Ryan Grind

The Grindhorse. Writings of a lunatic.

[grindhorse]

The Sea (Originally: Every single night, I dream of the ocean. Every single night it gets worse.)

It happened again. Yesterday, just after midnight I woke up to soaked sheets. No, I know what you’re thinking, and I didn’t piss myself. Most of the moisture clung to my back and chest or ran down my forehead, stinging my eyes. It's something else, like sweat -- salty, cold, and familiar. Every goddamn night this week I’ve woken up earlier and earlier -- or later and later if you count that way -- to a sopping wet bed, a blinding headache, and my heart rat-tat-tatting like the little drummer boy on acid.

The first night, Monday night, I dreamt of the ocean. The sky was a brilliant blue with no clouds to hinder a warm embrace from the Sun. I was holding onto a buoy in the middle of open water; I felt calm. Everything seemed fine; small waves lazily patted my back in a soothing rhythm -- rising and falling, rising and falling.

But something else was rising and falling, inch by inch in my hands. The buoy would rise with each wave only to sink a bit deeper on its return to sea level, and I clung to the thing. I clung to it until the last bit had fallen into the murky water, water that stretched endlessly in all directions.

The buoy pulled back after it became completely submerged. My feet kicked, prepared to tread for as long as necessary, but my hands still wrapped around what I stupidly considered a last bit of safety. Like I said, the damn thing pulled back. I tried to pull up, to get the marker back to its former, floating glory and no sooner had I even thought about pulling than I was jerked with violent force towards the lapping and lolling water. My face entered, I opened my eyes onto solid green…

...and woke up panting and sweating as the first grey glow of sunlight cast ominous shadows over my room.

Tuesday night was longer. The sky still smiled a gaping blue, this time toothy with clouds. There was no buoy, and I was treading water once more. My legs felt strong, but the waves didn’t soothe me. Each tiny, breaking peak against my back and stomach felt electric with the shock of ice water. I never got used to the temperature, and soon every bit of oncoming water felt like daggers against raw skin. I gritted my teeth and continued to kick.

Minutes melted into hours, or so I could only assume. I wasn’t wearing a watch, being naked in the middle of an infinite ocean and all. Did I not mention being naked? I was naked. I don’t think it’s all that important, but it’s amazing how much more vulnerable you feel without something as simple as a bathing suit.

Boredom set in, and I decided to swim, doggy-paddling only a few meters before an inexplicable wave of exhaustion poured numbness over my whole body. My limbs went limp, and there was a feeling like a hand reaching into my gut, grabbing a hold on all of my moving, vital parts and yanking me downward. Without so much as a moment to inhale, I was in the black.

I woke up at three in the morning, tangled in my blankets; they had soaked through with sweat. I touched a hand to my stomach. Pain shot up my torso from a raw patch I had pressed. I shuddered and blinked and swore there was movement beside me, but it was too dark to tell.

I’ve been trying to make sense of Wednesday. I was still in the ocean but on a boat -- a small sailboat with those shiny, wood decks and the cabin underneath. I was laying on that wooden deck, staring straight up at a starless night sky. Thunder crackled far away, and I could hear the soft murmur of voices below me. Streaks of lightning gashed the darkness, and the first raindrop landed like a teardrop just below my right eye. I reached up to wipe it off, and my hand pulled away with a red smudge on the fingertips.

The murmuring belonged to footsteps, and I propped up on my elbows to watch the entrance to the downstairs cabin. One man emerged, talking at full volume but sounding gummy in my ears. I couldn’t see him either. Well, okay, that’s not the right description. I could see him. But he was blurry. Even a few feet away this man in a white shirt and blue pants was just fuzzy and out of focus. Everything else -- the boat, the sky, my fingertips -- all appeared in the high definition of everyday life. But this man, and the two, three...nine companions following single file out of the boat’s belly all appeared as colored silhouettes.

My bare feet slipped on the waxed floor as I shuffled to stand and run, but I didn’t have anywhere to go but the sea. From my vantage point on the boat, the water looked like an obsidian sheet blowing in heavy winds. I leaned over the edge and turned back to the procession. In the seconds it took to rise and perch at the side of the vessel, I had been surrounded by these human-like shapes.

They stood as tombstones, undisturbed by the growing storm -- a storm that, after the initial drop, carried only rumbling and flashing and howling with no more rainfall. Eventually my shipmates began to murmur to each other, closing the circle in two steps and laying out-of-focus hands on me. Nails I couldn’t see dug into my skin and pulled pieces off, but it pulled like clay, deforming my body under immense pain, the pain of ripping from the inside-out.

Those hands all heaved at once, casting me off the boat and into the water. The surface broke like shattering glass.

I heard the beginnings of pouring rain from my spot in the gloomy ocean, and a sudden wrenching at my ankle dislocated my hip with a muddled, excruciating pop as I was dragged deeper.

I woke up at one o’clock, hugging a pillow. There was blood mingled with the sweat on my mattress, but I couldn’t find a cut on my body.

That brings us to midnight last night. I know all of these are technically a day later, but does it matter?

So, I went to sleep Thursday after a long fight with my eyelids. Coffee suddenly forgot how to be coffee and I found myself nodding off to Slayer at full volume. This wasn’t something I could fight, and soon I was in the water.

I don’t remember the build-up to it, as is often the case with dreams, but I remember thrashing. My arms punched and chopped through the knife-blade cold of the blackened depths as I tried to shoot back up into the night air. But there was a pressure on my head, and with each kick to propel upward, this invisible hand extended its ever-growing arm to force me towards the ocean floor -- if there was a floor.

My lungs burned. It wasn’t the typical burn of holding your breath just a bit too long, but even in the expanse of pitch dark, I could feel my vision leaving me and my thoughts came in choppy clusters with each pulse of a whip-crack headache.

My heart beat in erratic patterns, and soon I just stopped fighting it. The “hand” on my head eased, and I felt lighter, like I could get to the top with an unexplainable burst of vitality. So, I kicked.

I failed.

My oppressor returned, more insistent this time, and I couldn’t move at all against the speed of my descent. It was enough, and I opened my mouth to inhale…

I woke up to a coughing fit, dripping with what I’m now positive is not, in fact, sweat. Last time I turned to inspect the room, the carpet was marked by my own wet footprints -- or considering the path they forged between my writing desk and the bed, I hoped they were my own. A long, green ribbon hung from a drenched pillowcase.

Seaweed.

I don’t know what’s going to be waiting for me tonight, but I know I’m just so damn tired. I want you all to know this: I don’t think I can kick anymore.

NoSleep

Facebook

[grindhorse]

Life. (Originally: The Daily Grind)

I couldn’t tell if my back hit the wall or the wall advanced to meet me, but the impact knocked the air from my lungs in a violent burst. My head bounced off the concrete, sending a big “fuck you” over my skull. Everything turned black before returning in a rush -- louder and fiercer. It wasn’t a dream to wake up from. The hand tightening its grip around my neck proved that. Fingers pressed at trigger points in the soft tissue, giving a sensation between choking and nodding off to sleep.

The room was buzzing, but that may have only been my own hearing. The air reeked of sweat and blood -- the scents of a brutal struggle. My eyes refused to focus, blurring the world into colors and shapes, doubled in my disorientation.

The rush of senses caught up with my sight just in time for another punch to connect with my cheekbone. Then another. Each one a brick smacking bone, with all the pain of a rotting tooth left untreated for years. The hand on my neck loosened, and my body crumpled to the floor.

I tried to rise but stumbled, making it to my knees and wondering what the other man was waiting for; it had been hours of an endless fight, and this was the first respite. I didn’t know where I was; the room had no windows or doors, just four concrete walls, a hardwood floor, and a missing roof, allowing the stars to spectate. I didn’t know who the man was, but he looked familiar, -- like everyone I’d ever met or everywhere I’d ever been -- but I couldn’t place him.

My body convulsed once, and I vomited, the sickness mingling with blood in my mouth to taste like an acidic dumpster. Before I could finish retching and curl into a heap, I heard a shuffling of feet. My mouth was still a river flowing, but a boot found its way into my stomach with a gnawing rip of impacted organs.

I fell flat, blood and saliva pouring from my mouth onto the hardwood.

“Get up, Ryan. I know you’ve got more than that.” The voice was monotonous, but I could detect bitterness -- bitter at what, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was just pity.

My hands slid to their palms, sloshing through puddles of hot sick, and my arms pushed. Elbows buckled, and bare feet slipped in the blood and vomit, but soon I stood, hunched and swaying.

My head tilted upward at a deliberate pace, not wanting to see the opponent. Eye contact for a half second.

His fist hit my nose like bladed lightning; warmth oozed red and bold down my face. I continued to sway, and the man reached again for my neck. For once, in so much infinite time, he was a predictable fucker.

I swung my head to the left, cocking and pulling the trigger on my right fist, plunging knuckles into a bony chest. I heard cracking and with newly christened pain in my hand, I couldn’t tell whether it was my fist or his chest breaking.

But I didn’t care, lunging into a takedown. My dazed friend unwillingly accepted my arms, embracing with no love and my legs constricting his abdomen, crushing it like human aluminum. The weight of another body staggered the man. He fell straight back, letting out a gasp and a choked cough as his spine flattened against the unforgiving hardwood. This time I watched his head bounce -- again and again, slamming the skull with louder and louder thuds. I spit and sputtered and reached into the collecting pool of blood on the floor, smearing it on my own face.

I gained the upper hand for once in my lifetime -- too much celebration. The man cocked an eyebrow, smirked, and tensed his neck. I panicked and whipped a haymaker at his jaw, but his head continued to hang in mid-air. My hand ended disfigured, fingers swollen, one pushed back into the knuckle, split to reveal bone.

The smirk opened and bit at the hand I was inspecting, freeing two fingertips to make room for the fountains beneath. I screamed, clutching my spurting hand, while the man bucked up and boxed my ears with his palms. The world rang, my vision blurring once more. Warmth ran from my ears down my neck, but again, as I lay writhing and bleeding amidst a flurry of punches, the room rushed back into focus. Sound exploded and the streams of blood flooding my ears slowed to a drip.

Fists like stones hammered my face and neck, curving around my meek defense -- me, curling into an imaginary shell. I was pathetic and each blow echoed it, growing more savage, eventually turning to open-handed scrapes from unkempt fingernails.

Chunks of flesh peeled and hung under the man’s nails after each recoiling hit, and the searing sting of freshly exposed flesh enveloped my brain in agony. It was like my face was the raw surface of a skinned knee, being constantly dug out for what felt like hours. But I just lay there, curled in a ball, hoping to die.

Until I began to think.

The floor was still slick in pools of blood, vomit, sweat, and piss, providing an offensive ambiance of failure and farm animals. I planned to rival this odor offensive with my own, but fear is a fickle friend -- it keeps us from danger but keeps us from success. My arms stuck, frozen in a useless block, as the skin and hair peeled and ripped from my forearms in a thousand needle-stings.

The clawing stopped, and I inhaled, forced to exhale soon after from another boot spreading blunt nausea and hell from my stomach, up my throat, and onto the floor. I was shocked anything was left, short of vomiting my stomach itself. I rolled to my back without thinking.

The boot returned, pressing on my chest. My lungs burned as they tried to expand, and each breath became a wheeze. Bouncing around with nowhere to go, air turned stale and choked me from the inside as my sternum threatened to crack and rain bone chips into my heart -- a heart that continued to beat with a zest for life I couldn’t match.

I started to think again. Fast. My good hand, not caked in the dried sauce of missing digits, wrapped around the ankle of the man's other foot, the one planted in puddles of blood and bile on the hardwood. I pulled. The floor's slick juices sloshed and slid in a viscous wave of sickly greens and congealing reds. The boot bending my ribs wobbled and fell; my chest expanded with deep gasps.

But I didn’t have time for breathing. My opponent groaned, lying prone and clutching his head. He was still awake -- still alive. This was the moment to end it. With renewed vigor but a broken body, I crawled. The man rolled to his side and braced with an arm to stand, but I was upon him, elbows connecting with his nose. The nose became a faucet, liberating blood from his head, but I didn’t stop to relish in it.

Elbows stabbed like knives, opening gashes in the man’s cheeks, cracking his eye sockets into black and blue, bulbous hills. I gnashed my teeth and dug with my nails, determined to remove every bit of flesh and use it to replace what was taken from me.

My knees drove down into the solar plexus; I rocked back and forth until I could hear bones crunch. The man had stopped moving minutes before, unrecognizable beneath blood and blackish-brownish holes that pieces of face once occupied. My teeth held a chunk of scalp, the hair from which rubbed softly under my nose. I gave one last, half-hearted swing and fell beside my foe, my hand on my chest, admiring the vastness of the universe through the absent ceiling -- reflecting on the narrowness of my own life. How did I get here? Where would I go now?

My reverie was interrupted by a shape moving to my side.

“Motherfucker…” I choked out a word as the man loomed above me, his face now whole but still wearing a mask of dried blood. I, too weak to defend, caught one heavy kick to the temple, banishing from my mind any forming explanations for this brawl. I spit out some blood and mucus: “who…” cough “...what are you?”

It was silent and still for a second. Then the man laughed. There was no malice, just a good-natured chuckle. My nemesis -- if he was a nemesis at all -- extended a hand down towards me and shrugged.

NoSleep

Facebook

[unofficialnosleeppodcast]

The NoSleep Podcast

It’s episode 16 of Season 4! We have seven tales for you this week, featuring stories about horrifying hallucinations, scary cemeteries, and sinister storytelling.

(Illustration courtesy of Lukasz Godlewski)

[grindhorse]

Hey look, I was featured in this episode along with the always killer, Ovenfriend.

[grindhorse]

A Helping Hand (originally: What do gas stations, hands, shotguns, fire, and bowties have in common?)

[Now, this story was featured on the NoSleep podcast recently, but the version I'm posting here is a new edit with a redone ending.  I like it better this way, and I hope reader, that you dig it too.]

It was a long trip to nowhere.  Mindlessly flipping radio stations, catching snippets and static: 

“Breaking news: in Delaware, it appears more hands continue to…” 

“Whoa, oh, oh, I’m on fire…” 

“Hey you.  Yes, you!  Feeling like you’re in a rut latel-”  Off. 

The sky had finished its usual shift into speckled ink just as I finally found a gas station.  Rural Pennsylvania is a beautiful wasteland at night.  Not a single soul around unless you counted the old man on the tractor I had nearly sideswiped 20 minutes prior to discovering this gas mecca.  The stars burned lonely holes into my eyes, letting me know in their crowdedness just how isolated I was.  But fuck’m.  They’re stars; what do they know?  I was driving for the exact reason the cosmos mocked me:  I needed to escape.   

My relationship with a girl I assumed was my one and only blew up in my face when I discovered her infidelity...with my best friend.  Of course, I learned about their tryst from someone I met once at a work function in Florida on a Tuesday or something, something, they just kept fucking talking.  I wanted to vomit, and they insensitively wanted to reminisce after a cursory, “I thought you knew.”  It doesn’t help that I’m a recovering alcoholic, so the shock nearly relapsed me after two good months.  I still wish I would let myself slip a little, but the drinking is the reason I’ve alienated my family.  So yeah, you could say things have been pleasant. 

But anyway, I pulled my pickup into one of two pumps, looking around for an attendant.  The New Jersey in me never fully left.  I still feel entitled to a gas slave.  The one attendant was a man of obscure ethnicity, sitting in an office bathed in harsh fluorescent vibrance;  he stared at me with disdain from behind plate glass coated in dirty neglect.  I chose to pay at the pump. 

I don’t think I need to describe the act of pumping gas, but immediately after picking my grade, as I stood against my truck, a man appeared.  I guess appeared isn’t the correct term.  He didn’t just materialize, but this station was bright enough that the surrounding area turned to opaque darkness.  Since the man was dressed in a black duster, black loafers, black wide-brimmed hat, black slacks, and a black waistcoat over a white blouse and red bowtie, he blended in decently well.  He was also walking, with no car in sight… 

The stranger approached the second pump ten feet from mine, giving me a slight wave before breaking awkward eye contact to insert nothing into the machine.  This man literally inserted nothing, while holding his fingers to appear he was using a card.  He removed the pump, and it inexplicably began spewing gas onto the pavement.  I gave a desperate glance to the attendant in his base some yards away.  He was busy with a TV small enough to wrap my hand around. 

When I glanced back at my weird station neighbor, he was looking at me with eyes that wrapped too-bright whites around deep, black irises.  He wasn’t staring; it was a nice look with the kind of cordial smile one adopts for small talk, positioned within a meticulously managed, grey handlebar mustache. 

“Nice night, huh?”  Completely normal tone from the man chaotic spraying fuel. 

“I...umm...you’re not filling anythi-” 

“You won’t survive it.”  He cut me off with a cheerful tone.  I noticed behind the friendly voice was a sound I may have imagined.  It was like the horn section of an an orchestra trying to play a piece in E minor while they are all brutally murdered.  I couldn’t hear this as much as feel it in my spine. 

“Excuse me?” 

“The night.  You won’t survive it.  But hey, at least there’s a lovely breeze.”  With those words the man replaced the pump, turned around with a wink, and began to stride away.  Two steps and he stopped short, producing a match from his pocket.  He lit it.  He threw it over his shoulder. 

“Take care now,” the gas burst into flames.  Simultaneously, all the lights in the station went out, and the man was nowhere to be seen on the other side of the blaze.  The attendant, whose office light was unaffected, charged out of his office shouting in an accent I couldn’t place. 

“You son of a bitch, you’re destroying my business!”  It took me a second to realize he was directing his rage at me.  The heat distorted my view of this angry little man, but he I could tell he was holding a shotgun. 

“Holy fuck!” I sprinted to my truck, pump still feeding into the tank.  Luckily, the flames hadn’t jumped the gap to my side.  I heard a burst of gunfire and the sound of ripping metal.  This asshole shot my truck.  It didn’t register that it could’ve just as easily been the sound of ripping flesh.  Regardless, I made it inside and floored it, ripping the gas line out, which swung out into the puddle and ignited.   

By some miracle, or the sheer acceleration, the nozzle was flung from my tank before I became a douchebag flambe.  I had heard the attendant’s muffled shouting even as the gas station turned to a spot of light in my rearview.   

I was still an hour from home.  The drive was tense and silent.  The radio wasn’t about to interfere while I processed everything that had just happened.  I was shot at and almost blew up in a gas fire.  But none of that really mattered to me since it wasn’t what he meant.  I know it wasn’t what he meant. 

“You won’t survive the night.” I paraphrased the stranger in my head, somehow expecting there to be some hidden meaning in five words.  What if it was a car crash?  Was this man clairvoyant?  Did he really just disappear or did the fire obscure him?   

I continued this mental interrogation long into my drive, eventually making it to my driveway, barely registering that a UPS truck was also sitting there.  It was 3am, but here was Mr. Brown Shorts, jumping down from his seat with a grimace that indicated the graveyard shift. 

“Here’s your package.  Thanks for putting a rush on it.  Next time wait like everyone else.”  Before I could retort, this slightly overweight, slouch-shouldered courier was wearily flipping me off as he backed out of my drive.  I could’ve fired something back.  However, my mind was once again blank.  This time, I couldn’t comprehend the package I was holding.   

It was a simple cardboard box.  I ran into the house and flung it onto the couch like it contained a plague.  Sitting on the floor on the other side of the room, I surveyed the box.  It was medium-sized, cardboard, and had a logo emblazoned on the side: Resting Rock Industries.  I knew that name, so before I even opened the box, my laptop was out and ready to Google. 

The results jogged my memory: 48 died in Resting Rock Industries fire.  Massive headstone business closes as the three Healy brothers, owners of the company, are found dead of smoke inhalation in the basement.  The three were missing their hands.  Weeks earlier, the brothers had come under suspicion of laundering company money to front a cocaine ring, but officials decided the disaster was not linked to the drug trade or organized crime. 

The whole investigation lasted four months.  One man was the prime arson suspect: Eli Mull.  He was the former janitor, having been fired a month prior to the incident.   

I remembered live news footage of the cops busting into Eli’s house, only to find him dying in the bathroom.  He was surrounded by heroin-filled syringes, his body badly burned.  The cops released one thing he said as he died: 

“I’m a failure.”  It was ruled suicide by self-immolation. 

There was a big thing later about his hands being removed from his body while he was in the morgue.  Nothing showed up on security tapes.  It was written off as another case of “necrophiliac creep gets a job as a coroner.” 

I’m not an idiot.  I put the pieces together in my head as best I could.  Not being someone who discounts the supernatural, the feeling of “I’m fucked either way” descended on my tightening chest as I chose to open the box. 

It was a bottle of The Macallan 30-year, a $2,000 bottle of Scotch.  Two fine crystal glasses accompanied the bottle, as did a folded up piece of paper.  Obviously I read that shit: “This is probably poison.  I can test it for you.  Just let me in the house.” 

Knock. 

One single knock on the door followed by ten very long seconds.  Then a flurry of vicious pounding on all parts of the door.  Snarling.  Muffled shrieks.  Complete silence.  Incredibly thick silence. 

“Naaaaaaathan.  Hey, Nathan.  I know you’re in there.  You should let me in to test the bottle.  Otherwise, you may not survive.”  Fake, saccharine words from a voice I knew was the man from the gas station.  The only problem was he was using my own voice through the door.  “I mean, you could certainly try it yourself, but you’ve come so far without it.  Let me prove that it’s dangerous…. 

...JUST LET ME THE FUCK IN.”  The pounding began again, and I sat frozen on the floor, curled in a ball for half an hour before the TV blinked on by itself.  The video was of my best friend Travis with Melanie, the love of my life.   

No, perverts, this was not a video of them fucking.  This was worse.  This was them in a diner discussing my faults.  Discussing why they needed to be together and edge me out of the social circle I helped bring together. 

“He’s such a downer lately.  I understand he’s at a dead end, but it isn’t like he’s ever going to come out of it.  He was always the party guy.  The party guy ends up sad and alone.  I know it’s harsh, but Mel, you need to let him go.”  My best fucking friend was grinning smugly as he manipulated the rock in my storm of a life. 

“I mean, I know Trav, but I think I can fix him.  I want to fix him.”  She seemed unsure, like she was justifying the relationship to herself. 

“You can’t help someone so flawed.  He’s spiraling, and he’ll take you down with you.  I won’t allow that to happen to you.  I love you, Mel.”  He was a bold asshole. 

“I….I love you too, Travis.”  This wasn’t something she was forced to see.  Her voice held some relish in the words.  That’s when I noticed I was sitting on the couch clutching the still closed bottle.  The plastic seal, however, had been removed around the lid.  The TV went out again. 

“Hey Nate, that’s such a shame.  If you let me in maybe we can share a sip or two.”  He was back.   

Fuck it, I’m confronting this bastard.  Moving towards the door, I was overtaken by thought.  My hand touched the handle, but before I turned it, everything flooded into my brain: He knows your name.  He knows where you live.  He is mimicking your voice.  He literally fucking disappeared.  Is this someone you want to confront?  Regardless of how fucked you think you are, he hasn’t made an attempt to come into the house other than coaxing.  Sit down. 

I had a point.  Back to the couch. 

“Buuuuddy, come on, you were so close.  We can have a blast together.”  He was pleading, but it wasn’t pathetic.  There was more malice now than in his yelling.  “Fine, do it yourself.” 

It was silent again.  There I was staring a blank TV screen, with a sealed bottle of one of the best Scotch’s money can buy sitting next to me.  Maybe just a sip… 

The phone rang.  It was 4:36am.  I answered anyway, being greeted by my mother with a somber note in her words. 

“Hi Nate, I know it’s a terrible time to be calling, but we haven’t talked in so long.  You should know that your father and I had our last fight tonight.  He just left the house.  We’re...getting a divorce.”  She croaked the last line.  They were married 28 years, and you could feel the love between them.  “Now, I’m sure you have a lot you want to ask me-” 

“You’re damn sure I do, but it’s about you guys ignoring for the past two ye-” 

“It’s natural for a child to feel like it’s his fault.”  Something definitely wasn’t right about this call -- ya know, aside from the timing.  “So, if you’re afraid it’s your fault just know...it is.  Have a good night sweetheart.”  That was that.  The bottle was opened.  I poured a glass. 

That marvelous sip.  It was like smoky silk.  I ran it over my tongue, bathing in the flavor and feel of alcohol.  But I snapped back into perspective before I drank again.  I think I imagined a distant chuckle somewhere outside that concluded with a sigh as I set the glass back down. 

I felt light and relaxed.  Far too relaxed for one sip of booze.  But the seal wasn’t broken.  The bottle had been in its original box with that perfect circle of glue holding the lid closed.  I refused to believe I wouldn’t notice if it was tampered with prior.   

No, I knew for a fact it wasn’t tampered with since I’ve seen enough bottles of whiskey in my dark years to kill a small village.  Still, something didn’t feel right.  Oh, again, something didn’t feel right aside from everything else that was feeling wrong. 

Sitting in silence after taking the sip was actually somewhat easier.  The temptation was gone, strange enough.  I even allowed a smile when I saw the first sunbeams of the morning.  Looks like I survived the night.  Did I understand the night?  No, I have no fucking clue what happened.  I called my mom that morning, and when my dad answered the phone confused and assuming I was drunk, it was surprisingly comforting.  If only the videos of Travis and Mel were false.  It was definitely them on my TV; I don’t doubt it for a second.  You just can’t have everything, I suppose. 

But the night was over, and I wanted nothing more than to go outside, shoving this out of my mind.  Opening my front door turned out to be a regret.  The lingering scent of smoke hit me first.  Then...the hands. 

Disembodied hands lay neatly in pairs on the porch.  Every pair was burned in some way, and they all lay with fingers spread in my direction, arranged as a semi-circle before me.  Right in front of the half-circle was a box of matches with an ornate design of gold leaves and vines.  The vines curled around the swooping letters of an unfamiliar language, a prominent, disorienting logo. The box itself sat in the center of a series of burns arranged into a message -- my porch was an old-style Southern, wrapping around the house, made of wood boards and beams.  The message had scorched through the porch floor, announcing itself as a permanent fixture: 

“Dear Nathan, 

Congratulations on your success; I knew you could do it!  I know I certainly lent a hand.  Get it?  No?  That’s fine.  I can’t promise that if we meet again it’ll be as simple.  Next time you may need to lend me a hand. 

Sincerely,

Nathan” 

NoSleep (Previous ending)

Facebook

[pixography]

Christopher Ulrich ~ “Octo-Gogh”

[grindhorse]

This.  This I like.  Who needs ears when you're the Kraken?

[plagiarismisnecessary]

Mies van der Rohe

Chicago Federal Center (1964)

[grindhorse]

It might seem kind of austere, but there's a beauty to it.  Like everything in art.

[machine-factory]

Stunning work of animation right here! it’s called The Blackwater Gospel and believe it or not, it’s a student film.

good gaawd.

check out The Animation Workshop for more.

[grindhorse]

just perfect.

[grindhorse]

What Did This? (originally: It isn't Satan. It isn't monsters. It isn't the government. It isn't a serial killer. It isn't aliens. It isn't demons. It isn't nuclear. It isn't solar storms.)

Doorbells are not inherently scary. The doorbell rings; the door is answered. Of course, what's on the other side of the door can change the interaction significantly.

I'm a house painter by trade. Generally, I work by myself or with Joe, a middle-aged, silent type. He's a nice guy, a talented painter, and a devout Christian. It's funny to think his faith actually has little to do with what happened that day.

It was a Wednesday afternoon. The entire day was spent hanging drywall, completely covering the ceilings of two bedrooms. If you've ever covered a ceiling in drywall, we can swap stories of shoulder pain and screw shards in our fingers later.

Two women lived in the house, with its cracking walls, dusty everything, and strange ability to cast shadows in a room facing direct sunlight. Somewhat elderly women. Sisters, I think; I wasn't too sure. Kind women, but they had a tendency to walk completely in sync with one another. It was like, if you've ever seen the movie Don't Look Now, it reminded me of the old women in that. Man, that was a pretty good movie; it used suspense effectively, but after a while the lack of anything happening became a bit mundane.

Oh, sorry, I'm rambling. I daydream when I work, so documenting the day brings out the talker in me. But, anyway, the women had left for several hours. No idea where they went, but judging by the empty Lorezapam bottles and compulsive conversations about death on the news, I'd say nowhere important. Just getting away from the loneliness and depression that is the Philadelphia suburbs for a while.

So, it was myself, Joe, and a dying radio set to the oldies. The radio would turn to static whenever I walked by. Only me, which I found odd. I joked in my head about possibly being a demon. These are the things one thinks about while screwgunning a 400th spiral into gypsum. Spiral Into Gypsum would actually be a decent band name, honestly. There I go, rambling again. The stories never stop aboard this train of thought...

The doorbell rang.

Joe called from the other room, “Hey, Dave, mind grabbing that? My hands are full.”

“Should we really be answering the door with the homeowners gone?”

“Well...no, I suppose whoever it is can always come back.” Silence. “Come help me dry fit this.”

I sigh, knowing soon I'll be holding my arms above my head for a lot longer than I'd want.

One hour passes, and the women haven't come home. We've exhausted our drywall surplus upstairs, so Joe charges me to run downstairs to grab another sheet myself. Maneuvering a cumbersome piece of Sheetrock is not something I'm excited about, but the sooner we finish, the sooner I can kill all the ice cream in my freezer. Since I'm basically a child. Fuckin' sue me.

Charging down the stairs, I stop. The front door is covered by a thin curtain, obscuring the window in it somewhat, but the sunlight pouring through outlines a silhouette on the other side of the door. I cock an eyebrow, as if anybody can see my confusion. Whoever happened to be standing there was completely still, so I decided to assume it was one of the women on their porch admiring the bland street corner. It's funny how we instantly rationalize what we don't understand. It isn't so much that we make sense of the world, but we invent our own reality where nothing bad can happen.

My hand gripped the tarnished handle and turned, pulling the door open to reveal a man in a black suit — a suit that would've been more at home 200 years prior. He was wearing a bowler hat and looked vaguely similar to an elderly Sinatra. His voice, however, was not from The Chairman: deep and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Hello friend, I started to think you would never answer the door.”

It was at this point I should've closed the door in his face, but frankly I don't think it would've changed the events that followed.

“I...didn't know you were there this whole time. You a friend of Maureen's?” He had to know the homeowners somehow, right? Right. Breathe and remember: rationalize.

“No, I'm just here to deliver an envelope to a...Joe Hause? Is that what that says?” The man pulled some reading glasses from his pocket. “Yes, Joe Hause. Do you happen to be Joe?”

“No, I'm not Joe, but I could take this to him if you'd like. He's right upstairs...”

“I can't allow you to touch this envelope, but if you would allow me to come in, I'd be more than happy to deliver the envelope and be on my way.”

I heard steps behind me. I was wondering when Joe would get impatient.

“Dave, where's the drywa- who's that?”

“I'm not important, but this envelope is for Joe Hause. Would you be Joe Hause?” The old man was exceedingly pleasant, cracking a smile without a hint of malice.

“I am...” Joe approached the man as one would approach a leper. He snatched the off-white envelope, opening it at arms length. “If this is anthrax, I'm making sure you die with me, old man.” Joe was also a conspiracy theorist.

The man just grinned. “It's nothing of the sort, but I appreciate the humor.”

Joe removed a single piece of paper from the envelope, reading it aloud, brutally grimacing.

“It isn't solar storms. It isn't demons. It isn't nuclear.” Pause. “Then what the fuck is it?”

“I just deliver the messages.” The old man gave a stiff wave before collapsing into a pathetic heap.

The police arrived promptly, pulling up in a storm of light and sound. They took statements from each of us, surveyed the area; the homeowners came back, obviously horrified an old man died on their porch. This was made more bizarre by the women asserting that they had never before seen the unfortunate visitor.

The old man was a complete stranger to everyone, apparently. He had nothing in his pockets. No tags on his clothing. No fingerprints. His teeth were dentures with no label or serial number branded onto them. The cops fidgeted for a while, taking pictures, shooting their guns at each other in a weird take on a water gun fight, punching stray animals. We all joined in, and it was a great time. I'm kidding, but the officers really didn't know what to do, so naturally they told us to call them if anything else happened. They were gone.

Maureen's supposed sister had gone upstairs to lie down. Joe, myself, and Maureen made awkward small talk, having no stake in this old man and wanting to banish the ordeal from memory. Joe made no mention of the envelope to the police or to the sisters.

Eventually, we all decided the best course of action was for Joe and I to go ahead and continue working. I wish we left.

I was working in the front bedroom, so I pushed the door open, not remembering having closed it, but telling myself I'm forgetful sometimes. There was Maureen's sister Diana, lying dead on the floor, eyes wide, chest and stomach sliced open revealing a bloodless cavity. Her arm was propped up with a wooden board, forcing it to point directly at the ceiling. One of the pieces of drywall had a new arrangement of nails. The black heads all gathered in a pentagram; it appeared to be bleeding, red fluid dripping from the old nail holes.

I guess I should mention the rest of the room. Diana wasn't the only dead body. One of the police officers and two people I had never seen before all lay dead and empty, pointing up to the ceiling. The furniture, which only consisted of a bed and a desk, were covered in sheets. Joe's tools, two different-sized pliers, a drywall saw, a drill, and a painter's putty knife sat neatly on top of the desk. The bed was covered in envelopes.

It may have been a gut reaction to the scene, but Joe ran frantically to the envelopes, tearing each one open like a spoiled kid on Christmas: “it isn't Satan. It isn't monsters. It isn't demons. It isn't a serial killer. It isn't aliens.” The envelopes all contained variations of the trope, gradually turning Joe's tone from urgent to pleading.

He collapsed into tears. My heart was racing, but until you've seen something atrocious, you don't know how you would react. Maureen vomited before passing out on the floor. I stood still, sweating, wringing my hands. The vice grip in my chest signaled a panic attack. What do I do now? What did this?

Then Joe opened the last envelope. This one was completely black, buried beneath the others. Unlike the previous letters, this was opened with care. The vigor was gone.

Joe stood still for a while before turning to look out the window. Where I was situated at the door, I couldn't see what he was looking at, but I didn't need to see it.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE NOW.” Joe turned to me in a frenzy, running towards the door as I heard shattering glass. I glanced back as I flew down the stairs only to see Joe clawing at the hardwood floor, nails tearing off into cascading blood. He was being dragged by a scabbed hand with long, yellowing nails. I didn't see what the hand belonged to, but it didn't matter. I thought of going back to save Maureen, but as I plowed through the front door, her body exploded from the window above me. The sound of bones cracking and ripping accompanied the unnatural bounce of the corpse.

“Run little rabbit. It's hunting season.” Monotonous tone. Sour taste in my mouth. The taste of garbage and hate. Not my own hate.

I threw open my car door, remembering suddenly that my battery had been temperamental lately.

One turn of the key. Grinding sounds.

Two turns of the key. Grinding sounds.

Three turns of the key. No sounds.

I looked up at the second floor window, feeling eyes on me. Being parked across the street, the view of the window was clear enough to make out an abnormally large head, given that appearance by a mass of matted, straw-like black hair. The hair obscured all facial features except the scarred, dirty cheeks and jaw, adorned with...well, it wasn't a smile...the mouth was open displaying gritted, caramel teeth, but the expression didn't indicate any emotions.

Four turns. The windowgazer slithered from the window, limbs being used in the wrong way to exit onto the overhang above the front door.

Five turns. The windowgazer reached a scabbed hand onto the drainpipe, attempting to slide down the pipe upside-down. The nails and brackets on the tube tore flesh from the thing, dripping blood onto the pavement in a sinister shower.

Six turns. The thing lay still on the ground for several seconds before wildly flailing its bony body parts, the whole time seemingly training that eyeless gaze on me. Mouth still open. Teeth still gritted. Blood still leaking from fresh wounds.

Seven turns. Lucky seven, the car came to life, turning the corner, and I was gone...right into traffic.

“Fuck...fuck, fuck, fuck.” Cars in front, cars behind. I glanced behind me, expecting to see the beast wandering towards the main road. Instead I saw Maureen and Diana pull their car around the block.

My phone buzzed. It was Joe. “He...hello?”

“Where the fuck are you, man?”

“I...you...you're okay?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You ran to your car in a panic. I'm concerned for YOU...”

I pulled the car to the side of the road, staring at my hands for no reason other than that they existed. The phone was still on; Joe asked if I was there, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. Was it really Joe? I decided to ask him one thing.

“What did it say in the last envelope?”

Static for a second, then a sour taste in my mouth. I knew I wasn't going back to that house.

“It's curiosity.”

NoSleep

Facebook

[blumorphine-deactivated20170507]

Elude by Britt ▽ on Flickr.

[grindhorse]

Welp, this is just gorgeous.

[grindhorse]

Rabid (originally: The Pros and Cons of Buying a Dog from Someone's Trunk in the Walmart Parking Lot)

“Step right up folks, we have dogs and cats and everything in between," shouted the man in the tophat. He either didn't realize or didn't care that he was in a Walmart parking lot.

The weirdness of a parking lot pet auction got the best of me, and my feet raced my body to the gathering crowd. The man was tall and lanky, his legs rivaling stiltwalkers. His arms swept in arches and circles, painting the air with imaginary geometry as he spoke. The animals all sat, packed like clowns into an SUV, from which wafted the scent of a poorly-managed animal shelter.

The scene was mesmerizing -- so much so that I soon found myself inexplicably bidding on each animal. $200 for a cat with one eye. Luckily, I lost it to a woman with one ear. $500 for a dog with a weapons-grade “wet dog” smell. That went to a man with weapons-grade breath beside me. But the last animal for sale was a doberman with no discernible defects. I wanted a doberman. I wanted this doberman.

So the bidding began:

“$200, do I hear $200? There, $200. Do I hear $250…”

It continued to climb well over $2,000, but I hung in there. I couldn’t stop, knowing this was a terrible decision, but something compelled me to bid. I’m at Walmart shouting exorbitant bids over a dog in a man’s trunk.

I won. My mesmerized mind unclouded; the realization I just bought a dog in a parking lot dawned on me truly, for the first time.

The lanky auctioneer approached me with the dog, hand outstretched, gripping the leash. The abrasive scent of cigarettes mingled with hygienic neglect. Gray stubble clung to his gaunt cheeks. His entire outfit coalesced into warnings I gladly ignored: faded tophat, faded tailcoat, stained white t-shirt and khaki shorts, white gloves turning to yellow, and bare feet. But among these design flaws, his teeth were perfect.

“You sir, have won yourself a fine animal. He’s seen a lot more dog-fighting than an animal but is just the sweetest little creature on this Earth.” Pause to flash a bullshit smirk. “Regardless, I can tell you’re a man of expensive tastes.” He gave me a wink, the smirk still in place, gesturing his grandiose gestures with all the grace of a seizing spider. I shifted my weight, focusing my eyes on anything else.

“Yeah, about that...I’m not entirely sure what came over me. I’m generally much more frugal-”

The man raised a tan carrot of an index finger to interrupt.

“I imagine you’re about to say the price was too steep, but the excitement consumed you? I’ve heard it before. Better to live within your means, my friend. Be a savvy shopper.” He paused, his eyes moving upward in thought, threatening to enter his brain. “However, this is the creme de la creme, the ace of spades, the messiah of the doggy world. He can be financed.”

“...like...monthly payments?” Financing a dog. I’m financing a dog. Stop it.

“Like deferred payments.” Closed lips formed a smug expression between happiness and satisfaction.

“Until when exactly?” Don’t ask anything. Just place the leash on the ground and walk away.

“Call me whenever you’re able.” He drew a card from the inner tailcoat pocket. It was printed on foil paper, but it didn’t say much of anything:

Clyde Watermelons Entertainer/Auctioneer/Auteur Phone #: None to speak of

It took a minute to process the card, and in that time, Clyde crossed the distance to his SUV in long, exaggerated strides. Taking off like I had actually given chase, Mr. Watermelons peeled out, leaving me in a crowd of people fawning over my new companion.

The dog already had a collar. His name was Sam. This supposed fighter gazed up at me with docile eyes. Well, what the hell…

“Okay, Sam.” I sighed. “Let’s go home.”

I didn’t even care to enter Walmart. Whatever I came to buy was so unnecessary that it erased its own memory.

Sam and I piled into my car, ready for the journey home. My phone plugged into the radio jack, Death From Above 1979’s “Trainwreck 1979” continued its blaring. The song began as I entered the lot earlier, the auction crowd turning to scowl as their eardrums burst.

“Cause I want it aaaall.”

Sam howled along with the track; it helped to steady my closing eyelids. The waning evening sun mimicked my alertness behind the wheel. But this doberman was intent on providing me with a concert; I wouldn't be a very good audience member if I nodded off in the middle.

Besides the battle between canine concert and highway hypnotics, the ride was uneventful, and pulling into my driveway was no different than leaving it earlier. My house was dark, allowing me to illuminate each room one by one to give Sam the grand tour. He would be sleeping on towels tonight. I hid a fact from the strange auctioneer: crippling debt becomes me. Frugal isn’t the right word; I spent so much upon striking out on my own that I owe debts for loans I took out to pay debts. “Nice things” litter my home, but nightmares clog my thoughts.

Sam beat me inside every room we entered, tail wagging. I reached down towards him a few times, and after some initial hesitation and fearful barking, his head met my hand. His facial expression told the story of a dog that, before I pet him, hadn't seen affection in a long time.

We entered the kitchen last. On the granite countertop lay a fairly plain greeting card branded on the front with the word “Invitation.” The contents were anything but inviting, and I read it out loud to my new friend:

“Hi Josh,

It’s a dog eat dog world out there. Good thing you’re human.

Think fast.”

The sharp stab of a needle to the neck cast the kitchen in darkness. I felt cold. Then I felt nothing.

I awoke in my bed. Two things struck me immediately: Sam was barking nearby, and a collar had been fastened around my neck, confirmed by my fingers exploring the webbed nylon.

“What the fu-”

The loud switching sound of spotlights turning on was followed predictably by a city’s worth of light pollution through my bedroom window.

The room stunk of trash and damp animals. Two more things struck me: the camera mounted to the far corner of the ceiling and the scratching. Scratching everywhere, surrounding me in a sandpaper symphony.

“What the fuck is goi-” Cut off again by a familiar voice on a megaphone.

“I can see that you’re awake, Josh. Well, in this scene I have released rabid raccoons into the walls of your home. In a minute or two they’ll scratch their way out of there, and I’m sure they aren’t too happy. I’ll set the mood with a soundtrack you may enjoy. Consider this your first installment.”

With that a muffled, thundering sound shook my house from the outside. It was a bassline, the volume of which could overtake that of a jet engine.

Wait a minute. I knew the song.

“Cause I want it aaaall.”

“Christ, he isn’t even fucking subtle,” I mused allowed. Probably an inappropriate time for remarks.

Pieces of drywall fell to the floor as feral monsters escaped the walls. Foaming mouths, eyes shining in the floodlights. These bastards didn’t waste time, bounding towards me, teeth gnashing.

“I can’t get enough.”

Sam caught one in the air, tearing through fur to a bloody trachea. One dead gave way to eight live intruders.

I still had boots on.

“There’s a darkness and a hollow by the highwaaay.”

Sam was pre-occupied, wild claws eviscerating rabid flesh. So, I kicked the nearest beast into the wall, following it’s path with a crushing stomp. Chunks of forest friend spilled over the carpet.

“This story never ends as long as we have blood and guts”

This single kill was a hollow victory. I dove to the door, raccoons in pursuit. Sam loomed behind, clamping onto the neck of a straggler.

My shoulder emancipated the door from its oppressive hinges, and I stumbled into the hall. It wasn’t just my room; these raccoons were fucking everywhere. Scratching pierced my brain, rubbing my nerves raw as it emanated from every wall I passed.

Just as furry death erupted, hissing from just before the stairs, I stutter-stepped into the last room on the right: the well-placed gun room. Lightswitch didn’t work, of course. Why wouldn’t the power have been cut? Silly me.

Scratching. Scratching everywhere, so I moved at a pace these raccoons would envy.

“Cause I want it aaaall.”

Glass shards tearing open my hand did little to impede me as I pulled my shotgun from the case. Good thing I bought this for no fucking reason. Good thing for that gun range membership I had no business buying. I still don’t hunt.

I didn’t hunt.

That night belonged to the hunt.

“With a heart that was beating out of my chest.”

The song had begun anew, blaring Watermelons’ convoluted, blatant message through my walls. Windows and cases shattered around me with the increasing vibrations from the bass.

Crystal rain and now-strobing solar flares lit my path. Dust clouded the scene with stop-motion gremlins tearing apart my home.

BOOM

The shotgun’s sound had echoed melodramatically in my head before I even pulled the trigger. But the raccoons lunged and the weapon pumped out a spray, forcing the furry fiends to pump out their own involuntary spray on the walls in a crimson Pollock.

Shot after shot after shot as I ran out of the weapon room. Raccoons kept pouring in front of me, behind me, on top of me. Dropping from the ceiling, rabid animals scratched jagged, indecipherable handwriting into my forehead. I flung these pests by the tail, breaking backs against the wall before sharp teeth followed sharp nails.

Soon the scratching had ceased, no walls left to burst from and creatures too torn and limp to burst from them again anyway. There was Sam: victory dripping from his jaws, his eyes casting a vicious look towards the steps. Was it over?

I spun on my heel.

Fuck, are those-

“Wolves. Installment number two.” Seven mangy demons climbed the steps in unison, growling and exposing yellow teeth.

Where were my neighbors? Why didn’t anyone call the cops?

I happened to have one of those large, gaudy windows above my front door. It was just shards -- an unreachable portal to freedom There, above the heads of the stalking wolves, I noticed figures. Time slowed down; the storm of light defined the figures as my neighbors and friends, now cheering spectators in front of TVs arranged on the lawn.

Time didn’t slow for long. The wolves abandoned their stalking, the dominant one sprinting the short length of the upstairs hall towards Sam and myself.

“I’m never satisfied, it’s a problem with my brain.”

No time to finish reloading, so I swung my expensive club, making contact with the yelping monster. It fell, but the villains never stay down for long. Through blinding light, I watched the wolf struggle to its feet.

“Cause I want it aaaall.”

“FUCKING DIE.” Enough was e-fucking-nough. Blow after blow, as if the other wolves were figments of my imagination. When I was done, there wasn’t much left. Six glorified cocker spaniels howled for their fallen alpha.

Then they ran.

“I can’t get enough.”

Sam took the lead, and I selfishly let my sleek war machine spin his cogs, choosing to reload my crutch.

Shells in place, I pulled the trigger with the vigor of a psycho killer, blasting into the fray from a few yards back. Careful as I was in my aim, adrenaline can turn the most level-headed man into a fool. Sam was hit.

He hobbled a bit, fighting on like a true warrior, one of his front paws had been clipped. But the beasts tried to overtake him. It was too fucking bad for them I still knew how to use my boots. One swift kick to the stomach sent a gray mass to a two story death over the hallway railing. Two other wolves rushed up to meet me, one shredding my back with a claw, the other narrowly missing my neck with hellish teeth. I cried out in pain, but my hormone high cancelled the sensation quickly enough, allowing me to clumsily slug one assailant in the neck with the gun barrel and bolt down the stairs.

I rushed through the front door, assuming it was locked. The wood splintered, and I breathed in the outside. My body moved before my mind, exploding from the porch towards the source of the light.

I fell to the ground as my body jerked and vibrated in violent, electric agony. The collar was for an invisible fence.

“You can’t leave the set. You haven’t paid this installment.” The bastard sounded solemn.

The sun was beginning to rise. Were fucking lions next? With no time to crawl on twitching limbs, I staggered to my feet, sprint-hobbling into my foyer. Sam had disappeared, but the wolves had not. Only two remained, surrounded by the parts of raccoon and wolf Sam and shotgun left recognizable.

Good dog. My thoughts had been racing, but if I knew anything, I knew this pup was a great purchase.

Two livid deathtraps stood between my battered form and a kitchen phone I stubbornly believed would work.

“This story never ends as long as we have blood and guts.”

The cliche of the staredown was negated by its own intensity. These two animals studied me, snarling curses in a language only used by the most vicious killers. I fingered the gun; one shell left to live.

“Cause I want it aaaall.”

Sam flew over the upstairs railing, raining blood from the wound I gave him, landing on one of the wolves teeth-first. He bit into the spine of one aggressor. I exposed the spine of the other with a blast to the cranium. I hurtled the body of the limp wolf as the mouth of the other caught my ankle. One swift kick made it impossible for another bite with that jaw.

Rabies. Definitely rabies. I’ll get the injections tomorrow. I laughed over how naive I was to assume tomorrow would come.

The kitchen. The phone. I’m limping -- well, dragging -- my leg behind me, body still partially numb from the shock collar. The music stopped once my hand touched the receiver to my ear. Before I could dial a number, Clyde’s voice invaded my senses.

“Well done. You’re all paid off, now.”

Then the megaphone.

“Show’s over folks; everyone go home.”

I stared towards the front door for a while, my jaw hanging open lazily. The spotlights turned off, giving way to the morning sun. My hand relented its grip on the shotgun, letting it crack the kitchen tile with a metallic clang. The crowd began to disperse without protest, all trudging home to prepare for their mundane jobs and routine lives. The show was over, and no one died. It must’ve been a total rip-off in their eyes.

Then my feet moved. I felt like I was gliding towards the door. Clyde Waterfuckingmelons had the audacity to darken the threshold with his uncomfortably long body, seeming taller than the day before. We stood three feet from each other before he bowed his head to enter the house.

Instinctively, I jerked backwards, my finger pulling a trigger that was no longer there. The auctioneer wordlessly unlocked my collar with one spindly hand. Then he stood at full height, beaming at me.

“I applaud your efforts. This will make a great film. However, we need to discuss the rights. I think we split it 98 and 2. Of course, me being the director, I would take the larger share. I hope you don’t mind.” Still beaming. Head cocked to one side.

I gave a baffled expression in return. I wanted a scowl, but astonishment was the best my face could muster.

“I’ll take that as agreement. Okay, well I’ll be going now.” He turned to leave. “Oh wait.” Turning back. “Where is Sam?”

The doberman hobbled from the shadow of my living room to the right. His fury was a punched beehive, overshadowing the buckshot-ravaged leg. The unshakable Clyde Watermelons was unfazed.

"There's my boy. I'll just be taki-" Sam lunged as Clyde started to pull a cattle prod from his jacket.

Sam's claws became Clyde’s new eyeglasses before the man could react. Now the show was over, and someone died after all. The last few hangers-on from the crowd outside gave a half-hearted cheer before wandering away.

“I can’t get enough.” I spoke the lyrics aloud because I too am not subtle. I surveyed the destroyed house, the animal parts and bloody paint job, and the body of one deranged something-or-other. For a while I was fixated, without much interest, on a small dent in the wall. Something like normality gradually snapped back into place. “Guess I’ll...call the cops?" I turned towards the kitchen, taking dragging my injured foot. "Come on, Sam.”

NoSleep

Facebook