Jeff Strand - Casket For Sale

Witch turned on a blowtorch and began to heat up a thin strip of metal, also about two inches square with a pair of clamps on it.

"We'll get near-DVD quality picture and sound with this thing, so hopefully you'll provide sufficient entertainment value."

"I don't know what the hell you're babbling about," I said.

"You'll figure it out. What we've got for you, Andrew, is a very special serum. It's untested, so for all I know it could kill you the second we inject it, but let's hope it doesn't. That would be a waste. It's sort of a chemical cocktail, mixed with hallucinogens and paranoia enhancers… not the technical term… and all sorts of fascinating ingredients."

"I'm ready," said Witch, lifting the red-hot metal with a pair of tongs.

"Then I'm sure Andrew is, too. You may proceed."

Witch pressed the metal, clamps-side-up, right above my solar plexus. My entire body tightened up as I screamed, not even pretending that I was going to deny Mr. Burke the pleasure of an extreme reaction. Witch pressed the metal deeper into my chest and I smelled burning flesh and chest hair.

I strained against the leather straps, wanting desperately to rip the hot metal off my body.

"Ah, yes, that should stay in place quite nicely," said Mr. Burke, observing Witch's handiwork with satisfaction. "We'll just let it cool before we attach the camera."

I found myself frantically blowing on the metal, as if that would help. Mr. Burke and Witch seemed to find this terribly amusing.

Roger was still struggling to break free of his chair, but making no progress.

"I think we're ready for the injection," said Mr. Burke. He leaned over me and spoke tenderly. "Now, this is going to hurt just a little bit, sort of like having your flesh shredded with a cheese grater from the inside and then microwaved. But don't worry, it's not addictive."

Witch patted my forearm to get a vein.

I struggled with every ounce of strength I could muster. In all of the times I'd been tied up or strapped down or otherwise prevented from enjoying freedom of movement, I'd never successfully managed to break free through the use of superhuman strength, and I was due. I visualized myself breaking free. I visualized Roger breaking free. I visualized Samantha breaking through the door and breaking us free. I visualized Kyle breaking through the ceiling in a superhero cape and breaking us free.

I remained strapped to the bloody operating table.

Witch held up the hypodermic needle, squeezing some liquid out to avoid injecting an air bubble into my bloodstream. She brought it down slowly toward my arm.

I was concerned that my final thought in this world might be something stupid like my seven year-old son breaking through a ceiling in a superhero cape, but I couldn't force myself to think of anything else.

Witch slid the needle into my skin.

A warm, almost soothing feeling flowed through my arm.

Followed immediately by the most devastating pain I'd ever felt in my life. A dozen times worse than, say, chopping off my finger or having a red-hot piece of metal pressed against my chest.

I screamed and screamed and screamed.

Then, for a change of pace, I shrieked and shrieked and shrieked.

I may have said "Ow!"

It really, really hurt.

"My, my, listen to Andrew scream," said Mr. Burke. His chuckle echoed throughout the room.

It didn't really echo, did it?

Yes, it did. In fact, it was still echoing. And getting louder. I heard it in stereo.

Mr. Burke smiled, revealing oversized teeth.

I looked at my straps and gasped in horror. They'd transformed into… well, they were still leather straps, but they were unexplainably scary leather straps.

"Is it working, Andrew?" asked Mr. Burke, his voice dropping an octave or two. "How do you feel?"

"I hurt."

"How does your mind feel?"

"I don't know. I think it hurts."

Mr. Burke held up his hand in front of me. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," I said. Suddenly that seemed amazingly funny. Three fingers! He was holding up three fingers! Right in front of my face! I giggled.

Giggling was so much more fun than screaming. But screaming had its positive aspects, too, like giving your lungs a workout and keeping them healthy, and alerting people to your presence who might otherwise ignore you, and…

I giggled some more.

I raised my back as much as I could. "Something is swimming in Goblin's blood."

"And what do you think that might be?"

"I dunno. You tell me." I giggled at my joke. "It's a little man swimming in there. A tiny little man swimming in Goblin's blood. I hope he doesn't pee in it."

"I hope he doesn't, either," said Mr. Burke, still smiling at me with those oversized, way-too-white teeth.

"You've got funky teeth" I told him. "Pull them out for me."

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

"Oh. Bummer."

I looked at Roger, who looked hilariously miserable. He almost looked like he was going to cry. And he was a grown man!

I laughed at him.

I suddenly realized that I didn't hurt anymore. And that there were now several tiny little men swimming in Goblin's blood. One of them was doing the breaststroke.

"You know," I told Mr. Burke, "it takes a lot of work to kill a man with paper cuts, but I'm patient."

Mr. Burke kept smiling. All of his face was gone except for his teeth.

"You know what?" I asked.

"What?"

"That's what." I frowned. "That wasn't funny. You know what?"

"What?"

"That's what." I laughed hysterically, and then I slammed myself against the table a couple of times to crush the millions of tiny little men swimming in Goblin's blood.

"Tell me, Andrew, are you afraid of demons?"

"Dee-mons! Dee-mons!"

"There are demons everywhere, you know."

"Spooky scary demons!"

"There's one in this room."

"Creepy crawly demons!"

"You hate demons."

I nodded. "Demons suck."

"Indeed they do."

"Yanking off a hangnail with a staple remover is overrated."

"Indeed it is."

"Doesn't it hurt just having teeth for a face? What if you have to blow your nose? I don't understand how it works, I'm sorry."

"Look over there," said Mr. Burke, pointing. "Do you see the demon?"

I did indeed. It was a female demon, wearing a white lab coat spattered with blood. She was one serious babe, even though she had red scaly flesh and eyes that literally smoldered.

It was clearly a succubus. Or was it an incubus? I always got those two confused. It was a continual source of shame and embarrassment.

The demon hissed at me. I hissed back.

"You want to kill it, don't you?"

"Nah."

"Andrew, it's a demon. Aren't you the mighty demon slayer?"

"What kind of dumb shit are you talking about? Demon slayer, hemon slayer. I need to slay more hemons. What's a hemon? I'm hungry."

"The demon is looking into your soul, Andrew."

My God. He was right. The demon was staring right into my soul. It was learning my secrets, laughing at them, mocking them, sharing them with its demon brethren. The demon's evil was exploring inside me, wriggling around like worms, devouring its way into my heart.

"Make it stop," I begged.

"Only you can make it stop."

"It's scaring me!"

"Scare it back."

"It's going to eat me! Don't let it eat me!"

"You're being tested, Andrew. You can pass the test. You must learn to hate the demon, not fear it."

"I hate how scary it is!"

"Hate. Hate is the key. Control your hate. Control your rage. Don't let the demons win. Can you do that? Can you truly, deeply hate?"

"I… I think so."

"That's not good enough."

"Yes, I can."

"There are demons in the woods, Andrew. They're lost demons trying to find their way back home. Three of them. A mother and two children. Can you hate them?"