Pandora's Closet Part 17

But lately, since his promotion and transfer, he had felt new, disturbing, urgings. Urgings that excited him one moment and horrified him just a few hours later. Urgings he could not understand and could not tell anyone about, lest all his good work be destroyed. As he stroked the brocaded symbols of his stole, pa.s.sed to him by his predecessor at St. Basil's and his predecessor before that, he thought of what he should do.

He got up, kissed the stole, muttering a quick blessing, and draped it once again across his shoulders. It was time to meet with the new altar boy.

As he left his room, he no longer thought about what he should do, but he knew what he would do.

He smiled.

Somewhere in the firepits of h.e.l.l, Grznarb smiled, too. "A pleasing result, but expensive and, of course, not your recipe," rumbled the demon to Threkma.

Threkma quavered and lowered his eyes, but he spoke in a rush of words. "No, it's not. I mean, yes, it's not, your Coagulating Rottenness. But, it gave me an idea. Perverted symbols of allegiance. Not really jewelry, but tokens of membership or belief that are worn every day. Little gold crosses of cruelty, for example."

"Fah," snorted Grznarb, "you focus only on the faithful. Blessing resistance will need to be built-in at extra cost. Besides, The Dark Angel requires a broad spectrum of sinners. Each and every soul should have an equal opportunity to d.a.m.n itself for all eternity."

Threkma's eyes darted from side to side. "Not crosses," he murmured, no doubt stalling for time. "Been done before, anyway," he blathered on, punctuating his words with a cracking, maniacal giggle. "Although both the Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition did have their moments. No, your Regurgitated Sliminess, but perhaps nonreligious icons. We can pervert all of their symbols against them."

An excellent suggestion. But Grznarb was an excellent manager. He knew that he had to make his underling sweat just a bit more. "Symbols of allegiance? This is not the Middle Ages, my misguided minion. Heraldry is no longer in style." He curled his lips in a faux grimace.

"Modern symbols," insisted Threkma, "Frat pins of h.o.m.ophobia, perhaps."

"Too narrow a base," growled Grznarb, making a mental note of the suggestion.

"Union pins of racism," proffered Threkma, obviously desperate to please his taskmaster.

"Declining union membership," replied Grznarb, secretly pleased at his servant's creativity.

"Corporate logos of greed..."

"n.o.body publicly identifies with their employer these days."

"American flag lapel pins of intolerance and warmongering..." shouted Threkma, in revelation.

Grznarb roared in laughter, unintentional h.e.l.lfire incinerating the office desk, the straight-backed chair, and his erstwhile employee.

"How do you think I got this job?" he mumbled to himself as he strode off to the pits to find a d.a.m.ned replacement.

JACK'S MANTLE.

by Joe Masdon.

Bob was miserable. The kids were away for the day with Brenda's mother, and her idea of quality time with her husband involved book fairs and consignment stores. She had been smiling all day, and he irritably began to wonder if part of her smile came from the knowledge that she was driving him violently insane. The novelty of morning romance had been good, but that had been the only ten minutes that he had enjoyed of the past three hours. Enjoyed? Tolerated. Ten minutes of routine, pa.s.sionless s.e.x with his wife was way too little payment for a day filled with flea markets and pottery shops.

She despises me.

As they entered c.r.a.p-for-sale shop no. 5, she smiled blissfully at him as if they were part of some happy cruise ship commercial. His weary half-smile as he held the door didn't slow her down. She hurried into the shop purposefully, cooing about some sugar bowl she'd noticed as they entered. Clearly the s.e.x was better for her than it was for him to keep her in this gooey-eyed mood all morning.

G.o.d, I hate her.

Fifteen minutes later, Bob wasn't sure where Brenda was in the store, and he didn't much care as long as it was away from him. He was ambling carelessly down a few aisles, looking spitefully at the junk that stuffed the store claustrophobically. It was a big store, and shelves and clothing racks went from floor to ceiling. He had been stomping around angrily, but misery took a lot of effort to maintain, particularly when it was really just exaggerated boredom.

After a while he found himself looking lazily through the men's coats. For some reason, there seemed to be more men's coats here than just about anything else. They were too tightly packed to actually move the hangers, but he fingered the fabric and pushed a few coats a half-inch or so, pretending that it gave him a better view of the merchandise. Amid the tightly bunched rows of shoulders and sleeves he would occasionally pull out a coat that he would vaguely reject and be unable to squeeze back into the rack. He left a trail of protruding half-coats and limp sleeves dangling into the narrow aisle.

Almost buried under the faded shoulder of a baby blue Members Only jacket and a stained London Fog trench coat was a garment that caught Bob's eye. He jammed his hand in and felt something rough and woolen. He pulled on the hanger once, twice, and slowly pried the long black overcoat into view. Bob noted that the black overcoat had one of those peculiar-looking capes attached to it. It was worn thin in a lot of places, and even though it was bulky, it seemed a little narrow for him. More for amus.e.m.e.nt than for any serious intent, Bob looked for a size tag in the collar. There was no tag or label of any kind. It occurred to him that the overcoat was probably so old that all of the tags had frayed away. It looked like one of those things that got donated to community theaters and showed up in everything from Victorian England costumes to WWII Americana musicals.

Feeling theatrical, Bob pulled the ratty old overcoat off its hanger. Smiling at his silly impulse, he twirled it over his head and wedged his arms into the sleeves. He expected the shoulders to be narrow as he pulled his arms to his sides, but the coat slipped down very comfortably. The smell wasn't that bad, but it could use a dry cleaning, he thought. The waist was in fact a bit tight, but the sleeves were close enough, and the shoulders felt good. He had planned to lose some weight anyway, so he sucked in his gut and b.u.t.toned it halfway. At the end of his sleeve, he felt the tickle of the cardboard price tag against his thumb. Catching the dangling tag, he glanced at the faded yellow sticker and nodded at the odd price of $18.88.

He decided that the cape part was stylish and gave him an international look He slid his hands down the sides of the coat looking for pockets, missed, tried again, missed again, then feeling around finally realized that there were no pockets on the outside. Bob was a bit deflated. No pockets... a deal breaker. He smiled disappointedly and prepared to return the overcoat to menswear limbo.

"What on earth are you wearing?" the voice was a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and reproach.

G.o.d, NOW she appears.

Holding out his arms, he turned toward his wife without looking, "You like it? I think it's kind of neat."

Sighing gently and shaking her head, Brenda raised her chin as she spoke, "I'm sure it is. I'm done. Sorry I took so long. Come on, put that back on the rack and we're out of here, I promise."

A command wrapped in an apology. Nice.

His breath shortened, and his lips tightened slightly. Bob did not look at his wife. "Winter's coming. I could use a new coat."

Her mind already jumping to the next location, Brenda offered, "Okay, let's go to the coat outlet and find you something. I'm glad you mentioned it; I can look for a raincoat for David while we're there. He's outgrown the one from last year."

Bob pulled a hatchet out of his pocket and slammed it into his wife's skull. This time it only took one chop to shut her up.

Without a word, Bob picked up his old coat and the hanger and walked sideways down the aisle toward his wife.

"Honey, what are you...?" Brenda sighed in minor annoyance as her husband brushed past her and up to the checkout counter. He held out the price tag at the end of his sleeve for the clerk. He turned to his wife and noted the silver soup ladle and the commemorative RC Cola bottle in her hands with the yellow tags still on them. "You said you were done...?"

Plus the 6% sales tax, his black wool overcoat cape came to $20.01. The clerk called it $20 even.

Despite her misgivings about the ratty-looking old overcoat, Brenda had dutifully taken it in to be dry cleaned that week. She didn't want the musty odor lingering in the closet, so she tossed it in with Bob's work shirts and her dress suits. She resolved to get it cleaned as often as possible under the guise of showing concern for this thing that obviously meant so much to Bob. Her real hope was that it would fall apart under the cleanings.

It was Sunday evening, and they had just gotten home from visiting relatives. It had been a good day, and when Brenda had indicated that she did not feel like cooking, Bob suggested Mexican. Bob sat in the booth across from his wife and eight-year-old son. His teenage daughter sat next to him pretending that her parents and brother were strangers who had the audacity to sit at her table without asking. Autumn weather had come early that year, with lots of chilly wind.

To Brenda's surprise, the old overcoat cape had not really drawn that much attention and it really didn't look any worse than the denim jacket with the pharmaceutical company logo that her husband wore all too often. Bob had long ago learned not to ask his daughter to put his jackets on the inside of the booth next to her or, for that matter, to make any effort on his behalf. So he sat there wearing it, leaning over his plate when crunching salsa and chips. Bob eschewed his usual enchilada and beans and ordered the lowcarb fajitas. The good mood of the day was still in full swing as Bob and Brenda laughed along with their children.

A dozen girls walked in the restaurant, chattering. Facing the door, Bob saw them as they came in, and he tried very hard to look without being obvious. From the distance, they all seemed to be varieties of beautiful. His eyes lingered a few extra seconds at the moving jumble of firm young body parts that strained against T-shirts inside half-opened jackets and hips that curved into tight b.u.t.tocks. With the practiced restraint of the middle-aged voyeur, he managed to suppress the words, "Oh, good G.o.d..." even though his lips still went through the motions.

Dear G.o.d, just tell me they aren't high-schoolers.

There was the brief thought that looking at such young girls was revolting, or at least illegal, if they were underage. But the firm, full bodies still waved unabashedly at him from the edge of his vision. Besides, if they were in college, it was probably only revolting, not illegal. Yes, had to be college. Bob decided that a group of high school girls would not be out at a restaurant on a Sunday evening; they were probably from the private college down the street.

Bob noticed a couple of waiters quickly pulling tables together, and the dozen or so little packets of young female body parts were being led to them. The tables were off to his right, and behind Brenda's field of vision, so Bob took a moment to give the female buffet a closer look. They were all attractive in that young way, and one or two made a definite impression. None of the girls actually giggled, and Bob recognized the casual, yet restrained, social dynamic of the college sorority in action.

He was disappointed to see that a few of the girls were wearing those blue jeans that squeeze a woman's hips too low so that her bottom looks more narrow and boyish. But those same jeans that were so annoying from the back rode low in the front, providing a sample glimpse of tender, tanned stomach flesh. Jackets were being stripped off and hung on the backs of chairs. Bob spent a few too many seconds watching that particular spectacle, unable to look away. Round b.r.e.a.s.t.s shifted and heaved as arms and shoulders wriggled out of jackets. A couple of the T-shirts were tight enough that letters and logos across the front were hidden underneath curves that were far too perfect to be real, Bob thought.

He stifled a small groan by vigorously crunching into a chip he had been absently holding. Back to reality for the briefest of moments, he stole a glance toward Brenda and was relieved to see that she was fully occupied with trying to get a civil response from their daughter to some question or comment.

Careless. Don't stare directly at it, moron.

Bob's dinner arrived in a steaming cloud of sizzling red meat, onions, and peppers. Young David was impressed with his father's loud meal, and for a few minutes Bob played with his food and his laughing son. When he finally glanced back toward the table of sorority girls, they had settled into their seats, and his view was mostly limited to the two girls on the end. One was wearing a blue blouse that hinted at money in her family. The blouse did not hug her body, so Bob had to settle for what entertainment he could derive from her face and hair. She was dark blond, with a s.e.xy face that needed the help that her makeup gave it. Sure, she was pretty, but her eyes were a little too small for her face, and her nose was a little crooked. She tried to make her eyes look bigger by wearing too much eyeliner.

She spoke with confidence, and the others were quiet when she talked. The other girl on the end was tall and slim, with frosted blonde hair that framed a pixie-like face of doe eyes, a pert nose, and lips that stayed slightly open. She wore too-tight T-shirt and jeans. Bob noticed that she seemed to have very large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but it was hard to be sure because she sat with her arms in front of her, and she leaned slightly toward the table. She was quiet, and her meal was very simple, and, Bob could tell, inexpensive.

He stole glances off and on during the meal, and he caught her a few times with her arms away from her body. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s looked large and perfect, which Bob concluded was probably due more to bra than to nature. He mentally downgraded her beauty, chalking it up to technology in women's underwear. He shook his head at his own foolishness for ogling a padded bra inside a T-shirt. Then a hint of shame kicked in. She was a little girl who was insecure and self-conscious and was beautiful, but far from a s.e.xual fantasy for a respectable, middle-aged family man.

This is a new low, even for you.

For a while, he made a conscious effort to avoid looking at the girls half his age. Then he stole another glance.

The frosted-haired beauty on the end sat quietly on the fringe, submissively listening to the other girls while half of the chicken quesadilla grew cold on her plate. She had leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs until her body was almost straight under the table. Her thumbs were in her pockets, pulling the waist of her jeans low against her stomach, and her T-shirt rode up a little more showing about an inch of tanned stomach.

Bob could see soft ripples of firm female muscles that no specially designed lingerie could fake. His breath quickened as his gaze lingered on her. She laughed slightly at something that one of the others said. Her stomach tightened as she leaned forward, and the softer parts of her body moved gently along with her laugh, dispelling any criticisms.

His breathing got shallow.

He imagined feeling her narrow shoulders in his hands.

He touched the warm, smooth flesh of her arms under his fingertips. She held her wrists above her head, making her body even leaner and firmer. Her head turned slightly to the left, eyes looking away. Her body quivered as he ran his hands back up her arms and across the hollow of her neck, down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and along the amazing line of her stomach. Stopping at her stomach, he could feel her flesh tingle in antic.i.p.ation. Her body tensed as his finger again cut a teasing line from her neck down her rigid, muscular stomach. She groaned and started to protest.

The shy, needful little s.l.u.t.

He raised his hand back between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and his finger swept slowly to the right, under the soft, yielding flesh, tracing the muscles of her rib. His finger returned to caress the rib.

She awaited his masterful touch, like the good little wh.o.r.e she is.

Growing bolder, he set his finger tracing along her left hipbone, starting at the center and moving away as a tease. Then he traced the right. She was ready for him, he knew. He could feel the heat of her body. He reached down her smooth, tanned legs. He was poised above her now as she gasped in pain. He reached down to her warm, wet body and gently pulled the intestines aside so they would not obstruct his view. His hands retraced her remarkable stomach muscles again; then he wrapped both hands around her stomach, cradling it as he lovingly pulled it from her.

There was something wrong, he realized. Looking at her firm, beautiful body, he saw that his finger had been too sharp and too insistent. He had stabbed her tender stomach into raw strips. As he stood there feeling the warm, dripping flesh in his hands, he saw strips of partially eaten meat spilling from her stomach. Blood covered his hands and clothes, dripping on his suit and overcoat, down to his shoes. Where the blood dripped on his jacket, it disappeared into the fabric.

His pulse quickened, and his head began to spin. He saw the frost-haired beauty beneath him, the smooth, tanned skin of her torso peeled back to reveal the warm, wet, b.l.o.o.d.y organs glistening under her mutilated flesh.

Bob's eyes were gla.s.sy and blinking, and his chest began to heave. His breath was coming in shallow bursts, and he began to twitch in the seat.

"Bob?" Brenda noticed his distress, and dread began to creep up on her.

Bob's breathing became more urgent. He felt a pain under his left armpit, and he could smell the awful taste of seared flesh and stomach acid. He started at the sound of his name, and he heard a small cry of fear. He shook his head hard, and the image that filled his vision was of a woman's face. In his hands was a stomach, still dripping blood, acid, and strips of seared flesh, red peppers, and brown onions, uneaten on his festive plate. He pushed back from the table and away from the plate of steak and peppers.

Then he felt a horrifying pressure against his pants. He felt his bile rising, even as other fluids worked for release. With the odor of acid, b.l.o.o.d.y flesh, peppers and onions screaming in his head, he jumped up from the table and stumbled toward the door. With just enough presence of mind, he pulled the caped overcoat closed in front as he bent over and staggered crookedly for escape.

Outside the restaurant, he fell to his knees in a patch of gra.s.s and vomited. Between heaves, he prayed to a G.o.d he did not believe in to take away the painful, intolerable erection.

What the h.e.l.l is happening to me?

Brenda fell to the ground beside her vomiting husband and put her arm around him. She was shaking in fear. Slowly, Bob's stomach slowed, and the smells in his head faded.

Don't touch me!

The disgusting presence in his pants was still straining.

"Honey?" a timid, hopeful voice reached Bob.

"I'm okay." He said. Realizing how weak it sounded.

She was crying a bit, but she was still holding his kneeling, hunched-over form. "Bob, what happened? Should I take you to a doctor? I'm calling an ambulance!"

"No!" His voice bordered on panic. "No. I just got sick. Bad peppers maybe." He was running out of composure. "Go back inside, I'll be right there. I just need a minute." The smell of vomit was lingering in his mouth and from beneath him on the gra.s.s, but he could not stand up yet. Not yet.

"I don't think I should..."

"Brenda!"

b.i.t.c.h! Do what I tell you!

"Brenda... go tell the kids that I'm okay. David looked scared."

Stupid cow!

She slowly rose, her hands still on him.

And stop touching me when I'm puking!

"I'll be right back, Bob, I'm just going to go tell the kids you'll be all right. I'll be right back!"

Go!

He heard her retreating steps, and she was saying something to some other people, one with a Hispanic accent. Bob vaguely noted that someone from the restaurant had made it all the way to the door and had been watching from the safe distance of the doorway. A small, concerned crowd was gaping through the windows. The embarra.s.sing pressure in his pants was easing. To his surprise, he heard in a trembling voice, "Sir, are you all right? We know first aid. Can we help?"

Looking up, Bob saw a girl. He had to look up past her chest to see a concerned face, pure and unblemished, ringed by frosted blond hair.

NO!.

A part of him stirred, and he said viciously, "Go away! Go very, very far away!"

Another Sat.u.r.day without the kids. It was cold and raining outside, so rather than rush from the car to an annoying succession of junk stores, the wife had given him a dutiful dose of bland morning s.e.x and dragged him to the mall. The mall was a little less fatiguing sometimes, because it had a Cookie Hut and the store with the expensive electronic toys. After forty-five minutes in Macy's, Brenda finally acknowledged the reeking boredom on Bob's face. He stood with bags from Yankee Candle and Bath and Body Works drooping in the one hand.

"Honey..." No response from Bob. "Honey?"

"Hmm? What?"

What now?