Masters of Horror (27 page)

“
Oh, sure I am, Charlie.  Please stay a while and talk.  I get so lonely.”

“
How could you possibly be lonely, Lu?  What happened?  Your mirror break?” With that, her former knight in red sneakers shook his head and took his leave.

“
How could he treat me like that?  After all I did for him!  Who the hell does he think he is to say things like that to me?  Me!  Well, if that’s the way he feels, good riddance, I say.” Unconsciously, she reached for her hand mirror.

* * *

After a few weeks of weighing financial options, Lucinda finally came up with a foolproof way to cover her surgery costs, and get back at Charlie and his attitude at the same time.

Once she was fully recovered, one Monday morning she walked to the end of the lane where the mailboxes were and waited in the tall grass. 

It wasn’t long before she heard Mr. Foley’s pickup truck roaring down the narrow road.  The final turn out of the lane was blind, so Lucinda stepped out into the road just before Mr. Foley rounded the corner.

When he appeared, she looked fearful and stepped slightly off to the left.  The fender clipped her just where she had planned for it to—the right hip.  She also didn’t see any harm if some of her previous stitches pulled out and added a little more blood to the mix.

She never expected a broken hip to hurt quite as much as it did, but as her father used to say, “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

Police and an ambulance were summoned and Lucinda played the incident for all it was worth.

And to make matters worse, poor Mr. Foley had whiskey on his breath.  He had downed a shot that morning to treat a heavy cold.  Back home in Ireland, that was how it was done, and had always worked well for him.

This time, it worked well for Lucinda.  She sued him for everything he had, and by the time the case was settled, she owned his joint bank account, his truck, his wife’s car, and their house and everything in it.  Oh, also Charlie’s savings that he planned to use for college.

When she was being wheeled out of court that day, Charlie Foley walked up to her and spit on the ground at her feet.

She never saw him again after that.

But she’d won, and soon she’d have plenty of cash to get that final procedure done, once the Foley assets were liquidated, and that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

By the time she’d recovered from her “accident” and sold off everything the Foleys had, there was more than enough money to cover the next procedure.

“
You want a colostomy?  Why?”

“
I have a predisposition for colon cancer.  It runs in my family.  So, no colon, no colon cancer.  It’s one less thing to worry about.”

“
Are you aware that you’ll have to wear a colostomy bag for the rest of your life?”

Lucinda flashed her perfect white teeth at the man.  “I understand.  I still want it done.  Will you do it?”

“
I’m afraid not.”

This time, it took months before she found a willing doctor.  He seemed a little sketchy and his credentials weren’t the best, but he was ready to operate the next day, so the deal was sealed.

This surgery took everything she had to pay for—or, rather, everything the Foley’s had had.  Lucinda heard that they were living in a shelter downtown, and that Charlie’s job at the grocery store was all that was feeding and clothing them. But, Lucinda reasoned, they had a roof, a bed, and food, so what more could they ask for?

Lucinda was finally happy, finally satisfied.  She had eliminated all the cancer risks that ran in her family and threatened her to take her life and therefore, her beauty, away from her.  She stared into the mirror for hours on end, secure in the knowledge that, with regular surgical maintenance, she would be looking this way for a long, long time to come.

The food stamps, social security, and disability checks she was now collecting from the government covered food, her new mortgage, and miscellaneous other bills. 

She never left the house.

Why should she?  Who out there would appreciate her beauty as much as she did?  Better to stay home.

Things were wonderful for many months—until the phone call.

Her father’s last remaining brother had died.

Lucinda panicked. 

She had no more money left.

The 9-1-1 call came in later that afternoon from Charlie Foley, who had come by to deliver Lucinda’s groceries.

The police found her on her bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood.  

“
She peeled off her skin.  Got as far as her waist before she died of shock and blood loss,” the M.E. said.  “But her face and neck are untouched.  She’ll be a good looking corpse once she’s dressed.” 

“
Damnedest suicide I ever saw in my whole life,” Officer Donnelly said to the M.E.  “Was there a note or anything?”

“
Yeah.  She’s looking right at it.  It’s a weird one.  All I can figure is that it was supposed to remind her about something while she was…doing this.”  The M.E., who had seen more horror in his professional life than he cared to talk about, shuddered over this latest one.

Donnelly followed the body’s vacant gaze.  Indeed, there was a note, of sorts, that she’d taped up to the tiles directly opposite her line of sight.  She must have been looking at it right up until the moment she died.

One less thing to worry about!

Liked Carson’s Story? Check out her latest title:

Home

Following the deaths of her mother and beloved aunt, Kate Kavanagh inherits the family homestead in the Irish enclave of Three Oaks, Connecticut; but the house has changed since she visited a year ago—no more windows on the first floor and gaslights and a wood burning stove in place of the modern appliances.  It also appears to be haunted.  And that's just for starters.  Once she moves into the house, Kate herself begins a gradual but terrifying biological transformation that is part of her inheritance, too; though not mentioned in the Will.  With the help of a Rottweiler that's more human than animal, a new friend whose farm stand is only open dusk to dawn, and the "Rat Boys," Kate will get some answers or die trying.

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As it happens, there are addictions that are somewhat positive…at least when compared to most others. Even though obsession almost radiates from this particular protagonist, this one made me want to jump back into a gym…and get…

Shredded

By Blaze McRob

It is time. The iron calls me.

The digital clock next to my bed spells out 1:59 in bright red letters. Perfect. Once again, I wake before the alarm goes off.

I can’t remember the last time it sounded. Probably, there would be no need to set it, but the fear of oversleeping, of missing my encounter with the destiny of the day, forces me to continue with the ritual.

Except for the alarm clock numbers, my bedroom is completely dark: just the way I like it. This is my house. I live alone and don’t have to cater to anyone else’s  needs or wants. My sense of purpose, compulsion, and desires, preclude me from allowing anyone else to venture into my world. It is mine and mine alone.

I dress in the dark, pulling my clothing from its allotted space on top of the ottoman adjacent to the lone chair in the room, a weathered, brown Lazy Boy. There is no need for unnecessary furniture to clutter up my existence. Books and magazines go on bookshelves and my furniture sits in a neat, orderly fashion against the walls, allowing an open expansiveness to my environment.  

As usual, I made coffee last night and I plop it into the microwave to heat it up as I finish my preparations. From the refrigerator, I withdraw two bottles of a thirty-two gram protein drink; thirty-two grams is the maximum amount of protein the body can absorb at a time. Fully dressed, my thick drink in hand, I walk out my front door into the quiet morning, enjoying the bite in the air. It helps to prepare me for what’s coming, and I smile in anticipation of what lies ahead.

It doesn’t take long to walk the four blocks to the gym. I stare at the unique design of the building: the right side roof, extending forty feet into the sky, has a steep pitch before blending into the flattened design of the remainder of the structure.

No one else is here: the parking lot is empty. The place is all mine.

I slide my access card into the slot and enter, allowing me time to soak up the ambiance and bask in the glow of my surroundings. This is my gym: I own it and I’m proud of it. It’s my 24 hour-access piece of heaven.

The treadmills, steppers, and bikes, are all up front by the big windows. I walk past them. My warm-up is a little different: 400 bent knee sit ups at a moderate pace. Why 400? No reason. That’s the number I’ve been doing for years. This way, I get well developed abs without the bulk. I slide my toes under one of the benches and go to town.

My waist might be trim, but the rest...the rest is not. Thirty years of pushing the iron around has made me huge. If you slammed an oak plank across my back, said plank would break…and I’d just think it was raining.

Today is my big day: the day of my total body workout. Every muscle in my body, worked as hard as is possible to push a muscle to the very brink, to the precipice of maximum potential usage versus the possibility of exceeding what should be attainable. Go too far, and danger reaches out to grab you, snapping your tendons as if they are overstretched rubber bands, tearing away muscle fibers like stringy pieces of overcooked corned beef removing themselves from the main brisket, and destroying cartilage around the knees, perhaps for life. And every so often, there is the specter of bone pushing through the skin, the popping sound echoing throughout the gym, followed by cries of agony.

The gym talks to me, daring me to reach my ultimate maximum.

Are you man enough today?
 
Do you dare touch the heavy iron?

I laugh at the challenge. “I
am
the master. The iron is
mine
.”

Still warmed up from my sit-ups, I work into my sets, starting with chest and back, alternating bench presses with chin ups, back and forth, adding weight with every set. Blood engorges the area, creating a pump of magnificent proportions. When I reach the point where I can only do six repetitions, I move on to super setting incline bench presses and one arm rows in the same manner. Exercise after exercise, always starting out with low weight and building up to mega plates, maximum poundage.

C’mon, pussy! More weight. Don’t be a slacker.

The veins are throbbing under my skin; skin that is so thin; no fat at all. Moisture is pouring out of me, making my skin even tighter. Every little bit of muscle jockeys for its showcase appearance within the framework of what is: a relief map of muscle, interspersed with life giving veins and arteries, feeding them, firing  the mitochondria, igniting the juices, keeping the passion alive.