The Sick Stuff

by Ronald Kelly

  Abruptly, fiddlebacks settled on his unflinching eyeballs and he laid there in total darkness. He listened torturously for the sound of Bonnie's key in the front door lock, the sound of her footsteps in the hallway, the rustle of her clothing as she disrobed and climbed into bed next to him.

  And he knew there would be nothing he could possibly do to warn her.

  MASS APPEAL

  Monday night, Billy dreamed that he had been invited to a special birthday party.

  The invitation was written in Romanian and penned in the rust red ink of which the human body was so plentiful. Although he couldn't read Romanian -- after all, he was only eight years old -- he somehow understood where and when the celebration would take place. Exactly who the party was to be thrown for was still a mystery in his youthful mind.

  He found himself riding in a carriage drawn by six, jet black horses. Billy wasn't the only occupant of the carriage. His basset hound, Ringo, was on the satin seat beside him. Billy was dressed as he usually was; t-shirt, denim jeans, Nikes, and the Atlanta Braves baseball cap his father had bought him at the stadium last season. He held one of his mother's homemade cakes in a Tupperware container on his lap.

  The journey was long and tiring. They traveled along barren roads, surrounded by dark forest and overshadowed by the distant peaks of the Carpathian Mountains.

  By evening, they had crossed the Danube River and were entering the city of Bucharest. They passed through town, eliciting fearful stares from peasants hidden behind locked doors and shuttered windows. Then the carriage ascended a winding road to a great, stone castle that towered like the shadow of an angry bully over the picturesque, European village.

  "We are here, Master Billy," said the coachman, a brawny guy in a dark cloak. Billy peered from the windows of the carriage as the huge doors of iron and oak opened, and they entered.

  "Welcome, my young friend," called a tall, cadaverous man dressed in crimson robes and wearing a peaked helmet decorated with gold and precious gems. His gaunt face was pale and severe, and he sported a thick mustache that was the same raven black hue as his shoulder-length hair. His eyes were dark and dangerous, like smoldering coals that might flare into searing flames at the least provocation.

  "Hi there, Vlad," replied Billy. He stepped from the carriage without fear, as though the fifteenth century dictator had been a pal of his since kindergarten. He did tip his cap in greeting, however. He had read in a book once that the man sometimes took offense at those who refused to do so and nailed their hats onto their skulls for their rudeness.

  Billy held out the plastic cake box. "My mom baked this for you."

  Vlad the IV took the container and opened it. He grinned, revealing teeth that had been filed to sharp points with a blacksmith's rasp. "Pineapple upside-down cake! My favorite!"

  Billy joined his host at a long banquet table in the middle of the courtyard. It was heaped with every type of meat and poultry imaginable, all raw and uncooked. In the center of the table was a huge, golden punch bowl that was filled with a brackish red liquid.

  "I'm glad you arrived when you did, Billy," said Prince Vlad. "My other guests... they were quite unacceptable. Real party-poopers."

  "Where are they now?" asked Billy.

  Vlad chuckled. "Oh, they're hanging around."

  And they were. Perhaps fifty men, women, and children surrounded the inner walls of the courtyard... all gruesomely impaled on long, wooden stakes. Some were dead and contorted, but most were still alive. They writhed like earthworms on fishhooks, their bloody guts dangling from the holes where the stakes entered and exited their tortured bodies.

  "Have some punch, Billy," said Vlad. He handed the boy a jeweled goblet. Billy drank it and made a face. The stuff was thicker than Kool Aid and had a funny, salty taste to it.

  "Are they in pain?" Billy asked out of curiosity.

  "Intense agony is more like it," said Vlad. "Impalement is much worse than, say, hanging or crucifixion."

  They forgot about the squirming, moaning bodies for the time being and concentrated on the birthday party. They lit the candles on the cake and Billy sang "Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Vlad the Impaler, Happy Birthday to you!"

  They were getting ready to play a game ofPin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey... using a real donkey, when Vlad's attention was drawn to the table. Billy had nearly forgotten about his dog, Ringo. The hound was filching a leg of lamb from a silver platter.

  "Mischievous cur!" raged the prince. "I'm sorry, Billy, but you know the rules." Vlad produced a wooden stake about three feet long and handed it to the boy.

  Glumly, Billy nodded and called Ringo to him. The dog skipped happily to his young master, eager for a pat on the head. Therefore, the dog was surprised when the boy jabbed downward, sending the sharp end of the spike into his chest, impaling him from stem to stern. "I'm sorry about that, boy," said Billy. He secured the screaming dog among the others, then joined his friend Vlad in the continuing festivities.

  "How many have you done?" he asked.

  Vlad shrugged. "I don't know. Thirty thousand perhaps. How about you?"

  "Ringo was my first." He looked back at the dog. Ringo's intestines were hanging out of his mouth like a tangled, gray tongue.

  "Don't worry," Vlad assured him. "You'll get the hang of it."

  The party resumed. They played a few games, feasted on raw meat and punch, and decapitated a palace guard or two. Then it was time for Billy to go home. "Bye, Ringo!" he called, but the dog only hung there limply. Billy felt kind of bad about that, but, hey, rules were rules.

  "Next time bring your family," said Vlad, helping the boy back into the carriage.

  "The more the merrier, you know."

  Billy could see that. Vultures were circling the castle in a swirling black cloud, ready to descend and partake of their share of the birthday feast. The boy blew a paper party horn at the carnivorous fowls, waved good-bye to Vlad, and settled back for the long ride home.

  Some kids wanted to grow up to be cops or firemen or astronauts.

  Billy Brooks wanted to be a mass murderer.

  It all started when his next door neighbor, Mr. Strickland, who worked for the Atlanta phone company, woke up one morning and decided that he'd had quite enough. He loaded his deer rifle, drove his truck to the interstate, climbed a telephone pole, and began shooting. Before the SWAT team finally got there and put a bullet through his skull, Mr. Strickland had killed fourteen people and caused one hell of a traffic jam. A note inside his shirt pocket blamed his actions on the threat of terrorists in the Middle East, global warming, and the fact that those child-proof caps on aspirin bottles were a bitch to get into, especially if you were suffering from a migraine headache.

  A few days later, after the big new story had died down and the police had gotten tired of picking around in Mr. Strickland's house, Billy ducked through the barrier of yellow police tape and crawled through a basement window. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but it didn't take him long to find out. The police completely overlooked a footlocker stashed behind the water heater. The box contained books. Books about every mass murderer and serial killer in the annals of criminal history. Billy had sat there and read for hours, and when he left Mr. Strickland's basement at suppertime, he knew that he could never think about baseball, comic books, and Nintendo with quite the same enthusiasm again.

  No, he had a brand new hobby to occupy his time.

  Wednesday night, Billy dreamed that he was in Nazi Germany.

  "Come on, Herr Billy," said Uncle Adolf. "Let's go for a nice drive in the country."

  They climbed into a big, armor-plated German car and cruised the deserted streets of Berlin. Soon, they had left the city limits and were heading into the open country. Billy found an extra piece of bubble gum in the pocket of his jeans and offered it to Uncle Adolf. The Fuhrer chewed on the gum for a while, then cussed up a storm when he tried to blow a bubble and got the pink mess tangled up in
his little Charlie Chaplin mustache.

  The place was called a concentration camp and it was ugly; all coiled barbwire, dirty gray buildings, and goose-stepping Nazi guards. Great clouds of foul-smelling smoke boiled from the tall smokestacks of one building -- the crematorium. Billy got an ash in his eye and wondered if it was anyone he knew.

  "Follow me, Billy," urged Uncle Adolf taking him by the hand. "I'm putting on a little show that should be a lot of laughs!"

  They went into a dirty, brick building. After the guards had said their "Heil Hitlers!", Billy and the Fuhrer entered a room that was like a miniature movie theatre. They sat in plush seats and waited for the show to begin. They took turns sharing a large Dr. Pepper, a tub of buttered popcorn, and a box of chocolate-covered Goobers.

  Abruptly, the curtain on the wall opened and they were staring through atwo-way mirror. On the other side was a room that looked like a locker room shower. A group of naked people, both men and women, were herded into the chamber by two Nazis with Lugar pistols. The only one that Billy recognized was the second person from the left. It was his third-grade teacher, Mrs. Rosenthal. She was naked and her head had been completely shaven.

  "Why is my teacher in there?" he asked his host.

  Uncle Adolf shrugged. "Because she is a Jew, I suppose."

  "But that isn't right," said Billy. "Mrs. Rosenthal is a nice lady. She gave me a B+ on my last math test and sometimes she lets us have five minutes extra at recess."

  "You've read Mein Kampf, Billy. It's all there in black and white."

  "Yeah, I know. But I still don't know why you have to pick on Mrs. Rosenthal."

  "No more questions, Billy," the dictator told him. "Just sit back and enjoy the show."

  The naked people were lined up under a row of funny-looking showerheads. When the guards left the chamber, Uncle Adolf indicated a red button in the armrest between him and the boy. "Hit the button, Billy. It's really fun. I've done it many times."

  "Okay," said Billy. He pressed the button. There was ringing noise like an alarm going off. Then the showers came on.

  But instead of water, a puke green gas jetted from the nozzles. At first, the people only stood there, confused. Then they began to dance. It was a strange dance, like nothing Billy had ever seen on a music video before. The naked people began to twitch and lurch, their eyes rolling back into their heads until only the whites showed. It wasn't long before they all got tired and decided to lie down. But they never got back up.

  "What do you think, Billy?" asked Uncle Adolf with a wink.

  "I don't know. It looked kind of gross to me," Billy had to admit.

  The boy accompanied the pudgy man in the military uniform back to the car. When they got back to Berlin, the city was under siege. Russian soldiers were converging from all directions and a squadron of planes zoomed in the dark sky overhead, delivering payloads of bombs upon the German city. Uncle Adolf hustled Billy into the bunker and talked quietly with his advisors for a minute. Then the dictator shook the boy's hand. "So long, Billy. It was nice hanging out with you," said the Fuhrer, before retiring to his private study.

  Billy wished he could have said the same, but he couldn't. Especially not after what had happened to poor Mrs. Rosenthal.

  A little while after the gunshots rang out, Billy watched as some soldiers carried Uncle Adolf and Aunt Eva out to the garden and burned their bodies. Billy waited until the funeral pyre cooled down a bit, then went out with his shovel and pail and built himself a neat castle with their warm ashes.

  Dad's category was Sports. "What heavy-weight champion was made famous by the phrase 'float like a butterfly, sting like a bee'?"

  "Mike Tyson!" piped Billy's teenaged sister, Sandy.

  "No, you dummy!" said Billy, rolling his eyes. "Muhammad Ali ."

  Mom smiled. "It's your turn, Billy. What's your category?"

  "Mass murderers and serial killers."

  Dad checked the Trivia Pursuit list, confused. "I don't see that on here."

  Billy ignored him and picked one of the hand-written index cards anyway. "Okay, here's the first one. Which rock and roll record did Charles Manson and his Family get the idea for Helter Skelter from?"

  Mom, Dad, and Sandy looked at him, dumbfounded.

  "Give up?" asked Billy. "It was the Beatles' White Album. Here's another. Which Wisconsin madman used to wear the skins of his female victims?"

  Again, uncomfortable silence.

  "Wow, you guys don't know nothing. The answer: Ed Gein." He picked another card. "Okay, this is an easy one. Who was the handsome serial killer who made a career out of bludgeoning beautiful college coeds?"

  Mom took a wild guess. "Ted Bundy?"

  "Right! Your turn."

  Mom picked Movie Stars as her category, but she couldn't quite keep her mind on the game. She kept glancing over at Billy, as did Dad and Sandy. Billy simply sat there with a big grin on his freckled face, munching on Chex party mix and anxiously awaiting the next question.

  Friday night, Billy dreamed that he was climbing a steep staircase toward the sound of gunfire.

  He reached a steel door and pushed it open. The darkness of the stairwell gave way to brilliant sunshine and the heat of August. He stepped outside onto the circular deck of the observation tower and let the door shut behind him. Billy walked around the open platform, until he came upon a beefy guy with a blond crewcut. The man stood staring off the edge of the deck railing, munching on an apple and reloading a .30-06 rifle.

  At the sound of the boy, the man turned, lifting his gun and squaring its sights on Billy's chest. But before he could pull the trigger, he smiled. "You kinda gave me a start there, Billy."

  "How many have you gotten so far?" asked the boy.

  Charles Whitman finished his apple and tossed the core over the side of the railing. "Oh, about seven dead and maybe fifteen wounded. There will be more, though. I've got plenty of ammo and an hour or so before the cops finally decide to make their move."

  "Let me see." Billy joined Charles at the tower railing and looked down at the University of Texas campus grounds. A number of people were scattered across the green grass, some writhing in gunshot agony, while others simply laid there and bled to death.

  "Why don't you give it a shot, Billy?" suggested the sniper.

  "Okay." Billy stepped to the railing and lifted his own Red Ryder BB gun to his shoulder. He eyed the potential victims until he came to Jay Hamstead, the class bully at his school. The fat boy stood there in the middle of the park, sticking out his ugly tongue and flipping Billy off. Billy steadied his aim and fired. A BB sped downward and hit Jay Hamstead square in the right eye.

  "Hey!" said Charles with a grin. "Nice shooting. Want to try for the other one?"

  "Nah, I'll save it for later." Curiously, he stared up at the big man. "Why are you doing this anyway?"

  Charles pointed to a spot on his head. "Put your hand right here." Billy did. He felt a strange, irregular pulse thrumming within the shell of Whitman's skull. "It's a tumor," explained the sniper. "It's about the size of a walnut and it's pressing against the amygdaloidal nucleus -- the aggression center of my brain. That's what's making me feel so pissed off at the world."

  "Can't you go to a doctor and have it cut out?"

  Charles shook his head. "Too late for that now." He sighted down the barrel of his rifle and squeezed off a round, dropping another victim. "Better get going, kid. The cops will be here before long."

  "Can't I do Jay Hamstead's other eye first?" Billy asked.

  "Sure. He's still down there giving you the finger."

  Billy pumped up his gun again and sent another BB darting at his earthward enemy. The shot fell short and knocked one of the bully's front teeth out instead. "Darn it! I missed!"

  Charles patted Billy on the back. "Hey, remember, it's the thought that counts."

  It was a sad day for Mrs. Rosenthal's third grade class.

  The night before, a sadistic madman had gone through the neighb
orhood and killed every dog in sight. Most had been brutally slaughtered, while the more dangerous animals, like the Fraziers' Doberman and Old Man Taylor's pit-bull terrier, had been poisoned. And, as if the mere act of killing wasn't enough, the culprit had taken a knife and mutilated each mutt, claiming a certain part of their anatomy as a trophy of that night's bloodletting.

  Most of Mrs. Rosenthal's students had lost a pet to the massacre and it was clear that her class was on the edge. It was only ten o'clock in the morning and, already, several bouts of uncontrollable weeping had broken out among the children. She was particularly careful not to mention the subject of dogs in front of her class. No references to Lassie, Winn Dixie, or Old Yeller. No singing "How Much is that Doggie in the Window".

  At the center of the classroom sat Billy Brooks. He regarded his fellow classmates with amusement, while trying to appear upset himself. It was a hard act to maintain. After all, they were only stupid dogs. His own beloved Ringo had been the first to go, hung like a guilty outlaw from the big oak behind the Brooks home.

  And the trophies. Billy thought proudly of the dismembered souvenirs that were stashed in a shoebox beneath the floor of his backyard clubhouse. They reminded him of something in a nursery rhyme book that sat on Mrs. Rosenthal's desk. How did it go?

  What are little boys made of? Snips and snails and...

  Billy bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood. His mouth filled with pain, cutting off a howl of escaping laughter and turning his bogus tears into real ones.

  ~ * ~

  Saturday night, Billy dreamed that he was riding down the streets of Baghdad with a guy named Abdul.

  They were in a big transport truck filled with explosives. The Iraq capital was in shambles. Huge craters pockmarked the streets, the windows of the buildings were shattered, and hollow-eyed citizens stared suspiciously from the shadows.