Necro Files: Two Decades Of Extreme Horror Part 26

"I want out of here!"

"Then why did you come in?"

She looks at me, doesn't answer. I'm the only one she's really spoken to, and she thinks that's established some sort of relationship between us, she thinks I'll feel sorry for her and take pity on her because I've looked into her eyes, but she doesn't know s.h.i.t about the way things really work.

I stroke my codpiece. "I'll take you," I say. "I'll even hurt you if you want."

"Let me out of here!"

"No."

The flatness of my refusal throws her. Did she have lipstick on when she came into the bar? It's gone now. Her lips are thin and dry. There's a tic starting in her left eye.

"You don't know who you're f.u.c.king with," she says. "There'll be a lot of people looking for me. A lot of people. You don't know who I am-"

"I know who you are," I say.

She stops, stares at me, and what little color she has left drains from her face, leaving it a beautiful porcelain white.

"Come on," I say.

I take her hand. It's soft, thin, I can feel the bones. I start to pull her toward the door to the Back Room.

"I-I'm having my period," she lies.

I grin at her. "The more blood the better."

"Oh G.o.d ... Oh G.o.d ... Oh G.o.d ..." She's crying. Scared and frightened. Runny mascara tears. Clear snot. She doesn't look much like a pop star now.

"Please ..." she begs, sobbing.

And I lead her into the Back Room.

The waterbed is filled with sperm and blood, p.i.s.s and placenta, but I don't take her to the bed, I take her to the table and strap her into the stirrups. She is pliant and pliable at this point and I can do anything I want with her. She looks around, takes in the bones and the babies, the devices and the animals. Dazed, she tentatively touches the sticky wall next to the table with a finger, slowly puts the finger to her tongue as I strap her in, then she's gagging, spitting so she won't puke, and Liz comes and licks the spit off her face, off her mouth.

She struggles, squirms, and Liz slaps her face. Five times. Quickly.

The games have begun.

The pop star looks at me, mouth open, nose bleeding, eyes teary.

"Make a fist," I order.

She does, and holds it up, and Ginjer jumps on top of it, sliding slowly down, already slippery wet. The pop star reacts instinctively, cries out in disgust, tries to shake Ginjer off, but Ginjer's c.u.n.t is like a steel trap and she'd clamped on tight and not letting go and she starts spinning, round and round on the pop star's arm, squealing wildly with each successive climax.

"Get if off!" the pop star screams. "Get it off!"

But Ginjer's still spinning, and the juice dripping down the pop star's arm is starting to mix with blood.

I'm not sure if it's Ginjer's blood or the pop star's.

The Roothog steps up, pizzle in hand, starts whipping her with it.

She's screaming. More fear now than pain, although that will change.

Ginjer's already ground off the fist, and blood is streaming down the pop star's arm. Her chest is bruised purple by the pizzle.

They all want in on it, all the patrons of the bar. I'm not greedy, I'm willing to share, but her mouth is mine. I've earned it. I stake my claim, pointing, and there are no objections. Zeke holds down her forehead, while I bust out her teeth. She stops screaming, fainting I think, but that makes no difference to what I want to do. There are shards of teeth left, and I clean them out with a piece of bone. Her mouth is filling with blood, just the way I like it, and she comes to, gagging, and I open my codpiece and take out my c.o.c.k, and start feeding it to her.

Her bladder lets go, but Liz is there to bathe in the spray.

It's gone too far, I realize. She's not going to make it. I wanted to leave her changed, marked, not dead, but there's no turning back now, and if that's the way it's gotta be, that's the way it's gotta be. Fame or no Fame. There are no exceptions.

Everyone's the same in the Back Room of the bar.

We take our time, and she's alive for much more of it than I would have thought, but eventually we finish her off, and by the time it's all over and done with there's not even much of her body left.

What remains is thrown in the slush pile.

We celebrate with drinks.

They come in later, official representatives of the Law outside, looking for the pop star, but no, officers, we haven't seen anyone matching that description. Lemme look at the picture. Nope. Haven't seen her. Any of you seen someone like that in here?

There is a slit-eyed older lieutenant in on the hunt, a Harvey Harda.s.s, a faded jaded seen-it-all, and I catch the eyes of the other regular patrons, see the nods and the smiles, and I look again at the cop who thinks he's seen everything.

His friends are already moving away, out the door.

I nod to the Others, letting them know that they're to snag him if he tries to leave.

I look at him, catch his eye.

Confused, maybe a little frightened, he looks around the darkened room, then back at me.

I grin.

Welcome to the Ugly Bar.

The Sooner They Learn.

Wrath James White.

"The Sooner They Learn" was first published in his collection The Book Of A Thousand Sins, 2005, from Two Backed Books.

Pain is the nervous system's primary indicator that we are doing something that might compromise the integrity of our bodies. It prevents us from destroying ourselves. To not know pain is to not understand what it takes to survive and succeed. Darrell was an educator, a teacher of pain. He had a warehouse of agonies concentrated within him that he needed to share, to diffuse amongst all those who had yet to know it, those who needed to learn.

The boys walked past Darrell, followed by the pungent aroma of tobacco. They were perhaps only eight or nine years old. Way too young to be smoking. The larger of the two boys held out a pack of Newports to his shorter friend as he coughed and choked on the coffin nail dangling from his own lip. He was obviously not used to smoking. Perhaps he could still be saved? Darrell began to follow the two boys, listening to their conversation, looking for the perfect opportunity to issue his sermon.

"Hey Sam, take a hit off this," the larger boy said, shoving the pack of Newports into his friend's hand.

"Naw, Joey. You know I don't smoke. Besides, my mom would kill me if I came home with my breath smelling like an ashtray."

Sam tried to hand the smokes back to Joey, who s.n.a.t.c.hed them from his hand.

"d.a.m.n Sam! You's a little b.i.t.c.h! I thought you was down? I was going to pick up some weed later. I suppose you wouldn't smoke that neither?"

"h.e.l.l no! My mom would beat the h.e.l.l out of me if she smelled that s.h.i.t on me!"

"I can't believe what a little punk you are. You scared of your mom? The b.i.t.c.h is like in her fifties! What the f.u.c.k is she going to do? I'd smack the h.e.l.l out of my mom if she tried to talk some s.h.i.t to me. I do whatever the h.e.l.l I want!"

Joey took another long draw on his cigarette, smoking it down to the filter. He dug into his pack of Newports and pulled out another, looking around to make sure the other kids in the playground were watching so they could see how cool he was.

Darrell sat across the playground on a park bench, watching Joey. A tear rolled down his cheek. The anger built within him into a tempest, spilling from his emotion filled eyes into the air around him.

"Another child that we have failed," he whispered, wiping away the tear with the tattered sleeve of his mangy plaid fur coat.

That kid knows nothing about pain, Darrell thought. He knows no consequences for his actions. It's all fun and games to him. I have to teach him.

Darrell knew all about life, all about pain. He knew that it built character, made you strong, taught you discipline. He knew that it was something every child needed to know about.

Darrell freely acknowledged that he had failed his own children. He had let the world take them and it had broken them like kites in a hurricane. He watched them spin out of control into the maelstrom of drugs and crime until their shattered fragments had fallen headlong into the abyss, one in the grave and the other in prison. It was his fault. He'd been too permissive, too liberal. He'd allowed them to make up their own minds, make their own mistakes, hadn't set down enough rules, hadn't taught them about consequences and repercussions. Linda and Jake had grown up thinking the world revolved around them, that they were invincible. Now they were lost and it was Darrell's fault. He had failed them. But, there were many other children in the world and he would not fail them. He would teach them all.

Darrell rose from the bench and stalked out of the park after Joey.

"The sooner they learn," he mumbled as he closed the gap between them.

Joey's eyes burned from the thick miasma of tobacco smoke that choked the room. He coughed repeatedly and started to retch. The unmistakable click of the revolver's hammer c.o.c.king back immediately silenced his coughing fit. Quickly, he put the cigar back to his lips and sucked down more smoke.

He looked over at the huge disheveled old man that sat beside him, holding the revolver. Joey's frightened bloodshot eyes pleaded with him, but the old man's were ruthlessly silent. Joey coughed again. Darrell leaned over and placed the c.o.c.ked and loaded .38 caliber Colt revolver directly to Joey's head. The boy winced as he felt the chilling bite of the metal pressed against his temple, still he continued to dry heave. He had already regurgitated all the contents of his stomach. His throat was raw with the acid burn of stomach bile and the caustic fumes raking at his esophagus as he was forced to inhale more of the pungent smoke. The boy's body began to hitch with sobs as tears raced down his cheeks.

Joey wanted to beg Darrell to let him stop, but held himself back. He had begged the old man just minutes before, only to be s.n.a.t.c.hed out of his seat by the jaw and dragged within inches of the man's enraged countenance, which had twisted into a horrible scowl. The old man stared into Joey's eyes looking as if he was about to bite his face off, then he spun the cylinder on the revolver and dry-fired the gun against the boy's temple. The hammer fell on an empty chamber with a dull hollow click. Joey's a.n.u.s clenched up and his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es rose into his stomach. A violent trembling shook his entire body and he nearly fainted. He had seen the old man put three bullets into the revolver. He knew that the chances of him surviving another round of Russian roulette were not good.

The old man took the cigar from the boy's lips and pressed it into his own palm where it sizzled as it scalded his flesh. "You stop smoking again and this is going in your eye," he said in a voice that was hoa.r.s.e and raspy, as if he had just smoked 6 boxes of cigars himself.

Joey put the cigar back to his lips and sucked down more smoke. He had never felt so sick or scared before. He was woozy and his stomach rolled as he sucked on the huge cigar. It no longer felt cool. It no longer made him feel like a man. Six empty cigar cartons lay on the floor amongst the b.u.t.ts and ashes of nearly a hundred cigars and six more cartons sat waiting for him. Joey felt like he was going to die. If the cigar smoke didn't kill him, then he knew Darrell probably would.

Darrell was a child's nightmare. He was the real boogieman. Draped about his neck was a necklace of severed Barbie doll heads, pacifiers and the miscellaneous limbs of broken action figures. The moth-eaten fur coat that Joey had originally thought was plaid was, in fact, fashioned from the hides of fur toys, Teddy bears, stuffed rabbits and big purple dinosaurs. Most of them still had their little gla.s.s eyes intact and they stared out of that bizarre collage of artificial pelts, as if beseeching you to rescue them. Some of the fur looked real, however, and were in the perfect shape of small dogs and cats. Some of these still appeared to have their skulls intact, though minus the eyes. It looked like some last minute attempt at a homemade Halloween costume or the place where childhood dreams found their death.

He was a huge man, well over two hundred pounds with a hard athletic build. He had a head full of gray hair that was wild and unwashed. His skin looked like some type of hard wrinkled leather. From the weathered landscape of his face, cold gray eyes stared without emotion, except when they flashed brilliantly with rage. Joey had pa.s.sed him numerous times in the playground as he sat on the swings. They jokingly called him the Boogieman and made up stories about him kidnapping and punishing bad kids. Joey had noticed the haunted look in some of the other kid's eyes when he made Boogieman jokes, but he had always laughed it off, thinking they were just little punks scared of a fairytale. Now, he knew that he wouldn't be making jokes like that again. Now, he knew the stories were real.

Joey finally fainted, just short of finishing his last box. Darrell stepped back, dropping the pistol from the boy's head to allow the limp body to fall to the concrete floor. He left the door open as he left. When Joey awoke, he'd realize that he'd been only yards away from his own house in his dad's tool shed. He'd crawl into the house and try to sleep off the whole experience. He wouldn't tell his dad what happened though. They never tell. They knew they deserved it.

There were no more good parents. The kind who knew when a child needed a trip to the woodshed and a belt or a switch pulled from an old tree lain across his backside 'til the welts ran with blood. The kind who knew how to pinch you until your flesh turned purple for giggling in church during service, while daring you to make another sound.

Nowadays, the child ruled the parent. They threw tantrums when they didn't get what they wanted and parents gave in just to keep them quiet. Didn't they know how easily quieted the child was who knew that a scream would immediately bring a slap across the face? Didn't they know that one day these kids would have to learn that the world did not bend to their wills and may even roll right over them, leaving their broken bodies behind? There were no more good parents to teach these lessons. That's why they needed Darrell.

It was already getting dark when he left Joey's back yard. The shadows had locked arms to form battalions of night that laid siege to the entire town. Darrell locked arms with the shadows too. They were his friends, his allies. He moved among them easily. Few people even noticed him as he traveled among his tenebrous troops. He was just another penumbra in an army of darkness.

The couple making love in the Cadillac Escalade parked by the curb didn't notice him either. Darrell would have likewise paid them no attention if it hadn't been for the fact that he saw the school books in the backseat of the car as he pa.s.sed.

"Children," Darrell hissed in disgust. "Children fornicating in public."

The disheveled old man drew back a fist wrapped tight in rags and punched it through the back window, just as the boy's scrawny naked a.s.s rose into the air preparing to impale the eager virgin beneath him with his throbbing young c.o.c.k. He grabbed the boy by the hair and dragged him out through the pa.s.senger side window, in a hail of tempered gla.s.s.

When the boy hit the ground and rolled over, his face snarled up into a grimace of rage and confusion, Darrell could see that the kid was barely fourteen years old, not even old enough to be driving, let alone f.u.c.king, in his father's car. The boy wasn't even wearing a condom.

"You think you're ready to be a father?" Darrell growled as he s.n.a.t.c.hed the boy up by one arm. The boy swung at him with his free hand, missed, then bent down to pull up his pants and underwear to hide his diminishing erection.

Darrell reached down and grabbed the boy by his genitals, b.a.l.l.s and all. The boy let out a helpless squeal.

"I asked you a question, boy."

"Leave him alone!" The girl had shrugged her clothes back on and was yelling at Darrell through the shattered window.

Darrell let go of the boy's arm and slapped the girl back into the car. "I'll deal with you later," he said turning his attention back to the boy. He tugged on the boy's p.e.n.i.s, stretching it out until it felt like it would tear right out from between his legs.

"Aaaaaaargh! f.u.c.k man, that s.h.i.t hurts! Let me go motherf.u.c.ker! What are you her father or something? We were just having a little fun. Jesus, don't hurt me! Arrgh! Heeeelp!!! f.u.c.k! Let me go!"

Darrell leaned in close until his foul breath, reeking of rotten candy, steamed in the boy's face. "I should rip it the f.u.c.k off and keep it on ice until you're old enough to know what to do with it!" He reached into the car and dragged the girl out of the car by her hair. He seized her by the throat and held her against the car. "I'm not your father. I care a h.e.l.l of a lot more than that. So, I'm only going to say this one time. If I ever catch you two going at it again, then I'll make sure you never have to worry about ruining your lives by catching AIDS or herpes or hepat.i.tis or getting pregnant. I'll rip your c.o.c.k right off and I'll fill your p.u.s.s.y full of super glue and sew it the f.u.c.k closed! You are too young! Do you understand me?"

They both nodded with eyes filled with tears. He let them go and they ran off down the street. When they were a block away the boy turned around and yelled, "You crazy motherf.u.c.ker! I'm calling the cops!"

Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn't. Darrell really didn't care either way. He knew one thing for certain though. That relationship was over. As the boy ran off down the street, Darrell aimed at the center of his back and squeezed off a shot. The boy's back erupted and bloomed bright red. He pitched forward onto his face, hitting the asphalt with a wet smack. His p.r.o.ne body convulsed for a second and then lay still. He wasn't dead, but Darrell knew that the bullet had likely shattered his spine. He wouldn't be getting any young girls pregnant now and definitely wouldn't be catching AIDS. The h.o.r.n.y little b.a.s.t.a.r.d wouldn't be able to feel anything below the waist for the rest of his life. The girl screamed and ran even faster, disappearing around the corner. Darrell chuckled to himself and continued down the street sticking tight to the shadows, just in case the police were already out looking for him.

Darrell walked another four blocks to the big shopping mall on Market Street. He entered the Sears department store and wandered around in a trance. He was thinking about his own children again when he heard the child screaming over in the toy section. Linda and Jake used to scream like that when they wanted something. He'd always given in after they'd embarra.s.sed him, enduring the looks of pity and disgust on the faces of other parents as they watched him struggle with his undisciplined brats. He remembered the look on their faces that asked, "Why doesn't he give those two little monsters a good spanking?" Back then, he'd felt that corporal punishment was cruel. Now, after seeing how they'd turned out-staying out all hours of the night, drinking, using drugs, getting into fights, having s.e.x at ages thirteen and fourteen, stealing, dropping out of school, one eventually going to prison and the other becoming a crack wh.o.r.e who overdosed on heroin after being used and discarded by half the perverts in town-he realized that not disciplining them more harshly had been the true cruelty. They had never listened to a d.a.m.n thing he said to dissuade them from their self-destructive behavior and now they were lost forever.

The sound of that child screeching for his harried mother to buy him a new PlayStation video game brought back all those memories. Darrell stormed over to them fuming mad and dangerously close to exploding.

The screaming, crying, cussing, undisciplined little cur threw a convulsive tantrum while still clinging to its mother's leg. Darrell was amazed as the little beast balled up its fingers into a fist and punched his mother in the abdomen. The redheaded little terror was barely five years old and already in control of his parent.

"I want it! I want it! I want it!"

"Stop it!" The woman yelled back in a voice that quivered with emotion. She was near the breaking point, teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Her h.e.l.lacious offspring screeched at her in a shrill whine that raised the hair on Darrell's neck. The redheaded demon threw itself on the floor and began to kick like an overturned c.o.c.kroach. This was another one who still believed that the universe should bend to its will and that any frustration to its desires could be easily dispelled with a few well-placed and infinitely irritating screams. Every moment that he went undisciplined was another day in jail, or on drugs, or selling his a.s.s on the streets. He had to be taught.