Ad Nauseam (25 page)

“Well, Frankie had been losing weight, and I guess he thought maybe he had lost enough, or maybe he wasn’t thinking at all. But I’ll be damned if that big man didn’t pull himself up from his bed. It took a long time and we both laughed at his struggling, but that stubborn fool got to his feet for the first time in five years.

“We weren’t really sure what to do. I was a bit scared when I saw the look of triumph that lit up his face, but it faded the second he took his first step. Those legs of his weren’t used to supporting
any
weight anymore, let alone his massive girth, and his shin bone split with a crack I can still hear, shooting out the front of his leg like a jagged, white sliver, all bloody and gooey on the inside. The worst part of it was—and just thinking about it makes me want to puke to this day—lumpy globs of fat splattered out of the torn skin and plopped on the floor. I heaved when I saw those yellow wads marbled with delicate red veins laying there on the gray tile.

“Frankie screamed and hit the floor, his leg still oozing fat and blood while Eddie and I ran for help. It took five of us over an hour to muscle him back into bed and push him to the infirmary, but by then he was unconscious from blood loss and shock. It was the first time he’d been quiet since he got there. I guess it nearly killed him, but no one ever asked why he had decided to stand in the first place. Eddie and I sure as hell weren’t offering any details. They kept him for two weeks, and it was the most peaceful two weeks of my life. Even the other inmates seemed subdued, just enjoying the silence without Frankie. I think maybe it was the silence of his leaving that made them do what they did when he came back.

“The riot happened that Friday morning, maybe a week after Frankie returned to his cell and started his caterwauling again. It’s a bit murky how it came about, but I can tell you those inmates held the institution for two whole days before they finally just gave in and got back in their cells. There wasn’t much damage done and no one was badly hurt, but when all was said and done, Frankie was gone.

“There was some blood on the floor of his cell, but otherwise not a trace of the big man. The guys from the State came swooping in, trying to do an investigation, but no one was talking and they didn’t have much science like DNA back then. To be honest, I don’t think they really cared all that much. A lot of interviews were done, and photos taken, but in the end they really didn’t try that hard. Frankie had no family left to complain, and his disappearance saved them the trouble of having to figure out how to execute him. They still used the electric chair in those days, and I’m sure those boys were sweating over how to fit that big tub of guts into it. Over the next few months, the prisoners were all transferred out to different institutions and the place was eventually closed, forcing all of us staff to look for other work.”

***

“And that’s the sad story of Frankie Hanson.” Papa sat back, folded his hands across his stomach, and smiled widely, revealing his ill-fitting dentures.

“
Papa!”
the kids cried in unison.

“What?”

“You didn’t finish the story. Tell us what really happened to Frankie.” His grandson complained.

“And tell us the
truth
this time.” His granddaughter agreed with her brother, a rare occurrence.

“Now there’s a funny thing about the truth, sweetheart. Sometimes it has just as many layers as a lie. Papa always tells you kids the truth, but sometimes when we love someone, we have to decide which layer to peel. Cuz believe me, the truth can be much uglier than a lie.”

“Please, Papa.” The boy steepled his hands.

“Papa!” The girl was exasperated.

“Okay. I’ll tell you the rest. But you have to remember, a lot of it is supposition. No one who really knows what happened during those two days has ever been willing to tell the facts.”

***

“Now, I should probably backtrack a bit and remind you just how hard life was for everyone who had to deal with Frankie. I’m not trying to justify what may or may not have been done to the man, but sometimes a person can understand what drives others to do crazy things. Frankie was a pain in the ass from day one and none of us had a moment’s peace from the time he came in except for when he was in the infirmary. Sometimes you can handle something until it stops, but after a reprieve, you can’t handle it anymore when it starts up again. That’s the way it was as soon as they took Frankie off the morphine and wheeled him back into his cell, and we all knew how bad it was going to get. Stress like that can make even a good man do bad things. A sane man can go crazy for just a minute. And let’s face it; most who were involved had been crazy for years.

“But there’s one more thing about Frankie you need to think about. It wasn’t just hatred we all felt due to his annoying nature. It was also fear. The kind of deep-rooted fear no one ever even realizes they are feeling until after the fact. You see, that sloppy, fat-assed killer represented something within us all that terrifies us. The loss of control of our own bodies, and a lack of self-control over our desires and needs. I think we all know that way down inside us all is a Frankie, should we lose grip on the ability to control ourselves.

“What I’m about to tell you may all be just ugly rumors. But I’ll tell you what most
believe
happened to Frankie Hanson during those two days, and you can do with it whatever you please.

“From the beginning, it was rumored the riot had to be a ruse, a set-up. One or more of the guards would’ve had to be involved for the inmates to all get free like that, with not even
one
escape attempt, but there wasn’t anything anyone could prove afterwards.

“They got out that morning and took over the facility in a surprisingly organized way (which also leads one to think the guards were involved). The truth of the matter is, the State was never notified until
after
the situation was taken care of, which probably had something to do with why they closed us down.

“But you have to remember
everyone
hated Frankie, and maybe the inmates just did what the rest of us wanted to do, but were too constricted by morals to actually attempt.

“The story goes that they gathered together in the shower room and hatched a hasty plan, a few of the inmates left behind to hold off the guards in whatever way they did so. I’m not going to tell you how because the ex-guard in me doesn’t want anyone to have that information. But after that, they went straight to Frankie’s cell and got to work.

“If the story is true, the crazies stole sharp knives from the kitchen and each took turns poking him and making him squeal like a pig. This could’ve gone on for hours, if it’s true, before he finally would have bled to death or died from the shock. That’s when the tale gets truly disturbing.

“Rumor has it that one of the inmates had the idea to cut him all up, dress him out kind of like a deer? And they did just that, hacking away and lugging all of the pieces back to the kitchen. It would’ve taken a long time to do, he was such an enormous man, but they eventually got him chopped up and delivered. Now the same people who think the guards were part of it (depending on who you talk to, it was either
all
the guards, or just a few) also believe maybe a few of the cooks took part as well.

“So as it’s told, those collaborators took what they were given and cooked up a mighty feast attended by the prisoners and staff alike. And they didn’t leave the table until Frankie Hanson had been completely consumed along with some baby potatoes and garden fresh carrots. Then the prisoners returned to their cells and someone, maybe a cook or perhaps a guard, disposed of the bones. The State was called and all they found was some blood in a cell. Frankie Hanson was gone.”

***

“Ewww Papa! That’s so gross.” The girl shuddered and grinned simultaneously.

“But I haven’t told you the spookiest part yet.” Papa leaned forward, his eyes wide with wicked glee. “Rumor has it some of those guards developed a taste for human flesh that day. You know there does seem to be an awful lot of people who go missing in the woods around town.”

“Dinner time!” Nana stepped into the room, a stained apron around her waist and long strands of gray hair escaping the tight bun she wore at the nape of her neck.

“Yep, dear. We’re on our way. Just have to get the kids to wash their hands.” Papa stood up, his knees popping loudly and making both his grandchildren giggle.

“You kids get washed up. I’ll be right in.” Papa headed down the hall to the bedroom at the end, where he and Nana slept.

Closing the door softly behind him, he looked at the ancient trunk against the wall. It took only a minute to find the small, straight key that unlocked the heavy padlock on the front, and he eased the heavy lid open. The object he sought was towards the back, buried under material samples from when Nana had made her own wedding dress. He found it without effort, and carefully unwrapped the tattered velvet encasing it. A smile played on his lips, but never quite touched his eyes as he traced the smooth lines and contours, spending extra time on the ridges above the empty eye sockets, remembering the deep-set eyes. The yellowed skull felt cool under his hand, boiled clean of the flesh so many years ago.

“Papa?”

Papa pulled his hand back quickly, dropping the lid and clasping the padlock in place before turning towards the door. He could rewrap it when the kids were asleep.

“What is it, Bud?” Papa asked casually as he met his grandson at the door and the boy backed up a step so they were both in the hall. He snuck in close to his grandpa as they walked towards the sink.

“What do you think we, I mean
people
, taste like?”

“Well,” said Papa with a wink, his voice low so as not to be overheard. “I suppose like Nana’s meatloaf.”

JACK AND JILL

Jack sat at the worn kitchen table, his hands buried in the guts of an ancient radio, tinkering with the parts in a vain attempt to fix the antique. He told the owner, Mrs. Jones, that he feared the radio was beyond fixing, but she insisted with a clear statement that she
held complete faith in his abilities
. He mentioned how cheap it’d cost to replace nowadays, but she liked that one and would hear nothing of the new fangled junk they peddled at the ritzy stores in town. In the end, he let himself be brow beaten by an eighty-four year old woman who stood a foot and a half shorter than himself.

Though he mainly worked as a handy man around town, word of mouth brought him some additional side jobs when people started to realize his proficiency with small household electronics. It was difficult to find steady work, being an ex-con, so he happily accepted whatever odd jobs came his way. This one, however, proved more work than the twenty-five dollar fee was worth.

A scraping sound from the room above the kitchen drew his attention from his task.

She was moving around up there again.

He sighed and lit another cigarette, dragging deeply and rubbing his eyes as he exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke.

Too soon
. He had nearly been caught the last time.

He turned his attention back to the project at hand, hoping that if he pretended not to hear her, she’d return to sleep, or whatever else she did up there. He no longer went upstairs.

He could smell her sickly sweet odor long before he heard the moist slap of her bare feet on the linoleum behind him. Jack sat up straight in his chair and stared directly ahead at the fading rose-patterned wallpaper, keeping his breaths shallow through his mouth to avoid the stench of decay. Only one thought went through his mind over and over again, like a dog chasing its tail.

Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.

Her gravelly voice made the hair on his arms stand up. “I’m hungry,” she said.

“I know.”

***

It was hard for Jack to remember what she looked like when she’d still been beautiful. He lost track of how much time passed since the nightmare began. In his mind, he pictured her while he slept, dreamt about how perfect the days went at first and how the nights flew by after they first met, back when he loved her.

He’d been hitchhiking from town to town searching for work to put food in his belly. The pickings were slim then. As soon as he exhausted all his resources in one town, he hitched to the next.

In this current town, more jobs than average presented themselves to him and he made enough extra money that he felt he deserved a beer for his efforts . . . despite the fact his parole officer might throw him right back in the penitentiary if he got caught. Of course, they’d have to find him first.

He wandered into the local watering hole and found himself a seat in a dark corner. Fresh out of the joint, he wasn’t comfortable socializing with what he thought of as “regular” people.

Jack had been nursing the one beer he allowed himself—wishing it was Jack Daniels, though not quite trusting himself with whisky yet—when he noticed a pretty woman at the bar. She was staring in his direction.

He avoided eye contact, certain a woman that fine never intentionally looked at a man so average and unclean like himself. Yet when he dared a second glance, she hadn’t turned away. Instead she smiled—at him.

The woman stood and walked slowly to his table. His palms began to sweat and he thought he might just slide off the chair and die from a nerve-induced heart-attack. She was so lovely and graceful. He couldn’t pry his eyes loose from the sway of her hips.

Jack was hooked before she even spoke.

“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked.

Her voice was even prettier than he imagined, and terrifying in that she actually used it to speak to
him
. Years had passed since he’d been next to a woman, let alone one so stunning. All the spit in his mouth seemed to dry up at once, leaving his tongue a thick, foreign appendage no longer his own.

“Um, Jack,” he said, amazed he found the words at all.

She laughed, the look upon her face ripe with both mischief and promise. She held out her hand. “What a delightful coincidence. I’m Jill.”