for a few seconds, blood gushing from what was left of the head and neck.

  Booker’s ears rang from the blast, and Winona grimaced and shook her head, stumbling backward. Booker never really liked guns, but he had to admit, the way it obliterated the girl’s head was fascinating.

  “You see?” Winona said as she regained her composure and turned back to face Booker. “You’re my family now.” She tossed the gun away and held her arms out as if expecting a hug.

  “Quick pick,” Booker said as he stepped toward her.

  “Booker…please…”

  “That’s what you said that day, wasn’t it? You let the machine pick your numbers.”

  “Yeah…yeah I did. Won three hundred dollars once. But—”

  “There was your problem. The numbers…they’re sacred. They should mean more to you if you ever expect to win. My lucky Numbers,” Booker said, turning and pointing to the heads on the shelf, “are special. Each one of them gave their life so I could win. I’ll love them forever for that. Especially my Powerball.”

  “I ain’t worried about the damn money anymore, all right? You see what I did.I killed my own granddaughter for you. You’re all the family I got left.”

  “Family?” Booker stomped across the room, kicked the television off his mother’s back. “This is my family,” he said, running his fingers through her hair.

  “Booker—”

  “This is my family,” Booker said and pointed to his jars, kissed his Powerball on the top of its head. “They’re all I need.”

  “You gotta listen to me now…I—”

  “But I’ll tell you what, lady. It was the money you came here for, and I’ll give you a chance to win it. Fair and square. So I’ll ask you again…you feeling lucky tonight?”

  Winona didn’t answer, just shook her head, moved her mouth up and down, though no words were coming out.

  Booker cut off the machine, the ping pong balls falling to the floor, bouncing around before settling. He set down his Powerball beside the rest of the Numbers, picked up the knife that sat on the shelf beside Number 50’s head.

  “Wait just a fuckin’ minute, now!”

  As Booker ran his fingernail across the blade and stepped toward her, she nearly fell over backward trying to get away. She picked up her shotgun, pointed it, and pulled the trigger.

  It clicked, but nothing happened. She cocked it, tried again, but with the same results.

  “Fuck! Goddamnit, Arnie, you useless fuckin’ faggot!” Winona held the gun like a baseball bat now, though the weight of it looked to be nearly too much for her. Sweat poured down the bark-like skin of her face.

  Booker leaned up against Selena’s body, ran his fingers through her hair. When she whimpered and tried to pull away from him, he grabbed her by the throat, turned her so she was facing the old woman.

  “You know who this is?” Booker batted his eyelashes and turned his face from side to side.

  “Jesus,” Winona said. “That’s that spic broad calls the lottery numbers.”

  “Correct! Maybe it’s your lucky night after all.” Booker kissed Selena on the forehead where he had glued the sole of her lef
t foot. “It only felt right she be here tonight.”

  “If you hurt me,”Winona said, now hiding behind her granddaughter’s body. “The lord will have you for it. You hear me? God—”

  “Luck is God here.” Booker jabbed his knife into Selena’s belly, pulled it across horizontally. She gasped and choked behind her sealed lips as her innards slowly started to ooze out. Booker held them in, locked eyes with the old woman. “Now pay attention.”

  Winona staggered backward, her arms lowering more and more from the weight of the shotgun.

  “Time to choose your numbers,” Booker said, and reached for the old woman.

  The woman swung the gun, but it bounced harmlessly off Booker’s shoulder, then clattered to the ground. Booker grabbed her by the front of her shirt, pulled her toward him with a hard jerk. He must have caught hold of some loose flesh under the fabric because it felt spongy and she howled and bared her teeth.

  “Let me go, asshole! Don’t fuckin’ touch me!”

  Booker squeezed both her wrists, shoved her hands into Selena’s stomach cavity, shoving them as far up as they would go. Blood poured over Winona’s arms, ropes of small intestine uncoiling and sliding across her skin.

  Winona made a high-pitched whining sound, tried to yank her hands free, but Booker held on tighter.

  “Grab your numbers, Winona. Pull them out!”

  When the old woman pulled her hands free, they were empty, covered in blood and bits of gore.

  Booker tossed her aside, kicked her in the stomach. “Quick pick it is, then.”

  He stabbed the blade into Selena’s sternum, had to use both hands to drag it down and slice her open vertically. One hand on her crotch, the other wrapped around her throat, he lifted her body and shook her like he was looking for pennies at the bottom of a piggy bank.

  Hot, slimy organs oozed and flew from her gaping torso, slapping the floor and splashing blood and slime over Booker’s feet. He reached into the ribcage, grabbed a fistful of meat, and pulled out, again and again until it was nearly empty inside.

  Booker knelt down beside the innards, wiped the fresh blood over his chest and stomach, reached down and stroked his cock. His tongue slithered out from between his own lips, licked the dry flesh of Selena’s.

  Winona tried to kick away from him, but he seized her by the ankle, pulled her toward him. Her body slid through the organs and blood, and she let out a shriek that ended in a violent coughing fit.

  “Let’s see now,” Booker said as he used his fingers to spread out the viscera, studying each piece as if he were trying to choose the ripest peach. “Liver. Small intestine. Spleen. Stomach. Colon.”He arranged the organs between himself and Winona, ignoring the woman’s cries as he squeezed her ankle tighter. “And for the powerball…”

  “Don’t do this…I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Booker, please…you can’t fuckin’ do this to me!”

  Booker grinned as he lifted the heart up to his face, ran his tongue across the glistening surface. “We’ve got our numbers, Winona. You ready for the drawing?”

  She responded by screaming and flailing, trying to slap and scratch Booker, but he easily deflected her frail, claw-like hands. He picked up his knife.

  Still clutching her ankle, Booker rose to his feet, dragged Winona across the room as he approached his custom-built, oversized lottery machine. He cut on the generator to get the vacuum going good and strong. When he opened the door on the side of the contraption, the blood coating his body was sucked off in droplets and pulled into the plastic box where it splashed across the walls. The hairs on his body tingled as they were pulled toward the opening.

  Booker yanked Winona one more time, so hard that her body slammed into the machine, her white, curly hair pulled tight as the vacuum sucked at it. He struck out with his fist, caught her in the middle of the face so she would quit squirming, then tore her clothes off using his knife to make quick work of it. The sight of her withered, flabby body got Booker’s heart pumping faster, and he squeezed his erection until it hurt.

  Winona spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor beside her, had time to look Booker in the face for a few seconds. Then the knife stabbed down, caught her just below the naval. Booker sliced her from love handle to love handle, then quickly from sternum to cunt.

  The old woman choked, gasped and coughed as she was opened up. Her hands curled up and tucked into her armpits as she tried to scream, but Booker slammed his palm over her mouth before a sound could escape.

  “Good luck.”

  He scooped her up with both arms, tossed her into the machine. The door was slammed, locked, and he jumped to his feet and removed the plastic sheet covering the six pipes at the top.

  Winona lay on her back, arms and legs flailing, mouth agape and flowing with blood. Her hair flew in all directions, and if she was screaming, it was impossible to hear over the constant hum of the generator and whoosh of the vacuum.

  Her innards flew from her torso like debris in a tornado, swirled around the inside of the plastic walls, slapping against them, stamping them with blood and bits of meat. Her intestines danced and writhed like tentacles searching for something to grab onto. Blood splashed against the walls, nearly made it impossible to see inside.

  A large, red chunk of something slid into the first pipe, misshapen as it was pressed up against the plastic by the air pressure. Booker stepped closer, inspected it.

  “Pancreas. Not a promising start, Winona.”

  Another piece slapped into the second pipe, then another in the third. Blood was everywhere, continued to slosh around the inside of the machine.

  “Kidney. You see, Winona? Quick pick is just no good.”

  The old woman was no longer moving, though her viscera continued to swirl and fly.

  “Look here! We’ve got a liver.”

  “What is this?”

  The sound of the voice startled Booker at first. But then he just smiled, turned so he could face Frank who stood just inside of the garage. The front of his suit was spattered with blood, and more of it was smeared over his face.

  “I’m playing a game. For old time’s sake.”

  The fourth pipe was filled with blood and belly fat. The fifth with a rope of intestine that was still attached to Winona’s body. It wiggled like a guitar string as the air pulled it tight.

  “Booker—”

  “Quiet,” Booker said, no longer concerned with his intruder. “It’s time for the powerball.”

  Just then, something hard was sucked into the final pipe, clattering around so hard Booker thought it might break through the plastic. With all the blood, he couldn’t make out what it was, but he knew for sure it wasn’t her heart. He cut off the machine and the room became silent at once.

  Dentures. Painted red with blood and broken in places.

  “You lose,” Booker said. “But you gotta play to win.”

  Frank didn’t move, didn’t say another word as Booker stared into the mess inside of the box. After a few minutes, Booker pulled Selena’s face off, kissed it, placed it on the shelf beside his jarred Numbers and Powerball.

  And then the knife was back in his hand and he was facing Frank.

  “Now wait a second, kid,” Frank said, actually stepping toward Booker rather than running for his life. “I’m not here to stop you. I’m not here to do a fucking thing but help you.”

  “That right, Frank? You want to help me, huh?

  And what’ll that cost me?”

  “You see this shit?” He pointed to the blood on his suit jacket. “Belongs to a cop. Your friends here had the motherfucker tied up in their trunk. Got here just in time, because if I was a few minutes later, he would’ve escaped. And by the way, you need to answer your fucking cell phone.”

  “I was busy.” Booker didn’t know why, but he had no urge to kill Frank. This man was the closest thing to a friend he ever had, other than Hamid.“So where’s the cop now?”

  “Dead as dogshit. I took care of him for you.”
r />   “Why?”

  “Because you’re my client. My investment.” Frank scratched his jaw. “And my friend.”

  Booker dropped the knife.

  “Looks like me and you got some work to do, huh?”

  “Yes…but not yet. I’m not ready for this night to end yet.” Booker made his way across the room, grabbed Elaine by the hips, set her down just in front of Frank. Booker sat down Indian style just beside her. “This is Elaine. My mom. Isn’t she pretty?”

  Frank only hesitated for a second before sitting down with them, nodding.“Can’t argue with that, Booker.” Then he opened his jacket, pulled out some papers, set them on Elaine’s back. “I got something to show you, kid. The plans for your dream home.”

  Booker grinned and giggled like a little boy.

  All of his dreams were coming true.

  To be continued…

  Shane McKenzie

  Shane McKenzie is the author of Infinity House, All You Can Eat, Bleed on Me, Jacked, Addicted to the Dead, Muerte Con Carne, Escape from Shit Town (co-authored with Sam W. Anderson and Erik Williams), Fat Off Sex and Violence, Pus Junkies, Stork, Fairy, The Bingo Hall, Parasite Deep, and many more to come.

  He also writes comics for Zenescope Entertainment.

  He wrote the script for a short film entitled M is for Matador, filmed by LuchaGore Productions, which was selected by DraftHouse Films to be included in the DVD The ABCs of Death 1.5. LuchaGore Productions will be filming a short film based on the first chapter of his novel Muerte Con Carne, entitled El Gigante. He lives in Austin, TX with his wife and daughter.

  He will find you and he will cut you.

  www.shanemckenzie.org

  Adam Cesare