Dead Clown Barbecue (23 page)

* * *

I'm scared.

You'll be fine, Max.

What do you think he's going to do to me?

He's not going to do anything to you. One vagrant in your trap and you'll be good as new, I promise.

No. I don't need human flesh to survive. It's just a treat. There's something else wrong with me.

Maybe your dietary needs have changed. It happens all the time. You need to stop worrying.

I don't want to die.

You won't.

I love you, Jenny.

What?

Max hadn't actually meant to say that. He tried to decide if it would be better to take it back and pretend that she'd misunderstood him, or leave it out there.

If he was going to die, he wanted to die happy.

I love you,
he repeated.

Oh.

Oh?

What do you want me to say?

I don't know.

I like you a lot, Max. I like you better than anybody else in the whole greenhouse, even the sunflower. You're my best friend. I just don't see you in that way.

Okay.

Don't be mad.

I'm not mad.

Don't be sad, either.

I can be a little sad, right? It's okay. I understand. I can't devour victims as well as you. You need somebody who can be more ferocious.

It's not that at all. I'm just not looking for anything like that right now. This is all still new to me.

All right.

Promise me that you're okay.

I'm okay.

Promise me.

I promise.

* * *

Dr. Prethorius dragged the shovel along the path, whistling a happy tune.

"Life," he said, stopping in front of Max. "It's so filled with unexpected twists and turns. One minute you're happily planted in the ground, and the next minute you're tossed aside, ready to make way for Specimen 314."

No! This couldn't happen! There were dozens of other plants that were much less advanced than him! He wasn't
that
sick. Why would the doctor kill him instead of one of the lesser specimens? It wasn't fair!

"Of course, that won't happen to you," said Dr. Prethorius. "The discarding, I mean. I've invented a new acid test, and you'll be perfect for it!" He giggled. "Acid on the leaves, acid on the leaves, watch them sizzle, watch them fizzle!"

He pressed the shovel into the dirt, and then stomped on it. As he scooped out the first shovelful of soil, Max frantically opened and closed his leaves.

"Trying to bite my face off, huh? Naughty, naughty. What am I to do with such a misbehaving plant? Oh, I know. Acid on the leaves, acid on the leaves, watch them disintegrate, watch them . . ."

He spun around. Jenny sprung back up to her normal position.

"Trying to eat your master, are you? We can't have that. Oh, no, we can't have that at all. I realize that I bred you specifically to hunger for human flesh, but you're not supposed to crave
my
human flesh, oh, no, that's not right!"

He pulled the shovel back, preparing for a powerful swing, and then bashed it into Jenny. She bent backwards, bounced back up, and then took a second hit with the shovel.

This time she stayed down.

No
!

"It's sad times for the world of science when one's own creations try to attack him," Dr. Prethorius muttered. "Sad times indeed. I had such high hopes for Specimen 313. Oh well. Plenty of acid to go around."

He returned his attention to Max and began to dig out more shovelfuls of soil. His eyes were wild, and he flung each scoop of dirt as far as he could, hitting several of the other specimens.

Max had never been so terrified. He opened and closed his leaves, figuring that at this point it didn't really matter if Dr. Prethorius got mad at him, but the doctor kept himself well out of harm's way.

Behind him, Jenny lay on the ground, unmoving.

"They all laughed at me, you know," said the doctor. "When I grew the world's largest pumpkin, oh, they were filled with praise, but when I carved it into the world's largest jack-o-lantern, they called me mad! I ask you, would a madman create a cherry tree with fruits that ooze deadly poison? Would a madman develop blades of grass sharp enough to slice off your fingers?" His digging became even more frantic.

Poor, poor Jenny. She shouldn't have tried to save him.

Max tilted forward as the next scoop of dirt came from underneath his roots. And then he realized that Jenny was slowly rising up again.

Don't do it!
he said.
He'll kill you! It's too late for me!

Jenny straightened up completely, but did not bend forward. Yet she continued to strain at something.

What are you doing?

Be quiet. I can't concentrate.

Don't do anything!

Be quiet!

With the next scoop of dirt, Max tilted forward even further, at about a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He wondered how it felt to have acid burn through him.

All of Jenny's leaves were pressed tightly against her stalk as she strained, strained, strained . . .

One of her roots popped out of the ground.

And then another.

Then a third.

Max's amazement overshadowed his terror as Jenny pulled herself out of the ground and took an actual step forward.

With the next shovelful of dirt, Max fell forward and almost smacked against the ground.

"What should I use?" asked Dr. Prethorius. "A few drops of acid to make it last, or should I just pour the whole bottle right on--" He let out a yelp and dropped his shovel as Jenny's leaves clamped down upon his leg.

She straightened again. The doctor dangled upside-down from her trap, struggling desperately but unable to escape.

"Let me go!" he screamed. "I'm your master! Let me go! Please, please, please, let me go!"

Should I let him go?
Jenny asked.

I don't think so.

Me either.

I love you, Jenny.

You're a good friend, Max. Would you like to share?

Yes.

She slammed the shrieking doctor against the ground, which did not shut him up, and then dragged him to the side. His arm slid underneath Max's leaves. Max bit down.

Try to get his head, too
, said Jenny, stepping forward.

Max did. Dr. Prethorius stopped screaming as they pulled him in two.

Thank you
, said Max.

They ate without speaking for a while.

What's wrong?
Max asked.

I don't think I can replant you.

Oh.

I'm sorry.

That's okay.

But I can bring humans to you. I'll leave the greenhouse and get them, as many as you want. You'll eat and eat and eat until you get healthy again.

That would be nice.

They continued to enjoy their meal. The doctor tasted better than the other humans he'd eaten. Perhaps insanity made meat more tender.

Maybe he didn't have a lover, but Max had a friend, and he knew that he could be happy for a long, long time.

WE BELIEVE

I don't care what the novelty songs say — losing your grandmother in a reindeer-related accident is no laughing matter.

I used to love Christmas. Presents, food, and a house full of relatives. I'd always wear my "Take Me To Your Mistletoe!" shirt and everybody would laugh and laugh. Momma would cook up a turkey, and she and Dad would break the wishbone, and Momma would say "Make a wish!" and every year Dad would hold his end and say "I wish I hadn't eaten so damn much turkey!" Uncle Herb would bend spoons with his mind. 'Course, he wasn't
really
bending spoons with his mind, he was whacking them across his forehead, but we all enjoyed the trick anyway.

We'd all sing Christmas carols, and we'd do that wacky version of "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" where we'd sing ". . . had a very shiny nose" and a few of us would shout "Like an alcoholic!" My cousin Joey Jr. was always in favor of "Like a mutant!" but you couldn't hear him over the rest of us. Then Aunt Becky would do that thing with her arms that always made us uncomfortable but was a family tradition, and everybody would go home.

Grandma and Grandpa lived close, just at the end of the block, but of course I wasn't going to send them walking down the icy road at night on Christmas Eve, especially not with all the egg nog Grandma had consumed. I took her by the arm, and we walked toward their house, talking about how much fun the evening had been. Grandpa laughed again at my shirt. Off in the distance, I heard the sound of bells ringing, which put me in an even merrier mood.

The bells got louder, as if they were moving toward us at a rapid velocity. I turned around and saw a bright red shining point of light, coming at us so fast that —

The reindeer's front hooves slammed into Grandma's back. A gout of blood sprayed from her mouth, steaming in the cold air, accompanied by a hideous
crack
. Her arm popped free of my grip as she slammed face-first onto the ice. The rear set of hooves crushed into the back of her neck, leaving a ghastly red imprint.

But it wasn't just one reindeer. Oh no. No sooner had the first one removed its bloody hooves from my dear grandmother than the second one struck her. Its front hoof hit the base of her skull. Its rear hoof landed in the exact same spot, breaking entirely through the bone and becoming lodged there. Grandma slid across the ice several feet, imbedded, leaving a gruesome crimson streak on the road.

She came free, leaving her blue and silver wig behind, only to have her skull shattered completely by the third reindeer. Glistening grey matter stuck to the reindeer's hooves after it passed over her. The fourth reindeer — the last in its row — trampled her legs and back, which was not quite as disturbing as the splattering of her brain, but was nevertheless unpleasant.

And then the sleigh. Oh, God, the sleigh.

The runners, sharp as a razor, sliced Grandma in half. Contents that I didn't even know existed inside the human body spilled out. I've got to be honest; I'd always thought of Grandma as rather dry and brittle, so the sheer
gushing
surprised me.

And, almost as soon as it appeared, the sleigh was gone. Grandpa cried out in horror and dropped to his knees beside his departed wife, as I frantically dug through the pockets of my winter jacket in search of my cell phone.

"No . . . please,
no
. . ." Grandpa wailed. He threw back his head and howled in primal anguish. Tears ran down my cheeks, freezing against my skin, and I knew that Christmas would never again be the joyous holiday we'd celebrated for so many years. Grandma lay in a growing pool of blood. The stroke hadn't killed her. The diabetes hadn't killed her. But never in a hundred years would I have thought that we had to worry about magical reindeer.

I don't place blame. When you have to deliver that many presents to the world in such a short timeframe, certain safety precautions will be compromised. Millions of families were filled with delight that frosty eve, and if there were victims along the way . . . well, they were acceptable losses.

You may say there's no such thing as Santa, but as for me and Grandpa, we believe.

Oh, yes. We believe.

POOR CAREER CHOICE

If you're like me, you spend a lot of time trying to joke your way out of socially awkward and/or potentially fatal situations. A good example of this took place one summer evening when I was relaxing in my recliner with the novel
Whose Blood Is In My Popcorn?
, which I'd been reading off and on for the past four years. I'm not an ambitious reader.

I looked across the living room into the kitchen and saw an extremely large man holding an extremely large knife. He had long greasy hair, was wearing a black leather jacket that had metal spikes around the wrists, and I sort of got the impression that he had broken into my home to kill me.

By "broken into," of course, I mean that he'd probably just casually walked in through the door in the kitchen that my wife, Helen, was always reminding me not to leave unlocked. She'd never specifically used a man with a knife as an example, but I'm pretty sure this is the kind of thing she was referring to.

"Are you here about the leaky faucet?" I asked.

Not my all-time funniest comment, I'll admit. That particular honor goes to "What if we used
two
cows?" (which loses something out of context, but trust me when I say that it was very, very, very amusing). Still, when you consider that I said it to a huge guy with a knife and a homicidal glimmer in his eye, it was a more than passable effort.

He shook his head. "No. I'm not."

"Oh."

I considered my options. The only weapons I had readily available were the dog-eared paperback and a grape juice box. I'd already drank most of the juice, so the box probably wouldn't even carry all the way across the living room if I threw it. However, the straw provided a defensive possibility.

I considered making a run for it. But when I say that the man was "extremely large," I don't mean that he was an obese gentleman who would chase after me in a labored waddle. Though it was hard to tell under the jacket, he looked to be all muscle. And as he walked toward me, he moved with a grace and efficiency of motion that gave the impression that he could have me tackled to the ground and nicely decapitated before I even made it to the stairway.

But maybe not. After all, I'm rather nimble myself. I decided to let this one play out and wait for the precise moment to act.

"Are you Andrew Mayhem?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, a split-second before I realized that the more intelligent answer would be "No."