by Create50
“You won’t find him,” Jerome says. And he smiles.
The Little Shop of Revenge
By Chris Jeal
I traipse along the high street with my hand over my cheek, partly in an attempt to ease the ache from the face slap, but mostly to hide what John Peaceman and his gang drew on me when they jumped me after school.
Stopping outside the sweetshop, I wipe away tears and check my reflection in the window. On my cheek, in black marker, is a crudely-drawn spunking cock.
“How many times?” I whine.
Last time, John wrote dick across my face; the time before that he drew a vagina on my nose. By the end of the year he’s gonna be the marker pen equivalent of Picasso.
“Hey, Billy!”
I turn to see Simon rushing towards me.
“I was running and shouting after you, then this car almost hit me, but I styled it out and rolled over the bonnet. I was like, learn to drive you mug,” he tells me with great enthusiasm. Simon’s mum worked in the paint factory when she was pregnant with him and I think he soaked up a lot of the fumes and they damaged the part of his brain that separates fantasy from reality. At school it’s earned him the nickname Chat-Shit-Simon.
“Didn’t hear you,” I lie.
He grabs my face to inspect the fine art. “They did it again, huh?”
“I saw you hiding behind the bins. Why didn’t you help me?”
“I was gonna wade in, but I needed to take a dump. Plus, with my boxing training my hands are classed as deadly weapons. If I had killed someone, I’d be in deep shit.” Simon’s being true to his nickname.
He nods to the sweetshop. “Let’s check out the top shelf and get a load of energy drinks.” I ignore him, spit on my hand and turn back to the window and rub my face.
I notice, displayed in the shop front, index cards advertising massages and man with van crammed together. My eyes are drawn to one that reads: Sick and tired of taking a beating? Come to my shop and we’ll have a meeting: The Little Shop of Revenge, 10 Pandora Street.
Simon barges in front of me and examines the cards. “Sensual massage?” he grins. “Ha, you’d have to pay double for your two dicks.”
“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” I snap. “All you do is take the piss and tell lies. Boxing training? The closest you’ve got to the gym is going past it on the school bus.” Simon’s face drops.
I’ve never called him out on his lies before, it’s too easy, and part of me knows it’s wrong, but it feels good to be a dick for a change. I let rip. “Everyone at school laughs behind your back, they all say how stupid you are. No one believes anything you say, you dumb liar.”
“They don’t,” he mumbles.
Simon pushes me; it’s pathetic. I shove him back, hard. He spins, his feet tangle and he eats pavement. The thud of his head on the concrete makes me feel sick and I instantly regret it. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I rush to help him up.
“Get away from me.” Simon pushes me and gets to his feet. He fingers a graze on his forehead, his eyes glass with tears. “You’re out of order,” he whimpers, before bolting off down the street.
What have I done? I can’t stick up to John Peaceman and his gang of ass-hats, but I can be an absolute shit-bag to my best friend. I hang my head and make my way home, hoping the fantasy car that Simon rolled over earlier becomes a reality and squashes me flat.
After a while of shuffling along, inspecting the pavement, I realise, instead of heading home, I’ve ended up on Pandora Street. A large hand-drawn sign with an arrow pointing down an alley reads: The Little Shop of Revenge. I take a second to think how odd this is as I’ve never been here before, and wouldn’t even know how to get here if you asked me. I know I should probably keep heading home, but curiosity gets the better of me.
In the shop, it’s true to its name ‘little’. There’s a wooden counter with a red buzzer on top, double doors on the back wall and not much else.
A smartly dressed man rises from behind the counter. “Well come on in, my dear boy,” he grins.
He walks over to me, his black leather shoes click-clacking on the wooden floor. He offers me his hand and I shake it. It feels cold, like a freeze pop. “I’m Horris Drake, the owner of The Little Shop of Revenge. Pleased to meet you.”
He lets go of my hand and delves into his top pocket. He removes a fancy handkerchief with the initials HD embroidered on it and motions for me to take it. “For the male appendage on your face.”
“Thanks.” I take it and scrub the Venus de penis from my cheek.
“Ghastly business,” he tuts.
I pass him back the hanky. “Excellent. Now, as the sign states, this is the place for revenge and as my name is Horris Drake, the very same name that is on the lease to this fantastic store, so I do believe it is up to me to assist you with your needs.”
“Not sure I can afford it.”
“Balderdash, Billy,” he beams. Did I even tell him my name? He continues, “We can always do business. What do you have in your pockets?”
I rustle through my trousers, removing a folded sheet of paper to get at what little change I have.
“What is that?” he asks, pointing to the paper.
“Oh, this? It’s just a drawing I did. It’s stupid.”
Horris plucks it from me. “Nonsense. If you tell people something is stupid, they will be inclined to believe so. Let them make up their own minds, but in the meantime, assure them everything is fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical.”
He unfolds the paper, examines it. It’s a drawing of me riding a dragon, a buxom princess holding on to me pushing her boobs against my back. “So now, if I were to ask you your opinion on this, you’d say?” His eyes lock on mine.
“It’s. . . fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical?” Each word that leaves my mouth makes Horris’s grin widen.
“Yes, I believe it is,” he says, shooting me a wink.
“So it’s a deal, I will give you a vessel of revenge, a harbinger of doom, someone to rock someone’s socks, in return for your drawing.” He folds it up neatly and places it in his pocket.
“Really?” I ask.
“Well of course. How could I turn down something so fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical? Now, to business.”
Horris leans on the counter and slaps its shiny wooden surface. “They say revenge is a dish best served cold, but I say to hell with that, let’s microwave it and stuff it down their throats till their bellies burst.”
“Er, sure.”
“I shall now diagnose your case. Stand up straight, look at me, and think unhappy thoughts.” I do as he says.
My unhappy thought is John Peaceman.
Horris looks me over.
“Hmmm. Bully. Garden variety. Older than you. Not much of an artist. . . John is the scoundrel’s name,” he says, punctuating his announcement with a click-clack of his heels. I don’t even have to answer.
“Thought so. I know what you need; or more to the point, what ol’ Johnny boy needs.” Horris presses the red button on the counter. Behind him, the double doors part to reveal a hulk of a man, all muscle and tattoos.
He jumps up and down like he’s gearing up for a fight.
“I give you cage fighter, Crusher Reed. Adept at ferocious fisticuffs, capable of dismantling anyone who is pissing on your chips,” says Horris, delivering the lines with gameshow host enthusiasm.
Crusher unleashes a flurry of super-fast punches into the air, then looks at me. Crusher speaks, “I wanna introduce John to my two friends.” He holds up his fists and looks to the left one, “Punchy”, he says, then looks to the right, “and facey.”
“Cool,” I grin.
“Hmm, cool? Cool, will not do,” Horris says. He slaps the button and the doors slam shut.
He continues, “No, cool will NOT do at all. It’s nowhere near fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical. We’ll try again.” He hits the red button; the doors slide back. Crusher has been replaced by a huge metal robot with wrecki
ng balls for fists.
“May I present Metal Mickey. Two ton of steel revenge. He’ll smash and bash anyone giving you sass and send them to the scrap heap.” Metal Mickey smashes the wrecking balls together, making the room shake. His metal jaw clangs open.
“Me crush puny Peaceman.”
Metal Mickey is awesome. I’m lost for words. Horris hits the button and the door closes. I protest, “But –”
“The look on your face said it all. Good, but not great. We will find you something fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical.’ Horris takes the pose of a man deep in thought and I can almost see the light bulb ping over his head.
“Got it!” he beams.
“You’re a boy who yearns for a personal kind of revenge. You want to dish the damage!” Horris hits the button. The doors slide back to reveal. . . not a cage fighter, not two tons of revenge, but. . . me.
“May I present the doppelgänger. Looks like you, sounds like you.”
“Cool,” the other me interrupts, sounding, well, like me.
Horris continues, “He is one mean little scamp. He’ll bite, blight and fight your enemy until they’re just a smear on the concrete.”
I think of John being used to paint the pavement and I feel a Horris-type grin forming.
“Well?” Horris asks.
I say the words, “He’s fantastically. . .” I imagine John begging for mercy as ‘I’ smash his face, “mind meltingly. . .” John spewing blood, choking on his own teeth teeth, begging for mercy! “Fant –”
I pause, the sick feeling I felt earlier when Simon banged his head because of my actions flooding my stomach. How would I really feel if John was reduced to a puddle of blood and I was responsible?
“Well, boy?” Horris asks.
I step back. “I’m not sure I want this.”
Horris’ grin falters. “What?”
“Well, John is a dick, but this is. . . wrong. I can wash the dick off my face but he’ll always be one for the rest of his life and if I go through with this, I’ll be as bad as he is. Worse even.” I’m amazed at how grown-up I sound. My mind turns to Simon. I’ve been a right twat. I need to apologise and make it up to him.
“I gotta go,” I blurt as I dart for the door.
“Time waster!” Horris hollers. I exit the alley and sprint back to the sweetshop, where I buy energy drinks and sweets for me and Simon as we’ve both had days that suck. I head down Simon’s street and see him coming my way.
“I’m sorry,” I shout and I hold up the bag of goodies. “I got us a whole ton of the good stuff.”
Simon breaks into a sprint.
I delve into the bag. “I got you your favouri –” Simon powers into me, knocking me down.
The cans of drink skid into the street. Simon stands over me and rains down punches. One breaks my nose, another shatters teeth. He takes me by the wrist and snaps it left to right, loosening my arm from the socket before ripping it off and tossing it over his shoulder. I look up to see someone scoop up one of the cans –
It’s another Simon, my Simon.
He takes a gulp from the can and looks down at me. “I’m not a dumb liar, Billy. I’m fantastically-mind-meltingly-fantastical.”
The Book of Stan
By Scott Merrow
Stan Oberman, a pudgy, balding, 40ish sort of man, was nestled comfortably in his favourite chair, still dressed in his pyjamas and bathrobe, sipping at his coffee, and working the anagram in the Sunday paper.
THUMP! A sharp noise from somewhere above.
What was that?
Stan cocked his head toward the ceiling and listened for a few moments. All was quiet, so he shrugged and went back to his puzzle. But a few moments later. . .
THUMP!
Stan jumped, startled, and looked upward again. “What the hell?” he muttered.
It sounded like the noise came from upstairs, maybe even the attic. Still listening, he set his newspaper down, took another quick sip of coffee, and stepped into his slippers. He tiptoed across the living room, listening all the while.
Nothing. Quiet.
He crossed the front hall, and at the bottom of the stairs he stopped, looked up the staircase, and listened. Silence. After a moment, he quietly opened the closet door beside him and leaned in. He fished around for a few moments, then emerged with a shotgun in his hand.
“Hear this?” he shouted up the stairs. CHA-CHINK. He pumped the shotgun.
“It’s a shotgun.”
He started up the stairs, slowly, cautiously, stopping every few steps to have a listen. “I’m comin’ up,” he shouted, trying to sound purposeful and menacing, despite the slight quiver in his voice.
As he reached the top of the stairs, he looked left and right, allowing the business end of the gun to follow his gaze. All clear, so he proceeded cautiously down the hallway, eyes fixed on the chain dangling from the attic door, which was situated in the ceiling at the far end of the hall. The chain was swaying slightly, to and fro.
When he was directly under the door, the chain was only a foot or so above his head. He hesitated a moment, then took a deep breath and reached for it.
THUMP! From the attic.
He jumped back. Shit, he thought, I just about peed myself.
It took a few seconds, but he regained his composure, reached for the chain, and pulled the door open. The attic stairs slid into place.
“Who’s up there?” Stan screamed.
No answer. Silence.
So he started up the steep staircase, the shotgun leading the way. “Here I come,” he shouted. “With the shotgun.”
The stairs creaked under his weight as he cautiously climbed upward. When he neared the top, he peaked into the attic, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, then did a 360-degree scan of the room, again moving the gun barrel around to keep up with his gaze.
“Anybody here?” he called out, sounding even less confident than before.
No answer. Nothing. Silence.
So he took the last few steps up the stairs and into the attic.
The air was stale and musty as he crept slowly around the room, carefully looking behind dusty piles of boxes and other cobweb-covered attic stuff. Except for his own movement, the room was still. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. Until, behind him. . .
THUMP!
The sound was louder this time. Closer. Right behind him.
Panicked, Stan whipped around, pointed the gun, and tightened his finger on the trigger. There was no one there. But something caught his eye. Across the room, on the floor near the attic door, a tiny puff of dust, and within it. . . a small black book.
“What the. . .?”
Stan walked over and picked it up. The book’s cover was leather, old and crackly. Stan turned it over. On the front, embossed in gold letters, it read: Stan, Volume XII.
He stared at his name for a moment, pondering, then opened the book. He thumbed through the pages from back to front, and when he got to the first page there was writing. It read: Stan Oberman heard a noise in the attic. He went up to investigate. He found a book. He opened it.
Stan’s jaw dropped. So did the book. It fell from Stan’s hands onto the floor, churning up another small cloud of dust. He picked it up, flipped to the first page, and read the words again. He stared at the page for a moment. “What the fuck?”
There was new writing: Stan dropped the book. Then he picked it up and opened it.
He quickly closed the book and headed down the attic stairs.
Back in his favourite chair, after a sip or two of his lukewarm coffee, he opened the book again. The writing was still there. And there was more. It said: Stan closed the book and left the attic. He brought the book to the den, sat down, opened it, and read some more.
Stan shuddered and almost dropped the book.
What the hell? What is this? What’s going on?
He closed the book. He waited a moment then opened it.
There was new writing. It said: Stan close
d the book for a moment, then he opened it again.
A cold shiver ran up and down Stan's spine. He was frightened, but fascinated.
Trembling, he carried the book into the kitchen, watching the next blank page carefully. Nothing. No new writing appeared as he walked and watched. He closed the book and set it down. He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. He opened the book.
New writing: Stan carried the book into the kitchen. He set it down and poured some coffee. Then he opened the book again.
Shaking now, he slammed it shut.
He paced around the kitchen. What the fuck is this? he wondered. Is it real? Am I losing my mind?
He put the book in a drawer and closed it. He grabbed his coffee and went back into the den. He flopped into his chair and stared off into the distance. Beyond shock.
THUMP!
“Oh shit!” he exclaimed, as he leapt to his feet and looked toward the kitchen.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Stan dropped the cup. It shattered, splashing coffee everywhere. Stan barely noticed.
He dashed to the kitchen and yanked the drawer open. The book was there. He grabbed it and opened it. New writing: Stan unwisely put the book in a drawer and went to the den where he broke his cup and spilled his coffee. He returned to the kitchen and released the book from the drawer.
Frantic now, Stan tossed the book onto the kitchen table like a hot potato. He paced in circles around the kitchen, shooting frequent glances at the book on the table.
A faint gust of wind (from where?) riffled the pages of the book, until it sat open at the very last page. There was writing: Stan paced around the kitchen for a while, pondering. Later, confused and frightened, he left the house. As soon as he stepped out the door, a large object fell from the sky, crushing him.
Stan's knees went weak, and he collapsed to the floor. He began sobbing uncontrollably.
After a time, he took a deep breath and calmed down some. He stood up and steadied himself. He snatched up the book, and reread the most recent words: As soon as he stepped out the door, a large object fell from the sky, crushing him.
Stan hurried across the kitchen to the window and gazed out. At the sky.
A few days later, Stan’s doorbell rang. Stan, unkempt and unshaven, still wearing his pyjamas and bathrobe, trudged to the door and opened it a crack. He peeked out for a moment, then opened it all the way. It was a pizza deliveryman. Stan paid him, took the pizza, and carefully closed the door behind him.
