Elizabeth Massie - Naked, on the Edge

The service lasts several excruciating hours. At some time during Ryan’s speech about earthy temporals and eternal peace, some of the Discards begin to scrape at themselves and drop pieces of flesh on the floor. Ben knew they did this, had been told by the Master, but seeing it makes his gorge rise. Ryan says nothing, as if he doesn’t notice, doesn’t mind, or has some strange understanding of the acts. Some of the Discards wriggle in place, working out sounds and smells that cause Ben to tuck his nose under his elbow. The place grows hot and thick with the stink of blood, diarrhea, and resignation.

What do you get when you cross the devil, an angel, and a politician…?

Another joke that fell flat.

Ba-dump-bum.

At long last Ryan raises his good hand and offers the final benediction. The Discards who are down push themselves up. Those who are up push themselves forward, and, silently, they eat the food Ryan has spread out on the countertop. No one speaks, but they nod their thanks then wander away. Several hold hands as if they are lovers, or friends, or are just afraid they might tip and fall over. The rest keep their distance from each other. Out of fear or respect, Ben can’t quite tell.

Not that they matter.

It’s Ryan who matters to the Master. It is Ryan who has the Master’s tongue and loins tingling in delicious anticipation. If Ben can’t please the Master with humor, he’ll please him with obedience.

The last Discard, a child who looks more simian than human, blows out the candles in the windowsill by the door.

Then there are only Ben and Ryan in the shadowed station.

Ben sits in silence, rubbing his temple, trying to press out the pain in his head. Ryan stands at the counter, gathering the plastic trays, wiping off the crumbs. For all his hideous deformity, Ryan moves with a certain grace that pisses Ben off. It’s all for show, though. Certainly Ryan knows Ben is sitting there, watching him. And so Ryan has to play his part as long as there are eyes…or eye…to see. When he leaves this place, he tries to get himself drunk with left over puddles of beer found in bottles on the side of the road, and then he jacks off into the empty bottles, breaks the bottles, and proceeds to cut his legs with the shards. He hates himself more than any person has ever hated himself, so says the Master. And the Master should know. He watches. He sees. He hears. He tastes the fear and the angst within the human race, and he savors it all.

“So…” begins Ben.

Ryan looks up from the trash bag where he’s secured the plastic trays, ready to drag them back home to use again tomorrow night.

“How can I help you, Ben?”

“Actually, I was just wondering how I could help you.” Ben replies. The words sound hissy without a cheek to help hold in the air and fashion the sound. Couldn’t the Master have given him a body that wasn’t quite so pathetic? One that at least had an intact face? “Seems nobody else is willing to hang around long enough to ask.”

“Yeah, well.”

Ryan slings the bag over his shoulder and limps from behind the counter. He looks like Santa in a child’s worst nightmare.

Santa , Ben thinks suddenly. Poor little Julie was scared of Santa, even a smiling Santa in his white beard and red suit. I tried to tease her, to make her laugh so she wouldn’t be scared. It didn’t work too good but I tried….

He shakes his pained head and clenches his jaws. The last thing he needs are memories of Julie. “Master, don’t make me think of her, not now,” he whispers.

“What’d you say?” asks Ryan.

“Nothin,” says Ben. “I’ll get the door.”

The night air is a bit fresher than that inside the station, scented with wet leaves and exhaust. Ben struggles with the chair; why he had to be this crippled to do the job is beyond him. His head continues to pound. The wheels snag in deep gravel, and Ryan reaches over to takes the chair handles to wriggle Ben free. Ben is caught immediately by the heat roiling off Ryan, pouring from his body in waves. Clearly, the man has some kind of sickness. Ben holds his breath until Ryan steps away; a knee-jerk reaction, left over from the days when he was alive and catching someone else’s disease was a thing to avoid.

Ryan then says, “See ya, Ben,” and turns north to head into the deeper bowels of the city. His strides are lopsided and wretched, though he picks up a good speed. Ben stares after, then calls, “Hey!” He shoves the heels of his hands against the wheels and, with great effort, chases after Ryan. It’s harder steering the thing than he would have imagined. When he reaches Ryan, he is panting.

“What do you want?” Ryan doesn’t seem angry, just tired, distracted.

Ben makes sure he stays at least five feet from the preacher. The man’s body heat is still detectable. “Listen. I got a couple bucks in my pocket. How about a beer?”

“Beer?”

“Yeah, you know. Bud. Miller. Corona. A beer?”

“I know what a beer is.”

“Well?”

One of Ryan’s brows furrows; the one over the bad eye looks paralyzed. Then he says, “If it’s on you, okay. I’m flat broke. But you sure you want to be seen in public? The rest prefer their privacy. This is a dangerous city, especially for us. Ordinaries have little patience with Discards.”

Ben cringed at the name. He was no more a Discard than he was God. He was what he was, a dead, joke-cracking fuck-up who’d gone to hell for living a miserable life he’d pretty much forgotten after seventeen years. Now he spends all his time just trying to humor and please the Master, trying to keep him off his back, trying to keep hell’s tortures to a minimum. “I’ll be all right. Where’s the nearest store?”

The nearest store is up a couple blocks past empty tenements, some closed junk shops, and several bars with blacked-out windows. The store is half the width of a typical shop, with only enough room to squeeze down the narrow aisle between the counter and the single row of shelves. Unable to fit inside, Ben watches from the street as Ryan limps in with the wad of bills Ben has given him and selects a six-pack. The guy at the counter — old, white hair, sneers — growls, “Didn’ I tell you damned freaks to stay out of my shop?” until he sees the money in Ryan’s hand. Then he shuts up.

A freak preacher walks into a store to buy some beer … Ben can’t think of a punch line for this one. Later, maybe.

Ryan comes out with the six-pack, stands holding it in the puss-yellow light that leaks from the shop’s door. Just looking at Ryan makes Ben’s head hurt all the more. That damned ear and screwed up eye. The arm that looks like it should belong to some freaky doll. He tries not to let his discomfort show.

“So, where you live?” asks Ben, though he knows. The Master has shown him all he needs to know, told him all he needs to hear. In won’t take long to toss out the hook and reel this one in.

Ryan says, “Not too far.” The way he says it lets Ben know that Ryan’s ability to keep up the kindly minister act is waning fast. He’s tired. He’s starting to sound irritated.

The devil was sitting on a tombstone one afternoon, waiting for the next soul to come along….wait, you’ve heard this one? Shit…

The empty garage is a dung-hole, that’s certain, situated at the back of a small, ruptured parking lot. The faded sign, “Martin’s Auto Repairs,” has long been down off the top of the building and is propped up against the front wall. Ryan hobbles on, over the potholes and briars, the beer case thwapping against his leg. He glances both ways before pushing through the door of the garage. Ben follows with effort, grimacing, his brain rattling in his skull.