Doctor Flesh- Director's Cut Page 15

“Follow me,” said Larry. He led Pointless Huck Finn through a door marked “Private” to a store room crammed floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes nearly labeled by genre, age and price range with a felt tip pen. “Third from the bottom,” he said, pointing to a stack against the west-facing wall. “Knock yourself out. I’ve even got some prime Betty Boops in there.”

  Pointless Huck Finn looked at him incredulously. “I’ve got a bad back,” he said. Larry shrugged. “And?” “And those boxes look heavy.”

  “I’m keeping the store open just for you, I showed you the box. Now you want me to drag it out for you?”

  “Okay, fine,” said Pointless Huck Finn. “Today’s Tom Sawyer told me you were kind of a dick.” He fished a cell phone out of his pocket and punched Redial. “Yeah, hi, it’s me. Pointless. You were right about the Eight Pagers, and you were also right about the manager. Can you come down and help me out? Becky Thatcher? Are you still hung up on that little cock-tease? Oh, all right. You had me worried there for a second, dude. Uh-huh. I need some, uh, assistance with the merchandise. Ok, see you.”

  “What was that all about?” said Larry, fingering the grip on the .357.

  Without answering, Pointless Huck Finn sank to the floor, picked up a copy of The Hulk lying on top of a nearby box and began listlessly thumbing through the comic. Five minutes passed, then the door bell rang.

  “You should probably get that,” said Pointless Huck Finn.

  “You think?” asked Larry. He shook his head. Sarcasm apparently had no effect on the dude. He returned to the front of the store and opened the door. A tall, gangly man in his early 20’s flew past him, exhaling the odor of burnt corn silk. “Whoa, not so fast there, pal,” he said. But Today’s Tom Sawyer had already joined Pointless Huck Finn in the store room where, with many grunts and sighs, he commenced removing the boxes that stood above “1930’s—Eight Pagers.”

  “If it’s not too much to ask, do you think you might re-stack those boxes once you’re finished?” asked Larry. The two ignored him. Finally, Today’s Tom Sawyer lugged the box with the Depression-era porn comics across the floor. Huck and Tom began rooting through it, tossing books until they came to “Betty Boop Does Ming the Merciless.”

  “Sweet!” said Huck, whistling through his teeth. “Oh Betty, you naughty, dirty minx, you.” He pressed the book to his lips.

  “You going to buy that?” asked Larry. “Fifty bucks. And I’m taking a loss here.”

  Today’s Tom Sawyer suddenly rose from the floor, pulled Larry to his chest and began vigorously sniffing him. “Huck has his pleasures,” said Tom. “I have mine. Oh yeah, that’s the primo bio-snuff.”

  “Got a good hit?” asked Huck.

  “Hells yeah!” said Tom, relinquishing his grip on Larry. Larry fell back, dazed. He felt as though his life essence had been sucked. “What the fuck did you just do to me?” he asked, barely able to articulate the question.

  “Today’s Tom Sawyer, he gets high on you,” said Pointless Huck Finn. “Okay, I’ll take the book.” He pulled a wad of cash from his jeans pocket and placed it in Larry’s limp hands.

  Larry watched as Pointless Huck Finn exited the store. Today’s Tom Sawyer slid down beside him, a blissful grin on his face. “Since I started doing bio-snuff, my sex drive is less than zero,” he said. “Hey, I’m really sorry about all this, man. Huck hasn’t been the same since he lit out for the territories. When he came back, all he could talk about was vintage porno comics. Me, I’ve been a happy camper since I learned how to get high on people. It’s greatest drug in the world. Don’t worry, you’ll recharge fully in about an hour or so.”

  “It’s all good,” said Larry. Thoroughly drained, he was also past caring. “You’re all right, dude.”

  “Thanks,” said Today’s Tom Sawyer. “And here you are, my new friend. The Bangkok Gunfighter without Pointless Huck Finn. You want a hit off of me now?”

  “Why fucking not?” said the Bangkok Gunfighter. “Why fucking not.”

  Mr. Sugar Comes to Splatterville

  “How’s business treating you, Mabel?” asked Gilbert Huncke. The retired 65-year-old publisher of the Bunky’s Folly Review eased himself gingerly onto a stool behind the counter. The proprietress of Mabel’s Pies slapped down a place setting in front of him and poured him a cup of coffee. “Oh, so-so,” she said. He could hear the fatigue in her voice.

  “Sure would be nice to have a slice of the your rhubarb,” said Huncke, tossing two sugar packets into the coffee and stirring.

  “Sure would be nice if you weren’t such a jackass,” said Mabel.

  Huncke started. Mabel was famous for her attitude, but it mostly an act she put on for her long-time patrons. Now, she sounded genuinely mad.

  She stabbed at the slate board hanging over the counter with her index finger. “See what it says?”

  Huncke didn’t have to read the menu. The yellow chalk letters hadn’t changed for at least three years now: “Meat Only. No Substitutes.”

  “Oh hell, Mabel, I was just jokin’ around. Gimme one of those pork pies.”

  Mabel sighed and swabbed the sweat from her forehead with a napkin. “I’m sorry, Gil. Didn’t mean to snap at you. Guess it’s just the strain. Things haven’t been the same since…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Know exactly what you mean,” said Huncke. As if on cue, a teenage girl ran screaming through the front door followed swiftly by an ax-wielding man with long, ratty hair. The man raised the ax over his head and sank it into the girl’s skull. She slumped to the scuffed linoleum floor. He stood over her and struck at her again and again until she was little more than hair, bones and shredded clumps of organ meat.

  She nodded at the morbid mess. “Well, looks like I’ve got some mopping up to do.”

  Huncke stood up. “Here’s a buck and change for the coffee,” he said. “I seem to have lost my appetite for pie.”

  “Never you mind,” said Mabel. “You know where to find it. Take care now.” She sat on her haunches and began wearily to drop the larger chunks of girl into a plastic bucket. “Why can’t they just do their business outside?” she grumbled to herself. “Well, no use complaining about spilled innards, I guess.”

  ***

  From the next town over, Shelby Sugar had seen Bucky’s Folly gradually deteriorate, The candy scientist watched helplessly as middle American mores washed away in a tide of cannibalism, serial killing and random slaughter. Whether it was something in the water or the inevitable sequel to generations of inbreeding or the pernicious influence of popular culture with its internets and wi-fi’s and iPod nanos, or liberal whackos with their mistaken belief in tolerance and inclusivity, Bucky’s Folly no longer stood as a bastion of family values.

  The new name, Splatterville, said it all. As long as chainsaws buzzed human limbs and pierced arteries spewed blood like high-pressure hoses, simple decency dropped her head for shame. Not only that, Sugar was a keen aficionado of Mabel’s Pies from back in the day when wedges of lemon meringue, cherry, apple and pecan were served with a smile and a bit of sass. He would give anything for just one more piece of apple pie fresh from Mabel’s oven, covered with a generous serving of vanilla ice cream. Finally, Sugar knew he had to take action, not only for the principle of the thing, but to keep the carnage from spreading any further.

  As the scion of a dynasty devoted to confections, Mr. Sugar’s knowledge base was limited. But he did understand the chemistry of candy and pastries, from bon bons and licorice whips to jelly rolls, eclairs and donuts; in the realm of sweets, his mastery was unrivaled. Moreover, gene-hacking was second nature to him, a talent passed down from his paternal grandfather. So, with a little reflection, he put two and two together and resolved on a plan.

  The citizens of Splatterville reacted at first with skepticism to Sugar’s ideas. “It’s agin nature,” said Jack Grungewort, the octogenarian Sheriff and Postmaster of Splatterville. Although Grungewort decried the plague of mayhem that had brought the town to its kne
es, Sugar’s concepts seemed highly unorthodox to him, if not completely insane. Eventually, however, he yielded. He was sick of the whine of drills and the ooze of brain matter from freshly-bored heads, nostalgic for petty theft and disputes over lawn maintenance. “Go on,” he told Sugar at last. “I suppose you couldn’t make it any worse.”

  Starting his experiments on cadavers and proceeding to live subjects, Sugar began to infuse Splattervillians with new blood. Change came slowly, but as his methods became more sophisticated, Sugar succeeded in transforming the townsfolk into candy—licorice buttons for eyes, cherry-flavored gelatin for hearts, peppermint sticks for bones. In three months the old spirit had returned to the community; Splatterville was a happy place once more.

  Not that the violence ceased in any substantial way, only it was fun now. Taffy guts were stretched from marshmallow stomachs with the victim’s full consent and even participation. All the kids came running at the rumor of a slashing-in-progress. They eagerly swallowed fountains of red-dyed corn syrup and devoured the chocolate fundament of the hanged. Murder was now a taste everyone could share.

  “My work here is done,” said Mr. Sugar to Mabel, gratefully sinking his fork into a slice of her famous apple pie. “I’m going home.”

  Mabel’s nougat features tinged with just a hint of cinnamon blush. “You dear man,” she said, patting his hand. “Just don’t forget about us, okay? And if you ever feel the craving, Mabel’s is only a hop and a skip.”

  END.

  Alex S. Johnson is the author of several books, including Wicked Candy, Bad Sunset, Jason X IV: Death Moon and Outlaw Circus. A former music journalist for such magazines as Metal Hammer, he currently lives in Sacramento, California, where he writes Bizarro horror and erotica stories and edits anthologies such as the Axes of Evil series and Floppy Shoes Apocalypse, a book of terrifying tales featuring clowns.

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  WHEN THE WINDS BLEW I FELT THEM BLOWING THROUGH ME, when the land shook, it was my corpus that trembled. When the tides ebbed and flowed I became more shore and more sea. I was day and night as the sun and moon described the steps of their dancing within me. Just as I could see all the world at once, I was all of these things at once, and the motion of an entire world formed the foundation of my stillness.

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  THAT'S THE LAST TIME SHE GETS THE BIGGER WORM... Once their flesh flakes away the angels collapse into puddles of hissing goop and withered petals blow into them hurried along by unseen winds. My spit looses its sweet taste to the black flavor of ash. The glowing birds in the bright orange sky burst into small sparkly novas. The sky itself weeps and tears, streaking down like a ruined painting as the dismal gray of life wheezes back before my eyes. I don't blink; praying silently for one last desperate sensation of the high. Lila feels it too. She writhes on the mattress next to me; her moans of ecstasy warping into groans that capture the hollowness of our souls. Tears form in her eyes and I can almost feel the lump in her throat. It's gone and she wants to cry. I'd rather chase down more Worms than cry about it but everybody reacts to the Worms differently. I slip away to my own neon colored utopia where things with wings fan me and comfort me when the living neon worm dissolves under my skin. Lila told me once they wrap around her like a giant fuzzy neon hug. I imagine her high shedding off her like snake skin and flaking to the filthy floor next to the mattress. Her high sounds better than mine. More Fun. That's the last time she gets the bigger worm.

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  IN GARRETT COOK'S MURDERLAND serial killers are idolized by society. Their deeds are followed obsessively by television pundits and the adoring public. A subculture has grown up around this phenomena, called "Reap." Laws are created to allow this activity to flourish, including designated "safe zones' where killers can practice their trade without fear of persecution. Fans of the top rated serial killers celebrate each new kill on social media and television. Programs glorify their deeds.

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