D.O.A. Extreme Horror Anthology (27 page)

And that’s all it took to make William Buckingham of Buckingham Enterprises a glutton for punishment.

Guys

Eric Dimbleby

“Got some big ol’ steaks,” said Tommy. He pointed his tangled beard towards the kitchen, the smell of searing blood wafted through the doorway to the cluttered, musty den. “Onions and peppers and corn on the cob, too.”

They grunted in response, their eyes transfixed on the television—a porno slapping around on a broken whirring VHS tape.

“Nachos. Jalapenos and ground beef. The Old Lady put ‘em together before she left.” They grunted again. Old Ladies were good about those sorts of things, and Tommy had himself a hum-dinger.

It was a ‘Guy’s Weekend,’ as Tommy had labeled it. The Old Lady was visiting relatives for the weekend, several states away. Somebody was sick or getting married or having babies or putting on a fucking flute recital. Tommy wasn’t quite sure as to the purpose of her evacuation, but he ‘uh-huh-ed’ her in idle agreement, to remove her from the house, from his eyesight, and from his grasp as quickly as possible.

“I’ll just have a couple of the boys over,” he had warned her. A couple of boys equated to exactly twelve buddies, from all over town, country, heaven and hell and back.

The Tall Guy. The Short Guy. The Drunkard. The Dog Trainer. The Mechanic. The Welfare Leech. The Other Welfare Leech. The Shop Owner. The Fisherman. The Factory Guy. The Ugly Guy. The Big Dick Guy. Just a couple of the boys.

Tommy had known many of them since childhood, had even gone to Sunday School with the Short Guy. Lost his virginity to the Fisherman’s dullard sister with the fat tits. Beat up the Ugly Guy for ‘being gay’ when they were in high school shop class, only to find out later that he was straighter than a mid-western railroad track. The Big Dick didn’t know the Dog Trainer’s name. The Welfare Leech had never even exchanged words with the Other Welfare Leech, though they had so much in common, which always baffled Tommy.

“Let me check on them steaks,” said Tommy, to which the Drunkard grunted in response.

The steaks were delicious; slightly pink, but not raw, the perfect mix of moist and dry. The blood and seasoning had sunk deep into the fibers of the meat, intermingling with the onions and peppers. The nachos had satiated them as an appetizer, but the steaks were what put the asses in the seats. The Tall Guy had grunted, eyeballing the Factory Guy during their greedy consumption. They had nodded in concurrence, approving of the incendiary mélange of flavors that Tommy had provided them with, their palettes dizzy with sensations that could not be explained by mere vocabulary. The Dog Trainer had moaned in a very orgasmic tone upon slipping the first bite of meat between his rotting teeth. 

As they poked at the gristle and fat remaining on the plates, their bodies accumulated around the television like a gestating virus (all while setting a new world record for the first group of men—or solo viewer, for that matter—to ever finish a pornographic film in its entirety). They made low guttural sounds of pleasure in unison, to display their gratitude towards their host for a great meal and an even better film choice.

“You boys look full,” Tommy said in a tone that he often used with his German Shepard, wiping away a spot of seasoned blood from his beard. They grunted in response. Yes, they were full, satisfied to the core. “Let’s drink some beers?”

And so they drank beers. Hundreds over the course of only two hours. Thirteen apostles of Budweiser, recounting with their eyes and facial gestures their troubled lives and bitchy wives, wishing aloud that they had committed to better choices in their histories. Tommy spoke to them in stories and maxims, and they listened quietly. They guzzled and laughed and nodded and said not a word. They eyed each other, each reveling in the fact that they were brothers on a unique mission. Some acquainted, others new to their bizarre brood, but all basking in the glory of being male and free of their mundane existences, if only for a single evening. “Shall we watch some more porn, boys?” Tommy queried his posse of men.

And so they finished the last of their beer, moving on to an unending supply of discount package store whiskey, gaping at a new porn film,
The More The Assier Part 4
, while they awaited Tommy’s next command for delightful distraction. At the part where Bobby Javelin exploded upon Tina Tightlips’ chest, they grunted in satisfaction. During the final sequence when Tina finally discovered that Doctor Acula was indeed the reincarnated manifestation of Vlad the Impale-Her, the Big Dick and the Mechanic high-fived in a spontaneous but gratifying eruption.

“And how about that engine out back in the garage?” Tommy wondered aloud.

And so they stood in a loose circle, passing around a crush-proof pack of Camels, lighting and dragging on them deeply. By the time the pack made a full round, the first smoker had extinguished, and so it continued. When a pack ran out, Tommy would toss a fresh one to the next man in line, insisting, “Smoke, smoke, smoke. Our ball and chains would never allow any of this shit. Get it while the gettin’ is hot.”

They smoked until their lungs burned, for more than an hour non-stop, while Tommy professed his love for the new engine he had acquired at an auction in benefit of the local fire department.

“BMW engine, V8. Not sure where those fuckers picked this up around
here
. That’s a rich man’s vehicle right there. Not for folks like us. But look at that puppy,” explained Tommy, running his index finger along the glistening surface, pausing for a moment at each cylinder, rubbing a bit of grime away from the timing assembly.

He pulled long and hard on his Camel, glancing at his audience for reaction. They were quite amused, he concluded.

“Scrubbed this sucker for two weeks before it was even recognizable. Looked like it had been through a fire, if I had to hazard a guess. Maybe that’s where the fire chasers got it. Nothin’ you can’t get clean with WD-40, can I get an amen?” he said. They grunted. “I need to go in the backyard and light a fire. I’ve got some shrubs to burn. Please join me.”

And so they stood in a half-moon about the raging fire, careful to move collectively when the wind changed to avoid smoke inhalation. Whenever they shifted, they lit another Camel. One smoke, it would appear to a casual onlooker, was more desirable than the other. The Tall Guy glared at the smoke, as though it were purposely trying to attack him when a breeze hit the wrought iron fire pit.

“Tore these shrubs out after I shot that woodchuck in the face. Didn’t want to give his wife and kiddies anyplace to hide. Now when they decide they’re going to walk across
my
land, it’s at their own risk,” Tommy informed his gang, throwing a fresh shrub on to the inferno. They grunted. “Took that ol’ boy down with my new Magnum. Would you boys like to look at my piece?”

And so they unloaded their weight at the kitchen table, some sitting and others standing, while Tommy dismantled his gun—a .44 Special with a shiny black body and a barrel that was nearly as long as his forearm.

“When I first bought this sweetie-pie the hammer was always getting stuck on me. Which is fine when I’ve got a close range situation. When I’m more than twenty yards away though, I always need extra shots, especially with varmints and foreigners on my land. I like to get off all six bullets whether I need to or not. Let the rest of them fence-jumping citrus salesmen and gophers know that I mean business. The hammer don’t stick no more. Not sure what I did... just worked itself out, I guess.”

The Ugly Guy and the Shop Owner exchanged a glance. They too had similar killing machines in their respective homes, and wished that they had brought their bright little killing machines along for the evening. But that went against all of Tommy’s well-defined rules.

Rule One: no weapons. If you need a weapon, one will be provided to you.

Rule Two: keep it in the basement.

Rule Three: don’t break any fucking rules.

Rule Four: enjoy. 

Three knocks sounded at the front door.

“Let’s take this party downstairs. The whores are here and right on schedule.”

They grunted.

Whores.

The prostitutes danced for more than half an hour before they needed a breather. In the old unfinished basement of Tommy’s home, the women worked their rhythmic magic and never scoffed at the musty odors or moistened floors. They never even questioned the reasoning behind their clandestine performance in the deep underbelly of Tommy’s otherwise respectable home. The Blonde One assumed that it was to hide their visit from the nosy neighbors, who would surely snoop through the windows with their binoculars and report all of the miscreant activities to Tommy’s wife. In towns like theirs, people took names and places down in secret little notebooks in secret drawers of secret rooms and whispered painful truths only at the supermarket or library or church groups.

Several of the men started tearing off their shirts, which pleased the hookers. They would receive payment for each and every man they mounted sexually. They stood to inhale a windfall of cash by evening’s end. The Ugly Guy groaned and shouted, waving his shirt helicopter-style above his head in celebration. The Mechanic growled and the Dog Trainer howled.

“Keep these whores dancing,” Tommy whispered to Big Dick, who nodded and rubbed up against the Redhead Trick, and then moved in closer to the third of the trio, the One with the Nine-Year-Old Boy Haircut. When he brushed in close to them, cajoling his hips, they must have caught notice of his endowment through the fabric. The Boy Haircut smiled at him and made a decision right then and there that all the rules were meant to be broken on such an evening.

While the Big Dick, the Short Guy, and the Ugly Guy made their best attempts at free sex, Tommy and the Mechanic walked around the perimeter of the basement, clasping shut the squat basement windows, applying industrial tape to the cracks and positioning thick sticky brown paper over the panes. Tommy then offered a nod to the Shop Keeper, who grunted and rolled out a long tube of clear plastic on one side of the dank basement. He then untangled a garden hose from behind the water heater and hooked the spray nozzle on to a nail on the wall.

The Redhead informed the Short Guy that there was “no such thing as a free lunch”, which angered him into shouts and tears, his face turning to bright neon pink, on the verge of a minor heart attack. The Big Dick replied to her free-lunch statement by grasping her throat, digging his nails deep into her soft flesh and cursing her with his eyes. She yelped in terror while he backed her up to the unfinished stone wall.

The Ugly Guy and the Factory Guy each grabbed one of the Blonde’s arms. Though she fought with great passion, she stood no chance against them and their semi-muscular builds. The One with The Nine-Year-Old’s Haircut ran for the wobbling rickety stairs, but had her calves snatched, one each by the two Welfare Leeches. They looked at each other, grinning over their prize. They had finally made a connection after all these years in Tommy’s basement.

“Keep it near the drain,” Tommy advised, pointing towards the fuse box. Beneath it was a drainage ditch that reached all the way up the incline of the uneven basement’s floor. “And keep it quiet, grunts.”

They dragged the hookers to the middle of the room, where they descended upon them like wolves, tearing at flesh and screaming with animal pulses of hatred and love. There were four men for each girl like a seventies swing party, and they shared their kills appropriately. Some came for the kill, others came for the food. Some came for both, and the steamy sex in between.

“Don’t leave any bits behind.” They growled, looking up at their host with fiery eyes. “Eat it or shove it down the drain, but don’t leave it. Tell me if you need any tools.”

The Drunkard grunted at Tommy, who handed to the man a hatchet in response. He nodded gratefully and went back to his work of ripping his woman—formerly Blonde One, the remainder of her scalp now stained bright red—apart.

“Keep it near the drain, men,” he repeated, unhooking the hose from the stud on the wall, pummeling his customers and their prey with jets of cleansing water. Tommy found that if you didn’t work them with water the whole time it started to dry and harden on the gritty floor by the time they were finished.

Though it irritated them at first, it became the norm very quickly, the unrelenting flow of crushing water in the guise of neatness. “Keep it near the drain, and please don’t make any eye contact with me. You kind of creep me the fuck out.”

Tommy withdrew a Camel from his chest pocket and smoked it so fast that his head hurt.

Business was good, and it was only getting better.

Go to Your Room

Shane McKenzie

“Y’all ready for this shit, or what?”

“Would I be here if I wasn’t?”

Mike stood across the street from the home, staring at the lit windows on the second floor. A shudder ran down his spine.

“What about you Mike?” Chauncey said. “You’re not gonna pussy out, are you?”

Mike didn’t want to be there. He would have avoided any scheme involving Chauncey, but the eviction notice on his door that morning forced him out. He hadn’t eaten a thing all day, barely anything the day before. He needed money.

When Chauncey told him they were going to rob Old Man McCook’s, he almost did pussy out. He fondled the cold metal of the pistol.

“Nah man, I’m ready,” Mike said. He couldn’t peel his eyes from the brick house. A shove from behind snapped him from his trance.

“If you’re so ready, then fuckin’ act like it,” Julius said. Mike couldn’t stand him either, always trying his best to look tough in front of Chauncey.

“Let’s do this,” Mike said, strutting toward the house. He heard the other two talking behind him, and then their footsteps following.

The three of them pressed their bodies against the side of the home, searching all around for any witnesses. An orchestra of crickets surrounded them, chirping from the trees above.