Peeler

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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Copyright © 2012 by Gord Rollo.

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www.gordrollo.com

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“Man is only man at the surface. Remove the skin, dissect, and immediately

you come to the machinery of God.”  — Anonymous

Western New York, July 1994

“What the fuck ya doing, Baxter?”

Brian Mitchell, the head chef here at Ashbury Creek (if you could call this dump a kitchen, and this perpetually angry cook a chef) was screaming at Randy again. Mitchell was a big black slob of a man, about 6’2” and easily pushing 300 pounds, aiming for a coronary before his 50
^th
birthday the way he ranted and raved all day. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy, as far as Randy Baxter was concerned.
Screw him!
This was just a shitty job to add to his resume so he could move on to bigger and better kitchens, and he was sick and tired of this fat bastard always breathing down his neck. He needed the paycheck and the experience though, and loud mouth or not, Chef Mitchell was a hell of a cook and could actually teach Randy a thing or two if he’d learn to just chill a little. After all, how good did the food really have to be? They were working in an asylum for the criminally insane for God’s sake.

“What’s wrong?” Randy asked. “It’s roast beef, mashed potatoes, and carrots. Same bloody plate I’ve been making for two hours now and I haven’t heard any complaints.”

It was 7:00 p.m. on Friday night and suppertime at Ashbury Creek Asylum was officially over, but there were always special order meals to be made for the men in the infirmary or the various bad boys on lock down in their cells.
Rooms,
 Randy reminded himself.
Rooms… not cells.
 This wasn’t a prison, but it was close enough, as far as he was concerned.
A prison filled with fuckin’ loonies!

“Wrong? Do ya know who dat supper’s for?”

“Sure. It’s for…” Randy glanced over at his menu chart, having absolutely no idea. “Theodore Dorsey in Badass -10. So what? What makes him so special?”

Badass –10 was actually room B-10, the “B” meaning Basement, but seeing as it was where they housed the most violent of patients, anything with a “B” designation was affectionately referred to as badass. Hey, if the shoe fit…

“Son of a bitch! Ya that stupid, Baxter, or jus pulling my leg? Worked here fer two weeks now and ya never heard of the Peeler?”

“Peeler? Nope. What’s his deal?”

“I’m not saying shit. Means nothin’ to either of us. All ya gotta know is ya can’t give Peeler knives and forks and shit.”

“But they’re only plastic crap. All the other inmates… I mean patients, get the exact same–”

“Well Peeler doesn’t, so get it into yer thick head. Hell, for six months we only made him protein and veggie shakes, the boss man had his jaws wired shut.”

A chill raced down Randy’s spine, a familiar shiver that made him wince and nearly had him reaching to check the old scars on his arms and belly again. They’d long since healed and he liked to think they’d faded away to unnoticeable, but at the moment they were throbbing hotly, getting itchy, and causing him to shake ever so slightly. Maybe it was just in his head. He ignored the cuts, swept all that old shit away and hoped Mitchell hadn’t noticed. Those pathetic days were long behind him and the last thing Randy wanted was a trip down memory lane.

“Umm… Couldn’t they just segregate him or something? I mean if he was trying to hurt people I’m sure they–”

“He was biting hisself, fool. No one else. Wired him so he no hurt hisself anymore, I guess. What do I know?”

“Seriously? Why would he do that?” Randy asked, more curious than he wanted to be, sweat starting to form on his forehead, but trying to appear casual.

“With a name like Peeler, yer guess is good as mine? All I know is he used to be a magician or some such shit. Now he jus crazy, like you and me and everyone else here in dis madhouse. Look… makes no matter, jus cut his food into little chunks and leave it at dat. Some things are best not known, ya hear? No cutlery. No bullshit. Even if ya feeding him cream corn, he eatin’ it with his fingers. Got it?”

“Sure…whatever man. We’re here to please, right?”

Mitchell walked away scowling, looking anything but.

***

Randy Baxter would never describe himself as overly curious. He tried to just let it go; he really did. I mean, what difference did it make to him, right? He was just a 25-year-old average Joe, really, a 5’10, 170 pound slice of white bread kind of guy most people wouldn’t look twice at. He’d had a few seriously fucked up teenage years but he’d fought through all that nonsense and came out a stronger person because of it. The drugs, and anger, and well, all that other stuff were only bad dreams now, mostly kept under lock and key inside his head, exactly where they belonged. Walking the straight and narrow now, Randy kept his dark hair and goatee neatly trimmed, his hands and fingernails obsessively clean, and his average sized body fit and healthy. He minded his own business, didn’t bother anyone, and basically did his own thing most of the time. Sure, he had ambitious dreams of working in a first class restaurant in New York or Paris someday, but was also realistic enough to know it probably wasn’t going to happen. He more than likely would end up in a small town somewhere in the South slaving away over a hot stove for sun burnt tourists or overweight truck drivers just passing through, but he was okay with that. He’d be happy with his lot in life as long as he had someplace to cook and hungry people to enjoy his food. In all honesty, after everything he’d been through he was just happy to still be alive – everything else was gravy. Maybe he’d eventually be able to buy his own place.
Baxter’s Bistro
had a nice ring to it, or possibly
Baxter’s Bar and Grill.
 Whatever, it had to be better than spending time in this dump. Still, something about this Peeler dude really interested Randy.

Interested him more than he should, and he knew it.

Ashbury Creek Asylum, a federally funded institute, sat on twelve picturesque wooded acres on the fringe of Western New York’s Allegheny State Park and was filled to the brim with over 200 wildmen ranging from paranoid delusional schizophrenics and violent habitual arsonists all the way to the worst of the worst batshit crazy serial killers. Hell, they even had Reverend Floyd Bailey staying here, one of the worst serial stranglers and killers the country had ever produced. That son of a bitch scared everybody, even here, where he was under maximum-security watch. No, Ashbury wasn’t a fun place to hang out and Randy was smart enough to lay low, knowing he was better off being afraid of the patients here than curious, but Jesus, an old magician that was into extreme self-mutilation to the point they had to wire his mouth shut? Even when things had been at there worst, he’d never been
that
fucked up. This Peeler guy was just too bizarre to ignore, and against his better judgment telling him to walk away and not get involved, Randy was determined to dig a little deeper into this strange man’s twisted story.

***

The following day, after serving the unimpressed lunch crowd (house salad, chili with garlic toast, and a choice of rice pudding or apple pie for dessert), Randy washed up and told Mitchell he was taking his break. The big chef glared his disapproval, actually growled a little bit (believe it or not), but dismissed Randy with a wave of his meaty hand without saying a word. Randy grinned and ran for the door.

Normally he would head outside to the small interlocking brick patio beside the visitor’s parking lot. It was on the exact opposite side of the facility from the heavily guarded fenced-in patient courtyard where they let the loonies run loose for a few hours each day if they behaved themselves. Over there in “The Yard” as it was called, some nutcase or another was always yelling and screaming and doing whatever crazy people did for fun but thankfully the guards kept the inmates in check for the most part and Randy rarely heard a peep from over there. No, this small courtyard – seeing as it doubled as a meeting place for family and friends as well as being the designated employee smoking area, was usually quite peaceful. Randy didn’t smoke – cigs or pot – and never had despite being bitten by several other highly addictive dragons over the years, but after being cooped up inside the steamy kitchen for hours at a time, he always enjoyed getting outside for a little fresh air and 20 minutes of peace and quiet. Not today though. Today, Randy made a bee-line for the in-patient recreation center where he knew security guard Gustoffson would be patrolling (or more likely sitting doing nothing) at this time of day. Gustoffson was a big Swede who had worked on the Security team here at Ashbury forever. He’d pretty much seen and heard it all over the years, and Randy knew him well enough to know he liked the sound of his own voice a lot. If anyone would spill the beans about Peeler in Badass–10, Gustoffson would be the guy.

Turned out, the big blonde-haired Swedish guard wasn’t in a talkative mood today after all, least not when it came to discussing Peeler. Randy tried to bribe him with offers of free slices of pies, hell even offered the entire pie, but Gustoffson wasn’t interested.

“Look Randy,” the guard finally said, American as they came, not a hint of a Scandinavian accent left in his voice. “Go talk to someone else. I hate that crazy fucker locked in the basement. Freak nearly bit my finger off last year. Look at this…” Gustoffson held up his left hand and his cucumber-sized index finger was bent at an awkward angle and covered in scars. It looked like someone had worked on it with an industrial cheese grader. Either that or he’d been attacked by a shark. The scars hidden on Randy’s own body began to itch again.

“Jesus!” Randy said. “I thought he liked to hurt himself. Why’d he bite you?”

Gustoffson sighed, clearly not wanting to discuss this any further. “’Cause I was stupid enough to try an’ stop him. We walked into that monster’s room and he was chewing a hunk out of his own arm, ripping a long thin strip of skin from his right elbow down to his wrist. I tried to pry open his mouth and… shit; I’m done talking about this. Go bug someone else. Far as I’m concerned they ought to just take that sick skinless fuck outside and shoot him in the head. Do the world a favor.”

Gustoffson tried to walk away, but he’d really peaked Randy’s attention now. “Wait! Just a sec. What do you mean, skinless? He can’t be completely–”

“No, not completely, but damn near. Why do you think they call him Peeler? Fucking loony wants to peel all the skin off his body. And I do mean, ALL of it. He’s been working at it for years. Crazy fuck!”

“Why? That doesn’t make any sense. That would be incredibly painful, and what about infections? Wouldn’t he–”

“Don’t know… don’t care. You want any more than that, go talk to his old buddy Lucius Barber. I’d send you downstairs to Peeler himself but there’s no way. Only doctors and security are allowed down there past the checkpoint. You shouldn’t really be wandering around here either, but it’s no big deal. Most of these clowns are harmless. Lucius will probably be happy to tell you all the gruesome details.”

“Lucius Barber? He another guard?”

“Nope. Patient. Peeler and him were both magicians, I think. They used to hang out together here, least until Peeler got locked up. That’s him right there. Fat guy with grey hair over by the window.”

Randy turned to look, spotted the chubby man gazing outside, and when he turned back to thank Gustoffson, the big Swede was already walking away, a step or two faster than his usual sluggish pace. Randy knew he should be walking away too, back to the kitchen, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Besides, he hadn’t been gone all that long. Mitchell could make do without him a while yet, and
fuck him
if he couldn’t. Randy headed for the window, and the magician who’d once been Peeler’s closest friend here at Ashbury Creek.

***

Lucius Barber was a tall, overweight man with scraggly grey hair and skin as pale as a snowman’s. He stood with his head pressed firmly against the glass, staring outside at the meandering creek that had given this facility its name. Just off to the left, barely visible from here, was the small one lane wooden bridge that everyone drove over to get here from the highway. Beneath that bridge, the gurgling waters of Ashbury Creek slowly flowed toward the banks of the mighty Allegheny River not far to the West. Perhaps Mr. Barber was daydreaming about that river, floating his cares away downstream to find himself at a far better place than here. Then again, maybe he didn’t even see the creek and didn’t give a shit about the nearby river. Who knows? With the patients in this nut bin, they could be thinking just about anything. Or nothing.

“Excuse me, Mr. Barber?” Randy asked, not really knowing what to say after that.

“The fuck you want, chef-boy-ar-dee?” Lucius said, stone-faced, not a glimmer of humor in his gravely voice. “Lunchtime’s over. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Randy was momentarily taken aback; shocked this patient knew who he was. “Sorry. How do you know me? I just barely started working here.”

“I’m smarter than the rest of these sheep, that’s why. That, and the fact you’re the guy who makes all that yummy food I won’t let myself eat.” Before Randy could reply, Lucius continued on, answering the question that was on the tip of the new chef’s tongue. “I’m on a diet, see. Strict! Sick and fucking tired of being a pig and I’m gonna get back in shape even if it kills me. That’s why I know you, friend. Every time I walk past all your cakes and puddings and pies it makes me wanna strangle you.”

Randy took a step backward, on the verge of running, but Lucius Barber cracked a smile and burst into a fit of laughter. “I’m kidding man. I’m crazy but maybe not
that
crazy… yet! Relax. What do you want?”

“Good one. You had me going there for a sec. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute about your friend. His name’s Pee… I mean Theodore Dorsey.”

The smile fell from Lucius Barber’s face. He looked Randy up and down, silently sizing him up before saying in a deadpan voice, “You were right the first time, Mr. Baxter. Call him Peeler. He fucking hates Theodore. Hated when Director Ross called him Ted even worse. What about him and what’s the fuck’s it to you?”