When the first music ended, drinks were refilled and a hooded attendant checked the rings and connections within the half-shell. As she finished, she provided some water through a straw from a small plastic cup which David sucked eagerly.
The music began again. This time four wires were pulled. Each tug almost lifted David from the table. Each of his screams were piercing and short. Three songs later, he was lifted completely from the table as all wires were pulled in unison, his screams pealing from the walls one after another after another. As he levitated, the blood poured in small rivers to the floor six feet below. The music began building and building and finally, the
Ring Masters
stood, causing the wriggling, screaming figure to lower almost to the comfort of the table, his body hovering a tantalizing foot above.
Liszt's
Fantasie
in E minor
ended with a flourish and the
Ring Masters
stepped away from the half-shell in quick sure motions until David's body shot to the top. The rings ripped from the man's flesh and flew from the top of the half-shell and into the crowd of rapt patrons where each was grabbed and licked and fondled, held in the shaking hands of ecstatic members.
David, removed from his metal enticements, fell hard to the table below, landing like a bag of someone else's bones.
Wednesday
Hannah was trolling.
She needed fresh meat for tomorrow night and had yet to find the perfect specimen. The club was filled with the usual assortment of regulars, dopers, and pretenders. It wasn't what she needed. She stood up from the couch, drained a
Cuervo
and headed for the door. She needed some air and some room to hunt.
On the way outside, she picked up a glass of ice water for Walter, the bouncer. He drained it quickly then chewed the ice like it was so much gravel. She stood beside him and they both watched the street and the people, not wasting breath on inane chit-chat.
She spent most of her time eyeing the line. She was disappointed by the endless stream of pretenders. It wasn't until half an hour later that she spotted him.
There he was—like a piece of shit in a row of diamonds. He stood among a river of black lace and leather wearing a button-down blue shirt with a red cloth tie and khakis. Hannah examined him closer and grinned as she recognized the anachronism of his penny loafers amidst amass of leather boots. It was probably the first time she'd seen any since she'd watched old
Leave It to Beaver
reruns as a kid.
She tapped a manicured nail against her teeth as if to consider her next move, then sauntered over and placed a hand softly upon his shoulder.
He immediately jerked back, stumbling. Hanna caught him gently, leaning in against his body, pressing him with her small breasts. Her expensive perfume mingled with his Old Spice and she laughed
spacily
, garnering an embarrassed grin in return. He was handsome in a
boy-next-door
sort of way with short brown hair feathered down the middle, average height and a slim athletic build. She bet he got his build playing tennis while girls named Buffy and
Muffy
sat around drinking Mai
Tais
and giggling.
"I'm sorry," she said, keeping her voice low and smooth. "I didn't mean to startle...I mean, I just wanted to meet you."
"Maybe you have the wrong person," he said. "My name is David. I don't think I know you."
"Oh, I don't have the wrong person. I've been keeping my eye on you." She took a step back and tapped her teeth again. "My name is Hannah. Do you dance?'
He shook his head slowly.
"Do you drink?"
He nodded, slowly, his eyes divulging many appetites.
"Is this your first time in a place like this?"
He nodded, much faster this time.
"Would you like me to show you around?"
With widening eyes, he took her in, admiring what he saw and nodded even faster.
"Then let's go," she said grabbing his hand and towing him to the front of the line.
A few oaths were cast in her wake, but any consternation was immediately silenced as Walter stood, his demeanor demonstrating the meaning of the verb
to menace
.
Friday Night
The man was still standing observing the house when the light went off in the window. The sun had set an hour ago, and it was time for Hannah to leave. He reached down and grasped the handle of his bag. Eli strode toward the garage that was separated from the house by several feet. Whistling his tune, he moved crisply up the driveway.
Hannah exited from the side door and strode to the door of the garage, the heels of her boots clicking along the concrete walk. As she unlocked the door, she turned at the whistling of a song she had been hearing more and more often on the oldies stations.
Three Dog Night
, she remembered. At first there was no one, just the eerie sound of the song, but as she watched a man appeared as if from nothing. Like a mist coalescing he took form until he was solid. He moved purposefully toward her, carrying an old fashion bag at his side.
She turned the key in the lock and slid quickly into the garage. Her breathing quickened and echoed loudly within the cavernous interior. She slammed the door shut and spun the lock into place. She backed up until her back touched her jeep.
She glanced hurriedly around for a weapon, her eyes falling on a set of shears resting on her mother's gardening bench. She rushed over and grabbed the handles and held it out in front of her. Her eyes were locked on the door as the man walked through it. He stood and smiled, the song finally ending.
"You are Hannah," came the voice. It wasn't a question.
The tip of the shears shook as she struggled with her fear. "Who are you?"
"I'm Eli. I've come for you." The voice was old and tired, yet filled with certain strength.
"I warn you," she said holding up her beeper and pressing a button with her free hand. "I've just notified the police and they will be here within two minutes. You better leave."
"I don't think so," said Eli, setting the bag down and reaching into it. He came out with a length of rope and walked quickly toward her.
She backed up several feet, stabbing at the approaching figure.
He reached out and took the shears from her trembling hands as she felt herself let go. She sunk to the floor, a small scream leaking from her red painted lips. Shaking her head, she crossed her arms protectively over her chest.
"Don't rape me," she pealed. "Please. Please, don't rape me."
Eli stood and titled his head to the side, admiring her in her fear. "I promise. I shall not rape you."
He took the shears and clipped four equal length pieces of rope. He cast the shears aside, gripped her wrist and jerked her to her feet. From the bench to his right, he grabbed a roll of silver duck tape. Within seconds, her screams were silenced as she breathed heavily through her nose, her gaze dancing across the garage and her attacker as she attempted to discern the meaning of his movements.
He gripped her gently and led her back to the rear of the jeep.
"Step up, please," he whispered, more a lover than a murderer.
She looked but didn't understand.
"Here," he said indicating the rear bumper.
She slipped twice in her heels, and in her terror was unable to complete his command. He reached down and gently removed each shoe. He placed them neatly by the door as if she would use them again when they had finished whatever it was they were going to do. Her eyes brightened slightly with the hope they represented.
"You won't be needing these."
She stared at her shoes and then at the man named Eli. She didn't understand and her hope slipped.
"You will never understand. That is the crux."
She stared hard. She knew she hadn't said it out loud.
"Now, get up there and turn around."
She complied, the spare tire causing her back to arch backward as she struggled for balance.
Within moments, he had her hands tied to the roll bar and ankles secured to the bumper. Her breathing escalated, making freight train sounds in the half-light.
Gently, like a lover, he unsnapped her black leather bustier until the sallow color of her breasts was revealed. Small pink nipples quivered hard from fear. He folded the garment and laid it atop her shoes. Stepping back, he appraised her, staring deeply into her eyes as his hands slid up her thighs. Feeling no underwear, he removed his hands and unzipped her skirt, ripping it along the seam, not by anger, but by necessity. Naked, tied to the rear of her jeep, she watched him closely, the word terror rebounding in her mind, but seeming so insufficient for the moment.
"I promise you will feel no pain," he said.
He kissed her on her forehead and placed his right hand on her left breast.
"I was like you once. I had much power, but I did not believe. I was cursed for it and lost my sons. You have power and you have killed."
Her eyes widened and she shook her head frantically.
"You use people. You use your love. Love is not meant to be a tool."
He ran his fingernail across her breast. Among the goose bumps that launched upwards, the skin peeled bloodlessly away revealing a rapidly beating heart. Gently, he reached in and removed it. Her body shook and she inhaled sharply, but she did not die.
Carefully, Eli carried the beating heart to his bag, opened it and placed the heart carefully within a silver container. He returned to Hannah with a length of living vine. As he wove it into a rounded shape, he spoke.
"You are like this kudzu. You live off the pain of others and take sustenance from their dying. You are a parasite."
He placed the formed vine where her heart had so recently been and sealed the rent in her skin with a flick of his forefinger.
"Thus you will live," he said standing back, "as a parasite."
Her body began to quiver, then shake as the vine took hold within her. She fought and screamed from beneath the tape, but was unable to get free as small tips of vine broke through her skin, exited from her nose, her ears, her eyes. Vines slithered from the used space of her crotch and slit the tips of her nipples, the green leaves pausing and testing the air before they continued their complicated weave. The vine grew quickly devouring her, until finally, all that was left was vine—large and vaguely human shaped.
Eli picked up his bag and leaned the
viney
mass over his shoulder. He exited the garage and moved to the side where a sickly rose bush was attempting to climb a large trellis. He deposited the vine beside the rosebush and waited as the feelers rooted themselves deep and latched onto the white wood of the flower ladder.
He left with a smile, walking down the driveway to the street, whistling his song.
Jerry Ross stepped into the restroom of his favorite bar, The Lunatic Fringe, and saw a heavyset man beating the hell out of a small skinny man. He watched momentarily, beer in hand, enjoying the way the bigger man's fist collided with the smaller man's face in a wet explosion of teeth and blood.
Jerry did the only right thing and joined the fray until the small, skinny man was lying face first in the overused urinal, his blood mixing with the thick, yellow water.
The larger man grinned, stuck out his bloody hand in a friendly gesture, and said, "Thanks, my man. That little fucker had it
comin
' to him. Name's Wilbur."