Masters of Horror: Damned if you don't

by Pletzers, Lee; Bennett, C. D. ; Gill, Carole; Wilson, F. Paul; Shirley, John; Nicholson, Scott; Kusptis , Ken

  I hate that fucker.

  November 6

  Roget beat the rush.

  I heard the sirens, and usually I don’t give a damn if the whole town is on fire. But this time I got one of those prickly feelings when the hair on the back of your neck stands up. Of course, that could have been the four hits of speed I’d taken.

  Turns out Roget had eaten a bottle of Valiums and washed it down with a pint of vodka. Lucky he died pretty fast and left a clean corpse. Sometimes, something like that will make you vomit, and you go messy. Or you end up in the hospital with a machine doing your pissing and shitting for you.

  Me and Lonnie held a private little service for Roget. As a kind of half-assed tribute, I did some coke that Roget had left at my house.

  “Here’s to memories,” I said, and hoovered two big chalky lines of the stuff.

  “To Roget,” Lonnie said. He had some champagne and two of those dainty little glasses with the long stems. We touched glasses and drank, then smashed the glasses in the fireplace, like they do in the movies.

  My nose was bleeding, and suddenly I started laughing like a stoned hyena. I don’t know why. It was just funny. Roget was dead, Dad was going to raise hell when he saw the mess, Lonnie was going to fuck me, and my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  It was just funny, that’s all.

  November 12

  You won’t believe this.

  You just won’t fucking believe it.

  I talked to her today.

  Melanie.

  I was down at the game room in the mall, trying to score some X. Ecstasy is mostly a sex party drug or when you want to pull an all-nighter dancing at a rave, but the way I look at it, no need to wait for a special occasion, right? So I was hitting up the skinhead peddlers who worked out of the back of the arcade. You know you’re a bad motherfucker when you hang out in the pinball corner. Besides, the games are always busted, so it’s the darkest part of the room. All you can see is their eyes shining like dirty dimes.

  Nobody had any X, so I scarfed a baggie of marijuana that was laced with angel dust. On my way out I saw Melanie playing some dorky karate game. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, I’d seen her at parties and stuff, but I never expected to see her in the arcade. I guess I’d put her on a pedestal, in a way. I kind of walked up beside her and pretended to watch the game. She got killed pretty fast. Her player, I mean. Those video machines eat quarters like hippies eat mushroom caps. When the game was over, she finally noticed me, except I think she might have seen my reflection in the screen first.

  “Hey,” she says.

  I go “Hey” back.

  “You went to Northbrook.” She said it just like that. Not a question at all. So she remembered me from high school.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Seems like a long time ago. You know, school and all.”

  She nodded. Her hair brushed against her cheeks. It was a little stringier than it had been at the Halloween party. “It was a different world then,” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. I looked into her eyes, trying to see if she was wasted. Nothing there that I could see. She was just naturally weird, I guess.

  “You were at Denita’s party.” Again, not a question.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling like a doll with one of those pull strings, when you only have about four lines to say. “It was pretty wild.”

  “Yeah. Wild.”

  Just then some muscle guy in a tank-top came up and put his arm around her. He gave me the evil eye, like I was a bug he wanted to stomp. Melanie turned and smiled at him. He had a face like a fucking bus. I figured I ought to get the hell out of there. He was giving off some seriously heavy vibes.

  Fuck him.

  Fuck them both.

  Well, maybe just Melanie.

  Reneau got me a half-gallon of port. Tasted good with the dope.

  November Something-or-other

  It’s all Lonnie’s fault.

  Here we are, clipping along toward doomsday, high as a Chinese kite and as fucked up as a football bat, coming to grips with the idea that we all got about six weeks to live. I guess you kind of take it for granted after a while.

  I mean, who knows where the idea first started? You know, that the world was coming to an end. Nobody knows why or how the world goes balls-up. All we know is when.

  And Lonnie comes up with a jewel.

  We were eating pizza for lunch. I was wasted on the angel dust and a few Quaaludes I’d found in one of my pants pockets. Lonnie was pretending to be an artist. He was drinking wine and smoking dope, wearing one of those goofy berets. He kept talking in a fake French accent.

  “Zee end, wheen eez it?” he goes.

  “What?” I said, even though I’d heard him. I was staring at the pizza. If it was a galaxy, then the pepperonis would be like planets or something. And the crust would be, like, the edge of the galaxy.

  “The world, when does she blow?” Lonnie said.

  That kind of threw me. Everybody has their own idea about how the world’s going to end, though nobody talks about it much. Me, I go in for the “Rain of Fire” theory. It’s popular with the religious crowd, too, I hear. A few swear by the big flood, but that’s kind of hard to picture. I mean, have you ever been to Montreal? Those fucking buildings are tall.

  Others buy the plague-and-famine business, but that’s too messy and drawn-out. I think it’s got to end in the blink of an eye.

  But the date is not even a question. It’s the end of the year, and that’s that. Everybody knows it.

  I pretended to check my watch, although I’ve never worn one. “That’s easy, Frenchie. The end is about six weeks away. Uh, six weeks minus a few seconds. Minus another. And another.”

  “Why eez it then, and not later?” He was talking with his mouth full, blowing his sophisticated act all to hell. He started talking normal English again. “I mean, is doomsday when this year ends, or when the next year starts?”

  He was giving me a headache. I fired up a joint. After I’d toked a good lungful of brainfuck, I said “What does it matter?”

  “They said in Social Studies that the calendar’s been fucked with plenty over the years. Who knows what time it really is?”

  “Everybody knows. January One is when we all go boom.”

  I didn’t like the way the conversation was going. That kind of talk kills a good buzz.

  “Who says?”

  “Who says? Who says? Why, everybody says. Preachers, doctors, lawyers, politicians, those pointy-headed guys on the eleven o’clock news.”

  I passed him the joint. He looked at it a long time before he took it.

  “I just wonder, that’s all,” he said between tokes.

  “Don’t wonder. It’s party time.”

  I stuck some cheese up my nose and pretended it was a booger. He started laughing, and we were just two buddies again, hooting and raising hell like there was no tomorrow. We wiped out a case of beer.

  Lonnie stayed the night. Sex with him was getting to be a habit. I don’t think Dad found out, or he’d have thrown me out on my ass. He’s a big fucking hypocrite.

  Not that I’m a fag or anything. But try explaining that to Dad.

  Anyway, what Lonnie said bothered me for a while. What time is it, really?

  November 21

  It blows my mind.

  It’s Sunday morning, I get up and go downstairs. Dad’s sitting in the kitchen in his suit and tie, his hair slicked back and smelling like the perfume samples in a fashion magazine. He kind of avoids looking at me, which ain’t at all unusual, but this time he’s actually putting effort into it. He pretends to give a damn about what’s in the newspaper.

  I go to the fridge and get some orange juice. “Who died?” I say, meaning why was he dressed up.

  Dad’s a lawyer, like I said, but he could have made a hell of a good actor. But being a lawyer pays better. Plus, if you end up on stage instead of in the movies, there’s all these fags in stockings mincing around all the time.


  Dad clears his throat and says, “Son, would you like to go to church with me?”

  Yeah, Diary, you heard me right. Church.

  “Church?” I say, kind of smirking, probably.

  He gulps so hard that I can hear him across the room. Then it hits me: the bastard is scared.

  Dad, scared.

  Dad, who had dated and fucked a Prime Minister’s daughter in college, while Mounties stood guard outside the door of his dorm room.

  Dad, who once hit a top speed of a hundred-and-sixteen miles per hour in his Mercedes on the Buffalo freeway. During rush hour.

  Dad, who had the balls to sue a judge for slander. And win.

  And here Dad was, just a plain old ordinary mortal. Scared. He looked like he was going to piss in his two-hundred-dollar tailor-made pants. Wanting to go to church, for Christ’s sakes.

  What could you say? The bastard had never set foot in church since he married Mom. Mom was a big-time Catholic. I think that was one of the things that led to the divorce, all her waving her hands around praying over dinner and having to “Hail Mary” this and “Hail Mary” that. Even got on my nerves, and I kind of liked Mom.

  So now Dad was playing the Jesus card, hoping to save his ass. Like five weeks of giving money to the church would save him from something that was written in blood thousands of years ago. What a dumb fuck.

  “You’re scared,” I said. This was better than a nitrous oxide rush.

  “No, I’m not,” he said, real fast and loud. “I just think it’s a good time to get in touch with our spiritual sides. It’s never too late for salvation.”

  It was obvious he’d been talking to some of those sign-carrying Jesus freaks that walked the streets.

  “Forget it, Dad,” I say. “The devil’s got his hooks in your ass and is just waiting to reel you in.” He crossed the room in a flash, his eyes bright like a meth junkie’s as he knocked the orange juice from my hand. He was trembling, he was so pissed off. Dad used to play football, so he throws a big shadow when he stands over you. He drew back his hand like he was going to slap me silly.

  I dared him with my eyes. But the bastard wouldn’t let me have my victory. He stormed out the door and burned rubber hauling ass to church.

  Good luck, God. You got one more fucked-up Christian soldier in the ranks.

  November 25

  Thanksgiving.

  I’ve got a hell of a lot to be thankful for. I watched a football game on TV. Big scab-faced guys slamming into each other over a chunk of leather. I don’t know why they bother, since the season’s going to end before the playoffs. I guess it’s for the same reason that most people keep going to their jobs every day, the same jobs with the suck-ass bosses that they used to bitch about all the time. Maybe they hope that if they pretend like everything’s normal, if they just keep with the routine, then maybe, somehow, the end will slip past and they won’t even notice.

  Yeah, right.

  Still, you see it in their faces. They quit carding at the liquor store, so now I don’t have to bother with Reneau. But the bastards still want the money. I’ll bet that will be the last little social glue to dissolve.

  I’m bummed today, for some reason. Even the liquor’s taking a holiday. I’m drinking mostly out of habit. I haven’t heard from Lonnie in a week. Dad’s at some hallelujah shindig at the church.

  Gee, maybe this is what it feels like to be lonely.

  December 1

  Hello, December.

  The last month of reality. It came in with rain, the clouds moping around like a guy whose dog just died. Depression city.

  Now it’s just you and me, Diary. Dad moved out, all he took was a few suitcases of clothes and a golf trophy. He’s going to live with a bunch of Holy Rollers over at the preacher’s house. I guess they’re going to pray and circle-jerk until Jesus shows His shiny face.

  Same thing’s happening all over. The streets are nearly empty now. The TV news says there’s been a big drop-off in crime. It’s like, who wants to bother, right? What’s out there that anybody really wants? You can’t take it with you.

  I used to think that if I knew I only had a few weeks to live, I’d be raping everything in sight. But, now, I don’t even know if I could get it up. Lonnie popped by over the weekend, but neither of us were in the mood. Even the stumble biscuits didn’t help. Maybe I’m losing my fagness along with everything else.

  You can’t take it with you.

  December 6

  Beer and pills.

  I found Dad’s stash of porno tapes. I was going through his closet, looking for money in his coat pockets. The tapes were stacked behind a folded-up exercise machine. “Butch Boy From Bangkok.” “The Willie Train.” “Frat House Hosedown.”

  The two-faced bastard. But I have to admit, it kind of makes him more interesting. Maybe that’s why he’s getting so righteous toward the end. He probably thinks he has a lot of wickedness to atone for.

  I watched the videotapes. Some of the things the guys did to each other even turned my stomach. But half of me wanted to be in the scene, with the guys, anything but alone. I wondered where they were now. With their families? Or did they check out early, like Roget?

  It’s turning cold. The sky was dark gray today, kind of sooty. I expected snow, but it never came.

  But we’ll be warm soon enough. It’s going to be a hell of a winter.

  December 9

  They’re dying.

  Mass suicide today, 230 of them across town. Catholics, if you can believe it. Arsenic in the blood of Christ. That’s what I call a communion.

  The TV said there were isolated deaths all over. Old folks, mostly. Loners. Losers.

  I bought a case of vodka.

  December 13

  Mondays were bad enough back when there was a real world. Now they’re a total bummer.

  I’ve been grumpy all day. Hangover. I suppose it could be worse. I could have to go to work or something.

  I walked down to the mall today, hoping to score some grass or X or acid, anything to bend this straight line of reality. The mall was nearly dead. I mean, a few stores had hung some half-assed Christmas decorations, but the total effect was like a grade school festival. I’ll bet there weren’t a dozen shoppers out, total.

  Sign of the times: five stores had closed, even that one that serves all those funky flavors of coffee. Luckily, the arcade was open. The pimply-faced geek who managed the place was nowhere around. Claude was the only dealer in the joint, and he was slumped in the corner, his eyelids twitching. In the greenish glow of the video screens, I could see a little strand of drool drying on his chin.

  “Claude?” I hollered over the bleeps and zaps of the machines. No answer. I nudged him with my boot. He slumped lower.

  I knelt on the sticky tile and touched his neck.

  The flesh was cool and doughy. I saw the empty bottle of Valium in his left hand. The dude had checked out, bigtime.

  I searched his pockets and came up with a half-ounce of grass and some crumbly, unidentifiable pills that might have been speed.

  I’m trying them now. To Claude. May your days be merry and bright.

  December 17

  Sitting in the park.

  First time you’ve been out of the house, Diary. What do you think of this place?

  Yeah, I know, you got no eyes. So here goes:

  A layer of gray snow under the bench, pocked by a dozen yellow holes where some bum took a shivery piss. A big black oak tree with its branches overhead like dead fingers. A tiny pond, its surface frozen white. The grass is brittle and thin.

  A skinny dog with a mean face sniffs in my direction, but it keeps walking toward the little bricked-in gate that leads to the street. Nobody has passed in the fifteen minutes I’ve been sitting here. I heard a police siren; why the hell they still bother, I don’t know. I guess if you’re a cop, you’re a cop.

  Sitting here on this cold concrete bench, freezing my ass off, I feel like I might as well be the last pe
rson on earth.

  Sun’s going down. Seems like it’s always cloudy these days. My fucking hands are freezing.