Cameron Pierce - Abortion Arcade

As the insect-car scuttled by, its driver—a private detective type in a tweed suit, true Eurotrash—flipped Danny off and yelled, “Volkswagens for life, motherfucker!”

Danny choked down gallons of his own blood, but the blood rushed out at an incredible rate, and soon he died.

“Wake up, kid.”

The chainsaw prodded Danny’s side as they pulled into Heavy Metal High’s parking lot.

The dead werewolf opened his eyes. Somehow he’d ended up in the passenger seat. The chainsaw must have driven from the scene of the accident all the way to the school.

Danny’s eyelids felt heavy. He wanted to sleep but knew it was a bad idea. Without arms, he couldn’t feel for a heart-beat or a pulse. How the hell did he survive his own death?

“What’s going on?” he asked the chainsaw.

The chainsaw killed the engine. It slammed its blade against the steering wheel again and again, setting off the horn. Danny leaned back and stared out the window at his severed right arm.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re dead, kid,” the chainsaw said.

“Can we turn the radio on?” Danny said, missing Ronnie Dio’s voice. He kept gazing out the window at his severed arm.

“You’ve got a game to play.”

“How can I open the door without my arms?”

“You’ll die if you open these doors.”

“I’m already dead.” Danny sulked in his seat. “How can I play in tonight’s game?”

The chainsaw sighed. “This is your new body, kid. Get used to it.”

“But there’s no way I can throw a football without any arms!”

“This is your body. You’re in control.”

“How do you know? Who are you?” Danny wasn’t sure if he should trust this chainsaw. After all, it had cut off all his limbs and caused him to wreck his dad’s truck. But isn’t that what he wanted?

“That’s not important now,” the chainsaw said, gesturing toward the cars parked around them. “Check it out.”

Barbetta and the rest of the cheer squad had approached the truck. They stood in a semicircle, clapping their hands and screaming while jumping up and down.

“Awesome accident, Danny!”

Danny gasped. It didn’t make any sense at all. Just this morning, Moose had died in an accident. How could a loser lycanthrope like himself possibly survive death? The last metalhead to pull off that stunt was Goyle Flex back in ‘68, after he threw the most legendary touchdown pass in Heavy Metal High’s history, the Batball, in which the football transformed into a bat and bit the heads off of five Old Time Country Vampires. It was still the greatest massacre in school history.

Since that game, Heavy Metal and Old Time competed in every league championship, but mass slaughters were now strictly forbidden before the fourth quarter.

Danny gulped. He might have died, but that didn’t mean the Country Vampires couldn’t massacre his ass with their bloodsucking hillbilly powers. At seventeen, sitting in his father’s wrecked truck, which was filled like a fish tank with his own blood, he wondered how his life could possibly get any worse. Then he saw the beautiful, skeleton-faced Barbetta. She made him feel even more like a furry slab of wasted meat.

“Let’s hit the locker room, kid,” the chainsaw said, turning on the truck and returning Ronnie James Dio’s arch-angelic yowls to the cab. “Game time’s in one hour and you’re still learning to control this new body. Now raise some horns for the girlies.”

Danny shrugged. “But I don’t know how,” he said, then watched, mystified, as his arms, attached to the sides of the car like extended, flesh-covered rearview mirrors, raised their hands into fists that balled up to form the classic devil horns. The cheerleaders returned the gesture.

Coach Doom McCray slapped Danny’s tailgate as the dead werewolf stalled outside the hall to the locker room, trying to figure out some way that he could fit his new truck body inside. “Looks like you had yourself a fine accident, Danny,” Doom McCray said. “You might never blossom into a Moose, but I’m glad to see it’s not all hopeless for a late-blooming fuckup like yourself. C’mon, go get suited up.”Upon entering the stadium grounds, the chainsaw had gone silent, leaving Danny to maneuver his auto body without assistance. Now he didn’t know what to do. He peered out the back window and grinned sheepishly at the head coach. “Coach Doom, I don’t know if I can fit through this hallway.”

Doom pulled at the corners of his handlebar mustache.

“It does appear that you’ve beefed up, put on some serious muscle. Not juicing, are you?”

“No, sir. My accident did this to me.”

“Good to hear. I always believed quarterbacks bred purely on accidents were the best leaders.”

“I-I hope I don’t let the team down, sir,” Danny stammered.

For a second time, Coach Doom slapped Danny’s tailgate. “Remember, if we lose, there’s no one to blame but you.”

The coach walked around Danny and vanished down the concrete hall, whistling the Heavy Metal Anthem as he entered the locker room.

Unable to conceive a better way to get inside, Danny clenched his hands into fists and swung with all his force, pummeling the concrete into dust. He threw punches all down the hallway until finally he squeezed into the locker room. About half the team was suiting up, including the all-state Siamese twin linebackers, Bert and Bartholomew Spielman. Everyone went silent as Danny drove to the last row of lockers and began turning his lock to the four dig-its of the combination.

He reached an arm into the locker and pulled out his helmet, jersey, and the rest of his uniform.

That he could no longer wear any of this gear quickly dawned on him. The helmet seemed unimportant. His limbless body was now protected by one ton of manly truck power. Nor did the pants or cleats matter, for he walked on wheels. However, he wanted—nay, needed—his jersey to play. The rules required it, for one. Also, he loved that number thirteen.

Danny went into reverse and headed for Coach Doom’s office. He kicked into four-wheel drive, wheeled up the steps, and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Coach Doom yelled.

Danny opened the door. It was impossible for him to actually fit inside the office, so he stood in the doorway, shifting his weight from wheel to wheel.

Doom glanced up from the playbook that sat on the table between the other coaches, the waterboy, and himself. “What is it, Danny?” he said.

“Sir, I can’t fit into my uniform.”

“Is that so?” The coach spat tobacco onto the floor.

“I suppose Dodge makes a sturdy frame. It’d tear a jersey to shreds. What do you think, fellas? I think it’s only the number that matters. What number do you wear, Danny? Thirteen?”

“Yes, thirteen,” Danny said.

“That’s right, all in the number,” said Krallick, the assistant coach.

Coach Doom turned back to the playbook. “Waterboy, fish up some of that crimson spray paint and slather a real menacing thirteen on Danny’s hood.”

The waterboy bowed his head, got up from his chair, and rummaged through the cabinets beneath the rows of coffee pots that gargled on the counter, fixing their single red eyes on Danny.

The waterboy pulled out the spray paint can and shut the cabinet. He approached Danny, shaking the can and keeping his face hidden beneath a cobwebbed tangle of greasy dreadlocks.

Danny closed his eyes when the first layer of paint hit him. It felt cold and slick on his hood, but he realized this meant that not only could he control his body, he was also gaining a sense of feeling. The paint job ended soon enough. Danny inched down the staircase backwards.