Masters of Horror (13 page)

“
What do I need a robe for?”

He gets sent up to Riker’s when he pulls a heist in Washington Heights that’s supposed to be a sure thing—some liquor store. His partner gets shot through the right eye; dead at the scene. Scott is caught.

The detective who collars him comes from the 34th precinct. He’s just come back on duty after bereavement leave. His daughter was run over and killed by joy riders, high on crack.

This cop has no time for druggies. “Here’s one, Sarge.”

The desk sergeant takes a look at the kid and actually feels sorry for him but Scott, who is his own worst enemy,
spits
on him. And gets cracked in the head for it. Night court hours later and a nice bus ride to Riker’s where he meets a few queens and gets initiated. After two weeks, he’s tried to hang himself and cut his throat with a broken plastic fork—after which he somehow gets up to the roof threatening to jump.

They talked him down.

He gets expressed over to Bellevue where he gets shot full of Thorazine—winds up being assessed for two months and finally (somehow) winds up with a habit far worse than the one he ever had.

He gets released and is sent to a hostel, run by a church. Things are looking up, but some pusher he owes money to, spots him and instead of beating him up, shoots him up with enough drugs to kill him. He doesn’t die, but switches back to crack. This he manages to get in the next treatment center, after which he escapes and gets shot by a cop.

“
But you recovered, Scott, so when did you see the judge who sent you here?”

Scott doesn’t know. His brain is fried.

“
Okay, it doesn’t matter.” Joe tries to smile but it is not easy, might as well carry on: “Okay, let me tell you all what we’re going to do today. Today’s introduction day. We’re going to sit around in a circle and…”

Scott raises his hand. “Why a circle, teach?”

“
Because I fucking
say so
, okay?” Joe felt that cleared the air and turned toward a weaselly looking little guy. “They call you Spider, right?”

Red gums and rotten teeth get flashed—big time—and Spider nods.

And then before Spider can say one thing a big black man shouts: “Yeah, but they should call you
child molester,
man. You like little girls, don’t ya?”

“
That’ll be quite enough, Denby. You’re no Boy Scout either!” Joe snapped back. Denby is hurt and furious at the same time but Joe doesn’t care: “You gambled away your home; you’ve robbed and mugged people in order to gamble. Your wife became depressed and your children went into care. That’s nothing to be proud of.”

“
But I ain’t no
deviant
at least! Like
him!”

Spider was trembling. “Look, I always get this. I’ll be God damned if I know why they didn’t separate me…I never get put in with the…”

“
Normal ones?”

“
Normal?
You think you’re all normal? You’re all here because of how loused up you are! What are ya, nuts?!”

Joe nearly had to call security. “Shut up—all of you. Otherwise I can send you to the quiet room.”

He got waved off for that. “That’s cool, dude. I just go to sleep in them places.”

“
Not in our quiet room.” Joe smiled. “It gets awfully hot in there.”

“
Oh yeah, why’s that?”

“
It’s part of the treatment program.”

For some reason, they looked startled by that. Joe was pleased. It would make things easier. But then he notices…

Scott is busy sniffing the air in between wiping his bloody nostrils.

“
Stop that and sit down, Scott.”

Scott stuck his tongue out at him and Joe shook his head. It was like a kindergarten in here sometimes.

“
Okay look, let’s move this thing along.” Joe turned toward Spider. “Now your real name is George Hughes…”

Spider looked pleased to talk about himself. “Yes it is. My father’s name was George, Sr., he was a bus conductor…”

A ripple of laughter then…as Albert started singing to himself.

“
Hey, what’s that you’re singing, Al? Do you take requests?” Scott called out.

Then, because Joe told him to shut up, Scott shouted back: “Who wants to send fruit cake here and the perv away? Look, dude, we don’t want these guys here. They don’t belong here. We’re in for addiction, and
these
guys—”

Joe cut him off. “They are both suffering from addictive disorders the same as you. Mr. Fugle here—Albert? Albert has been diagnosed as suffering from OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder—which is directly related to his addictive personality. In his case he has attempted suicide on numerous occasions—often injuring people who tried to help him. And George over here—(another gummy grin) Mr. Hughes has also been diagnosed as having OCD and declared also to have an addictive personality. In his case it’s sexual addiction.”

Spider bestowed what could only be described as a princely nod toward Joe.

Joe figured he might as well lay all the cards out for them. It was only fair, really. He was just about to start when Scott who was still sniffling and wiping his bloody nostrils, stood up again. “There’s a gas leak here, man. I knew I smelled it when I came in!”

This started a wave of panic as each of them (not including Albert, who was now singing
Amazing Grace
) started to scream.

Joe felt sorry for them. “Really, fellas, it would have been better if I had taken you through everything.”

But they weren’t listening. They had converged on the door and were trying to open it. “There’s a fucking
fire
here, man, you better let us out!”

Joe realized he wasn’t going to be listened to for quite some time so like always he decided he’d wait it out.

Finally they got it. That is—the kid got it first. Scott started to cry, saying how he understood everything. “There
is
no ‘quiet room’, is there? It’s just a back door, right?”

“
No,” Joe replied. “It’s a kind of vestibule to your final destination.”

Denby was next. “Oh man! I understand! I really do!”

Spider cottoned on last and when he did, he just wept, saying how sorry he was, pleading for another chance, swearing to be good.

It was pitiful. Joe had seen it all before, sure there were certain differences throughout the ages, but this was how it was
now
—now being relative.

You see, there was no fighting it, it was orders from the Big House and orders are orders. Sure, it was the lake of fire for each of them with a nice view of the steaming mountains of hell to complete the scene. After all, damned is damned, baby.

Liked Carole’s Story? Check out her novel below:

This is a tale of vampirism, madness, obsession and devil worship as Rose Baines, only survivor of her family’s carnage, tells her story. Fragile, damaged by the tragedy, fate sends her to a desolate house on the haunted moors where demons dwell. The house and the moors have hideous secrets, yet there is love too; deep, abiding, eternal, but it comes with a price, her soul.

Available at Smashwords.com

Back to TOC

Unlike most quasi- illegal substances, steroids
have
helped people; they’re prescribed for several different medical conditions—in fact they’re one of the only methods of alleviating them, at present—and they do enable athletes and bodybuilders to attain nearly superhuman levels of achievement. I’m personally baffled by the attitudes sports authorities have towards steroid use: “They used STEROIDS to hit those thousand home runs!” I think, “Aren’t you PAYING them these endless millions to HIT a thousand home runs? Hell, GIVE them steroids, let ‘em use them all they want!”

As long as they’re prepared to ‘pay the piper’, of course. And when that piper is my man Keith Gouveia…LOOK OUT.

Taper

By Keith Gouveia

Let me start by taking a moment to apologize to the world. I feel as though the cataclysmic events that have unfolded in the last couple of weeks are my fault.

Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself. I just watched news broadcast stating that there is pandemonium in the streets of Hartford, Connecticut. The infestation is spreading and, as their numbers increase, our chances of survival diminish.

I am locked away inside my home in Fall River, Massachusetts. I thought I was safe, until my confines were reduced to my master bedroom. At least I still have the bathroom. A 13-inch television is my only link to the outside world. Fortunately, I had enough time to grab some canned goods and other rations.

But they won’t last.

My dresser secures the door and the windows are boarded, but recently the bangs against the door have increased in frequency and intensity. I know in my heart that it is only a matter of time before our government has the situation under control, but I fear I will not live to see that day. That is why I write this now.

My name is Adam Kelly, and this is my punishment.

My friend Will and I were enjoying a day together. It had been so long since the two of us could just hang out as we did in the old days, what with me getting engaged and all. Our day started at the gym, where I learned the stupid bastard was taking steroids. Of course, I chewed his ass out for it. I worked in the pharmaceutical business and knew of all sorts of horror stories about their effects on the human body. But did he listen? NO! I dropped the subject.

After our workout, the two of us headed to my house to change clothes.

The plan was to try the new sushi bar that opened downtown. Since Will lived in Rhode Island, I reluctantly agreed to let him borrow some of my clothes. Once we were ready, we headed over to the restaurant. It was there this nightmare began. Why couldn’t we have just gone out for steak?