BOB's Delight

It's not so bad here. The custodians could be worse, when I'm honored with their infrequent visits, droning small talk concerning everything outside. It's comfortable and warm, and it's just what I need.

Drip

The sound infuriates the others here; I can tell by the tortured howls and shrieks that punctuate each single drop.

Drip

Unlike the others, it doesn't bother me at all. In fact, I look forward to it; the sound comforts me in a way that only one who is used to watching a clock move from second to hour would understand. It soothes me, gives me a sense of reality in this dark, dank life I am now in.

Yet I still scream at night when they mop the floors.

One might wonder how I came to be like this, and what events lead to this end for me("end" is such a poor choice of words, I think, so forgive me until I think of better). I've had time to consider that. I have a lot of time. My mind reels with considerations—such considerations. Just how does a person come to any situation? What events chosen create destiny? Or, in fact, is there a choice at all? And, most frightening of all...

Was I singled out?

But enough of that quick digression; let's just call it fate and move on. I suppose I should start with the first item that seems relevant.

For me, appropriately enough, it all started with a dream:

Standing alone at night in a back court. Recent rain has turned the pavement below me a sheen of black. It seems the building that fronts the court houses some form of entertainment, for I can hear a jumble of voices murmuring their own little tales to each other underneath a steady drone of music. I don't seem to mind the voices, nor do I particularly care about them, especially since my back is turned to the building and the door of it that I just walked out. The court itself is surrounded by a privacy fence of wood planks about eight feet tall. It surrounds the back, attached to the building behind me about five feet from each side of the doorway. There's no grass or dirt here, just pavement and a few chairs scattered about. I stand there, thinking of nothing in particular, staring at the back portion of the fence, when I hear song behind me that I recognize. Patsy Cline begins singing one of her testaments to hopeless love as I continue looking at the fence. Its a tune I recognize, enough even to begin singing with her.

"I fall to pieces, each time I see you again."

It is then that I notice the weight of my hair. It seems odd, somehow, that my head should almost loll from the weight of hair, no matter how long it is. I have little time to consider this when I notice a movement. Thick and heavy, it moves through my hair. I take a deep gasp before realizing that it must be the weight of the rain, matting portions of hair that slide as I nod my head slightly to the music. I laugh while reaching up with spread fingers to brush the hair back for some sense of uniformity.

That's when the pain starts. Originally, I feel what seems to be like hammer blows to my hand and fingers, a sudden bashing sensation. Instinctively I jerk my hand away and discover five sets of bleeding pairs of what seem like pinpricks. My hair begins moving again, swaying to the music. And then my hand begins to burn. Like liquid fire, the sensation trickles from each pair of bleeding holes, slowly tracing its way up my arm. I shake both arm and head violently and only then catch a glimpse of myself in a puddle below. Snakes. 'Medusa' was my first thought, before even horror reached me. Without thinking, I reach up into my hair to pull at least one of the vile things out, watching as other snakes strike at me even as I grabbed one. One pull, the immediate tug of my scalp, and I realize they are entwined too well to pull out. I scream and reach with both hands, frantically pulling and bashing as the bites come, over and over. This continues for what seems an eternity before I notice my arms. For, with each inch that my burning pain moves, my skin bubbles. And, closer to the bites, the skin begins to slough off, revealing flesh that opens and closes with teeth and hisses. I fall to my knees, now only able to mewl bargains and prayers to whatever can release me: human, god, devil, anything.

Then I notice him.

In the far right corner, barely noticeable from the slight mist and shadow, is a figure. Or what seems like one, for all I can see are twinkling eyes that display a humor and almost benevolent grace that soothes me. He looks at me and smiles. I fall, prostrate, before him, and giggle uncontrollably as my hands melt and begin winding their way to a storm drain, silently disappearing into its depths. More and more, I melt away, until I cannot even tell what is left. I still, however, can see up as I slowly move with the rest of myself. And I can hear.

"I fall to pieces, each time I see you again."

The creature sings along with Patsy.

Suddenly, I awoke. Sweat covered my body, slicking the sheets both top and bottom. I breathed at an almost anxiety-causing rate, trying desperately to slow down as I brushed back soaking-wet hair from my forehead, ran shivering fingers across my scalp. And I noticed that for the first time since early childhood, I had gushed great spouts of urine throughout the night. Almost retching, I climbed out of bed and pulled the sheets off to wash.

The morning passed quickly, too quickly for my slow senses to catch up. Last night's bout with alcohol at the local bar and the nightmare that followed had dulled me to a point that I seemed constantly to be catching up with the speed of what was then my greatest foe: the steady ticking of time. By the time I had smoked my cigarettes, showered, cursed loudly, dressed, and found my notebooks, textbooks, and pens, I was already 30 minutes late for my first class. I marked the day as a complete loss and dived back in bed to sleep—uneventful full sleep—until late afternoon.

It was past five before I finally fully awoke, the late afternoon's light creeping its way into the western window. I slowly crawled of bed and looked out through the window as the red, partially diffused sunlight peered its way out of the earlier day's rains and bathed me. It was Friday, and, since I had slept through the only two classes I had that day, I decided to set out for my local den of iniquity.

Walking out, I squinted slightly, not so much from the sun itself as from the sheer affront that the outside world presented to my eyes. It was rush hour, and a caravan of overworked college employees and numbed students inched past me through the glistening pavement. Overall, it was a pleasing enough sight for those like me who enjoyed a sense of the surreal in the mundane, but the friendly confines of a bar still beckoned. I trudged on, ignoring the occasional sprays of water surly cars threw at me in an almost accusing manner. Their day had ended, mine was beginning, and they hated me for that. This was my penance for pedestrian decadence, and I shrugged it off while shuffling downtown.

Fifteen minutes through the slight mist and slowly dying light, and then I turned the corner to the place I knew so well. There was nothing special about it; it was like many college towns. Two long buildings stretched on either side of the street for roughly two blocks, ending at the intersection of what passes for a main street here. The buildings were full of different fronts: eateries, headshops, cut-rate record and bookstores, bars, and the obligatory smoke-filled pool hall. The smell of grease, old booze, sweat and yesterday's dreams filled the air, attacking every sense. The lights assaulted the eyes with the slick glow of reds, greens, yellows, and blues each proprietor used to lure the impulsive. And the sounds—juke boxes, bands, college shrieks and laughter, car horns and the multitude of neon hums. Everything, everything combined to make one perfect beast of corruption and excess, demanding I enter one of its many maws. Passing it all, almost expecting to be sucked in elsewhere, I finally made it to my destination. It was six o'clock, and I entered into what was quickly becoming my second home. On a painted sign above the doorway were the words "Hyp Joynt." I had made it past the common hellholes and slunk in.

"Yo Mark!"

I peered through the dark interior. The room was narrow, barely accommodating the bar with fronting stools at one side and a single row of tiny tables with chairs on the other. Between the two, what passed for a tiny open trail snaked its way past everything toward the right side of the stage and beyond into darkness. Past that were two pitiful excuses for bathrooms, one for each sex. The bathrooms weren't labeled; if you didn't know, there was only one way to find out. Above the tables to the right were various mixed-media pieces of what their creator considered art; vague shapes and colors that I can only describe as soft-textured chaos. On the left side was the bar itself, behind which I saw the hailing voice. An old, white Sex Pistols tee shirt greeted my sight before anything else.

"Hey back, Bob; how's things in hell?"

The bartender, Bob, also the owner, narrowed his mischievous eyes at me. His crooked smile gleamed past a slightly hardened face, aged by climate and sun. "You tell me. From the looks, I'd say you just came back."

"Hmm...." The smile brightened, almost automatically. Bob's eyes glinted through his square face, which was framed by a thin beard and dark hair that curled and rolled just above rounded shoulders. He had spent a life serving people, and to a discerning eye it seemed he spent at least as much time making fun of them.

I chuckled slightly. "The fiddler charges a lot."

"Yes, he does, yes he does. The same?"

I nodded as Bob turned to grab the red-labeled bourbon bottle, poured it into a glass already filled with ice, and slid the glass to me. I thankfully grabbed it, took a short sip, and then sat down in front of the bar.

"Who's the band tonight?"

"Open mic. Spoken. Music. Whatever."

I nodded again, took another sip, and looked toward what passes for poets anxiously shuffling through their papers, some with almost pleading eyes, some arrogant, some doe-eyed with fear. I stifled a laugh and turned back.

"Bob, Bob, Bob ... when are you going to learn? Never give drunks options."

He shrugged. "Eh, it makes business. Let them realize their portion of the American Dream in this two-bit town, whatever pathetic excuse that may be. As long as they and their little friends buy drinks while they're doing it."

I looked at Bob's dark eyes, took another sip, and asked, "And what do these poor saps get, besides feeding their own fish in this small pond?"

Bob laughed; a hearty, deep laugh that boomed throughout the bar. "Why, just that! And," he swirled a pitcher filled with green liquid, "a glass of my own personal invention. I call it 'Bob's Delight.' Care for some?"

"That depends," I answered. "What the hell's in it?"

"Ah, Mark, if I told you that, I'd have to kill you." He peered at me through the green liquid. "Let's just say a secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices, made by the Colonel himself."

"I'll pass. Ah'll keep to the Kentucky Fried Drink, suh." I slid my empty glass to him. "Bourbon me."

Bob winked and filled my glass again. "Enjoy the show."

Winking back, I fished for a cigarette to add my own ember glow to the dark. I lit it, inhaled deeply, and blew smoke while reaching out for the glass yet again.

A sickly yellow spotlight flashed on, and with it a disembodied voice boomed.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Open Mic Night at Hyp Joynt with our host Corey Wittingham."

Slowly shuffling his way through the sparse crowd, a bloated figure reached the stage, turned, and wearily fell upon the seat placed in front of a microphone. His unkempt grey hair fell in greasy clumps about sagging red cheeks and dull, watery eyes. His clothes included torn excuses for blue jean shorts, a dirty brown pocket tee shirt and ancient loafers. He wore no socks.

Without preamble, he grabbed an old, beat-up guitar and began to belch out an old country tune. The monotonous and gravelly voice drifted through the bar smoke, lazily tendriling out and settling about the room. The fifty-or-so patrons hushed and listened politely, but their own self-obsessed eagerness kept the room in an uncomfortable state. One felt impatience with every note, barely contained anticipation with every word. It rose after each act that paraded up and down the stage.

The hours rolled along, and I became more and more settled with each drink. Sitting and watching the acts, I had a strange thought ... nothing tangible, just a vague and disquieting feeling that everything was horribly constructed. The light that feebly illuminated the stage with its yellowing glare reflected off every face, giving them an almost plastic sheen. It even seemed to corrupt the air, for every person who slowly walked onstage seemed contrived, conformed, created ... artificial.

Slowly the acts droned on like a single dollhouse song, with the cow-eyed emcee's voice its separating chorus, a song composed and performed for my personal entertainment. A madcap song blurring through the dark. Each performer ended with a polite bow and a shuffle for the ever-present green glass that awaited. That pitcher of green liquid, staring at me through Bob's eyes.

I shook my head to clear the cobwebs of a sixth bourbon and glanced at the two women sitting a few feet away from me at the bar. The nearest had her back to me, and the farthest talked to her while craning her neck in my direction. She smiled constantly, never stopping or even altering her smile as she spoke in hissed whispers through too-white teeth. Soon, they moved closer to each other, arms circling bodies, kissing, embracing, leering...

That's when I noticed them all.

The sounds came first, a steady rustling of fabric and flesh moving against each other in a choreographed dance. Some remained in their seats, but most found themselves on the floor. Hisses of sharp breaths betrayed the sudden ecstasy that filled the room. I stared, frozen, as my show continued its way to a feverish pitch, heat and emotion swelling in the stagnant room. Through it all, that most amphibious creature, Corey, stayed squat on his seat, singing the same song.

I recognized the song.

"I fall to pieces, each time I see you again."

In front of me, the two women were violently embracing, grabbing each other's hair and tearing out strands. The one whose back was to me begin shuddering violently, shaking in spasms with each jolt of eldritch glee, each current of simulated humanity. I tried to stand but fell to the floor and gazed up at them, transfixed. Their heads began to blossom, a single bubble pulsating with each chord Corey sang, with each thrust of their lover's tongue, with each movement of the crowd's crescendoing glee. They began to whip their heads violently, impossibly quickly, as the bubbles grew and spurted great gouts of blood. And behind it I saw their tongues.

They came out tentatively at first, then suddenly burst into sight with screeching wails that vibrated the floor.

How do I explain what leered at me? How do I express the utter disbelief and terror I felt as this vision of interstellar vomit pulsated and spat at my very being? All I can say is that I managed to cry out as the creatures rose and tore upward through the remains of their humans' heads, splitting the skulls in half lengthwise on their way out. The women kept writhing and pressing ever closer to each other, grabbing, clawing and rending their way inside. Soon they were an indistinguishable mass of writhing flesh, spurting gouts of blood and unidentifiable black matter. And then the green liquid burst forth, and I knew.

"I fall to pieces, each time I see you again."

There was no sound but one now. A sickening sloshing sound, moving rhythmically to and fro, to and fro. Never ceasing, never altering, just a back-and-forth wet noise that kept time with its own unseen conductor. Somehow, through what forces I don't know, I began crawling out, slipping through blood, flesh, and the fetid green liquid that covered what once was a white-and-black tile floor. I could feel the sad remains of what were once my actors caressing and fondling me. I burst through the back door, mewling and gibbering, and turned one last time to the sloshing sounds that I now know so well. And I heard Bob's voice echoing through me, forever destroying my sanity.

"See you again."

The rest, dear reader, you know all too well. I was picked up, singing that damnable song over and over again, giggling uncontrollably, wild-eyed and understandably changed. When I could explain myself, the authorities were puzzled, to say the least. There never was anything there. The entire block is vacant. No stores, no bars; just empty lots. Yet blood and flesh covered me. And, also, there was that green liquid.

As for me, there is no record of my existence. I have no past, no present ... I am nothing to them. But I know I am.

I do have a future. With every scream at night.

Why are there so many people mopping tonight?

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The Harrow: Original Works of Fantasy and Horror. ISSN: 1528-4271
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