Authors: Gord Rollo
Peeler (5 page)
“You’re out of luck, man. I’m sorry but I didn’t bring you a mirror.”
Randy expected the skinless man to be mad at him, furious even, but he wasn’t. Peeler just smiled at him, his big blood-drenched toothy smile, and said, “Oh yes you did. You just don’t know it yet!” With that he held up his meaty right hand and Randy had just enough time to register that Peeler was holding the blood-smeared razor blade before it was raked across his throat, cutting him ear to ear.
Scarlet juices poured from the mortal wound, draining down Randy’s chest and splashing to the smooth tiled floor to pool at his feet. He tried to scream but it was impossible. The more he tried, the more blood gushed out his ravaged throat. Randy tried for the office door, hoping to find help waiting outside, but before he could take his first step his legs collapsed beneath him and he sprawled awkwardly to the ground never to rise again. Randy Baxter, down on his luck son, wannabe chef, and ever so recently recovered self-mutilator was dead thirty seconds later.
Peeler knelt down on the slippery floor beside the dead man but he paid no attention to Randy’s recently deceased body. No, he was far more interested in the large pool of blood beside him, the smooth dark fluid that warmed his hands and rippled across the tiles when he touched it like skipping a stone across a pond at midnight. Peeler got down on all fours in the shallow pool, marveling at the image reflecting back to him in its smooth dark surface.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, and started to laugh…
***
Director Ross flew out of the elevator and ran as fast as he could for the trio of security guards standing outside his office door. He’d been on the top floor of the asylum and about as far away as he could get from the basement when he’d heard what was going on. He was mad as hell at the guards – especially Gustoffson – who should not only have been paying closer attention to what was supposed to be a friendly meeting but also should have had his own key to the office. Deep down though, he knew this was probably his own fault more than the big Swedish guard’s. It was him who was supposed to be supervising his patients. Him that should have been more careful. Now there would be hell to pay.
“Couldn’t you at least have busted it down?” Ross shouted as he approached.
“We tried,” all three guards said in stereo, but Gustoffson finished for them. “Steel doors, boss. We practically busted our shoulders on it, but it isn’t budging without the key.”
“Get out of the way then. Who was screaming? Barber or Dorsey?”
There was no need for anyone to answer because from inside the locked room, they could all hear Lucius Barber yell, “Oh my god… he fucking did it! The son of a bitch actually pulled it off!” Having no idea what that meant, Director Ross used his key to unlock the door and shoved his way into the room, easily knocking loose a chair that had been propped under the door knob to try and keep them out.
Inside, the small office was painted in blood and bits of Peelers face and scalp were quite literally everywhere. It looked like a bomb had gone off but no one had heard a bang. Worse still, the body of some mildly familiar young man was lying in a heap near a pool of what appeared to be his own blood. Who was that and where had he come from? Lucius Barber was sitting on a chair against the far wall; a grin plastered on his face like this was all fun and games for him. Theodore Dorsey was nowhere to be found. The guards quickly searched the room but somehow, impossible as it seemed, he was gone.
“Where is he, Lucius?” Ross asked. “Where’s Peeler?” but the insane magician had nothing to say. All he did was laugh and laugh and laugh. On the floor beside the pool of blood, a shaky hand had written a message by dipping their finger in the crimson gore. Maybe not much of a message; just a single hyphenated word in big block letters.
It said…
ABRA-CADABRA
.
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