Richard Laymon - Flesh

“Saved by the car seat,” he said.

“C’mere.”

“Not a chance. Think I’m dumb?”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding.

“Wiseacre.” He pulled into the street. “So, what would you like to do today?”

“Go to the moojies.”

“The moojies it is. Anything special you want to see?”

She made an eager face with her eyes wide and her brows high. “ Peter Pan.”

“We saw Peter Pan last week.”

“I really want to see Peter Pan again.”

“Sure, why not. Maybe this time the crock will gobble up Captain Hook…”

Gobble up.

Ronald Smeltzer.

Could’ve gone all day without thinking about that.

“Can we eat at McDonalds?”

“No.”

“Daddy!” She shook her fist at him, grinning over the tiny knuckles.

“Well, if you insist.”

“Daddy, can I talk to you?”

“Sure. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

She braced an elbow on the padded armrest of her seat, and leaned toward him. She looked serious. “There isn’t any such thing as crocodiles, is there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, because it’s just a moojie.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Dracula and werewoofs and the mummy aren’t really real, you said so, so crocodiles aren’t really real, are they?”

“Gotcha worried, has it?”

“This is not funny.”

“Crocks are real, but I wouldn’t worry about them.”

“I do not want to get eaten.”

Jake felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. “Well, you’ll just have to keep your eyes open. If you see a crock waddling your way, toss it a Twinkie and run. It’d much rather eat Twinkies than you.”

“I’m not so sure.”

With a fresh cup of coffee, Dana Norris returned to her table in a corner of the student union. She read the poem again, wrinkled her nose, and sighed.

Why couldn’t this guy write stuff that made sense?

“Salutations.”

She looked up and found Roland standing in front of her table.

Roland the Retard.

He wasn’t actually retarded—brainy, in fact, but nobody would guess that by looking at him.

His black, slicked down hair was parted in the middle like Alfalfa of the old Our Gang films. The style, he liked to explain, was his tribute to Zacherle, who used to host a latenight horror show on television.

Today, he was wearing a bright plaid sport jacket and one of his assorted gore-shirts. The skin colored T-shirt featured a slash wound down its midsection and a bright array of blood and guts spilling out.

“May I join you?” he asked.

“I’m trying to study.”

Nodding, he pulled out an orange, molded-plastic chair and sat across the table from her.

Dana looked down at her book. “What the hell is a force in a green fuse?”

“Sounds like a slimy wick to me.”

“You’re a big help.”

Roland leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Did you hear what happened out at the Oakwood Inn?”

“Why don’t you go away and get yourself something to eat. You look like—”

“A cadaver?” he suggested.

“Exactly.”

“Thank you.” He grinned. His big, crooked teeth looked like a plastic set you might buy at a gag shop the day before Halloween.

Dana didn’t know how Jason could stand to room with this guy, much less be friends with him.

“So,” he said, “I guess you didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?”

“About the massacre.”

“Ah. A massacre. That explains, the gleam in your eyes.”

“It happened right outside town. There’s that old restaurant, the Oakwood Inn. This couple came up from LA planning to open it again. The place had been closed for years—apparently shut down after several of the patrons turned toes up when they ate there. Food poisoning.” Roland wiggled his thin black eyebrows. He looked absolutely delighted. “So last night they were in the place fixing it up and the husband went totally berserk and blew off his wife’s head with a shotgun. Then a cop showed up and blew away the husband.”

“Just your cup of tea,” Dana said.

“Outrageous, huh?”

“Too bad you couldn’t have been there to enjoy it.”

“Yeah, well, those are the breaks. I drove out there this morning, but the cops have it all blocked off.” He shrugged. “The stiffs were probably gone by then, anyway.”

“More than likely.”

“I sure would’ve like to get a look inside, though. I mean, maybe it hadn’t been cleaned up yet. Can you feature the mess it must’ve made, a gal catching a twelve gauge in the face? Pieces of her brain and skull sticking to the walls…”

“You’re revolting.”

“Anyway, I thought I’d go back later. Maybe the cops’ll be gone by then. Do you mind if I borrow your Polaroid?”

Dana stared at him. She felt a rush of heat to her face. “What makes you think I’ve got a Polaroid?”

“I just know. How about it?”

“That shit. He showed you the pictures, didn’t he.”

“Sure. We’re roomies.”

Her mouth was dry. She lifted her coffee mug with a shaky hand and took a drink. She should’ve known that Jason wouldn’t keep his word. Who else had he shown them to? Everyone in the dorm? She’d wanted to burn the things, but Jason had promised he would hide them, never show them to another soul.

She could just see Roland the Retard drooling over them.

“How about it?” he asked. “Can I borrow the camera?”

“I’m gonna kill that shithead.”

Roland giggled. “If you do, let me watch.”

On second thought, Roland probably hadn’t drooled—probably he hadn’t even found the photos particularly interesting, since they showed no entrails or severed limbs. Unless he supplied all that with his sick imagination, which seemed more than likely.

“Have you seen a shrink about this problem of yours?” Dana asked.

“A shrink? A head shrinker? Do you know how they do that, by the way? First, they split the scalp so they can peel it off the skull, then—”

“Knock it off.”

Roland’s mouth snapped shut.

“What is it with you? I know you’re Jason’s roommate and buddy and I’m supposed to be nice to you and treat you like a human being, but he’s not here, so forget that shit. What is it with you, huh? I’m curious. Either you’re totally deranged, which I doubt, or this whole obsession with blood and guts is some kind of game. If it’s a game, it’s something you should have outgrown at least five years ago.”

During her outburst, Roland had taken his elbows off the table and pressed himself into his chair. He looked stunned. His tiny eyes were wide open, his jaw hanging down.

“Do you know why you’re this way?” Dana continued. “Well, I’ve got an idea on that subject. It boils down to this—you’re scared.”

Roland glanced over his shoulder, apparently to see who might be within earshot. Nobody was at the nearby tables.

“You’re scared that nobody will know you exist if you don’t go around acting like a weirdo. This way, people notice you. They don’t like what they notice, but they do notice you. That’s number one. Number two is, you latched onto this blood and guts crap because it makes a joke out of what scares you more than anything—death. You make a mockery out of pain and death to keep it from being real, because the real thing has you terrified.”

Dana stopped. She leaned back in her chair, folded her arms beneath her breasts, and glared at him.

“You’re crazy,” he muttered.

“People were really truly killed out at that restaurant last night,” she said, forcing herself to speak in a calm voice. “It was real—if what you told me is true.”