Fly On The Wall: Fairy Tales From A Misanthropic Universe, Vol. I Read online

  Chisel brain hurt. What‽ No! Missed! Demon there. Inside. MUST STOP! CHISEL brain. BREAK demon soul. NO NO NO.

  His ability to speak became more and more impaired, as he lobotomized himself further and further. The steel chisel blended the contents of his head into a lukewarm strawberry smoothie colored pulp. Soon enough his whole face began to droop. Within minutes, he died.

  23 – Junkies

  He was a good boy, he never got involved in fights, he never did drink, he didn't even do drugs. That's why it was so unusual that he had fallen for her. She wasn't 'a good girl', her tattoos told tales of proscribed memberships, and pinpoint pupils disclosed her pastimes, her slurred speech told tales of many a good day and night.

  Perhaps it would've been better if they'd never met. She was bad to the bone, but she had much good in her heart. She spent a lot of her time helping others. She had a strong personality, addiction never stuck no matter how many binges she went on. Her memberships were used foster peace, not war. Ganglands had enough of the latter already; she was that good which existed to balance the bad.

  He was the bad. According to society's mores, he was very good indeed. Well bred, well read, well educated, and well fed. He was very good at what he did, but his heart was not. He was bitter, he was jealous, and he was angry. He would not be, and he could not be 'bad', but by 'zounds he wanted to. He, unlike she, did not know himself well. He often found himself obsessing, addicted even to thoughts. Perhaps it would have been better if they'd never met, but they had.

  She kept him from her awful trap, from the all-encompassing game, she knew the strength it called for, and she knew he didn't have it. She could not explain why they'd come together as they had, she just knew they had.

  He didn't want this, he wanted the glamorous needles, the precious pale powders, and pressed pills, he wanted it all. One day he stole her horse and rode it into the wild blue yonder. He loved it, and so needed more. He quivered in anticipation. He needed her contacts, but they would deal with him only if she was gone. A call, and a scaly-tailed tip later, and soon she was. Hustled away by well-armed tax collecting swine. He wanted it, and now, finally, he had it.

  She'd wanted nothing but to help. Now, and for the next 10-15 years, all she would be able to do was help caged birds imagine they could fly. He made his dreams come true and finally became bad, no longer good even by the surrounding sociocultural standards. He had that which he sought, and as an extra boon he was rid of the whore. He was happy to start, but the horse was very tall, so he had trouble getting off. Within months, he would be found slain in a ditch, with a needle in arm, thrown violently from his horse.

  "Junkies...all the same” the EMTs will remark. As they shoo scavenging flies away from his splayed cadaver.

  24 – Zodiac Pt. 2

  Sunny days were his favorite, they were perfect. Just him and bright beautiful rays which shone down upon all. People were out and about, frolicking children and pets sheltered smiles from thoughts of the long winter months which lay ahead. It was a shame he had to be cooped up on a day as wonderful as this. It was a perfect day, that made him happy. To be fair he was, generally, quite happy. Indeed, he often walked with an all too literal spring in his step.

  He had to focus though, for he couldn't make mistakes. It was, quite literally, a matter of life and death. On came the scrubs, he wondered why they were backless, and what possible advantage it could give to hospitals. He didn't know, but then he supposed it was not his place to. There were many things about hospitals which he didn't understand. He snapped the latex gloves on his wrists, making sure they were tight, he relished the latex's sharp immediate sting. He looked down at the body which lay on his table. She was a beautiful girl, early 30’s. Blonde lengths of hair covered her scalp the way a sea of golden grain covers a once tilled field. He was happy that he had the privilege of working on her, he'd spent many years honing his practice so that he might be known as the best, and now he surely would be. He thought about how much he'd learned getting to this point, and how many he had helped, and indeed how many he'd hurt. He had to focus, and so shook the thoughts free from his head. Gently, with one eye on the pulse monitor, he cut into her. Delicate skin gave way as easily wet tissue when it met the edge of his well ground metal instrument. He was careful with his cuts, and precise too. The blade went only where he wanted it to. The slim steel sliced through her soft skin with grace. He made sure of it, he didn't much like the sound of skin being cut, and he didn't much like the dreadful metal smell of blood, or the glaze it left behind, that horrible glaze, almost as if the slab of meat in front of him was no human at all, but instead a black mass' main course. At least he was nearly done. He neared nausea, sickened by the sight and smell of her claret-stained body. He had a/c, but on a day as hot as this it was no more effective than an exhausted frond waving slave. Salty sweat dripped from his brow straight into her splayed ribcage. It had been a hard job, but he was done, and so was she.

  He looked down at the chopped up cadaver and listened to the bleating sine wave alarm. He smiled. He tried to keep her alive for as long as he could, he'd tried the same with all of them, but this one hadn't been that lively to begin with; no screaming, no pleading, nor even slight begging. Just dead resignation. It didn’t matter, soon she would be left as all the others had been; soon she would be nothing more than a collection of black garbage bags on the I95, or, maybe, just this once, she would be interred. He just hoped the vultures would stay away. Last time he had nearly been caught when they'd torn into the bags mere minutes after he dumped them. As he pinned her picture on the wall, next to the rest, he wondered who #25 would be.

  Just then a fly landed upon her red glazed bosom, enthralled by the unmoving feast.

  25 – Advance Green

  He missed it. Damn, damn, damn. DAMN it all to hell! He would have to wait until the light turned green again, but he couldn't be bothered. He had somewhere to go. He had somewhere to be. He wasn't just driving around aimlessly, he wasn't just another schmoe.

  It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

  “Tick, tock. Tick, tock,” went his turn signal. Patiently he sat and waited, wondering when it would be his turn. He was tired of it, he was too important for this. He'd already waited at other lights already, this was unacceptable.

  It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

  “Tick, tock. Tick, tock,” went his turn signal. He felt his blood race ever faster through his veins. He tried to be patient, but this was just too much. What the fuck was the soccer mom in front of him even fucking doing‽ She could have gone, what a dumb cunt!

  It didn't matter, the light didn't listen.

  He got angrier and angrier. Tick tock went the turn signal. Tick tock went his heart. Suddenly he could not feel it anymore, as the signals ticked the time away his heart was still. He tried to breathe but no air came out. He tried to shout but no sound came out. He could only liberate an anguished moan from deep within. He clutched at his chest as pain shot through his left arm. Like a crazed gorilla, he beat there where he thought his heart might be with his fist, hoping to rouse it from its peaceless slumber.

  It didn't matter, his heart wouldn't listen.

  26 – One More Try

  Finally, it happened for them. They'd been at it for so long and tried so hard. They had almost given up all hope. Not even the doctors with their mellifluous but useless news could help. Thankfully they never stopped. Now they were pregnant. They'd tried for 6 long years. They'd tried everything, yet nothing had worked. They'd been at it like rabbits, to no avail. Not even turkey basters or Petri dishes worked, but this time, it was certain. They had never been happier, now they would be parents, they would leave a legacy. They would not die alone, no matter what they'd at least have a child to call their own. He caressed her noticeable belly and whispered to his new daughter as she floated still-ly inside.

  Warmth upon her thigh.

  What‽

  No!

  Pleas
e no...

  she

  knew,

  her eyes shut. She knew what was happening, but could not bear to realize it. Her eyes welled up with tears. Her lips contorted into polygons of agony. He looked at her. “What? Baby, what’s wrong?”. Flourishes of anxiety weighed upon each worried tone. She kept her eyes, her ears, and her heart shut. She could neither bear to hear, nor see, nor feel. She gently grasped his palm and placed it on her warm, wet inner-thigh. Now he too knew. As the blood trickled down, they held each other and cried. So much time, so much love, so much effort. All they had to show for it now was a pool of blood and bits on their kitchen floor.

  The couple tried until the day they died. Day in and out, they worried and wondered. All the while they cleaned one mess after the other, yet never those they prayed to have.

  27 – Forgiveness

  Forgive me" he cried.

  “No,” she said.

  === === ===

  "Forgive me" he cried.

  “Go," she said.

  === === ===

  So he did, quite far and wide. He sought that which would make her forgive if not forget. He flew, he drove, he sailed, rowed, and sat in various trains. The whole world over he searched. It was his fault, he had been her necessary evil. So he would find a needless fix.

  He yearned for the animal touch of another, for passion, and for lust. He searched high and low, he searched wherever he could go. He searched until his legs were tired, his feet calloused, and his face a swathe of sunburnt skin. He searched until he was an empty wrinkled sack. Only when his skin truly resembled rough burlap did he finally find it: a beautiful fossil, unlike any other. Life frozen in time, cradled in stone by death's cold, unforgiving embrace.

  He'd dug so much that in those 2 short years that he gained 30 times as many, or at least looked it. The whole 6 later he seemed an altogether alien being. He named the unknown stone for her, and with it in hand (or rather, truck) he went to find her one last time.

  “Here. Tis named for you; forgive me," he said.

  “Oh!” she cried. “I do forgive you. Please stay” she sighed.

  “No,” he said. "All I wanted was forgiveness. I do not love you now like I did not love you then. I obtained what I sought, now I take my leave.”

  She was wordless, she was breathless. He would just disappear once more. She'd thought him dead, yet the only death was that which he had brought with him, that death which made her want to bring them back to life again. There he stood before her, about to leave again. She was left with relics only, just a skeleton and memories.

  “Go then,” she begged.

  Go he did.

  28 – Cap'n Crunch

  He twitches as if he is possessed. He can barely stop moving for his human is nearly home. He prepares lovingly for her arrival; she comes and goes the same time each day. What a strange thing...to live your life like that...as though forced to abide those ticking black and white tableaux. So artificial, so bizarrely unnatural. Even so, it matters little, he loves his human. His human values life; she only eats the insentient ones. Not perhaps to his own tastes, but even so she surpassed the vile humans who survived off carcasses of their friends, mutilated and embalmed in Styrofoam, then sold in disgusting packages. The blood meant to keep them in life instead stains white plastic foam. The humans even rob them of their names, objectifying companions to make them easier to eat. No baby cows but veal, no small sheep but lambs. No death, but steaks, and chops, and breasts instead. Slabs of muscle ooze on their plates daily, but not on hers. She loves our friends.

  He slinks across the sunlit room in stealthy shadows. His stomach rumbles, he can not survive on air, but no trap has sprung yet. The sun's warm rays glow through the glass and glint off his eyes with diamond fire. Outside the window, he spies a quick black streak. Oh man, that looked delicious. What had it been? The dark flash disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. He cannot fathom what it might have been, but deems it tasty still. It shot above the jade-like grass and out of view. How he wants to sink his fangs into it, to pierce its flesh, just slightly mind. He doesn't like to kill too quick, no hunt in that, no chase, no fun. No, he much prefers to plant a kiss and then watch as their flesh turns black, he likes to watch as it all goes amiss. That thing outside; it looked juicy and crunchy sweet. His appetite is well whetted. He shakes his mind free of extraneous thoughts and then creeps on faster still. He has to hurry; she's nearly home.

  As time rushes by he becomes more and more excited. He had seen her mercy bestowed unto many, even some that deserved little. He barely made a distinction between outlander, threat, and lover, anymore. He scurries on to his favorite corner. The one in which he hides and waits for her each day. He loves her dearly of course, he truly does. Perhaps he is just a stupid animal, but he is her stupid animal. He had been since birth, and would be till death. One of his traps springs, its silken the rope tugs at his leg. He rushes over to it, his beady eyes scan the vicinity. There in the midst of his fractal silken rete, an invader is trapped. It wriggles trying to free itself, its wings beat furiously, but the strands stay strong. Just as he rears up to pounce, the invader breaks free in a daring escape and buzzes away before it can be eaten. He falls upon the smooth strands, annoyed. The shock of his slight weight makes the silk vibrate indignantly. The invader had escaped, but would not for long, his traps are everywhere. He is hungry, his incisors mash together in famished anticipation. He missed that one, but he would dine soon enough. Each time invaders try to infect her home he eats them, sooner or later he eats them, each and every one.

  He touches her often, he even walks over her during the dark hours. Once he even slept in her lap, and another time by her feet. He loves her, and he knows he will perish first. Even so, he pledged many days ago to protect and serve her until he stiffens and is dined upon in turn. To his people he is a captain, to her an annoyance; but he knows he can protect her.

  He watches the invader taunt him from the middle of the room with loop-de-loops, barrel rolls, and other aerial taunts, his many eyes sparkle with hunger. He lusts to taste its crunchy skin, to feel it writhe for life once more, but this time, fail. He's titillated by the thought that it will find only death, he shakes in anticipation of that moment. The juicy sourness of a plump fly is unlike anything else. He yearns for it, he yearns for the familiar pop, the burst of fluid, above all he yearns for its slightly sour flavor.

  A click makes him turn his attention from the fly towards the door. He sees her through the growing crack, his master. Her face is sunken, saddened and stressed by long days. He sinks, upset by this view, to him her happiness is paramount. All preparations are in place. He crawls up the wall behind her, he knows how to hide, and so he knows how to be seen too. He can't wait to kiss her.

  29 – Lawnmower

  It's happening, again!

  Oh god! Oh no! Please no, not again!

  The last time it had hurt so. She'd shrieked demonically during of the massacre; none had heard, or none had cared. Tears welling up in her eyes betrayed a long and tortured past. It's clear she knows nothing but violence. On the verge of sobs, her disdainful expression evidences a strong character. One born of necessity. She is no follower, no mere turf to be tread upon. The scars on her face, neck, and scalp stand testament to unknowable agony, the sort that induces sickness by mere sight. Each frail inch is covered by scars, vertical striations – smooth lines of expressionless tissue.

  She healed well, many months had passed since that last awful attack. Oh and those months, how quiet too they'd been. True, they were cold, but the snow kept her warm. More importantly, it kept him far. She knew it was better to be ugly in tranquil death than relegated to an excruciating exquisite existence. Even though few friendships flourished in those months she favored them still. She yearned for cold solitude and its safety. Maybe it was because she had fewer friends, maybe that was why – why it, why he, left her alone those long winter nights and short days. That was what she suspected anyway
, not that it mattered. Her peace would end, it was warm; it was time. She would soon be mutilated, cut, and smashed. She would be desecrated, hurt, and mashed. She would be lacerated, chopped, and even bashed. All that and more, truly quite frightful gore. It was coming. She was always at her prime, her most beautiful, most welcoming when he came, and unfailingly, he came. The world's toughest terrorist.

  First the tired sputter of the motor. She heard it in the distance, a wheezing dread-alarm. The doleful machine got ever closer, driven by the wicked man. His face was always obscured by the raucous mower. He was now near, the ear-splitting motor's flailing rotor blades made that much quite clear. She couldn't live through it again. Why could god not just take her, and so through death save her? She just wanted to be happy. Why – why her?

  She stands defiant, dew streams off her lush face. She can take it and she will, there is no choice. If only he would kill her when he was done, that was all a gal could dream of. He never does, instead he ignores her pleas, every time. Instead, he comes back, again and again, always repeating his rank ritual. A buffeting wind precedes the pain, this time as it had all others. She struggles to stay standing; the wind makes her sway from side to side. The cruel man then holds the vile blades to those she loved the most. He makes her watch him rip their scabs off revealing moist flesh. Then comes her turn. It always feels a little different. Sometimes the blades pull with the force of a tank, tearing flesh from her asunder. Other times they cut like mythically sharp blades, leaving clean lines with edges quite fine. She never knows how it would be, not until it happens.