Brett McBean - Tales of Sin and Madness

“You know how to get back to route seventeen?”

Craig ignored the constant pain that gnawed at his body and smiled politely. “Sorry partner. Can’t help you there.”

The man frowned, lines forming across his pudgy, sweaty face. “What the hell kind of accent is that? Canadian?”

Craig wanted to scream, to let this doughy conservative sweat-ball know how much pain he was in, that his insides felt like they were turned upside down and his head felt like a tomato that had been squashed, but knew he couldn’t. Not if he wanted to be free from this pain, from this void existence he was living. “Australian,” Craig answered. “Interested in purchasing something for the kids? The wife perhaps?”

The man looked up at the sign, then back down at Craig. He looked as though he had just sniffed shit. “You’re kidding, right pal?”

Steady, Craig told himself. Can’t lose it. There hasn’t been anybody by in at least a month. “Forget about the road kill. How about a soul?” He looked down at the large tin — dented even more now than when Craig had first seen it — hoping the man would follow.

Can’t ask him to buy it, he has to decide for himself, but hell, there’s nothing to say I can’t influence his decision.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” the man huffed. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Selling this crap to people.” He wiped his dripping forehead and coughed. “And that hat, it’s disgusting; I’ve got kids in the car. And besides, who are you to make fun of our leader? You’re not even an American.”

With a scornful look, the man made his way back to the station wagon and drove off, the kids making faces at Craig as they left.

He sighed.

Not even an American.

Right.

Craig sat back down. The glaring sun was bright in his eyes, and it would’ve been hot, if he could feel it. All he could feel was pain.

His eyes fell to the money on the ground. His payment. Thirty dollars for a lifetime of hell.

He had tried tearing the bills up, burning them, even eating the money; but no matter how many times he got rid of the two bills, they always came back.

A constant reminder.

Just like the animals in the woods; unseen, but present at all times. Always waiting.

For someone to buy their tin.

For Craig to go mad and try and escape this godforsaken roadside stand. Then they would attack, seek their revenge; didn’t matter that Craig didn’t start it — he had continued it, just as Almus had.

Even now he could hear them laughing at him, knowing he had to stay behind the stand until that special person came along.

He hoped it wouldn’t be too long.

Surely someone wanted to buy a soul.

This story was written with the old E.C. comics in mind, like Tales from the Crypt . I’ve done a fair bit of travelling around the States myself, so I thought it’d be interesting to have my main character as an outsider, too (though I didn’t encounter anything as bizarre as the roadside stand in my travels). My third novel, Torment , is a continuation of this story, so if you’re keen on reading more about road kill and cheap souls, then check it out (Craig even makes a cameo appearance).

As a child he was deprived of the one thing he had wanted most.

It was only during the past month that he had thought of the perfect way to get that thing — he would make his very own.

“How much?” Hartford said.

“That depends on what you want, darlin’.”

Hartford licked his lips and grinned. If only she knew, he thought. “Will five-hundred suffice?”

The hooker’s eyes lit up. “Five hundred? Holy crackers boy, you want the works, don’t ya?”

Hartford nodded. “Surely do. The works.”

The hooker leaned in close. She smelled strongly of perfume. “I’m gonna show you the best time of your life, darlin’. You’re gonna go off so hard N.A.S.A. is gonna want to use you for a rocket.”

Hartford gazed at her body. In this scorching New York heat, even the nuns wore skimpy clothing, so what this hooker was wearing almost gave Hartford wood. And that hardly ever happened.

Well, maybe I could fuck her , Hartford thought. Wasn’t in the plan, but what the hell.

“Anyplace you prefer to do it?” the hooker asked.

“I have this nice house in Newark.”

“Boy, you are a long way from home.”

Hartford nodded. “I know, but the best hookers are found in Manhattan.”

The prostitute giggled. “I like that. So, where’s your car, lover boy?”

“Not parked too far away. Come, I’ll show you.”

Hartford started walking down the darkened street. The hooker followed, high heels clacking against the pavement with each step. “Say, what’s your name anyway, big spender?”

“Name’s Ed,” Hartford called back. “Just call me Ed.”

Hartford crawled off the bed, stood up, and wiped his mouth free of the saliva. His penis quickly went limp. “Well, that was fun,” he said down to the naked hooker.

She lay on his bed, eyes half closed, the hand marks on her throat turning purple. Hartford turned away and headed into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of Sprite. He downed the drink in one noisy swallow. “Ah. That’s better. You want one, love?” he called, and laughed. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” Letting out a burp, Hartford strolled back into the bedroom to the dead hooker (Petula, she had told him her name was).

He grabbed her by the feet and dragged her off the bed. When her head landed on the carpet with a loud thud ! Hartford cringed. “Damn!” he growled. He hoped he hadn’t ruined her cranium. That could fuck up his project. But he had read that the skull was a very hard object, so hopefully one knock wouldn’t do it much damage.

He continued shuffling backwards, out through the bedroom door and down the corridor.

His original plan had been to get her into the bathroom. It was completely tiled, plus he had the benefit of the bathtub. An altogether easier place to clean. But the damn whore had wanted to go into the bedroom. He didn’t think telling her he wanted to do it in the bathroom would’ve been a problem.

I think my biggest mistake was not saying yes when she asked me if we planned on taking a shower .

And Hartford didn’t know what the hell she was talking about when, after he told her he didn’t want to have a shower, said, “Hey, I ain’t into scat and golden showers or none of that shit.” After that she kept insisting on going into the bedroom. Cozy and romantic, she had called it.

As he dragged her body into the bathroom, he vowed that next time he would take no shit and demand they go into the bathroom. This was his first time, so he still had a lot to learn. He could forgive himself this once.

He switched on the bathroom light. With a lot of effort, he got the body into the tub. Afterwards, he needed another glass of Sprite to cool down.

Never again will I let them persuade me , he thought. Too much hassle .

The sex hadn’t been all that satisfying, anyway. She seemed to have had a swell old time, but he had come lifelessly and only by imagining what his project would look like finished.

Hartford left the kitchen and went into the garage. He pulled the light cord and a dim glow filled the muggy, airless room. He shuffled over to where he kept his newly bought tools, and took the hacksaw and hatchet.

He headed back to the bathroom. He placed the hacksaw on the tiled floor, and with the hatchet, began whacking into the hooker’s neck. Her body jumped with each chop, and Hartford found it hard to get a good steady whack. So he hopped into the bathtub and, kneeling, straddled her belly. It made the job easier, and by the time Hartford had reached her spinal cord, he was covered in blood, flesh, and specks of windpipe. And he was hot. If he learned nothing else tonight, he had found out what a tough job it was severing a head. So he turned on the shower as he replaced the hatchet with the hacksaw. He leaned backwards and let the lovely cool water wash over his head and body. Sufficiently cooled and cleaned, Hartford got into a position of good leverage, then started sawing back and forth against the chipped and bloody spinal cord.