u/Kaijufan22

The ironic thing is, I always frigging hated that cereal. Whatever dye they used to color that dry as hell puffed grain always made me queasy afterwords and left a sour tropical grape taste in my mouth the whole day. I was always a Captain Crunch kid, even if it did cut the roof of my mouth to ribbons.

One day I got fed up and told my mom I refused to swallow another artificially flavored morsel of the stuff and threw the whole box to the ground in a huff. A bit overdramatic sure but I was nine at the time.

Ma simply sighed and scooped up the box, mumbling something about how I had liked it yesterday. Dad sat on the other end of the table, sipping his coffee and glaring at me behind the sports section. I'd get an earful and more later when he was nice and sauced, but for now he was content just to let me sit there and stew in my soggy Trix.

I stirred the milk in the little saucer cup I ate cereal out of, every little grain bulb soaking and sinking into the calcium rich brink. There was something on my mind then, at the time I figured I had imagined it. When I pushed the box off the table, I swore that 2D cream white bunny on the box flinched. It was in the blink of an eye, but I swear it recoiled when I punched the front of the box.

When my mother took the Trix away, I noted the rabbit's usual jovial demeanor was shaken, he now looked sullen and depressed. His eyes seemed bloodshot, almost hyper realistic with their detail. His ears flopped below his shoulder, and dried snot flowed from his twitching nose. In the upper corner of the cherry red box was a speech bubble that usually housed the iconic slogan; "Trix Are For Kids" or other such nonsense like "This is BERRY good."

In place of the usual slogan, written in comic sans of all things, was the phrase "Why did you hit me? followed by a crying face emoticon. I shook my head and blinked and when my vision returned the box was normal. I figured I was just seeing things, so I shrugged my shoulders and choked down what was to be the last bowl of Trix I'd have in a good while.

I wish I had burned that box, and that infernal rabbit with it.

--------

Flashforward twenty years later, and I'm a thirty-year-old college dropout who lives in a single bedroom and works a meager dead-end job. I sit in a cubicle forty hours a week transferring calls from one collection agency to the next, riveting stuff really. Definitely how I thought I'd be spending my golden years. I wanted to be an architect but that went nowhere, and college kicked my ass, got kicked out by my folks, my situationship with Bethany from Marketing went tits up, and the melatonin I take to help me sleep stopped working.

So, as I trudged through the sterile halls of Food Mart, half slumped over my clickity carriage I wanted to throw myself off a bridge. Life was blah, if I hadn't hammered that point home hard enough. I wasn't even sure what I was shopping for that day, I could barely afford a gallon of milk let alone food for the week. I found myself in the cereal aisle, surrounded by smiling faced cartoons all shoving product in my face. There was something sinister about a coked-out bird pushing sugar onto kids, cereal mascots are kinda fucked up the more I thought about it.

My rumbling stomach outweighed my dwindling morals, and I grabbed a couple boxes of Cheerios and Rice Krispies, ya know the boring old people cereal. Then it caught my eye. An entire shelf stacked to the brim with that wide eyed rabbit addict. He was scooping an outlandishly large spoon into a bowl filled with a foam-white liquid, and colorful orbs of sugar. One caught my eye, a yellow-kiwi green swirl filled orb, the words "Try our BRAND NEW TWISTED FLAVORS"

In the Iconic speech bubble the rabbit was saying "Breakfast. . . with a TWIST???" His eyes lit up with swirly colors that looked like one of those swirling hypnographs. I stopped short in front of the Trix shelf. It had been nigh on twenty years since I last had them, the scars of my temper tantrum and its consequences still running quite deep. I don't know why, but I chuckled and grabbed a box, my mouth suddenly salivating like I was one of Pavlov's hounds.

The weirdness first started when I got to the checkout. The checkout girl was a short woman in a lavender apron who somehow looked even more dead inside then I did. I put some milk and cereal, and cereal and milk onto the whirring conveyor belt as she wordlessly swiped them under the scanner. Every beep was another hard-earned dollar snatched away, my heart sinking with every mocking tone.

She froze when she got to the Trix box. Her emerald eyes narrowed and she cocked her head.

"Is there something wrong?" I half mumbled as I fished out my wallet.

"It's nothing it's just. . . you know these are for kids, right?" She held the box like a piece of incriminating evidence.

". . .what?" I finally uttered. Disbelief and annoyance sprung from my beet red face.

"Look." She tapped the box. "It says right here, Trix are for kids. I've seen you around here, you don't have any kids."

"So what if I don't? It's a free country, If I want to buy some Trix I'll buy some fucking Trix." I realized too late I was shouting somewhat, the entire bustling store grinded to a halt as I felt dozens of judging eyes on me. I heard scornful whispers and pointed gasps as they realized what I was buying. A man stepped forward, bald and burly, paper bag of goods in his hands.

"Look man, it's not a big deal give me the Trix I'll take it off your hands." He tried to take the box, but I snatched it away from the counter girl with a furious grunt.

"Step off, man this is my frigging breakfast for the next month." The entire store gasped in abject horror at that. My face more steamed than a Maine Lobster at that point.

"Yeah, that's right, I'm poor, I'm thirty, and I'm buying some god damn cock sucking Trix. WHAT OF IT???" I dared the other patrons to try something as I hugged the box uncomfortably close to my chest. Parents hid their children behind their backs, and people stepped out of my way. The checkout girl handed me the rest of my bags, her grip shaky and filled with fright.

"H-here sir. Just take your items and leave."

"I'd like to pay-"

"LEAVE!" She hissed at me, disgust and fear crowding her pale face. The store was dead silent after that; I could feel their contempt for me radiating in waves. I snatched the bag off the counter and quickly scurried out the double doors. I stuffed my groceries into my shit box I call a car and sped off, kicking up rubber and asphalt as I did.

The ride home was off. There was zero traffic, in fact it seemed every other vehicle on the road had come driven off to the side. Every single citizen stopped and watched me as I passed down the road. Their faces were a mixture of rage and contorted horror, like I had committed some grand cardinal sin. I Parked in front of my apartment, and I was accosted by a patrol man. He was a good two feet away from me, his hand resting on his holster, ready to draw on me.

"Evening sir. You mind taking the Trix out of the paper bag please, lay it on the ground?" He ordered, soft contempt in his voice. Well at this point, I probably should have listened but honestly the ego was running the show at this point and I just felt like being petty.

"No, no I'm not going to do that. In fact I'm gonna go upstairs and pour it all into a goddamn crockpot and eat it. I might even eat it dry!" I threatened and raved like a loon. The officer clinched the handle of his gun, and for a moment I thought he might actually turn me into Swiss cheese. Just then his radio crackled to life, his already white face growing a thousand times paler. He fumbled with his belt for a moment and then responded. I couldn't hear the crackly voice on the other end, but the officer just slowly nodded his head. He stepped aside and I snubbed my nose at him as I passed.

--------

The air inside the apartment lift was stale and cold. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up as I slowly ascended to the 8th floor. The elevator door clanked open and I stepped off. My door was three down to the left and I hurried over, afraid I'd run into anymore crazy people. I fumbled with my keys when I noticed a light draft. My door was slightly ajar, casting a slim shadow at my feet.

"What the fuck?" I swore as I tapped the door. It opened and the creaking darkness beckoned me inside. The lights in the aprtment were snuffed out, no matter how many times I flicked the switch they refused to come on. Lucky for me It wasn't too dark, just dark enough for things to hide and linger while they watched me struggled to bring in two bags of groceries.

Eventually I found my way to the kitchen counter, and I heard the distinct click of a metallic lighter from my recliner. I turned to see a figure cloaked in shadow, my heart raced as I noticed the ciggy hanging from the twitching grizzled muzzle of the figure. Its nose was Cotten candy pink and its whiskers razor thin. I nearly dropped the bags to the ground as I started at the thing lurking on my reclioner. The pixel small white iris of his eyes lit up when he noticed me staring. He took a long drag, and puffed out a ring of smoke. He leaned in, and I got a good look at the rabbit.

It was the Trix rabbit sprung to life right from the box, only he had a five-o-clock shadow and saddle bags under his bloodshot eyes. His ears dropped, and his coat was fine and fluffy, hyper realistic tuffs of white jutted from his fluffy belly.

"Wh-what-what the fucking hell?" I screeched, ready to hightail it out of there.

Then he spoke.

"Couldn't follow the rules, could you Gus?" His voice was silk yet worn from years of tobacco abuse. He coughed as he took another drag, and I noticed the iconic shape of a revolver in his free hand. He caught me staring and the distinct click of the hammer being pulled filled my crummy apartment. He pointed the barrel towards the little leather ottoman I used a makeshift table. The was a pristine looking porcelain bowl on it, next to it a comically large silver spoon.

"Good ahead. Pour yourself a bowl." He ordered. I hesitated, then brought out the cheerios. A shot rang out, deafing my right ear as the box of cheerios exploded in my hand.

"Don't get smart."

With that, I brought over the Trix and a bit of 2% milk. I laid them both down on the ottoman, and knelt on the crusty ground. He leaned in, inhaling the trapped scent of the freshly opened box of Trix.

"Good. That's real good now. Tell me Gus. Are you a milk first kinda guy, or do you like to pour that yummy cow juice all over the crisp oats." The revolved clicked as he aimed at right at my face.

"I-I-I-I like to-I like to, I like to pour it first." I blubbered, eyes swelling with tears and nose bursting with fear snot. The rabbit simply nodded. I proceed to pour the milk in, the liquid swished and whirled around the bowl, like a little calcified whirlpool. Then I poured the Trix in. The globs of faux fruity sugar fell into the saucer of milk; the rabbit licked his chapped lips and twitched his moist nose as he watched me.

"Good. Now why don't you take a little taste. Just a little one now, don't wanna ruin your appetite." I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and grabbed the silver spoon next to me. I scooped up a soggy, drippy bit of Trix and grimaced. I could see those banana and kiwi swirls all turned to a dull, rainbow mush on the spoon. I opened wide and quickly jammed the spoon into my mouth. What little milk there was quickly slid down my esophagus

I chewed, once, twice, thrice, it tasted just how I remembered it all those years ago. I swallowed, the bitter aftertaste of high fructose corn syrup following close behind. I let out a small gag as the rabbit's eyes lit up.

"Well sport? Did you like that?"

". . . .N-no" I answered truthfully. The rabbit sprung from the chair and kicked the ottoman aside, spilling milk and ceral all over my rug. He grabbed me by the collar and got up close to my face, I could smell fermented oats on his breath. The barrel of the gun clamped to my forehead, and he forced it into my mouth. The barrel tasted like sugarcane and rust.

"If you don't like it then why the fuck did you buy it?!? You didn't like me then and you didn't like me now. Not even my new twisted flavor combos available in this region only for a limited time will get you to like me!" His eyes were wild and mad, and he forced the gun deeper into my mouth, his finger nervously twitched on the trigger.

"Were you just trying to recapture your shitty childhood?!?! Is that why you broke the oldest law in all of General Mills' history?"

"I'm shurry, I'm sho phucking shorry" I tried to say speak. The rabbit just shook his head.

"You're not sorry. But you will be." He threw me to the ground and leapt atop me. His hands scrambled over my thrashing face and forced furry, squirming digits into my mouth. He pried open my jaw and regarded me with a level of hatred I didn't think possible.

"You didn't like the taste of my cereal huh? How bout this then." With that his lower jaw extended and cracked and hung there in a slack jawed fashion. His eyes rolled over into his skull and obsidian black slits took their spot. His upper jaw rose and groaned, I could see right into the bowels of his gullet, the rotten stench of acidic stomach fumes began to overwhelm me. His teeth wiggled and danced in their roots, his gums secreting a sweet, tangy substance that dripped into my open jaw.

All it once it came then, a clogging wave of oat and fruit mixed together in an unholy concoction. It was a rainbow of artificial vomit and bile, plastering my face and drenching me in grotesque fluids. I could feel squirming chunks slither their way down my esophgus as I choked on his poison, I tried to retch but the forming pile of disgust in my belly refused to move. Every bit of that mushy slop he forced into me stood in my belly like a stone. Finally, it was over, and I was left a writhing, twitching mess of cereal glazed vomit and sugar juice. My eyes were wide and dead; I couldn't believe what had just transpired.

The rabbit burped and got off me, wiping his now normal jaw. I heard him grunt and stomp away, the accursed box of Trix in his hands. I didn't look at him, just let the opened front door bath me in light. His shadow was cast over me, his breath shaky and strained.

"Everyone gets one, Gus. Don't break the rules again. Or I won't be as forgiving." With that he slammed the door and left me there.

I cleaned myself up and blacked the rest of that evening up. For weeks now, I've still had the taste of rotten kiwi swishing around my mouth. I can't sleep; my stomach keeps making abnormal noises and the inside of my toilet bowl looks like a tropical fruit smoothie. My boss gave me as much time as I needed to recover, though he warned me he would have to dock my pay, said I should have known better. Afterall the warning was right on the box.

If you take anything away from this at all, let it be this. Buy any other cereal, stay away from Trix for the love of God. Because Trix?

Trix is for kids.

Folks in Lester's Hollow were always weary about the flooded quarry a mile down the road. It used to be a popular swimming hole among the locals, and a hell of a fishing spot. That is until Big Moe swam up from the depths.

Only one person in the hollow still lived who claimed to see Moe up close and personal, his tired, cataract ridden eyes glazed over with age as he sat in his rocking chair day and night. The young folk regarded him as a kook, the elders of the hollow regarded him with a modicum of respect, the least of which he deserved.

His name was of no importance, long gone were the people who truly cared. Around the hollow he was simply known as Virgil.

He sat in that rickety old chair on the termite-ridden deck of the convenience store, dulling his mind with homemade hooch and watching the townsfolk go about their daily lives. The only time he truly came alive these days is when tourists came around looking for something to do.

They'd flock to the store for supplies, and his cauliflower ears would perk at the briefest mention of the quarry, and he'd spring to life and regal all who would listen about the slithering serpent that lurked in that old murky brine.

It was the eve of Summer, the last time he spoke of Old Moe. The season had been unusually quiet, the air so humid that it choked the young and crippled the old. Virgil was used to it of course, spending most of his time in a haze of shine to begin with. 

He looked out at the town square, his childhood home all but in ruins. The young didn't care to maintain; they simply came of age and went off to greener pastures. The old were far too stubborn to adapt, so the middling buildings and cottages stood there, a time capsule that slowly rotted with each passing year.

He sighed and took a deep swig of his jug, the bitter liquid inside greeting his thirsty throat like an old friend. In the distance some ear grating sound came forth. He winced, disgusted with what the youth of today called music. A sedan rolled into view, a red cedar canoe strapped to the roof. In the back seat were a couple of pristine looking fishing rods, a tackle box and hefty red cooler. In the front seat were two bickering young men, one with frosted blonde tips and the other with a silver shaded top knot.

The sedan stopped short in front of the store, and the doors came slamming open. The young men seemed in decent shape, swimmers perhaps. Virgil watched them with unease, praying they weren't going where he thought they were. Top knot wore an annoyed glance on his bushy face. His eyes lit up when he saw Virgil scowling at them. He gave a timid wave and took a step towards the moldy store steps.

"Afternoon sir!" His voice oozed a sort of faux pleasantry that only city folk could cultivate. "My friend and I are a tad lost; you know where we might find Walker's Quarry?"

Virgil's eyes flashed with hated remembrance as he spat on the ground they stood on.

"Aye. I know where that blasted cesspool is. You'd do well to drive right on by it." Virgil took another swig as frosted tips scoffed and stepped up.

"Look man, you know where it is or not? Can't get a frigging signal out here to save my life." He whined like a wounded animal, a sound somehow more grating than that tripe still booming from their tiny sedan.  Behind Virgil a bell rang, Jake the owner had come out to see what all the fuss was about.

Jake was a sturdy gentleman, bald as he was wide, and his head glistened like a polished marble in the sun. He had a peach-brown patch of fuzz on his upper lip that hid a slight scar, a scar that despite the years still festered and moaned like it was brand new. The young travelers faced Jake and put on a renewed facade of pleasantry.

"Hi there, my buddy Grant and I were just looking for Walker's Quarry. Got a little turned around when the GPS crapped out a few miles back." Frosted tips wore a snake's smile as he spoke, as Top Knot, whose name was evidently Grant, came up to join him.

"Benton is being modest, he got us lost himself, he's not much of an outdoorsman." He laughed a little too hard.

"I wanted to go to the beach; you were the one that insisted-"

"You're in the right direction." Jake cut in, eyeing the bickering pair. "Quarry is about two miles down that road, you'll probably smell it before ya see it."

"Excellent, thank you very much sir." Grant and Benton began to head back to the car when Virgil piped up once more.

"You youngsters go trouncing around in that swill you won't be coming back." The travelers stopped in their tracks and regarded Virgil with piqued curiosity.

"Don't be spreading tales again, old timer." Jake warned as he leaned against the oak wood door, settling in for the yarn Virgil was about to spin.

"I'll bite, what's got you all riled up?" Grant's smile was wide, yet somehow meaner than Benton's.

"Miserable old drunk." A barely heard murmur came from behind Grant, who elbowed the offending speaker in the ribs with a pointed elbow. Virgil leaned forward, the chair groaning under his frail posterior. His face was awash with wrinkles and sunspots, his breath reeked of a distillery, yet when he spoke, he spoke with the renewed cadence of a man fresh out of college.

"That quarry is cursed land, lads. The kingdom of the nastiest thing ever spat out by Neptune. Old Moe." He said the fish's name with such reverence it was like he was speaking of a god.

"Years back, when this town made its fortune on blood and stone, they dug too deep and too greedily. Too close to the raging rivers hidden deep beneath the crust of the Earth. Quarry sprung a leak, the waters below bubbling up in a flash. They abandoned their haul, abandoned their machines and tools. Let the whole site drown and waste away."

"They never tried to drain it? Benton asked. Virgil simply shrugged.

"Supposedly they were close to closing it down anyway, so they wrote the whole thing off. The closure hit the town hard at first, but they bounced back. Time passed and people snuck off to the old quarry. Whole thing is like a man-made lake now, really. Crystal clear water as far as the eye can see, a slab of slated stone overlooking it all like a monolith. The water reached the very top, on sunny days you can see the looming shapes of rusted cranes and diggers at the very bottom, along with the darting figures of fish."

Benton’s eyes quickly flicked to the rods taking up the backseat.

"Yeah, I can tell that piqued your interest. You boys fancy yourselves fishermen then, gonna sail out to the middle and catch yourselves a big old salmon, eh?" Virgil laughed.

"Eh used to catch sunfish with my dad, haven't in a while though." Benton admitted with a hint of modesty.

"I used to watch Bassmaster, does that count?" Grant chimed in, as all eyes regarded him with disdain in that moment.

"Well, you youngsters haven't seen anything like Big Moe, that's for certain. When the quarry workers breached the deep all sorts of sea critters came spilling out. Some say those underground streams reached all the way to the Atlantic after all. Folks were tripping over bass the size of labradors as they scurried away from the raging waters."

"Eventually, as the waters settled and the higher ups gave up on reclaiming the quarry, folk took to poaching the joint, dredging it for salvage and trying their hand at fishing. A guy I knew, went by Trent, used to go every Saturday, and come nightfall he'd come back with his car reeking of chum and salt. He'd get bigguns as well, rainbow gilded trout and spotted bass, their mouths still gaping and gasping for the sea."

Virgil puppetted his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. Benton stifled a laugh as Grant rolled his eyes.

"The oddest thing he'd bring back was the catfish. Small, slender looking things at first but as months went on they grew bigger. Soon he was hauling in catfish the size of your scrawny looking friend there." Virgil pointed at Grant, which caused a shit-eating grin to form on Benton's smug face.

"That's absurd, catfish don't get that big." Grant protested.

"Sure they do, they never stop growing ya know." Benton piped up. Grant shot him a look as Virgil went on.

"Aye, he's right. They never stop. Used to know a fella who worked a rig down South, they'd circle the columns below hoping someone would fall in so they could gobble them up. So he'd claim anyway. After coming eye to eye with Big Moe, I believe him. I saw the blighter decades ago, long after Trent had been swallowed whole by the beast."

The traveler’s faces went pale at that. 

"Oh aye, so the story goes he brought a group of barflies to help him carry his weekend haul back. They hung back on the shore, watching him row out to the center. The mist was thin that morning, it clung to the water's surface. Nothing stirred, just the rough cutting of his worn-out canoe. Someone shouted then, they saw this massive, looming figure streak by. It was Lightning quick, eyes glowing like red hot embers. It rushed Trent's canoe and it wobbled and weaved."

"A serpent's forked tail breached the water and flicked the canoe over. Trent let out a gasp that was quickly gagged by the murky depths.  Some say he tried to swim away, others say he stood his ground and tried to bash his assailant with his snapped rod. No one could tell for certain, there was only thrashing and foam that quickly turned to crimson, as the whisker faced menace dragged him down below. Never to be seen again"

Virgil left that hang in the air, Benton looked amused though a bit worried, Grant rolled his eyes. Behind them all Jake chuckled, hiding back inside with the ring of a door.

"Right, he got eaten by a big ass catfish. They aren't even carnivores, they feed on pond scum and algae and crap but sure, he got eaten by a catfish." Grant raved.

“I don't know. If it got that big, technically they're omnivores, opportunistic sure but they'll chow down on meat." Benton shrugged.

"You're not seriously buying this garbage." Grant started to move away when a frail, bony arm lunged toward him and grabbed him. Grant looked down in disgust and pushed Virgil off him. He muttered as he went back to the car, the nice tourist facade a fleeting memory now. Benton stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's been a really long drive, Hell I came in with a shitty attitude to begin with, that ain't right. You have a nice day, old timer. I'm sorry if we bothered ya." He started to walk away when Virgil's gruff voice broke through the tension.

"You seem to have a tighter head on your shoulder then your friend there. Don't go out to that lake, I seen Moe, and I have the scars to prove it." He lifted his shirt. Across his wrinkled chest was raw scar tissue, ripened with age yet still pulsating with pain. It lashed across him, like something with dagger gums had tried to take a bite out of him.

"It was decades ago now, when I could walk without the joints aching and I could see past my toes. I went up to the quarry, me and my buddy Fred. We had all heard the stories, but we were determined to prove 'em all wrong. We announced we were going to do laps in the swill, proving once and for all that Moe was an old wives tale."

"We were fools, boy. I remember standing on the edge, Freddy egging me on. Part of me thinks he wanted me to go first in case Moe was real. Live bait I suppose, heh. Anyway, I watched my reflection flicker in the clear water, curious sunfish popping their fins at me, almost beckoning me to crawl in with them."

"I held my nose and dove on it. The water was chilly, to say the least. My teeth were chattering so much I thought they'd drill holes in my skull. Freddy watched me shivering, nodded his head and jumped in after me. From there we laughed and played, jeering each other on as we edged closer and closer to the middle of the lake."

"I think that was our mistake, we swam too close to his territory. Freddy saw him first, his eyes bulged out of his head and his skin turned whiter than a sheet. He tried to speak up, but something grabbed my leg and pulled me down into the brine. My arms clawed at nothing, desperate to grasp anything to stop my fall. All the air was sucked outta my lungs, the pull so sudden. I tried to kick whatever it was and it let go briefly."

"But-" He pointed to the scars on his chest. "It was then I saw him in full. He's big boy, bigger than you could ever fathom. His body was smooth and slimy, long whiskers that curled around him like whips resting on a hilt. His eyes, God help me, were flaming rubies filled with nothing but hate and hunger. Moe's maw was toothless to the untrained eye. But I could feel them, a dozen rows of tiny pin pricks scrapping my flesh. I cried out in pain, my cries muffled by water and gunk. I felt a wad of sludge pour into me the moment I opened my gob. I was in a panic, to be fair."

"I would have died there, should have died there if it weren't for Freddy. He dove down after me and hurled himself at the beast. As soon as Moe let go, I scampered away, as Freddy wrestled with the great beast. I surfaced and thrashed my way towards the shore. I was on autopilot; my lungs half filled with muck, the other half crushed by the great jaws of the fish. With great effort I heaved myself onto short, the stony ground sizzling from the midday sun. I flinched away from the water and clenched my chest. The skin where he bit looked like it had been stripped clean."

Virgil pulled his shirt down and looked at the ground in shame as he finished his tale.

"Freddy never came up. All I saw were dwindling bubbles where he had been, and the satisfied shape of Big Moe returning to the depth. Our fathers led the search party for us, they found only me there shivering at the edge of the water, too shell shocked to move. They never found Freddy's body. When my wounds healed, I went to Freddy's home. To tell him how his boy had died a hero. His father didn't want to hear it, though he didn't blame me.  Just looking at me reminded him of his loss. He didn't leave the house much after that, wife skipped town not long after."

"He died in that house, curled up in Freddy's bed with an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a crumpled bottle of pills in the other."

"Jesus." Benton muttered after a moment.

"Time passed and the less people went up there the more the legend of Big Moe faded. Now his biggest claim to fame is an obscene logo on a tacky t-shirt Jake sells inside." Virgil jerked his thumb to the convenience store. "Hell I don't even know if he's still lurking in that sordid drink. Wouldn't surprise me if he was, though, devil is always hard to kill."

Benton looked like he was about to say something with the shrill honk of his car blared in the background. He glanced at the car as Grant smacked the wheel, stewing in the passenger seat.

"Thanks for the warning, old timer. I'll-try and keep us in the shallows." Benton gave a nod as he went back to the car, yelling at Grant to calm the hell down. Virgil shook his head, hoping the young man would heed his tale.

In the back of his mind, though, he knew he wouldn't.

-------

The rest of the day went on like it normally does. Virgil sat in his chair drinking his brew, the incoming customers barely acknowledging him. Jake would occasionally come out and check on him, new brew in hand. A kind gesture on the surface, but really Jake was just afraid Virgil was going to croak on his property.

As the sky became a dull tangerine, and Virgil stank of seventeen types of booze, his blurred gaze wandered past the main road. He sat up in his seat and squinted, his old eyes widening as the limping figure soon came into view.

It was Benton, dragging his foot in the dirt. His eyes glazed over, his clothes filthy and riddled with damp water and slime. His arms were bruised, and a semi-circle of blood coated his legs. Folk wandering the street stopped in their tracks to gawk at him, not one soul offering to help the mangled tourist. Virgil exhaled deeply and tilted his head back towards the store door.

"Jake!" He barked. Jake peaked his head out and stuck out a filled flask.

"Last call old timer, you best be on your way no-"

"Go call the sheriff. Leave the hooch." Jake looked down the road and swore under his breath. He tossed the flask to Virgil who caught it with ease. Benton was making his way to the store; Virgil could hear gargled wheezing as he struggled to walk. Finally, Benton reached the steps and collapsed. His breath was haggard, and he didn't look at the old man. His hair was slick yet crusty, the telltale stench of the quarry clung to him.

Virgil leaned over and shook the flask. He waved it in front of Benton's face, who snatched it out of Virgil's paws in a second. His hands shook as he choked down the brew, retching a tad as he finally relented and allowed himself to breathe. He offered it back to Virgil who politely declined.

"You wanna talk about it young fella?" He offered a kind word.

Benton's silence answered for him. He took another swig and gagged as he did. Virgil looked past him, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Happened to yer car?"

". . . Grant had the keys on him." Virgil shook his head, the screech of the sheriff's tires closing in on them as a small crowd gathered to gawk at the tourist.

"Damn city folk." Virgil muttered as his eyes glanced at the all too familiar wounds on Benton's legs. "Always thinking you know better."

Folks in Lester's Hollow were always weary about the flooded quarry a mile down the road. It used to be a popular swimming hole among the locals, and a hell of a fishing spot. That is until Big Moe swam up from the depths.

Only one person in the hollow still lived who claimed to see Moe up close and personal, his tired, cataract ridden eyes glazed over with age as he sat in his rocking chair day and night. The young folk regarded him as a kook, the elders of the hollow regarded him with a modicum of respect, the least of which he deserved.

His name was of no importance, long gone were the people who truly cared. Around the hollow he was simply known as Virgil.

He sat in that rickety old chair on the termite-ridden deck of the convenience store, dulling his mind with homemade hooch and watching the townsfolk go about their daily lives. The only time he truly came alive these days is when tourists came around looking for something to do.

They'd flock to the store for supplies, and his cauliflower ears would perk at the briefest mention of the quarry, and he'd spring to life and regal all who would listen about the slithering serpent that lurked in that old murky brine.

It was the eve of Summer, the last time he spoke of Old Moe. The season had been unusually quiet, the air so humid that it choked the young and crippled the old. Virgil was used to it of course, spending most of his time in a haze of shine to begin with. 

He looked out at the town square, his childhood home all but in ruins. The young didn't care to maintain; they simply came of age and went off to greener pastures. The old were far too stubborn to adapt, so the middling buildings and cottages stood there, a time capsule that slowly rotted with each passing year.

He sighed and took a deep swig of his jug, the bitter liquid inside greeting his thirsty throat like an old friend. In the distance some ear grating sound came forth. He winced, disgusted with what the youth of today called music. A sedan rolled into view, a red cedar canoe strapped to the roof. In the back seat were a couple of pristine looking fishing rods, a tackle box and hefty red cooler. In the front seat were two bickering young men, one with frosted blonde tips and the other with a silver shaded top knot.

The sedan stopped short in front of the store, and the doors came slamming open. The young men seemed in decent shape, swimmers perhaps. Virgil watched them with unease, praying they weren't going where he thought they were. Top knot wore an annoyed glance on his bushy face. His eyes lit up when he saw Virgil scowling at them. He gave a timid wave and took a step towards the moldy store steps.

"Afternoon sir!" His voice oozed a sort of faux pleasantry that only city folk could cultivate. "My friend and I are a tad lost; you know where we might find Walker's Quarry?"

Virgil's eyes flashed with hated remembrance as he spat on the ground they stood on.

"Aye. I know where that blasted cesspool is. You'd do well to drive right on by it." Virgil took another swig as frosted tips scoffed and stepped up.

"Look man, you know where it is or not? Can't get a frigging signal out here to save my life." He whined like a wounded animal, a sound somehow more grating than that tripe still booming from their tiny sedan.  Behind Virgil a bell rang, Jake the owner had come out to see what all the fuss was about.

Jake was a sturdy gentleman, bald as he was wide, and his head glistened like a polished marble in the sun. He had a peach-brown patch of fuzz on his upper lip that hid a slight scar, a scar that despite the years still festered and moaned like it was brand new. The young travelers faced Jake and put on a renewed facade of pleasantry.

"Hi there, my buddy Grant and I were just looking for Walker's Quarry. Got a little turned around when the GPS crapped out a few miles back." Frosted tips wore a snake's smile as he spoke, as Top Knot, whose name was evidently Grant, came up to join him.

"Benton is being modest, he got us lost himself, he's not much of an outdoorsman." He laughed a little too hard.

"I wanted to go to the beach; you were the one that insisted-"

"You're in the right direction." Jake cut in, eyeing the bickering pair. "Quarry is about two miles down that road, you'll probably smell it before ya see it."

"Excellent, thank you very much sir." Grant and Benton began to head back to the car when Virgil piped up once more.

"You youngsters go trouncing around in that swill you won't be coming back." The travelers stopped in their tracks and regarded Virgil with piqued curiosity.

"Don't be spreading tales again, old timer." Jake warned as he leaned against the oak wood door, settling in for the yarn Virgil was about to spin.

"I'll bite, what's got you all riled up?" Grant's smile was wide, yet somehow meaner than Benton's.

"Miserable old drunk." A barely heard murmur came from behind Grant, who elbowed the offending speaker in the ribs with a pointed elbow. Virgil leaned forward, the chair groaning under his frail posterior. His face was awash with wrinkles and sunspots, his breath reeked of a distillery, yet when he spoke, he spoke with the renewed cadence of a man fresh out of college.

"That quarry is cursed land, lads. The kingdom of the nastiest thing ever spat out by Neptune. Old Moe." He said the fish's name with such reverence it was like he was speaking of a god.

"Years back, when this town made its fortune on blood and stone, they dug too deep and too greedily. Too close to the raging rivers hidden deep beneath the crust of the Earth. Quarry sprung a leak, the waters below bubbling up in a flash. They abandoned their haul, abandoned their machines and tools. Let the whole site drown and waste away."

"They never tried to drain it? Benton asked. Virgil simply shrugged.

"Supposedly they were close to closing it down anyway, so they wrote the whole thing off. The closure hit the town hard at first, but they bounced back. Time passed and people snuck off to the old quarry. Whole thing is like a man-made lake now, really. Crystal clear water as far as the eye can see, a slab of slated stone overlooking it all like a monolith. The water reached the very top, on sunny days you can see the looming shapes of rusted cranes and diggers at the very bottom, along with the darting figures of fish."

Benton’s eyes quickly flicked to the rods taking up the backseat.

"Yeah, I can tell that piqued your interest. You boys fancy yourselves fishermen then, gonna sail out to the middle and catch yourselves a big old salmon, eh?" Virgil laughed.

"Eh used to catch sunfish with my dad, haven't in a while though." Benton admitted with a hint of modesty.

"I used to watch Bassmaster, does that count?" Grant chimed in, as all eyes regarded him with disdain in that moment.

"Well, you youngsters haven't seen anything like Big Moe, that's for certain. When the quarry workers breached the deep all sorts of sea critters came spilling out. Some say those underground streams reached all the way to the Atlantic after all. Folks were tripping over bass the size of labradors as they scurried away from the raging waters."

"Eventually, as the waters settled and the higher ups gave up on reclaiming the quarry, folk took to poaching the joint, dredging it for salvage and trying their hand at fishing. A guy I knew, went by Trent, used to go every Saturday, and come nightfall he'd come back with his car reeking of chum and salt. He'd get bigguns as well, rainbow gilded trout and spotted bass, their mouths still gaping and gasping for the sea."

Virgil puppetted his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. Benton stifled a laugh as Grant rolled his eyes.

"The oddest thing he'd bring back was the catfish. Small, slender looking things at first but as months went on they grew bigger. Soon he was hauling in catfish the size of your scrawny looking friend there." Virgil pointed at Grant, which caused a shit-eating grin to form on Benton's smug face.

"That's absurd, catfish don't get that big." Grant protested.

"Sure they do, they never stop growing ya know." Benton piped up. Grant shot him a look as Virgil went on.

"Aye, he's right. They never stop. Used to know a fella who worked a rig down South, they'd circle the columns below hoping someone would fall in so they could gobble them up. So he'd claim anyway. After coming eye to eye with Big Moe, I believe him. I saw the blighter decades ago, long after Trent had been swallowed whole by the beast."

The traveler’s faces went pale at that. 

"Oh aye, so the story goes he brought a group of barflies to help him carry his weekend haul back. They hung back on the shore, watching him row out to the center. The mist was thin that morning, it clung to the water's surface. Nothing stirred, just the rough cutting of his worn-out canoe. Someone shouted then, they saw this massive, looming figure streak by. It was Lightning quick, eyes glowing like red hot embers. It rushed Trent's canoe and it wobbled and weaved."

"A serpent's forked tail breached the water and flicked the canoe over. Trent let out a gasp that was quickly gagged by the murky depths.  Some say he tried to swim away, others say he stood his ground and tried to bash his assailant with his snapped rod. No one could tell for certain, there was only thrashing and foam that quickly turned to crimson, as the whisker faced menace dragged him down below. Never to be seen again"

Virgil left that hang in the air, Benton looked amused though a bit worried, Grant rolled his eyes. Behind them all Jake chuckled, hiding back inside with the ring of a door.

"Right, he got eaten by a big ass catfish. They aren't even carnivores, they feed on pond scum and algae and crap but sure, he got eaten by a catfish." Grant raved.

“I don't know. If it got that big, technically they're omnivores, opportunistic sure but they'll chow down on meat." Benton shrugged.

"You're not seriously buying this garbage." Grant started to move away when a frail, bony arm lunged toward him and grabbed him. Grant looked down in disgust and pushed Virgil off him. He muttered as he went back to the car, the nice tourist facade a fleeting memory now. Benton stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's been a really long drive, Hell I came in with a shitty attitude to begin with, that ain't right. You have a nice day, old timer. I'm sorry if we bothered ya." He started to walk away when Virgil's gruff voice broke through the tension.

"You seem to have a tighter head on your shoulder then your friend there. Don't go out to that lake, I seen Moe, and I have the scars to prove it." He lifted his shirt. Across his wrinkled chest was raw scar tissue, ripened with age yet still pulsating with pain. It lashed across him, like something with dagger gums had tried to take a bite out of him.

"It was decades ago now, when I could walk without the joints aching and I could see past my toes. I went up to the quarry, me and my buddy Fred. We had all heard the stories, but we were determined to prove 'em all wrong. We announced we were going to do laps in the swill, proving once and for all that Moe was an old wives tale."

"We were fools, boy. I remember standing on the edge, Freddy egging me on. Part of me thinks he wanted me to go first in case Moe was real. Live bait I suppose, heh. Anyway, I watched my reflection flicker in the clear water, curious sunfish popping their fins at me, almost beckoning me to crawl in with them."

"I held my nose and dove on it. The water was chilly, to say the least. My teeth were chattering so much I thought they'd drill holes in my skull. Freddy watched me shivering, nodded his head and jumped in after me. From there we laughed and played, jeering each other on as we edged closer and closer to the middle of the lake."

"I think that was our mistake, we swam too close to his territory. Freddy saw him first, his eyes bulged out of his head and his skin turned whiter than a sheet. He tried to speak up, but something grabbed my leg and pulled me down into the brine. My arms clawed at nothing, desperate to grasp anything to stop my fall. All the air was sucked outta my lungs, the pull so sudden. I tried to kick whatever it was and it let go briefly."

"But-" He pointed to the scars on his chest. "It was then I saw him in full. He's big boy, bigger than you could ever fathom. His body was smooth and slimy, long whiskers that curled around him like whips resting on a hilt. His eyes, God help me, were flaming rubies filled with nothing but hate and hunger. Moe's maw was toothless to the untrained eye. But I could feel them, a dozen rows of tiny pin pricks scrapping my flesh. I cried out in pain, my cries muffled by water and gunk. I felt a wad of sludge pour into me the moment I opened my gob. I was in a panic, to be fair."

"I would have died there, should have died there if it weren't for Freddy. He dove down after me and hurled himself at the beast. As soon as Moe let go, I scampered away, as Freddy wrestled with the great beast. I surfaced and thrashed my way towards the shore. I was on autopilot; my lungs half filled with muck, the other half crushed by the great jaws of the fish. With great effort I heaved myself onto short, the stony ground sizzling from the midday sun. I flinched away from the water and clenched my chest. The skin where he bit looked like it had been stripped clean."

Virgil pulled his shirt down and looked at the ground in shame as he finished his tale.

"Freddy never came up. All I saw were dwindling bubbles where he had been, and the satisfied shape of Big Moe returning to the depth. Our fathers led the search party for us, they found only me there shivering at the edge of the water, too shell shocked to move. They never found Freddy's body. When my wounds healed, I went to Freddy's home. To tell him how his boy had died a hero. His father didn't want to hear it, though he didn't blame me.  Just looking at me reminded him of his loss. He didn't leave the house much after that, wife skipped town not long after."

"He died in that house, curled up in Freddy's bed with an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a crumpled bottle of pills in the other."

"Jesus." Benton muttered after a moment.

"Time passed and the less people went up there the more the legend of Big Moe faded. Now his biggest claim to fame is an obscene logo on a tacky t-shirt Jake sells inside." Virgil jerked his thumb to the convenience store. "Hell I don't even know if he's still lurking in that sordid drink. Wouldn't surprise me if he was, though, devil is always hard to kill."

Benton looked like he was about to say something with the shrill honk of his car blared in the background. He glanced at the car as Grant smacked the wheel, stewing in the passenger seat.

"Thanks for the warning, old timer. I'll-try and keep us in the shallows." Benton gave a nod as he went back to the car, yelling at Grant to calm the hell down. Virgil shook his head, hoping the young man would heed his tale.

In the back of his mind, though, he knew he wouldn't.

-------

The rest of the day went on like it normally does. Virgil sat in his chair drinking his brew, the incoming customers barely acknowledging him. Jake would occasionally come out and check on him, new brew in hand. A kind gesture on the surface, but really Jake was just afraid Virgil was going to croak on his property.

As the sky became a dull tangerine, and Virgil stank of seventeen types of booze, his blurred gaze wandered past the main road. He sat up in his seat and squinted, his old eyes widening as the limping figure soon came into view.

It was Benton, dragging his foot in the dirt. His eyes glazed over, his clothes filthy and riddled with damp water and slime. His arms were bruised, and a semi-circle of blood coated his legs. Folk wandering the street stopped in their tracks to gawk at him, not one soul offering to help the mangled tourist. Virgil exhaled deeply and tilted his head back towards the store door.

"Jake!" He barked. Jake peaked his head out and stuck out a filled flask.

"Last call old timer, you best be on your way no-"

"Go call the sheriff. Leave the hooch." Jake looked down the road and swore under his breath. He tossed the flask to Virgil who caught it with ease. Benton was making his way to the store; Virgil could hear gargled wheezing as he struggled to walk. Finally, Benton reached the steps and collapsed. His breath was haggard, and he didn't look at the old man. His hair was slick yet crusty, the telltale stench of the quarry clung to him.

Virgil leaned over and shook the flask. He waved it in front of Benton's face, who snatched it out of Virgil's paws in a second. His hands shook as he choked down the brew, retching a tad as he finally relented and allowed himself to breathe. He offered it back to Virgil who politely declined.

"You wanna talk about it young fella?" He offered a kind word.

Benton's silence answered for him. He took another swig and gagged as he did. Virgil looked past him, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Happened to yer car?"

". . . Grant had the keys on him." Virgil shook his head, the screech of the sheriff's tires closing in on them as a small crowd gathered to gawk at the tourist.

"Damn city folk." Virgil muttered as his eyes glanced at the all too familiar wounds on Benton's legs. "Always thinking you know better."

Folks in Lester's Hollow were always weary about the flooded quarry a mile down the road. It used to be a popular swimming hole among the locals, and a hell of a fishing spot. That is until Big Moe swam up from the depths.

Only one person in the hollow still lived who claimed to see Moe up close and personal, his tired, cataract ridden eyes glazed over with age as he sat in his rocking chair day and night. The young folk regarded him as a kook, the elders of the hollow regarded him with a modicum of respect, the least of which he deserved.

His name was of no importance, long gone were the people who truly cared. Around the hollow he was simply known as Virgil.

He sat in that rickety old chair on the termite-ridden deck of the convenience store, dulling his mind with homemade hooch and watching the townsfolk go about their daily lives. The only time he truly came alive these days is when tourists came around looking for something to do.

They'd flock to the store for supplies, and his cauliflower ears would perk at the briefest mention of the quarry, and he'd spring to life and regal all who would listen about the slithering serpent that lurked in that old murky brine.

It was the eve of Summer, the last time he spoke of Old Moe. The season had been unusually quiet, the air so humid that it choked the young and crippled the old. Virgil was used to it of course, spending most of his time in a haze of shine to begin with. 

He looked out at the town square, his childhood home all but in ruins. The young didn't care to maintain; they simply came of age and went off to greener pastures. The old were far too stubborn to adapt, so the middling buildings and cottages stood there, a time capsule that slowly rotted with each passing year.

He sighed and took a deep swig of his jug, the bitter liquid inside greeting his thirsty throat like an old friend. In the distance some ear grating sound came forth. He winced, disgusted with what the youth of today called music. A sedan rolled into view, a red cedar canoe strapped to the roof. In the back seat were a couple of pristine looking fishing rods, a tackle box and hefty red cooler. In the front seat were two bickering young men, one with frosted blonde tips and the other with a silver shaded top knot.

The sedan stopped short in front of the store, and the doors came slamming open. The young men seemed in decent shape, swimmers perhaps. Virgil watched them with unease, praying they weren't going where he thought they were. Top knot wore an annoyed glance on his bushy face. His eyes lit up when he saw Virgil scowling at them. He gave a timid wave and took a step towards the moldy store steps.

"Afternoon sir!" His voice oozed a sort of faux pleasantry that only city folk could cultivate. "My friend and I are a tad lost; you know where we might find Walker's Quarry?"

Virgil's eyes flashed with hated remembrance as he spat on the ground they stood on.

"Aye. I know where that blasted cesspool is. You'd do well to drive right on by it." Virgil took another swig as frosted tips scoffed and stepped up.

"Look man, you know where it is or not? Can't get a frigging signal out here to save my life." He whined like a wounded animal, a sound somehow more grating than that tripe still booming from their tiny sedan.  Behind Virgil a bell rang, Jake the owner had come out to see what all the fuss was about.

Jake was a sturdy gentleman, bald as he was wide, and his head glistened like a polished marble in the sun. He had a peach-brown patch of fuzz on his upper lip that hid a slight scar, a scar that despite the years still festered and moaned like it was brand new. The young travelers faced Jake and put on a renewed facade of pleasantry.

"Hi there, my buddy Grant and I were just looking for Walker's Quarry. Got a little turned around when the GPS crapped out a few miles back." Frosted tips wore a snake's smile as he spoke, as Top Knot, whose name was evidently Grant, came up to join him.

"Benton is being modest, he got us lost himself, he's not much of an outdoorsman." He laughed a little too hard.

"I wanted to go to the beach; you were the one that insisted-"

"You're in the right direction." Jake cut in, eyeing the bickering pair. "Quarry is about two miles down that road, you'll probably smell it before ya see it."

"Excellent, thank you very much sir." Grant and Benton began to head back to the car when Virgil piped up once more.

"You youngsters go trouncing around in that swill you won't be coming back." The travelers stopped in their tracks and regarded Virgil with piqued curiosity.

"Don't be spreading tales again, old timer." Jake warned as he leaned against the oak wood door, settling in for the yarn Virgil was about to spin.

"I'll bite, what's got you all riled up?" Grant's smile was wide, yet somehow meaner than Benton's.

"Miserable old drunk." A barely heard murmur came from behind Grant, who elbowed the offending speaker in the ribs with a pointed elbow. Virgil leaned forward, the chair groaning under his frail posterior. His face was awash with wrinkles and sunspots, his breath reeked of a distillery, yet when he spoke, he spoke with the renewed cadence of a man fresh out of college.

"That quarry is cursed land, lads. The kingdom of the nastiest thing ever spat out by Neptune. Old Moe." He said the fish's name with such reverence it was like he was speaking of a god.

"Years back, when this town made its fortune on blood and stone, they dug too deep and too greedily. Too close to the raging rivers hidden deep beneath the crust of the Earth. Quarry sprung a leak, the waters below bubbling up in a flash. They abandoned their haul, abandoned their machines and tools. Let the whole site drown and waste away."

"They never tried to drain it? Benton asked. Virgil simply shrugged.

"Supposedly they were close to closing it down anyway, so they wrote the whole thing off. The closure hit the town hard at first, but they bounced back. Time passed and people snuck off to the old quarry. Whole thing is like a man-made lake now, really. Crystal clear water as far as the eye can see, a slab of slated stone overlooking it all like a monolith. The water reached the very top, on sunny days you can see the looming shapes of rusted cranes and diggers at the very bottom, along with the darting figures of fish."

Benton’s eyes quickly flicked to the rods taking up the backseat.

"Yeah, I can tell that piqued your interest. You boys fancy yourselves fishermen then, gonna sail out to the middle and catch yourselves a big old salmon, eh?" Virgil laughed.

"Eh used to catch sunfish with my dad, haven't in a while though." Benton admitted with a hint of modesty.

"I used to watch Bassmaster, does that count?" Grant chimed in, as all eyes regarded him with disdain in that moment.

"Well, you youngsters haven't seen anything like Big Moe, that's for certain. When the quarry workers breached the deep all sorts of sea critters came spilling out. Some say those underground streams reached all the way to the Atlantic after all. Folks were tripping over bass the size of labradors as they scurried away from the raging waters."

"Eventually, as the waters settled and the higher ups gave up on reclaiming the quarry, folk took to poaching the joint, dredging it for salvage and trying their hand at fishing. A guy I knew, went by Trent, used to go every Saturday, and come nightfall he'd come back with his car reeking of chum and salt. He'd get bigguns as well, rainbow gilded trout and spotted bass, their mouths still gaping and gasping for the sea."

Virgil puppetted his mouth, looking like a fish out of water. Benton stifled a laugh as Grant rolled his eyes.

"The oddest thing he'd bring back was the catfish. Small, slender looking things at first but as months went on they grew bigger. Soon he was hauling in catfish the size of your scrawny looking friend there." Virgil pointed at Grant, which caused a shit-eating grin to form on Benton's smug face.

"That's absurd, catfish don't get that big." Grant protested.

"Sure they do, they never stop growing ya know." Benton piped up. Grant shot him a look as Virgil went on.

"Aye, he's right. They never stop. Used to know a fella who worked a rig down South, they'd circle the columns below hoping someone would fall in so they could gobble them up. So he'd claim anyway. After coming eye to eye with Big Moe, I believe him. I saw the blighter decades ago, long after Trent had been swallowed whole by the beast."

The traveler’s faces went pale at that. 

"Oh aye, so the story goes he brought a group of barflies to help him carry his weekend haul back. They hung back on the shore, watching him row out to the center. The mist was thin that morning, it clung to the water's surface. Nothing stirred, just the rough cutting of his worn-out canoe. Someone shouted then, they saw this massive, looming figure streak by. It was Lightning quick, eyes glowing like red hot embers. It rushed Trent's canoe and it wobbled and weaved."

"A serpent's forked tail breached the water and flicked the canoe over. Trent let out a gasp that was quickly gagged by the murky depths.  Some say he tried to swim away, others say he stood his ground and tried to bash his assailant with his snapped rod. No one could tell for certain, there was only thrashing and foam that quickly turned to crimson, as the whisker faced menace dragged him down below. Never to be seen again"

Virgil left that hang in the air, Benton looked amused though a bit worried, Grant rolled his eyes. Behind them all Jake chuckled, hiding back inside with the ring of a door.

"Right, he got eaten by a big ass catfish. They aren't even carnivores, they feed on pond scum and algae and crap but sure, he got eaten by a catfish." Grant raved.

“I don't know. If it got that big, technically they're omnivores, opportunistic sure but they'll chow down on meat." Benton shrugged.

"You're not seriously buying this garbage." Grant started to move away when a frail, bony arm lunged toward him and grabbed him. Grant looked down in disgust and pushed Virgil off him. He muttered as he went back to the car, the nice tourist facade a fleeting memory now. Benton stood awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Look, I'm sorry. It's been a really long drive, Hell I came in with a shitty attitude to begin with, that ain't right. You have a nice day, old timer. I'm sorry if we bothered ya." He started to walk away when Virgil's gruff voice broke through the tension.

"You seem to have a tighter head on your shoulder then your friend there. Don't go out to that lake, I seen Moe, and I have the scars to prove it." He lifted his shirt. Across his wrinkled chest was raw scar tissue, ripened with age yet still pulsating with pain. It lashed across him, like something with dagger gums had tried to take a bite out of him.

"It was decades ago now, when I could walk without the joints aching and I could see past my toes. I went up to the quarry, me and my buddy Fred. We had all heard the stories, but we were determined to prove 'em all wrong. We announced we were going to do laps in the swill, proving once and for all that Moe was an old wives tale."

"We were fools, boy. I remember standing on the edge, Freddy egging me on. Part of me thinks he wanted me to go first in case Moe was real. Live bait I suppose, heh. Anyway, I watched my reflection flicker in the clear water, curious sunfish popping their fins at me, almost beckoning me to crawl in with them."

"I held my nose and dove on it. The water was chilly, to say the least. My teeth were chattering so much I thought they'd drill holes in my skull. Freddy watched me shivering, nodded his head and jumped in after me. From there we laughed and played, jeering each other on as we edged closer and closer to the middle of the lake."

"I think that was our mistake, we swam too close to his territory. Freddy saw him first, his eyes bulged out of his head and his skin turned whiter than a sheet. He tried to speak up, but something grabbed my leg and pulled me down into the brine. My arms clawed at nothing, desperate to grasp anything to stop my fall. All the air was sucked outta my lungs, the pull so sudden. I tried to kick whatever it was and it let go briefly."

"But-" He pointed to the scars on his chest. "It was then I saw him in full. He's big boy, bigger than you could ever fathom. His body was smooth and slimy, long whiskers that curled around him like whips resting on a hilt. His eyes, God help me, were flaming rubies filled with nothing but hate and hunger. Moe's maw was toothless to the untrained eye. But I could feel them, a dozen rows of tiny pin pricks scrapping my flesh. I cried out in pain, my cries muffled by water and gunk. I felt a wad of sludge pour into me the moment I opened my gob. I was in a panic, to be fair."

"I would have died there, should have died there if it weren't for Freddy. He dove down after me and hurled himself at the beast. As soon as Moe let go, I scampered away, as Freddy wrestled with the great beast. I surfaced and thrashed my way towards the shore. I was on autopilot; my lungs half filled with muck, the other half crushed by the great jaws of the fish. With great effort I heaved myself onto short, the stony ground sizzling from the midday sun. I flinched away from the water and clenched my chest. The skin where he bit looked like it had been stripped clean."

Virgil pulled his shirt down and looked at the ground in shame as he finished his tale.

"Freddy never came up. All I saw were dwindling bubbles where he had been, and the satisfied shape of Big Moe returning to the depth. Our fathers led the search party for us, they found only me there shivering at the edge of the water, too shell shocked to move. They never found Freddy's body. When my wounds healed, I went to Freddy's home. To tell him how his boy had died a hero. His father didn't want to hear it, though he didn't blame me.  Just looking at me reminded him of his loss. He didn't leave the house much after that, wife skipped town not long after."

"He died in that house, curled up in Freddy's bed with an empty bottle of whisky in one hand and a crumpled bottle of pills in the other."

"Jesus." Benton muttered after a moment.

"Time passed and the less people went up there the more the legend of Big Moe faded. Now his biggest claim to fame is an obscene logo on a tacky t-shirt Jake sells inside." Virgil jerked his thumb to the convenience store. "Hell I don't even know if he's still lurking in that sordid drink. Wouldn't surprise me if he was, though, devil is always hard to kill."

Benton looked like he was about to say something with the shrill honk of his car blared in the background. He glanced at the car as Grant smacked the wheel, stewing in the passenger seat.

"Thanks for the warning, old timer. I'll-try and keep us in the shallows." Benton gave a nod as he went back to the car, yelling at Grant to calm the hell down. Virgil shook his head, hoping the young man would heed his tale.

In the back of his mind, though, he knew he wouldn't.

-------

The rest of the day went on like it normally does. Virgil sat in his chair drinking his brew, the incoming customers barely acknowledging him. Jake would occasionally come out and check on him, new brew in hand. A kind gesture on the surface, but really Jake was just afraid Virgil was going to croak on his property.

As the sky became a dull tangerine, and Virgil stank of seventeen types of booze, his blurred gaze wandered past the main road. He sat up in his seat and squinted, his old eyes widening as the limping figure soon came into view.

It was Benton, dragging his foot in the dirt. His eyes glazed over, his clothes filthy and riddled with damp water and slime. His arms were bruised, and a semi-circle of blood coated his legs. Folk wandering the street stopped in their tracks to gawk at him, not one soul offering to help the mangled tourist. Virgil exhaled deeply and tilted his head back towards the store door.

"Jake!" He barked. Jake peaked his head out and stuck out a filled flask.

"Last call old timer, you best be on your way no-"

"Go call the sheriff. Leave the hooch." Jake looked down the road and swore under his breath. He tossed the flask to Virgil who caught it with ease. Benton was making his way to the store; Virgil could hear gargled wheezing as he struggled to walk. Finally, Benton reached the steps and collapsed. His breath was haggard, and he didn't look at the old man. His hair was slick yet crusty, the telltale stench of the quarry clung to him.

Virgil leaned over and shook the flask. He waved it in front of Benton's face, who snatched it out of Virgil's paws in a second. His hands shook as he choked down the brew, retching a tad as he finally relented and allowed himself to breathe. He offered it back to Virgil who politely declined.

"You wanna talk about it young fella?" He offered a kind word.

Benton's silence answered for him. He took another swig and gagged as he did. Virgil looked past him, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Happened to yer car?"

". . . Grant had the keys on him." Virgil shook his head, the screech of the sheriff's tires closing in on them as a small crowd gathered to gawk at the tourist.

"Damn city folk." Virgil muttered as his eyes glanced at the all too familiar wounds on Benton's legs. "Always thinking you know better."

I've always enjoyed going to the movies. The resounding thrumming of the speakers, the crisp saltiness of the popcorn, that silver screen with its siren call of entertainment. To forget your worries for ninety minutes or so, immerse yourself into another world.

With that said, I've always hated the big crowds for summer blockbusters. Friday night rowdiness, shrieking at every big action scene, slinging corn at each other like wild animals.

The thing of it is though I don't like empty theatres as well. It makes the reality of going solo set in. My ideal theatre experience is to sit in the back two rows, a handful of people making up the audience. There are little things you observe when you're in a hushed room for a few hours.

You overhear little pockets of conversation, whispered voices talking about the mundane; who got a new haircut, who was late paying a bill, who slept with who at the wedding last week. Little intimate moments not meant for prying ears, though I couldn't help but overhear. It became a habit, people watching of a sort.

My eyes were glued to my silver mistress, but my ears would wander. Little gasps when a scare would happen, the begrudging chuckle when a bad joke landed. Inside jokes whispered under snarky breath I would never quite get, but I got the gist of it.

Occasionally, the soft whimper of wandering hands.

You wouldn't think a movie theatre would be a place people would fool around in, the taboo of getting caught and the thrill of being seen is quite enticing it turns out.

It wasn't an unwelcome noise in my menagerie of tones, but I tried to drown it out as best I can. Made my watching feel dirty, like I'm the creep somehow. Usually if it got a bit much a gruff cough and a shifting of my seat would silence the would-be lovers.

Life had been stressful lately, bit more isolating than normal. It was just sit in traffic for an hour, crunch numbers for several more, than go home to do it all again tomorrow. My pay is decent, and I get along well enough with co-workers. But it's all so monotonous. Then Friday hits and the paycheck drops, and I speed off to my weekly ritual.

It was something I've come to rely on. I cherished those Friday showings, and all the little eccentrics I spotted.

It was no different then, that fateful Friday evening. No bells and whistles, no red flags waving in my face. Nothing to signal the sensual terror that lurked ahead.

-----------

My local theatre is located right near the coast; you can smell the fresh sea air right as you pull up. On nice summer nights you can usually spot a few people camping out near the waterfront. That night was no diffrent. I got out of my car and took a deep breathe. In the distance a gull cried out, and I scurried inside the theatre.

I admired the palace like atmosphere of the lobby; place was nearly empty so one could really appreciate the space. The aroma of fresh popcorn and greasy butter filled my nostrils as soon as I walked in. At the far ticket booth, a pimple faced teen with a vacant look on his face manned it. Even from the front entrance, I could tell he was texting, his eyes constantly flicking down.

My own baby blues gazed upon the showtimes, and I debated what I would see tonight. I settled on a slasher flick, The Chainsaw Strangler, to help get through my weekday blues. I figured it would be gory good fun if nothing else. I waltzed over to the ticket booth, snapping my fingers slightly to get the pimpled teen's attention.

He regarded me with annoyance, and he spoke with this nasally voice that sounded like his sinuses were getting assaulted by pollen on all sides.

"Can I help you?" I could hear the clutter of his phone being squirreled away.

"One for The Chainsaw Strangler, please." I responded. I heard the walking zit snort and mumble something under his rank breath. I pretended I didn't hear whatever dig he threw my way and just swiped my card with a smile on my face. I snatched the ticket stub and told him to have a nice day.

Strolling past the ticket booth my gaze landed at the concession counter. It seemed a mile long and overflowed with sugary treats and salty goodness. There was a burly gentleman talking up the counter girl. who was laughing a little too loudly at whatever he was saying. He was a good-looking dude with a trimmed cut and wore a plaid jacket that fit his physique perfectly.

I'm not sure why, but I decided to hang back till he was done. I looked down and poked my flabby abs, making a mental note to go back to the gym this weekend. I wandered for a moment, looking at the various "coming soon" attractions. There were a few circular tales with clutter and discarded cups strown about, janitorial was being its usual lazy self it seemed.

I stopped in my tracks then, as an overwhelmingly soothing melody hit my ear.

"He up and left me, his only true love the sea."

"He was tall and rugged, thought he had eyes only for me, He was kind and as sweet as could be."

"He traveled long and he traveled far, while I was left to wallow at the bar."

"I heard word at last, from an old shipmate. The bastard was cheating, I swore to castrate."

"Tragically, he fell ill at sea, wonder if his last thoughts were of me."

The shanty was being softly sung by a bored looking woman two tables from me. She had jet black hair, save for three streaks of violet that ran down her pixie cut. She wore a pinstripe shirt that matched and a frilly skirt with batwing leggings. Her skin was an olive tone, her tired eyes a hazy lime.

I felt my face flush, noting I had aimlessly wandered inches away from her as she sung. In my defense, her voice was amazing, unlike anything to ever grace my ears. I realized I was a bit too close and tried to escape when she spoke up.

"Did you like my song?" She looked up at me with a sweat smile. I noticed she was scribbling lyrics down on a small note pad in front of her. On her pen was images of a tropical beach and mermaids frolicking in sparkling blue water.

"It was lovely. You have a beautiful voice." My face was crimson at that point, and I'm sure I stuttered that out like a dope. Her grin widened, and she bore a bashful, modest look.

"You're far to kind. Vocals might have been fine, but I fear the lyrics were a bit shite. Think I rhymed "me" too much." She titled her head back and laughed, it sounded like raindrops lightly hitting the window. She stuck her hand out, her nails a shade of azure. "I'm Kelsea, most folks just call me Kel."

I limply took her hand and gave it a nervous shake, suddenly very aware of how much I was sweating. You ever do that, just stand there and perspirate like an idiot? Well, that was me. If she thought, I was a goof with clammy hands she hid it well. She just kept flashing her pearly whites at me.

"I'm Otto. Most folks just call me-Odie." That was a lie actually, I just wanted to sound cool.

"Like the dog?" She stifled a giggle, but it slipped through all the same. Well, that had been a swing and a miss.

"You seeing anything good today?" I deflected. She shrugged her slim shoulders.

"Oh, just some dreary horror flick. I'm with that handsome gentleman over there." She pointed towards the tall dude at the counter, and my heart did a four-hundred-foot dive to my stomach.

"Oh, that's cool. Seems like a cool dude." I swallowed my pride as I said that.

"These dating apps are a marvelous thing. He's gorgeous, I could just eat him up here and now." There was a ravenous tone in her voice that made me blush, which she was quick to take note of.

"Have you a paramour today, love?" she inquired.

"Uh, no. No I'm just, here by myself today." She cocked her head in bewilderment.

"Going to the pictures alone? You don't find that a bit-sad?" Her words stung but her tone was oddly sympathetic.

"I wouldn't say that, just nice to get out of the house at all ya know?" I replied sheepishly.

"Still, such a lonely thing, isn't it? Tell you what, pet, I have a gig down at the Curtain Call later this evening. You show up, mention my name and the first round is on me." Her eyes twinkled with flattery at every buttery word.

"Uh, well maybe I co-" Before I could finish my sentence, I was shoulder checked as a tall man briskly passed me and put a giant tub of popcorn on the table. He stood tall and faced me, his chest puffing out as he did. He had a wide grin on his face, if a shark could walk and talk it would be this guy. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hey buddy, names Flynn. We all good here?" I took his hand and felt my fingers be crushed as he aggressively shook. "We all good bud?" He repeated once more.

"Ah, yeah, was just, saying hi." I tried to pry my hand away, but it was like my hand was caught in a bear trap. Flynn finally let go and then patted me on the shoulder like I was a toddler.

"Well good seeing ya bud; you have a great day now." He took a step closer, like he was daring me to say something. I slunk back and averted my gaze from him.

"Uh, nice meeting you, Kelsea." I mumbled through cowardly breath. I backed away and head Flynn snickering at me behind my back.

"Catch you later then, lone ranger." Kelsea called back a little too loud. I picked up the pace, embarrassed and seething at my apparent impotency. I had never actually been mogged in public before, who the hell would even think of doing that in real life? I walked up the counter, desperate to put that cringe worthy interaction to bed.

The snack counter lady, Liz, was all smiles as I approached. She wore a velvet cap and a black Tee with a gold name plate. Before I could open my gob, she pointed at me.

"Lemme guess-large Dr. Pepper, medium Pop light on the butter and a thing of goobers." She had my usual order down perfectly. Her beaming smile brightened my mood like nothing else.

"You got it." I shot a finger at her, a bit too heavy on the gesturing in hindsight. She shifted and brushed some hair out of her face as she got my snacks.

"Well, you're in here enough, I better have it memorized by now haha." Her back was turned to me, she was scooping corn into a greasy brown bag, the sticky whirr of the soda machine going next to her. "You must really like movies."

"Uh, yeah, big movie buff." I shifted, studying the ground for a moment.

"I LOVE movies, sometimes I stay after my shift and sneak into a late showing. There's usually no one there though, can get kinda boring." She shrugged sheepishly as she handed me my food.

"Yeah, I get that. 22.50 right?" I offered my ancient debt card. She swiped the card from me and pressed it against the reader.

"You have any plans after? Maybe doing a double feature?" She handed me my receipt and card and I quickly snatched them, scoping up my concessions in my other arm.

"Uh, no, just-going home probably. Long week, kind of just wanna unwind." I said a little too quickly. "Thanks have a good night." I quickly side stepped the counter and rushed away.

"Oh-ok. See you around, Ottis." She called back. I know what you're thinking, but honestly I didn't need to make a fool of myself twice in one night. Besides, a million what ifs ran through my skull. What if I made an ass of myself, couldn't come back here. I like going to the movies, it's the only theatre around where would I go? Better to just keep my head down and keep things to light pleasantries.

Nothing more, nothing less.

--------

The slasher flick was playing in theatre three, one of the larger auditoriums. I kicked the door open and waddled in, taking a quick sip of my drink. The soda fizzed and crackled in my mouth, leaving this tingly sensation. The lights inside were already dim, the screen playing some local ad. I glanced up the steps, the place was dead save for a long-haired guy in the fourth row.

Even in subpar lighting I could tell the dude was stoned. I walked past him and he regarded me with glazed over eyes and smacked me upside the head with the rank stench of skunk. I climbed the steps and eyed my seat; dead center in the second to last. Perfect view of my silver mistress and far enough away from the crowd, if it ever came.

I plopped down in my seat and munched on some corn as I watched the previews. The oversized speakers on the wall hummed with sound as the guy on the screen droned on and on about the dangers of texting while driving. From below I heard the auditorium door swing open, followed by duo of crazed giggles. An M&M ad about the crunch of a peanut M&M being the only sound you should hear in a theatre played as Kelsea and Flynn raced up the stairs. She was holding his hand; he kept tripping as she dragged him up the steps. She saw me gawking and gave me a little wave. Flynn flipped me off, his shit eating grin only growing.

Out of all the places they could have sat, they ended up directly behind me. I heard them get settled as my face grew red, already I could make out hushed whispers and snickering. I debated getting up and moving but I imagined the giggle fits that would erupt if I paid them any mind. Nah, it was better to just stay put, maybe get an usher if they got too rowdy.

The lights fully died and the theatres logo popped up onto screen, greeting us fine patrons and going over the basic rules of etiquette. Like no phones, no talking, ect, etc. The usual things the chattering pair behind me were breaking in droves. The stoned dude a few rows down wasn't bothered, frankly I don't think he was even in the same time zone anymore.

The trailers zoomed by, and yet all I could focus on was the couple behind me. Kelsea was loudly talking, her voice like a gnat in my ear. Funny thing is even Flynn sounded a bit miffed. He just kept grunting and going "Yeah, I bet, mhmm, damn you're beautiful." To which she'd erupt in a fit of laughter and say he was adorable.

I heard her shift in her seat, no doubt to lean in close to him. I heard sultry whispers that would make a nun faint as Flynn coughed and crossed his legs. I did a quick cough to remind them there were other people in this theatre, to which Kelsea responded by yawning rather obnoxiously.

"I do hope this picture starts soon; I've heard such good things." my face burned red hot at her tone, something so seductive in it. I tried to ignore it; I really did but it was like she craved the attention, stolen glances and perked ears at every little noise she made. Finally, the film started, the theatre draped in darkness.

It was then she dropped all pretense and I heard her pounce on Flynn behind me. He let out a surprised gasp that quickly turned into low moans. The movie boomed all around us, chainsaws screeched and scream queens did what they do best, but for the life of me all I could focus on was the sensual sounds behind me.

There was the soft smacking of lips as the young lovers swapped tongues and whispered dirty vows into each other's ears. Promise after promise of lust deeds, and the clatter of pants unbuckling. I shifted in my seat, the blood draining from my face. This was too much, too far, and I wanted to walk out and call it a day.

But part of me was curious, it yearned to sneak a glance at the spectacle just behind. A lonely part that yearned to be touched, that wished I was the one with Kelsea, with anyone really. I swallowed my pride and turned my head slightly to the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them.

She was straddling him; her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. Her wavey hair wrapped around her head like a vial. Flynn's hands wandered under Kelsea's shirt, bulging movement caressing every inch of her. In between wet kisses I heard her whisper things, her voice soft, her words a tangled mess of lust and yearning.

I found myself staring a bit too long, not for what I saw but what I heard. I could barely make out her whispers, but I swore I heard promises of adoration love for the rest of my days. I heard her share secrets, private things that should never be thought let alone spoken aloud.

His toes curled as she explained the inner workings of early Mesopotamian society and I swear I was hooked. It wasn't just the forbidden fruit of knowledge either, there was something so enchanting about her tone, it drew me in, disarmed my anxious heart and me feel-

The glare of a wrathful eye caught my attention, and I was instantly mortified. Flynn's gaze was deadly; I was sure he would vaporize me if he could. I snapped my head back to the screen and stuffed a mouthful of popcorn into my mouth. The taste was bitter and salty; it sent shivers down my spine as I tried to focus on the plight the chainsaw strangler faced for having saws for hands.

Behind me Flynn was fuming, he pushed Kelsea away from him. I wanted to get up and run, try and defend myself. Afterall they were the ones feeling each other up in public, any sane person would look, or at least that was my thought process to cope with my peeping.

"What's a matter, love?" Kelsea sighed, sounded annoyed at the interruption.

"The creep was looking at us!" Flynn hissed. I sunk deeper into my seat, hoping it would swallow me whole. She was silent for a moment; I assumed disgust was washing over her. Then she let out a sharp laugh, like the bark of a gull.

"HA. Well, then he'll really want to see this." I heard the chair behind squeak and groan; she let out a guttural moan as she lunged toward him.

"What are you-hrrk." Flynn was cut off by something being shoved down his throat. The noise behind me became far too aggressive, it felt like the whole back row was shaking. There was this stretching sound, like rubber being push to its limit. It was followed by muffled cries and something snapping.

I shot up, a confused look sprouting on my faces. I heard slurping and chewing, ravenous amounts. There was a wet, slopping sound as something clattered to the ground, Flynn let out a choked moan, his voice strained and garbled.

"P-please-" Was all he could get out before I heard a loud snap, and something slump up against the wall. Something fumbled behind, eagerly climbing his seat. Something was being scarfed down, there was a choking sound as Kelsea grunted and chirped, forcing something down her throat. Fabric ripped, something that sounded like Velcro being stripped, then more messy dinning.

All my instincts told me to just get up and walk away, whatever was happening behind me was something I didn't want to see. Kelsea made this suckling sound, as she moaned in ecstasy, another snap, another gurgled noise as she slurped something down and finally I just, I had to look.

I wish to God I hadn't.

Half of Flynn was stripped to the bone. Crimson stained ligaments looked picked clean, his humerus was snapped in two, hell half his bones looked shattered and grinded to a fine marrow powder. His right side was bloody, exposed muscle tissue pulsating and quivering in their exposed state. His head was slumped to the side, his jowls slid sluggishly down. One eye was gone; it's only remnants a torn wiry nerve. The other was being yanked out by something horrid.

The thing was enveloping him with fine, silver shrouded wings. Digging into his bulky shoulders were a set of eagle claws, three long, scaley digits entrenched in his upper back while a fourth held him in place. The talons were undeniably animal, yet where the hand would meet the wrist there was a shift from scales to pink skin.

It tore in places, like an old sheath of leather, revealing tufts of feathers and grey, cracked skin underneath. The beast's cloths were torn, long legs ending in matching talons, down the creature's back were vibrant feathers in patterns of azure and lavender, ending in a three-pronged tail protruding from the monster's backside. Her hair was slick with gore; she still wasn't facing me. I could hear a squelching sound as she jerked her head back, and the snap of a tiny wire as blood spurted from the left side of Flynn's face.

She titled her head upward, making a gagging sound as she choked down a gel filled eye, nerve and all. I knew it was Kelsea then, because her stretched out face was looking right at me. Her jaw was extended, glass bulbs on either side of her cheeks. Her pale face was scrunched and worn, like a crumpled paper mask. Her once lime eyes sunken and vacant. I saw the last bit of optic nerved get slurped down this, fuck I don't even know what to call it.

It was almost like a beak, a hooked curve near the golden tip. The fringes were splattered with blood and viscera. Her neck bulged as she swallowed, and I watched a wad of chewed meat slide down her protruding esophagus. The skin around her neck was completely torn, this acidic pouch attached to the beak that bulged with every grunt and swallow. The whole spectacle looked like a keratin coated parasite had burrowed in her guts and came up for air.

Her head titled, the edges of the beak made a rapid, clattering sound as she turned to face me. Strips of flesh hung from her beak, those bulbous glass bulbs on that rested on either side of her beak spun in their sockets. Those dead albatross eyes came to rest on me, pupils dilating with carnivorous intent.

My head snapped back to the front of the screen as the booming rev of a chainsaw filled the air. My hands gripped the cupholders of the seat, I didn't know what to do. I was locked into a state of perpetual fright. The sounds of feasting behind me ceased and were replaced by sinister coos and clicks.

The film played on, I felt queasy looking at the buckets of fake blood being tossed around all of a sudden. I felt sticky breath at the nape of my neck that made that sent a tingling shiver down my spine. From the corner of my eye the bloodied beak loomed. It quietly clacked as if curious at my own inaction.

I ignored it as best I could, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into my mouth. The thing behind me made a snickering sound them. I froze midchew as machete-like nails slowly drummed down on my shoulders, one after another. Their grip was loose but their intent clear. The beak ducked outta sight, and I heard that once heavenly voice throw mockery in my mind.

"Poor little voyeur, your eyes were bigger than your stomach, eh?" she rapped her talons on my shoulders in a teasing manner, and I sunk deeper into the seat. I was silent, whole-body trembling with fear I'm embarrassed to say.

"If you look at me now, I'll make it worth your while. I'll share things with you, secret things that kings once throttled themselves over." Her grip on my shoulders tightening, daring me to look. I squeezed my eyes closed so hard it hurt, and her deranged cackle rattled in my brain.

"If I wasn't already sure you're spinless I'd rip open your back to check. Didn't run, didn't look, not an adventurous bone in your body. You'd rather just sit there taking up space. How boring. No one would miss you if I just sliced your little neck here and now." She slowly traced a taloned digit across my neck, it felt like a soft prick, the uncomfortable faux slice. My grip on the cup holders became a chokehold as I disassociated hard, my eyes hard locked to the movie in front of me.

"How endearing this picture is. I never knew there were so many uses for a chainsaw. Still doesn't compare to the real thing, doesn't it Ode?" Her taunts were nerve racking, using every little trick in her book to get me to look. What was the point, I had already glanced at her before. Was she just toying with me? Or was she simply full and taking a breather before her next meal.

"Come now, pet. Just take a gander at me. Come now, my sweet, and I'll drag you out to sea" Her voice was an ear worm digging its way through my grey matter. I felt compelled to obey, to let wrap myself around her little claw. I wanted to be docile cattle fit for slaughter. All I had to do was open my eyes and look.

A small part of me cried out, its voice smothered yet defiant. It grew louder as I opened my eyes, the glare of the silver screen flash banging me. It told me not to give in, I wanted to live I just needed to do something, anything. I felt her talons scratch the surface of my skin as they tore into my shirt, her beak clattered with greedy anticipation.

Without thinking, I jammed my hand into the popcorn bucket and jammed greasy kernels into my ears. It felt like a wad of wax, my makeshift plugs deafening me. I felt Kelsea's grip loosen, shocked at my sudden bizarre action. I quickly stuffed more in, the outside world becoming one long trumpet wah. I couldn't hear her voice anymore, only feel her angry talons lashing out me. The back of my seat buckled and shock as she threw a tantrum. The dull sounds of monstrous squawks barely made it through my popcorn barricade. I was careful not to move, lest I jostle lose a kernel and lodge it deeper into my ear, or worse.

The movie was almost over, the stoner a few rows down none the wiser to the terror unfolding behind me. Eventually she settled down, I assume to scarf down what remained of poor Flynn. I was doing my best to remain oblivious, the world around me deafened. The credits began to roll, and the lights started to slowly creep back into existence. The stoner got up and stretched; he turned around and saw me sitting there. He said something, I think he mouthed the words "That movie sucked, huh?" and then waltzed out of the theatre.

I was still there frozen. There was no movement behind me that I could feel. I felt a tap on my shoulder, far less pointed then before. Strands of wet hair dangled in my face, and lime eyes regarded me with compassion. She motioned to her ears and made a smoking gesture. With that I watched as she walked down the stairs, clothes intact, skin intact, not an avian feature in sight.

With extreme caution, I unclogged my ears. Sound slowly returned, the dull tones of the film's closing credits drummed above, with every movement of my head I swear I could hear a light tingling, if salt had sound, it'd be that. The theatre was empty, and there was a foul smell emitting from behind. I swallowed my fear and took a quick glance behind me.

There was nothing left save a sticky floor and a deep brown stain in the shape of a burly man. I got up and my knees buckled and wobbled; I wanted to retch but I fought the urge. I just got the hell out of there; my legs knew just where to go. On the way out the pimple faced cashier was coming in with a broom, he shoulder checked me and muttered something profane.

"Piss off ya walking zit." I blurted out without thinking. He shot me a look, then his face scrunched as he looked up at the row where Flynn had been. I left him to clean up that mess, amazed I spoke to him like that.

I mean after the shit I saw; I could care less about being an ass in public, that's for sure. I practically ran out of the theatre, the salty carbonated air suddenly a bit too suffocating. I burst out the theater doors and was greeted with a stary coated sky and a symphony of crickets.

I dryheaved, my head still spinning as I heard a polite cough. I shot up and gasped, Kelsea was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. I took an uneasy step back, and she threw her head back in laughed.

"Oh, relax love, that little stunt you pulled with the popcorn? Amused me greatly. Won't harm a hair on your pretty little head. Have me word." She held up a hand in a mocking "scout's honor" sort of way.

"Wh-what the hell are you?" I narrowed my eyes at her. She took a long drag and blew a puff of smoke my way. It smelled like seashells. I turned away, a million thoughts racing through my mind.

"I thought. . . I thought I was going to die." I admitted.

"Thrilling, init? Kelsea cooed. I turned to look at her, as she gave me a knowing look. She finished off her cig and flicked to the ground. She stepped on it as she approached. "Bit of free advice, pet. Don't be a bleeding passenger your whole life." she winked as she walked past me, and I felt a gush of wind knock me back. I looked up and saw a winged shadow soaring away, towards the sea from whence it came.

----------

That was a few weeks ago now, and I tell ya I haven't been the same since. I took her advice, or perhaps warning, to heart and I've been breaking out of the rut I've been in. I've gone out to lunch with coworkers, taking weekend excursions outta town, living life like every day could be my last. I got a date next week, and a trip down to Atlantic City the week after that.

I may be going a little too hard, but it beats the alternative. Besides, I have the perfect motivation for living a better life stamped into my brain forever; that stone-cold siren's voice endlessly taunting me in the back of my mind. Daring me to look danger in the face and blink.

Well tonight I'm going bungie jumping, so I guess we'll see who blinks first.

I've always enjoyed going to the movies. The resounding thrumming of the speakers, the crisp saltiness of the popcorn, that silver screen with its siren call of entertainment. To forget your worries for ninety minutes or so, immerse yourself into another world.

With that said, I've always hated the big crowds for summer blockbusters. Friday night rowdiness, shrieking at every big action scene, slinging corn at each other like wild animals.

The thing of it is though I don't like empty theatres as well. It makes the reality of going solo set in. My ideal theatre experience is to sit in the back two rows, a handful of people making up the audience. There are little things you observe when you're in a hushed room for a few hours.

You overhear little pockets of conversation, whispered voices talking about the mundane; who got a new haircut, who was late paying a bill, who slept with who at the wedding last week. Little intimate moments not meant for prying ears, though I couldn't help but overhear. It became a habit, people watching of a sort.

My eyes were glued to my silver mistress, but my ears would wander. Little gasps when a scare would happen, the begrudging chuckle when a bad joke landed. Inside jokes whispered under snarky breath I would never quite get, but I got the gist of it.

Occasionally, the soft whimper of wandering hands.

You wouldn't think a movie theatre would be a place people would fool around in, the taboo of getting caught and the thrill of being seen is quite enticing it turns out.

It wasn't an unwelcome noise in my menagerie of tones, but I tried to drown it out as best I can. Made my watching feel dirty, like I'm the creep somehow. Usually if it got a bit much a gruff cough and a shifting of my seat would silence the would-be lovers.

Life had been stressful lately, bit more isolating than normal. It was just sit in traffic for an hour, crunch numbers for several more, than go home to do it all again tomorrow. My pay is decent, and I get along well enough with co-workers. But it's all so monotonous. Then Friday hits and the paycheck drops, and I speed off to my weekly ritual.

It was something I've come to rely on. I cherished those Friday showings, and all the little eccentrics I spotted.

It was no different then, that fateful Friday evening. No bells and whistles, no red flags waving in my face. Nothing to signal the sensual terror that lurked ahead.

-----------

My local theatre is located right near the coast; you can smell the fresh sea air right as you pull up. On nice summer nights you can usually spot a few people camping out near the waterfront. That night was no diffrent. I got out of my car and took a deep breathe. In the distance a gull cried out, and I scurried inside the theatre.

I admired the palace like atmosphere of the lobby; place was nearly empty so one could really appreciate the space. The aroma of fresh popcorn and greasy butter filled my nostrils as soon as I walked in. At the far ticket booth, a pimple faced teen with a vacant look on his face manned it. Even from the front entrance, I could tell he was texting, his eyes constantly flicking down.

My own baby blues gazed upon the showtimes, and I debated what I would see tonight. I settled on a slasher flick, The Chainsaw Strangler, to help get through my weekday blues. I figured it would be gory good fun if nothing else. I waltzed over to the ticket booth, snapping my fingers slightly to get the pimpled teen's attention.

He regarded me with annoyance, and he spoke with this nasally voice that sounded like his sinuses were getting assaulted by pollen on all sides.

"Can I help you?" I could hear the clutter of his phone being squirreled away.

"One for The Chainsaw Strangler, please." I responded. I heard the walking zit snort and mumble something under his rank breath. I pretended I didn't hear whatever dig he threw my way and just swiped my card with a smile on my face. I snatched the ticket stub and told him to have a nice day.

Strolling past the ticket booth my gaze landed at the concession counter. It seemed a mile long and overflowed with sugary treats and salty goodness. There was a burly gentleman talking up the counter girl. who was laughing a little too loudly at whatever he was saying. He was a good-looking dude with a trimmed cut and wore a plaid jacket that fit his physique perfectly.

I'm not sure why, but I decided to hang back till he was done. I looked down and poked my flabby abs, making a mental note to go back to the gym this weekend. I wandered for a moment, looking at the various "coming soon" attractions. There were a few circular tales with clutter and discarded cups strown about, janitorial was being its usual lazy self it seemed.

I stopped in my tracks then, as an overwhelmingly soothing melody hit my ear.

"He up and left me, his only true love the sea."

"He was tall and rugged, thought he had eyes only for me, He was kind and as sweet as could be."

"He traveled long and he traveled far, while I was left to wallow at the bar."

"I heard word at last, from an old shipmate. The bastard was cheating, I swore to castrate."

"Tragically, he fell ill at sea, wonder if his last thoughts were of me."

The shanty was being softly sung by a bored looking woman two tables from me. She had jet black hair, save for three streaks of violet that ran down her pixie cut. She wore a pinstripe shirt that matched and a frilly skirt with batwing leggings. Her skin was an olive tone, her tired eyes a hazy lime.

I felt my face flush, noting I had aimlessly wandered inches away from her as she sung. In my defense, her voice was amazing, unlike anything to ever grace my ears. I realized I was a bit too close and tried to escape when she spoke up.

"Did you like my song?" She looked up at me with a sweat smile. I noticed she was scribbling lyrics down on a small note pad in front of her. On her pen was images of a tropical beach and mermaids frolicking in sparkling blue water.

"It was lovely. You have a beautiful voice." My face was crimson at that point, and I'm sure I stuttered that out like a dope. Her grin widened, and she bore a bashful, modest look.

"You're far to kind. Vocals might have been fine, but I fear the lyrics were a bit shite. Think I rhymed "me" too much." She titled her head back and laughed, it sounded like raindrops lightly hitting the window. She stuck her hand out, her nails a shade of azure. "I'm Kelsea, most folks just call me Kel."

I limply took her hand and gave it a nervous shake, suddenly very aware of how much I was sweating. You ever do that, just stand there and perspirate like an idiot? Well, that was me. If she thought, I was a goof with clammy hands she hid it well. She just kept flashing her pearly whites at me.

"I'm Otto. Most folks just call me-Odie." That was a lie actually, I just wanted to sound cool.

"Like the dog?" She stifled a giggle, but it slipped through all the same. Well, that had been a swing and a miss.

"You seeing anything good today?" I deflected. She shrugged her slim shoulders.

"Oh, just some dreary horror flick. I'm with that handsome gentleman over there." She pointed towards the tall dude at the counter, and my heart did a four-hundred-foot dive to my stomach.

"Oh, that's cool. Seems like a cool dude." I swallowed my pride as I said that.

"These dating apps are a marvelous thing. He's gorgeous, I could just eat him up here and now." There was a ravenous tone in her voice that made me blush, which she was quick to take note of.

"Have you a paramour today, love?" she inquired.

"Uh, no. No I'm just, here by myself today." She cocked her head in bewilderment.

"Going to the pictures alone? You don't find that a bit-sad?" Her words stung but her tone was oddly sympathetic.

"I wouldn't say that, just nice to get out of the house at all ya know?" I replied sheepishly.

"Still, such a lonely thing, isn't it? Tell you what, pet, I have a gig down at the Curtain Call later this evening. You show up, mention my name and the first round is on me." Her eyes twinkled with flattery at every buttery word.

"Uh, well maybe I co-" Before I could finish my sentence, I was shoulder checked as a tall man briskly passed me and put a giant tub of popcorn on the table. He stood tall and faced me, his chest puffing out as he did. He had a wide grin on his face, if a shark could walk and talk it would be this guy. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hey buddy, names Flynn. We all good here?" I took his hand and felt my fingers be crushed as he aggressively shook. "We all good bud?" He repeated once more.

"Ah, yeah, was just, saying hi." I tried to pry my hand away, but it was like my hand was caught in a bear trap. Flynn finally let go and then patted me on the shoulder like I was a toddler.

"Well good seeing ya bud; you have a great day now." He took a step closer, like he was daring me to say something. I slunk back and averted my gaze from him.

"Uh, nice meeting you, Kelsea." I mumbled through cowardly breath. I backed away and head Flynn snickering at me behind my back.

"Catch you later then, lone ranger." Kelsea called back a little too loud. I picked up the pace, embarrassed and seething at my apparent impotency. I had never actually been mogged in public before, who the hell would even think of doing that in real life? I walked up the counter, desperate to put that cringe worthy interaction to bed.

The snack counter lady, Liz, was all smiles as I approached. She wore a velvet cap and a black Tee with a gold name plate. Before I could open my gob, she pointed at me.

"Lemme guess-large Dr. Pepper, medium Pop light on the butter and a thing of goobers." She had my usual order down perfectly. Her beaming smile brightened my mood like nothing else.

"You got it." I shot a finger at her, a bit too heavy on the gesturing in hindsight. She shifted and brushed some hair out of her face as she got my snacks.

"Well, you're in here enough, I better have it memorized by now haha." Her back was turned to me, she was scooping corn into a greasy brown bag, the sticky whirr of the soda machine going next to her. "You must really like movies."

"Uh, yeah, big movie buff." I shifted, studying the ground for a moment.

"I LOVE movies, sometimes I stay after my shift and sneak into a late showing. There's usually no one there though, can get kinda boring." She shrugged sheepishly as she handed me my food.

"Yeah, I get that. 22.50 right?" I offered my ancient debt card. She swiped the card from me and pressed it against the reader.

"You have any plans after? Maybe doing a double feature?" She handed me my receipt and card and I quickly snatched them, scoping up my concessions in my other arm.

"Uh, no, just-going home probably. Long week, kind of just wanna unwind." I said a little too quickly. "Thanks have a good night." I quickly side stepped the counter and rushed away.

"Oh-ok. See you around, Ottis." She called back. I know what you're thinking, but honestly I didn't need to make a fool of myself twice in one night. Besides, a million what ifs ran through my skull. What if I made an ass of myself, couldn't come back here. I like going to the movies, it's the only theatre around where would I go? Better to just keep my head down and keep things to light pleasantries.

Nothing more, nothing less.

--------

The slasher flick was playing in theatre three, one of the larger auditoriums. I kicked the door open and waddled in, taking a quick sip of my drink. The soda fizzed and crackled in my mouth, leaving this tingly sensation. The lights inside were already dim, the screen playing some local ad. I glanced up the steps, the place was dead save for a long-haired guy in the fourth row.

Even in subpar lighting I could tell the dude was stoned. I walked past him and he regarded me with glazed over eyes and smacked me upside the head with the rank stench of skunk. I climbed the steps and eyed my seat; dead center in the second to last. Perfect view of my silver mistress and far enough away from the crowd, if it ever came.

I plopped down in my seat and munched on some corn as I watched the previews. The oversized speakers on the wall hummed with sound as the guy on the screen droned on and on about the dangers of texting while driving. From below I heard the auditorium door swing open, followed by duo of crazed giggles. An M&M ad about the crunch of a peanut M&M being the only sound you should hear in a theatre played as Kelsea and Flynn raced up the stairs. She was holding his hand; he kept tripping as she dragged him up the steps. She saw me gawking and gave me a little wave. Flynn flipped me off, his shit eating grin only growing.

Out of all the places they could have sat, they ended up directly behind me. I heard them get settled as my face grew red, already I could make out hushed whispers and snickering. I debated getting up and moving but I imagined the giggle fits that would erupt if I paid them any mind. Nah, it was better to just stay put, maybe get an usher if they got too rowdy.

The lights fully died and the theatres logo popped up onto screen, greeting us fine patrons and going over the basic rules of etiquette. Like no phones, no talking, ect, etc. The usual things the chattering pair behind me were breaking in droves. The stoned dude a few rows down wasn't bothered, frankly I don't think he was even in the same time zone anymore.

The trailers zoomed by, and yet all I could focus on was the couple behind me. Kelsea was loudly talking, her voice like a gnat in my ear. Funny thing is even Flynn sounded a bit miffed. He just kept grunting and going "Yeah, I bet, mhmm, damn you're beautiful." To which she'd erupt in a fit of laughter and say he was adorable.

I heard her shift in her seat, no doubt to lean in close to him. I heard sultry whispers that would make a nun faint as Flynn coughed and crossed his legs. I did a quick cough to remind them there were other people in this theatre, to which Kelsea responded by yawning rather obnoxiously.

"I do hope this picture starts soon; I've heard such good things." my face burned red hot at her tone, something so seductive in it. I tried to ignore it; I really did but it was like she craved the attention, stolen glances and perked ears at every little noise she made. Finally, the film started, the theatre draped in darkness.

It was then she dropped all pretense and I heard her pounce on Flynn behind me. He let out a surprised gasp that quickly turned into low moans. The movie boomed all around us, chainsaws screeched and scream queens did what they do best, but for the life of me all I could focus on was the sensual sounds behind me.

There was the soft smacking of lips as the young lovers swapped tongues and whispered dirty vows into each other's ears. Promise after promise of lust deeds, and the clatter of pants unbuckling. I shifted in my seat, the blood draining from my face. This was too much, too far, and I wanted to walk out and call it a day.

But part of me was curious, it yearned to sneak a glance at the spectacle just behind. A lonely part that yearned to be touched, that wished I was the one with Kelsea, with anyone really. I swallowed my pride and turned my head slightly to the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them.

She was straddling him; her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. Her wavey hair wrapped around her head like a vial. Flynn's hands wandered under Kelsea's shirt, bulging movement caressing every inch of her. In between wet kisses I heard her whisper things, her voice soft, her words a tangled mess of lust and yearning.

I found myself staring a bit too long, not for what I saw but what I heard. I could barely make out her whispers, but I swore I heard promises of adoration love for the rest of my days. I heard her share secrets, private things that should never be thought let alone spoken aloud.

His toes curled as she explained the inner workings of early Mesopotamian society and I swear I was hooked. It wasn't just the forbidden fruit of knowledge either, there was something so enchanting about her tone, it drew me in, disarmed my anxious heart and me feel-

The glare of a wrathful eye caught my attention, and I was instantly mortified. Flynn's gaze was deadly; I was sure he would vaporize me if he could. I snapped my head back to the screen and stuffed a mouthful of popcorn into my mouth. The taste was bitter and salty; it sent shivers down my spine as I tried to focus on the plight the chainsaw strangler faced for having saws for hands.

Behind me Flynn was fuming, he pushed Kelsea away from him. I wanted to get up and run, try and defend myself. Afterall they were the ones feeling each other up in public, any sane person would look, or at least that was my thought process to cope with my peeping.

"What's a matter, love?" Kelsea sighed, sounded annoyed at the interruption.

"The creep was looking at us!" Flynn hissed. I sunk deeper into my seat, hoping it would swallow me whole. She was silent for a moment; I assumed disgust was washing over her. Then she let out a sharp laugh, like the bark of a gull.

"HA. Well, then he'll really want to see this." I heard the chair behind squeak and groan; she let out a guttural moan as she lunged toward him.

"What are you-hrrk." Flynn was cut off by something being shoved down his throat. The noise behind me became far too aggressive, it felt like the whole back row was shaking. There was this stretching sound, like rubber being push to its limit. It was followed by muffled cries and something snapping.

I shot up, a confused look sprouting on my faces. I heard slurping and chewing, ravenous amounts. There was a wet, slopping sound as something clattered to the ground, Flynn let out a choked moan, his voice strained and garbled.

"P-please-" Was all he could get out before I heard a loud snap, and something slump up against the wall. Something fumbled behind, eagerly climbing his seat. Something was being scarfed down, there was a choking sound as Kelsea grunted and chirped, forcing something down her throat. Fabric ripped, something that sounded like Velcro being stripped, then more messy dinning.

All my instincts told me to just get up and walk away, whatever was happening behind me was something I didn't want to see. Kelsea made this suckling sound, as she moaned in ecstasy, another snap, another gurgled noise as she slurped something down and finally I just, I had to look.

I wish to God I hadn't.

Half of Flynn was stripped to the bone. Crimson stained ligaments looked picked clean, his humerus was snapped in two, hell half his bones looked shattered and grinded to a fine marrow powder. His right side was bloody, exposed muscle tissue pulsating and quivering in their exposed state. His head was slumped to the side, his jowls slid sluggishly down. One eye was gone; it's only remnants a torn wiry nerve. The other was being yanked out by something horrid.

The thing was enveloping him with fine, silver shrouded wings. Digging into his bulky shoulders were a set of eagle claws, three long, scaley digits entrenched in his upper back while a fourth held him in place. The talons were undeniably animal, yet where the hand would meet the wrist there was a shift from scales to pink skin.

It tore in places, like an old sheath of leather, revealing tufts of feathers and grey, cracked skin underneath. The beast's cloths were torn, long legs ending in matching talons, down the creature's back were vibrant feathers in patterns of azure and lavender, ending in a three-pronged tail protruding from the monster's backside. Her hair was slick with gore; she still wasn't facing me. I could hear a squelching sound as she jerked her head back, and the snap of a tiny wire as blood spurted from the left side of Flynn's face.

She titled her head upward, making a gagging sound as she choked down a gel filled eye, nerve and all. I knew it was Kelsea then, because her stretched out face was looking right at me. Her jaw was extended, glass bulbs on either side of her cheeks. Her pale face was scrunched and worn, like a crumpled paper mask. Her once lime eyes sunken and vacant. I saw the last bit of optic nerved get slurped down this, fuck I don't even know what to call it.

It was almost like a beak, a hooked curve near the golden tip. The fringes were splattered with blood and viscera. Her neck bulged as she swallowed, and I watched a wad of chewed meat slide down her protruding esophagus. The skin around her neck was completely torn, this acidic pouch attached to the beak that bulged with every grunt and swallow. The whole spectacle looked like a keratin coated parasite had burrowed in her guts and came up for air.

Her head titled, the edges of the beak made a rapid, clattering sound as she turned to face me. Strips of flesh hung from her beak, those bulbous glass bulbs on that rested on either side of her beak spun in their sockets. Those dead albatross eyes came to rest on me, pupils dilating with carnivorous intent.

My head snapped back to the front of the screen as the booming rev of a chainsaw filled the air. My hands gripped the cupholders of the seat, I didn't know what to do. I was locked into a state of perpetual fright. The sounds of feasting behind me ceased and were replaced by sinister coos and clicks.

The film played on, I felt queasy looking at the buckets of fake blood being tossed around all of a sudden. I felt sticky breath at the nape of my neck that made that sent a tingling shiver down my spine. From the corner of my eye the bloodied beak loomed. It quietly clacked as if curious at my own inaction.

I ignored it as best I could, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into my mouth. The thing behind me made a snickering sound them. I froze midchew as machete-like nails slowly drummed down on my shoulders, one after another. Their grip was loose but their intent clear. The beak ducked outta sight, and I heard that once heavenly voice throw mockery in my mind.

"Poor little voyeur, your eyes were bigger than your stomach, eh?" she rapped her talons on my shoulders in a teasing manner, and I sunk deeper into the seat. I was silent, whole-body trembling with fear I'm embarrassed to say.

"If you look at me now, I'll make it worth your while. I'll share things with you, secret things that kings once throttled themselves over." Her grip on my shoulders tightening, daring me to look. I squeezed my eyes closed so hard it hurt, and her deranged cackle rattled in my brain.

"If I wasn't already sure you're spinless I'd rip open your back to check. Didn't run, didn't look, not an adventurous bone in your body. You'd rather just sit there taking up space. How boring. No one would miss you if I just sliced your little neck here and now." She slowly traced a taloned digit across my neck, it felt like a soft prick, the uncomfortable faux slice. My grip on the cup holders became a chokehold as I disassociated hard, my eyes hard locked to the movie in front of me.

"How endearing this picture is. I never knew there were so many uses for a chainsaw. Still doesn't compare to the real thing, doesn't it Ode?" Her taunts were nerve racking, using every little trick in her book to get me to look. What was the point, I had already glanced at her before. Was she just toying with me? Or was she simply full and taking a breather before her next meal.

"Come now, pet. Just take a gander at me. Come now, my sweet, and I'll drag you out to sea" Her voice was an ear worm digging its way through my grey matter. I felt compelled to obey, to let wrap myself around her little claw. I wanted to be docile cattle fit for slaughter. All I had to do was open my eyes and look.

A small part of me cried out, its voice smothered yet defiant. It grew louder as I opened my eyes, the glare of the silver screen flash banging me. It told me not to give in, I wanted to live I just needed to do something, anything. I felt her talons scratch the surface of my skin as they tore into my shirt, her beak clattered with greedy anticipation.

Without thinking, I jammed my hand into the popcorn bucket and jammed greasy kernels into my ears. It felt like a wad of wax, my makeshift plugs deafening me. I felt Kelsea's grip loosen, shocked at my sudden bizarre action. I quickly stuffed more in, the outside world becoming one long trumpet wah. I couldn't hear her voice anymore, only feel her angry talons lashing out me. The back of my seat buckled and shock as she threw a tantrum. The dull sounds of monstrous squawks barely made it through my popcorn barricade. I was careful not to move, lest I jostle lose a kernel and lodge it deeper into my ear, or worse.

The movie was almost over, the stoner a few rows down none the wiser to the terror unfolding behind me. Eventually she settled down, I assume to scarf down what remained of poor Flynn. I was doing my best to remain oblivious, the world around me deafened. The credits began to roll, and the lights started to slowly creep back into existence. The stoner got up and stretched; he turned around and saw me sitting there. He said something, I think he mouthed the words "That movie sucked, huh?" and then waltzed out of the theatre.

I was still there frozen. There was no movement behind me that I could feel. I felt a tap on my shoulder, far less pointed then before. Strands of wet hair dangled in my face, and lime eyes regarded me with compassion. She motioned to her ears and made a smoking gesture. With that I watched as she walked down the stairs, clothes intact, skin intact, not an avian feature in sight.

With extreme caution, I unclogged my ears. Sound slowly returned, the dull tones of the film's closing credits drummed above, with every movement of my head I swear I could hear a light tingling, if salt had sound, it'd be that. The theatre was empty, and there was a foul smell emitting from behind. I swallowed my fear and took a quick glance behind me.

There was nothing left save a sticky floor and a deep brown stain in the shape of a burly man. I got up and my knees buckled and wobbled; I wanted to retch but I fought the urge. I just got the hell out of there; my legs knew just where to go. On the way out the pimple faced cashier was coming in with a broom, he shoulder checked me and muttered something profane.

"Piss off ya walking zit." I blurted out without thinking. He shot me a look, then his face scrunched as he looked up at the row where Flynn had been. I left him to clean up that mess, amazed I spoke to him like that.

I mean after the shit I saw; I could care less about being an ass in public, that's for sure. I practically ran out of the theatre, the salty carbonated air suddenly a bit too suffocating. I burst out the theater doors and was greeted with a stary coated sky and a symphony of crickets.

I dryheaved, my head still spinning as I heard a polite cough. I shot up and gasped, Kelsea was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. I took an uneasy step back, and she threw her head back in laughed.

"Oh, relax love, that little stunt you pulled with the popcorn? Amused me greatly. Won't harm a hair on your pretty little head. Have me word." She held up a hand in a mocking "scout's honor" sort of way.

"Wh-what the hell are you?" I narrowed my eyes at her. She took a long drag and blew a puff of smoke my way. It smelled like seashells. I turned away, a million thoughts racing through my mind.

"I thought. . . I thought I was going to die." I admitted.

"Thrilling, init? Kelsea cooed. I turned to look at her, as she gave me a knowing look. She finished off her cig and flicked to the ground. She stepped on it as she approached. "Bit of free advice, pet. Don't be a bleeding passenger your whole life." she winked as she walked past me, and I felt a gush of wind knock me back. I looked up and saw a winged shadow soaring away, towards the sea from whence it came.

----------

That was a few weeks ago now, and I tell ya I haven't been the same since. I took her advice, or perhaps warning, to heart and I've been breaking out of the rut I've been in. I've gone out to lunch with coworkers, taking weekend excursions outta town, living life like every day could be my last. I got a date next week, and a trip down to Atlantic City the week after that.

I may be going a little too hard, but it beats the alternative. Besides, I have the perfect motivation for living a better life stamped into my brain forever; that stone-cold siren's voice endlessly taunting me in the back of my mind. Daring me to look danger in the face and blink.

Well tonight I'm going bungie jumping, so I guess we'll see who blinks first.

I've always enjoyed going to the movies. The resounding thrumming of the speakers, the crisp saltiness of the popcorn, that silver screen with its siren call of entertainment. To forget your worries for ninety minutes or so, immerse yourself into another world.

With that said, I've always hated the big crowds for summer blockbusters. Friday night rowdiness, shrieking at every big action scene, slinging corn at each other like wild animals.

The thing of it is though I don't like empty theatres as well. It makes the reality of going solo set in. My ideal theatre experience is to sit in the back two rows, a handful of people making up the audience. There are little things you observe when you're in a hushed room for a few hours.

You overhear little pockets of conversation, whispered voices talking about the mundane; who got a new haircut, who was late paying a bill, who slept with who at the wedding last week. Little intimate moments not meant for prying ears, though I couldn't help but overhear. It became a habit, people watching of a sort.

My eyes were glued to my silver mistress, but my ears would wander. Little gasps when a scare would happen, the begrudging chuckle when a bad joke landed. Inside jokes whispered under snarky breath I would never quite get, but I got the gist of it.

Occasionally, the soft whimper of wandering hands.

You wouldn't think a movie theatre would be a place people would fool around in, the taboo of getting caught and the thrill of being seen is quite enticing it turns out.

It wasn't an unwelcome noise in my menagerie of tones, but I tried to drown it out as best I can. Made my watching feel dirty, like I'm the creep somehow. Usually if it got a bit much a gruff cough and a shifting of my seat would silence the would-be lovers.

Life had been stressful lately, bit more isolating than normal. It was just sit in traffic for an hour, crunch numbers for several more, than go home to do it all again tomorrow. My pay is decent, and I get along well enough with co-workers. But it's all so monotonous. Then Friday hits and the paycheck drops, and I speed off to my weekly ritual.

It was something I've come to rely on. I cherished those Friday showings, and all the little eccentrics I spotted.

It was no different then, that fateful Friday evening. No bells and whistles, no red flags waving in my face. Nothing to signal the sensual terror that lurked ahead.

-----------

My local theatre is located right near the coast; you can smell the fresh sea air right as you pull up. On nice summer nights you can usually spot a few people camping out near the waterfront. That night was no diffrent. I got out of my car and took a deep breathe. In the distance a gull cried out, and I scurried inside the theatre.

I admired the palace like atmosphere of the lobby; place was nearly empty so one could really appreciate the space. The aroma of fresh popcorn and greasy butter filled my nostrils as soon as I walked in. At the far ticket booth, a pimple faced teen with a vacant look on his face manned it. Even from the front entrance, I could tell he was texting, his eyes constantly flicking down.

My own baby blues gazed upon the showtimes, and I debated what I would see tonight. I settled on a slasher flick, The Chainsaw Strangler, to help get through my weekday blues. I figured it would be gory good fun if nothing else. I waltzed over to the ticket booth, snapping my fingers slightly to get the pimpled teen's attention.

He regarded me with annoyance, and he spoke with this nasally voice that sounded like his sinuses were getting assaulted by pollen on all sides.

"Can I help you?" I could hear the clutter of his phone being squirreled away.

"One for The Chainsaw Strangler, please." I responded. I heard the walking zit snort and mumble something under his rank breath. I pretended I didn't hear whatever dig he threw my way and just swiped my card with a smile on my face. I snatched the ticket stub and told him to have a nice day.

Strolling past the ticket booth my gaze landed at the concession counter. It seemed a mile long and overflowed with sugary treats and salty goodness. There was a burly gentleman talking up the counter girl. who was laughing a little too loudly at whatever he was saying. He was a good-looking dude with a trimmed cut and wore a plaid jacket that fit his physique perfectly.

I'm not sure why, but I decided to hang back till he was done. I looked down and poked my flabby abs, making a mental note to go back to the gym this weekend. I wandered for a moment, looking at the various "coming soon" attractions. There were a few circular tales with clutter and discarded cups strown about, janitorial was being its usual lazy self it seemed.

I stopped in my tracks then, as an overwhelmingly soothing melody hit my ear.

"He up and left me, his only true love the sea."

"He was tall and rugged, thought he had eyes only for me, He was kind and as sweet as could be."

"He traveled long and he traveled far, while I was left to wallow at the bar."

"I heard word at last, from an old shipmate. The bastard was cheating, I swore to castrate."

"Tragically, he fell ill at sea, wonder if his last thoughts were of me."

The shanty was being softly sung by a bored looking woman two tables from me. She had jet black hair, save for three streaks of violet that ran down her pixie cut. She wore a pinstripe shirt that matched and a frilly skirt with batwing leggings. Her skin was an olive tone, her tired eyes a hazy lime.

I felt my face flush, noting I had aimlessly wandered inches away from her as she sung. In my defense, her voice was amazing, unlike anything to ever grace my ears. I realized I was a bit too close and tried to escape when she spoke up.

"Did you like my song?" She looked up at me with a sweat smile. I noticed she was scribbling lyrics down on a small note pad in front of her. On her pen was images of a tropical beach and mermaids frolicking in sparkling blue water.

"It was lovely. You have a beautiful voice." My face was crimson at that point, and I'm sure I stuttered that out like a dope. Her grin widened, and she bore a bashful, modest look.

"You're far to kind. Vocals might have been fine, but I fear the lyrics were a bit shite. Think I rhymed "me" too much." She titled her head back and laughed, it sounded like raindrops lightly hitting the window. She stuck her hand out, her nails a shade of azure. "I'm Kelsea, most folks just call me Kel."

I limply took her hand and gave it a nervous shake, suddenly very aware of how much I was sweating. You ever do that, just stand there and perspirate like an idiot? Well, that was me. If she thought, I was a goof with clammy hands she hid it well. She just kept flashing her pearly whites at me.

"I'm Otto. Most folks just call me-Odie." That was a lie actually, I just wanted to sound cool.

"Like the dog?" She stifled a giggle, but it slipped through all the same. Well, that had been a swing and a miss.

"You seeing anything good today?" I deflected. She shrugged her slim shoulders.

"Oh, just some dreary horror flick. I'm with that handsome gentleman over there." She pointed towards the tall dude at the counter, and my heart did a four-hundred-foot dive to my stomach.

"Oh, that's cool. Seems like a cool dude." I swallowed my pride as I said that.

"These dating apps are a marvelous thing. He's gorgeous, I could just eat him up here and now." There was a ravenous tone in her voice that made me blush, which she was quick to take note of.

"Have you a paramour today, love?" she inquired.

"Uh, no. No I'm just, here by myself today." She cocked her head in bewilderment.

"Going to the pictures alone? You don't find that a bit-sad?" Her words stung but her tone was oddly sympathetic.

"I wouldn't say that, just nice to get out of the house at all ya know?" I replied sheepishly.

"Still, such a lonely thing, isn't it? Tell you what, pet, I have a gig down at the Curtain Call later this evening. You show up, mention my name and the first round is on me." Her eyes twinkled with flattery at every buttery word.

"Uh, well maybe I co-" Before I could finish my sentence, I was shoulder checked as a tall man briskly passed me and put a giant tub of popcorn on the table. He stood tall and faced me, his chest puffing out as he did. He had a wide grin on his face, if a shark could walk and talk it would be this guy. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself.

"Hey buddy, names Flynn. We all good here?" I took his hand and felt my fingers be crushed as he aggressively shook. "We all good bud?" He repeated once more.

"Ah, yeah, was just, saying hi." I tried to pry my hand away, but it was like my hand was caught in a bear trap. Flynn finally let go and then patted me on the shoulder like I was a toddler.

"Well good seeing ya bud; you have a great day now." He took a step closer, like he was daring me to say something. I slunk back and averted my gaze from him.

"Uh, nice meeting you, Kelsea." I mumbled through cowardly breath. I backed away and head Flynn snickering at me behind my back.

"Catch you later then, lone ranger." Kelsea called back a little too loud. I picked up the pace, embarrassed and seething at my apparent impotency. I had never actually been mogged in public before, who the hell would even think of doing that in real life? I walked up the counter, desperate to put that cringe worthy interaction to bed.

The snack counter lady, Liz, was all smiles as I approached. She wore a velvet cap and a black Tee with a gold name plate. Before I could open my gob, she pointed at me.

"Lemme guess-large Dr. Pepper, medium Pop light on the butter and a thing of goobers." She had my usual order down perfectly. Her beaming smile brightened my mood like nothing else.

"You got it." I shot a finger at her, a bit too heavy on the gesturing in hindsight. She shifted and brushed some hair out of her face as she got my snacks.

"Well, you're in here enough, I better have it memorized by now haha." Her back was turned to me, she was scooping corn into a greasy brown bag, the sticky whirr of the soda machine going next to her. "You must really like movies."

"Uh, yeah, big movie buff." I shifted, studying the ground for a moment.

"I LOVE movies, sometimes I stay after my shift and sneak into a late showing. There's usually no one there though, can get kinda boring." She shrugged sheepishly as she handed me my food.

"Yeah, I get that. 22.50 right?" I offered my ancient debt card. She swiped the card from me and pressed it against the reader.

"You have any plans after? Maybe doing a double feature?" She handed me my receipt and card and I quickly snatched them, scoping up my concessions in my other arm.

"Uh, no, just-going home probably. Long week, kind of just wanna unwind." I said a little too quickly. "Thanks have a good night." I quickly side stepped the counter and rushed away.

"Oh-ok. See you around, Ottis." She called back. I know what you're thinking, but honestly I didn't need to make a fool of myself twice in one night. Besides, a million what ifs ran through my skull. What if I made an ass of myself, couldn't come back here. I like going to the movies, it's the only theatre around where would I go? Better to just keep my head down and keep things to light pleasantries.

Nothing more, nothing less.

--------

The slasher flick was playing in theatre three, one of the larger auditoriums. I kicked the door open and waddled in, taking a quick sip of my drink. The soda fizzed and crackled in my mouth, leaving this tingly sensation. The lights inside were already dim, the screen playing some local ad. I glanced up the steps, the place was dead save for a long-haired guy in the fourth row.

Even in subpar lighting I could tell the dude was stoned. I walked past him and he regarded me with glazed over eyes and smacked me upside the head with the rank stench of skunk. I climbed the steps and eyed my seat; dead center in the second to last. Perfect view of my silver mistress and far enough away from the crowd, if it ever came.

I plopped down in my seat and munched on some corn as I watched the previews. The oversized speakers on the wall hummed with sound as the guy on the screen droned on and on about the dangers of texting while driving. From below I heard the auditorium door swing open, followed by duo of crazed giggles. An M&M ad about the crunch of a peanut M&M being the only sound you should hear in a theatre played as Kelsea and Flynn raced up the stairs. She was holding his hand; he kept tripping as she dragged him up the steps. She saw me gawking and gave me a little wave. Flynn flipped me off, his shit eating grin only growing.

Out of all the places they could have sat, they ended up directly behind me. I heard them get settled as my face grew red, already I could make out hushed whispers and snickering. I debated getting up and moving but I imagined the giggle fits that would erupt if I paid them any mind. Nah, it was better to just stay put, maybe get an usher if they got too rowdy.

The lights fully died and the theatres logo popped up onto screen, greeting us fine patrons and going over the basic rules of etiquette. Like no phones, no talking, ect, etc. The usual things the chattering pair behind me were breaking in droves. The stoned dude a few rows down wasn't bothered, frankly I don't think he was even in the same time zone anymore.

The trailers zoomed by, and yet all I could focus on was the couple behind me. Kelsea was loudly talking, her voice like a gnat in my ear. Funny thing is even Flynn sounded a bit miffed. He just kept grunting and going "Yeah, I bet, mhmm, damn you're beautiful." To which she'd erupt in a fit of laughter and say he was adorable.

I heard her shift in her seat, no doubt to lean in close to him. I heard sultry whispers that would make a nun faint as Flynn coughed and crossed his legs. I did a quick cough to remind them there were other people in this theatre, to which Kelsea responded by yawning rather obnoxiously.

"I do hope this picture starts soon; I've heard such good things." my face burned red hot at her tone, something so seductive in it. I tried to ignore it; I really did but it was like she craved the attention, stolen glances and perked ears at every little noise she made. Finally, the film started, the theatre draped in darkness.

It was then she dropped all pretense and I heard her pounce on Flynn behind me. He let out a surprised gasp that quickly turned into low moans. The movie boomed all around us, chainsaws screeched and scream queens did what they do best, but for the life of me all I could focus on was the sensual sounds behind me.

There was the soft smacking of lips as the young lovers swapped tongues and whispered dirty vows into each other's ears. Promise after promise of lust deeds, and the clatter of pants unbuckling. I shifted in my seat, the blood draining from my face. This was too much, too far, and I wanted to walk out and call it a day.

But part of me was curious, it yearned to sneak a glance at the spectacle just behind. A lonely part that yearned to be touched, that wished I was the one with Kelsea, with anyone really. I swallowed my pride and turned my head slightly to the right. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw them.

She was straddling him; her arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. Her wavey hair wrapped around her head like a vial. Flynn's hands wandered under Kelsea's shirt, bulging movement caressing every inch of her. In between wet kisses I heard her whisper things, her voice soft, her words a tangled mess of lust and yearning.

I found myself staring a bit too long, not for what I saw but what I heard. I could barely make out her whispers, but I swore I heard promises of adoration love for the rest of my days. I heard her share secrets, private things that should never be thought let alone spoken aloud.

His toes curled as she explained the inner workings of early Mesopotamian society and I swear I was hooked. It wasn't just the forbidden fruit of knowledge either, there was something so enchanting about her tone, it drew me in, disarmed my anxious heart and me feel-

The glare of a wrathful eye caught my attention, and I was instantly mortified. Flynn's gaze was deadly; I was sure he would vaporize me if he could. I snapped my head back to the screen and stuffed a mouthful of popcorn into my mouth. The taste was bitter and salty; it sent shivers down my spine as I tried to focus on the plight the chainsaw strangler faced for having saws for hands.

Behind me Flynn was fuming, he pushed Kelsea away from him. I wanted to get up and run, try and defend myself. Afterall they were the ones feeling each other up in public, any sane person would look, or at least that was my thought process to cope with my peeping.

"What's a matter, love?" Kelsea sighed, sounded annoyed at the interruption.

"The creep was looking at us!" Flynn hissed. I sunk deeper into my seat, hoping it would swallow me whole. She was silent for a moment; I assumed disgust was washing over her. Then she let out a sharp laugh, like the bark of a gull.

"HA. Well, then he'll really want to see this." I heard the chair behind squeak and groan; she let out a guttural moan as she lunged toward him.

"What are you-hrrk." Flynn was cut off by something being shoved down his throat. The noise behind me became far too aggressive, it felt like the whole back row was shaking. There was this stretching sound, like rubber being push to its limit. It was followed by muffled cries and something snapping.

I shot up, a confused look sprouting on my faces. I heard slurping and chewing, ravenous amounts. There was a wet, slopping sound as something clattered to the ground, Flynn let out a choked moan, his voice strained and garbled.

"P-please-" Was all he could get out before I heard a loud snap, and something slump up against the wall. Something fumbled behind, eagerly climbing his seat. Something was being scarfed down, there was a choking sound as Kelsea grunted and chirped, forcing something down her throat. Fabric ripped, something that sounded like Velcro being stripped, then more messy dinning.

All my instincts told me to just get up and walk away, whatever was happening behind me was something I didn't want to see. Kelsea made this suckling sound, as she moaned in ecstasy, another snap, another gurgled noise as she slurped something down and finally I just, I had to look.

I wish to God I hadn't.

Half of Flynn was stripped to the bone. Crimson stained ligaments looked picked clean, his humerus was snapped in two, hell half his bones looked shattered and grinded to a fine marrow powder. His right side was bloody, exposed muscle tissue pulsating and quivering in their exposed state. His head was slumped to the side, his jowls slid sluggishly down. One eye was gone; it's only remnants a torn wiry nerve. The other was being yanked out by something horrid.

The thing was enveloping him with fine, silver shrouded wings. Digging into his bulky shoulders were a set of eagle claws, three long, scaley digits entrenched in his upper back while a fourth held him in place. The talons were undeniably animal, yet where the hand would meet the wrist there was a shift from scales to pink skin.

It tore in places, like an old sheath of leather, revealing tufts of feathers and grey, cracked skin underneath. The beast's cloths were torn, long legs ending in matching talons, down the creature's back were vibrant feathers in patterns of azure and lavender, ending in a three-pronged tail protruding from the monster's backside. Her hair was slick with gore; she still wasn't facing me. I could hear a squelching sound as she jerked her head back, and the snap of a tiny wire as blood spurted from the left side of Flynn's face.

She titled her head upward, making a gagging sound as she choked down a gel filled eye, nerve and all. I knew it was Kelsea then, because her stretched out face was looking right at me. Her jaw was extended, glass bulbs on either side of her cheeks. Her pale face was scrunched and worn, like a crumpled paper mask. Her once lime eyes sunken and vacant. I saw the last bit of optic nerved get slurped down this, fuck I don't even know what to call it.

It was almost like a beak, a hooked curve near the golden tip. The fringes were splattered with blood and viscera. Her neck bulged as she swallowed, and I watched a wad of chewed meat slide down her protruding esophagus. The skin around her neck was completely torn, this acidic pouch attached to the beak that bulged with every grunt and swallow. The whole spectacle looked like a keratin coated parasite had burrowed in her guts and came up for air.

Her head titled, the edges of the beak made a rapid, clattering sound as she turned to face me. Strips of flesh hung from her beak, those bulbous glass bulbs on that rested on either side of her beak spun in their sockets. Those dead albatross eyes came to rest on me, pupils dilating with carnivorous intent.

My head snapped back to the front of the screen as the booming rev of a chainsaw filled the air. My hands gripped the cupholders of the seat, I didn't know what to do. I was locked into a state of perpetual fright. The sounds of feasting behind me ceased and were replaced by sinister coos and clicks.

The film played on, I felt queasy looking at the buckets of fake blood being tossed around all of a sudden. I felt sticky breath at the nape of my neck that made that sent a tingling shiver down my spine. From the corner of my eye the bloodied beak loomed. It quietly clacked as if curious at my own inaction.

I ignored it as best I could, stuffing another fistful of popcorn into my mouth. The thing behind me made a snickering sound them. I froze midchew as machete-like nails slowly drummed down on my shoulders, one after another. Their grip was loose but their intent clear. The beak ducked outta sight, and I heard that once heavenly voice throw mockery in my mind.

"Poor little voyeur, your eyes were bigger than your stomach, eh?" she rapped her talons on my shoulders in a teasing manner, and I sunk deeper into the seat. I was silent, whole-body trembling with fear I'm embarrassed to say.

"If you look at me now, I'll make it worth your while. I'll share things with you, secret things that kings once throttled themselves over." Her grip on my shoulders tightening, daring me to look. I squeezed my eyes closed so hard it hurt, and her deranged cackle rattled in my brain.

"If I wasn't already sure you're spinless I'd rip open your back to check. Didn't run, didn't look, not an adventurous bone in your body. You'd rather just sit there taking up space. How boring. No one would miss you if I just sliced your little neck here and now." She slowly traced a taloned digit across my neck, it felt like a soft prick, the uncomfortable faux slice. My grip on the cup holders became a chokehold as I disassociated hard, my eyes hard locked to the movie in front of me.

"How endearing this picture is. I never knew there were so many uses for a chainsaw. Still doesn't compare to the real thing, doesn't it Ode?" Her taunts were nerve racking, using every little trick in her book to get me to look. What was the point, I had already glanced at her before. Was she just toying with me? Or was she simply full and taking a breather before her next meal.

"Come now, pet. Just take a gander at me. Come now, my sweet, and I'll drag you out to sea" Her voice was an ear worm digging its way through my grey matter. I felt compelled to obey, to let wrap myself around her little claw. I wanted to be docile cattle fit for slaughter. All I had to do was open my eyes and look.

A small part of me cried out, its voice smothered yet defiant. It grew louder as I opened my eyes, the glare of the silver screen flash banging me. It told me not to give in, I wanted to live I just needed to do something, anything. I felt her talons scratch the surface of my skin as they tore into my shirt, her beak clattered with greedy anticipation.

Without thinking, I jammed my hand into the popcorn bucket and jammed greasy kernels into my ears. It felt like a wad of wax, my makeshift plugs deafening me. I felt Kelsea's grip loosen, shocked at my sudden bizarre action. I quickly stuffed more in, the outside world becoming one long trumpet wah. I couldn't hear her voice anymore, only feel her angry talons lashing out me. The back of my seat buckled and shock as she threw a tantrum. The dull sounds of monstrous squawks barely made it through my popcorn barricade. I was careful not to move, lest I jostle lose a kernel and lodge it deeper into my ear, or worse.

The movie was almost over, the stoner a few rows down none the wiser to the terror unfolding behind me. Eventually she settled down, I assume to scarf down what remained of poor Flynn. I was doing my best to remain oblivious, the world around me deafened. The credits began to roll, and the lights started to slowly creep back into existence. The stoner got up and stretched; he turned around and saw me sitting there. He said something, I think he mouthed the words "That movie sucked, huh?" and then waltzed out of the theatre.

I was still there frozen. There was no movement behind me that I could feel. I felt a tap on my shoulder, far less pointed then before. Strands of wet hair dangled in my face, and lime eyes regarded me with compassion. She motioned to her ears and made a smoking gesture. With that I watched as she walked down the stairs, clothes intact, skin intact, not an avian feature in sight.

With extreme caution, I unclogged my ears. Sound slowly returned, the dull tones of the film's closing credits drummed above, with every movement of my head I swear I could hear a light tingling, if salt had sound, it'd be that. The theatre was empty, and there was a foul smell emitting from behind. I swallowed my fear and took a quick glance behind me.

There was nothing left save a sticky floor and a deep brown stain in the shape of a burly man. I got up and my knees buckled and wobbled; I wanted to retch but I fought the urge. I just got the hell out of there; my legs knew just where to go. On the way out the pimple faced cashier was coming in with a broom, he shoulder checked me and muttered something profane.

"Piss off ya walking zit." I blurted out without thinking. He shot me a look, then his face scrunched as he looked up at the row where Flynn had been. I left him to clean up that mess, amazed I spoke to him like that.

I mean after the shit I saw; I could care less about being an ass in public, that's for sure. I practically ran out of the theatre, the salty carbonated air suddenly a bit too suffocating. I burst out the theater doors and was greeted with a stary coated sky and a symphony of crickets.

I dryheaved, my head still spinning as I heard a polite cough. I shot up and gasped, Kelsea was leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. I took an uneasy step back, and she threw her head back in laughed.

"Oh, relax love, that little stunt you pulled with the popcorn? Amused me greatly. Won't harm a hair on your pretty little head. Have me word." She held up a hand in a mocking "scout's honor" sort of way.

"Wh-what the hell are you?" I narrowed my eyes at her. She took a long drag and blew a puff of smoke my way. It smelled like seashells. I turned away, a million thoughts racing through my mind.

"I thought. . . I thought I was going to die." I admitted.

"Thrilling, init? Kelsea cooed. I turned to look at her, as she gave me a knowing look. She finished off her cig and flicked to the ground. She stepped on it as she approached. "Bit of free advice, pet. Don't be a bleeding passenger your whole life." she winked as she walked past me, and I felt a gush of wind knock me back. I looked up and saw a winged shadow soaring away, towards the sea from whence it came.

----------

That was a few weeks ago now, and I tell ya I haven't been the same since. I took her advice, or perhaps warning, to heart and I've been breaking out of the rut I've been in. I've gone out to lunch with coworkers, taking weekend excursions outta town, living life like every day could be my last. I got a date next week, and a trip down to Atlantic City the week after that.

I may be going a little too hard, but it beats the alternative. Besides, I have the perfect motivation for living a better life stamped into my brain forever; that stone-cold siren's voice endlessly taunting me in the back of my mind. Daring me to look danger in the face and blink.

Well tonight I'm going bungie jumping, so I guess we'll see who blinks first.

The events of my childhood are stamped onto my frontal lobe for all eternity. The being that tormented my family for two long miserable years, the cruelty inflicted on us follows me like a lost puppy.

I close my eyes at night, and I hear his animated giggle dancing in my mind. Sometimes I think I see him, peeking at me from behind the corner. I'll never forget his dead, mustard stained eyes.

His name was Larry Lasagna.

It was an unusually warm autumn day, the kind of weather that tricks you into wearing shorts and running though sprinklers only to sock you in the head with a cold front an hour later. 

It was just after breakfast; dad had just made his world-famous French toast sticks for breakfast. My sister Izzy and I had wolfed them down hard, like gluttonous little piggies. 

The kitchen had just been repainted, the scent of fresh blueberry primer hung in the air, but we didn't care. We didn't have a care in the world in fact. Mom sat on the end of the table, newspaper in hand.

She looked beautiful in the early morning light, radiant even. Dad was finishing up another batch while wearing his iconic "Kiss the Chef" Apron. Mom glanced up from the sports section and gave dad a flirty side eye.

"Nick if that second batch is as good as the first, I might have to take you up on the offer." 

"It's the apron's offer; I got a better one for ya." He winked. Izzy and I were oblivious to our parents' double entendre.  We were just eagerly awaiting a second helping. Then we heard it.

Knock knock knock. 

My dad peered towards the back door, a frown on his face. I could see a silent silhouette behind the frosted glass. Dad turned the heat down on the stove, annoyed at this breakfast time interruption. 

"Who could that be this early, they're gonna get a stern talking to I tell you HWhat." He told us. Me and Izzy giggled at our dad's iconic Hank Hill Impression. It never failed to get a laugh out of us, though we were an easy to please audience.

Dad waltzed up to the door and unlatched the lock. He opened it, and immediately I saw the color drain from his face. He stepped back in abject horror, cupping his hand to his mouth. 

"Who is it honey?" My mom chirped up, barely looking up from her newspaper. 

"It... I'm so sorry Kasey." My dad choked out with bated breath. Finally, my mom looked up just in time to see my dad stand aside and let our unwanted visitor inside.  As strange it sounds, the being standing in our doorway was a five-and-a-half-foot tall rabbit man.

He had grey matted fur and a white belly that looked soft to the touch yet wet at the same time. In fact, he looked like he had just crawled through a tunnel of lube. He had a pink little nose, two long rabbit ears and little whiskers that twitched when he rubbed it.

He also had a decent sized piece of rabbit meat dangling in the wind between his legs. His eyes were hyper-realistic and a sickly yellow. Dead center in that sea of piss were beady little dots that looked right into your soul. He even had a perfect pair of buck teeth, pristine and white as the day he was born.

My mother's face contorted in horror; she forced a smile onto her face.

"Well what a-pleasant surprise. Nick don't just stand there. Introduce our guest." She said through fake pleasantry. 

"Yea Nicky, invite me in old pal old buddy old friend." The rabbit piped up. His voice was very high pitched and exaggerated, like an old-time cartoon. 

"K-kids this is... this is your uncle. Larry Lasagna." Dad could barely get it out. He was visibly shaking now. It was uncomfortable, he was always so laid back and easy going.

I frowned at this thing's cover story. Mom didn't have any siblings, though Dad had one brother he rarely spoke of. In any case I doubt he walked around looking like he just walked out of a Merry Melody. Izzy giggled at the mentioned of Larry's name.

 "That's not a name that's a food teehee." She said covering up her laughter. Dad's skin took on a ghostly tone as Larry bulldozed past him like he owned the place. He extended his hands towards Izzy, and I noticed that he was actually wearing white gloves. They were skintight and I could make out every little inch on his palm. He rustled Izzy's dark hair and smiled.

"Well, my mama named me after her two great loves, food and guys named Larry." He joked. Dad burst out in uneasy laughter behind him, with mom quickly joining him.

I didn't think it was that great of a bit to be honest, so I sat there silently. That is until I felt a sharp pain in my knee, my mother had started kicking me repeatedly. Finally, I joined in on the laughter. Larry stood there, taking in the fake joy and good cheer. 

"Now as to my visit today, well I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I'd pop in and help your mom-and-pop look after you for a while." Larry came between us, putting both hands on our back. Izzy look pleased but I just found the whole thing so surreal.

Dad shifted uncomfortably while Mom just kept smiling. Dad closed the door and went back to cooking French toast while Larry took a seat across from me. Dad cursed under his breath, quickly turning over a burnt peace. Larry noticed and spoke up once again.

"French toast, eh Nicky? I tell ya that's the only breakfast that surrenders if ya look at funny bwahahaha." Larry chortled. The rest of the family cackled like rabid hyenas, and after another swift kick from my mother I joined the lunacy.

Izzy was besides herself, almost rolling on the floor in hysterics. Made sense I suppose, she was only six. Six-year-olds had funky senses of humor.

The rest of breakfast was tense and silent save for the occasional off-color joke Larry would make. He would say something like "I had a long flight here, and BOY are my arms tired!"

Then we would roar with laughter. Often, he would just sit there, grinning nonstop. Then when Mom started to clear the table, he perked up and grabbed her wrist.

"Say Kas, did you ever tell your kiddies about all the fun we used to have growing up." He looked at her, an intense stare of joyous malice. 

"N-no I don't think it ever came up Uncle Larry." Mom tried to evade the question. Larry released his grip and put his hands to his face, gasping in exaggerated fashion. I wanted to get up and come to her rescue, but I felt dad's hand on my shoulder. It felt clammy yet he held it firmly.

"You never told them about all the fun games we'd play, how we'd laugh and laugh until our eyes fell outta our heads?" He took his hands and brought them up to his face.

Grabbing his eyelids, he stretched them out to unreasonable proportions, his lemon eyes began to bulge out of his head like ballons. Izzy giggled besides me; I was doing everything in my power not to piss myself. 

"You never told them about "springhead."" Larry said, a devilish grin forming on his face. Mom grew pale, she started rubbing her knuckles like a crack addict. Larry reached behind his back and pulled out an oversized mallet out of thin air. 

"No Uncle Larry, we don't have to-"

"Uh-oh Kim you said the magic words; "we have to."" squealed Larry. With that he raised the mallet above mom's head and brought it down with the force of a thousand winds. We heard a massive SPLAT on impact as the mallet now rested where her head had been.

I gasped but Dad's hand covered my mouth. Larry shot a glance my way but said nothing. He took the mallet off and we saw the damage. Mom's head was completely sunken into the base of her neck.

It was like she was a pile of loose skin that just needed inflating. I could make out the scrunched-up features of her face, twitching sporadically. Larry threw the mallet aside and it vanished without a trace.

He held up a hand and lightly pinched what remained of her nostrils. With the grace of a magician, he tugged on her nose and her head popped out of her neck like a turtle shell. Her face was distorted and mishappen, like clay in a furnace too long.

Larry looked proud at first but then saw us grimacing sat his handiwork. He stole a quick glance at mom's grotesque visage and went "augh."

"Now that won't do, lemme give you a hand." With that he popped off his left hand and slapped her face silly with it. A whirlwind of color appeared then, as Mom's face shook violently with each slap.

First slap, her eyes were fixed but her chin was slack jawed.

Second slap she had a mohawk and saggy cheeks.

Third, she looked exactly like Bobby Flay.

It was so absurd yet horrifying how effortlessly Larry morphed my mother. My eyes were stricken with fear but Izzy and my dad couldn't stop cackling. Larry beamed with approval and shot me another look.

I didn't want to laugh at this horror; I wanted to scream and run away. I wanted my dad, who was once a god in my eyes, to stop laughing and help her. But as the slaps continued, so did Larry's gaze at me.

Finally, I let out a soft chuckle. That was enough to satisfy Larry, who grabbed mom's head and stopped it cold. I didn't even see him pop his other hand back into place.

Mom sat there, make up running down her face, struggling to breathe. She touched her face to confirm she was still in one piece and saw us all gawking at her. Larry tapped his foot impatiently, each thump like a rapid heartbeat. Finally, mom began to laugh, tears still streaming.

"Hahahahahahahaha Oh Larry, you're-you're such a card." Mom slapped Larry's arm playfully. Larry grinned and twitched his nose. "Isn't he so fun gang?" Mom egged us on. We all joined in in her madness, dad even clapping his hands and whistling. Larry stood up and took a bow, getting off on our applause. 

"Aw shucks guys. It's nice to see you all so happy. I bet you haven't been this happy in a while huh? Maybe I'll stick around for a few days. To remind you all how to have fun." He enunciated every word so clearly, this vacant look in his eyes.

My parents praised the decision, laughing the whole time yet eyeing each other nervously.  That was the first day of life with Larry.

-------------

Larry stayed with us for two years. I dreaded waking up in the morning, hoping today would be the day he finally left. School was fine, I tried telling people about Larry but no one believed me. He was just this thing in our lives we would have to put up with.

He was there in the mornings, putting on some basic routine where he would slam his head against the wall or bash dad's head with a frying pan.

His face would bloat up and a single meter long bump would grow atop his head, and in an instant Larry would giggle and push it back down and dad would be look like himself again.

Larry was a master of contorting and deforming his own body as well.  Sometimes he would rush in during dinner, and slide and smack face first into the dining room wall. He would stick there like dead fly, flat as a pancake.

There was never any blood or anything like that. He would simply become two dimensional, then stick his thumb in his mouth and inflate himself till he popped. Bits and pieces would fall gently to the ground after that.

One time a grey little bit floated down into my soup. I glanced down to find a yellow eye staring at me. It was quickly yanked out by a gloved hand besides me. Larry was wearing a fancy suit and vest, sans pants, and had on a fake moustache. He examined the eyeball, a black squiggly void where his missing eye was, and exclaimed in French:

"Mon Du! Zere Iz A ME In Zis Zoup."

He was then met with roaring laughter.

It was exhausting. At night I would hear my parents whispering to each other in fear. They had to spend all day bottled up with that thing, so at night they bickered and snapped at each other like rabid wolves. I caught Larry lingering by their door one night as they went for each other's throats. He just stood there drinking the misery in. He saw me looking and gave me a wink that sent shivers down my spine.

-------------------

One day Larry was performing a trick for Izzy in the living room. He was trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat but seemed to be pulling everything but. Mice and other rodents littered the once pristine den rug.

Dad sat in his lazy boy, beer in hand looking exasperated. Izzy was rolling on the ground, beyond entertained by it all. Mom walked in and took one look at the rug, and I swear I saw steam pour out of her ears. 

"That's IT. Larry, you need to leave. We're sick of living like this." Mom screeched at him. Larry's face didn't change but his tone sure did.

"I'm sorry to hear you say that, Kasey. Does anyone else feel that way. Izzy? Hunter? How about you Nick." He called out to us. Izzy was adamant that she loved Uncle Larry, while Dad sat in tempered silence.

I just shrugged my shoulders, afraid of the bitterness in his voice. "Seems it's just you Kas. Why don't you and I go have a chat. Hash things out." He said, a darkness looming over him. He grabbed her hand and started dragging her to the basement. She called out to dad, begging him to do something.

He just sat there, drinking his beer in his cuck chair and wallowing in his impotency.

I winced as the basement door slammed shut. There was nothing but silence for a moment. Dad put on some movie and hiked up the volume.

Fifteen minutes later the screaming started.

My mother wailed as I heard crashing and banging down below, Larry's rage cutting though like the crack of a whip.

Dad turned up the TV, drowning out her cries for mercy.

Halfway through the movie we heard Larry stomp back up the stairs. Mom wasn't with him. I could hear faint whimpers from down below.

Larry was muttering to himself in the kitchen, washing his hands. I heard the faucet turn off, and Larry stomped towards the den. He stopped in the doorway and glanced at us, an annoyed look on his face.

"What are you kids still doing up. It's half past six. Go to bed. Now." He ordered. Izzy and I got up without a second word, and my dad actually got up as well. "Not you Nick." He muttered, brushing past me without even a glance.

Dad slunk back into his seat, and my last view of him that night was Larry snatching the beer from his hand and swigging it down himself.

I laid awake most of the night, Larry loudly braying and giggling, telling sordid jokes and raunchy tales from the den. Dad would join in with laughter at times, and Larry would throw something, slurring his words at him.

The next morning mom was holding an ice pack to her face and wouldn't let us look her. Larry patted her on the back when he woke up, and my mom flinched at his touch.

My mother never spoke to dad again. They lived together in condemning silence until her death three years ago.

Dad slept on the couch after that, and Larry would whisper things to him at night. Sometimes I would wake up to get a drink of water; and I would hear dad sobbing downstairs, while Larry told him to quit being a sourpuss.

The only one who seemed truly unfazed by Larry's antics was Izzy. She couldn't get enough of him and looking back I think he took that as a challenge.

Every day was a parade of tricks and cartoon insanity, each day he one upped himself in an effort to break her. Yet not once did she sway from her love his boorish whimsy. A nervous twitch came would come across him, an unsettling spasm as he forced a smile at her joy.

-------------------

One night I heard a rustling coming from her room. I woke up in a frenzy, my heart beating out of my chest. I heard her gigging like a mad man in her room, and Larry chattering away within. I crept out of bed and quietly tiptoed into the hall.

The giggling grew louder.

Then I noticed it was mixed in with sobs and pleading wails.

My heart turned to stone at the sound of Izzy crying, and I leaned in to get a better picture of just what the heck was going on in there.

I heard this horrible slopping nose, followed by the ringing of metal falling to the ground. The sounds were almost comical smacking sounds, scored to the sound of braying laughter and asinine jokes.

"Hey Izzy. What'd the pie say when it won an award." I heard Larry snigger. 

"W-what." Izzy chortled through maniacal tears.

"Whoopie." Larry replied, and I would hear him do something that made this horrid whooshing sound, and the smack and slow dribble of wet slop would crawl down Izzy's face, and she would choke with laughter.

It would repeat on and on, that sloshing sound.

I burned with fury and was about to rush in and confront him when Dad's hand clasped down on me. I turned to face him, a mournful look on him.

"Don't." He whispered. "it'll be worse for her if you do." 

"Why is this happening." I sneered at him. "Why haven't you got your gun and shot the rabbit." I begged of him. My father looked me in the eyes and nodded. 

"Come downstairs. I'll tell you everything you need to know." He commanded softly. Following him downstairs I tried to drone out the sound of Larry playing with Izzy.

Dad led me down to his makeshift bed on the couch. He sat me down and we had "The Talk," so to speak.

"I remember when Larry Lasagna first came to our town. It was a bright spring day; the birds were chirping their merry little tune. The sky was a beautiful ocean blue and-" 

"Dad what the hell are you talking about, ocean blue sky-who cares about any of that what the hell is that thing?" I screeched at him, pushing him away in frustration. Dad cleared his throat.

"Fine. I just wanted to put a little pageantry on, but fine. The long and short of it is I don't know what he is for sure. He appeared to my family and a few others when I was a boy. My family, your mother's. At first, he was sort of charming, his off-color remarks and bizarre sense of humor."

"Then he started hitting us. You've seen what he can do, we should have all died the things he did. I woke up one morning; my bed was in the sky. He had this ladder, 30 stories up. My bed was just suspended in the air as he sat next to it. Watching me and waiting for the inevitable."

"When I did wake up, he told me to have a nice trip, and that I'd see him next fall. That's when my bed plummeted to the Earth. It was painful to say the least. He just took my mangled form and-" he snapped his fingers.

"The only rule was you always had to laugh. If you didn't that's when he'd get mean. " He shuddered at some unspoken memory. We both snapped our heads upwards, as Izzy cried out, from pain or joy I could not say. All I could say for certain was it made Larry howl with laughter. Dad met my eyes once more.

"Your granddad stood up to him. Walked right up to him while he was doing some bit in the yard and shot him square in the face. The gunshot still rattles around in my brain to this day."

"When the smoke cleared, Larry was still standing there, arrogance coming off him in waves. He yanked the gun from his arms and aimed it right at his fear-stricken face. Then he pulled the trigger."

"My father collapsed to the ground, his eyes still in place but his lips, his nose-" He began to choke up at the thought. "They were on the other side of his head in a bloody heap. No one stood up to Larry after that."

Another bump, another cry of solemn joy from above. Dad winced every time.

"Never have children son. That's how he spreads, I think. He appeared to my folks when they were young as well."

"If you knew that then... Then why did you and mom have me and Izzy?"  

"We didn't think it'd count." He half mumbled. 

"What do you mean by that." I pressed. Dad recoiled and looked away.

And that's how I found out we were adopted. 

------------------

The next morning, I found Izzy sitting quietly at the kitchen table. She was covered in cream and various pie stuffings. Her hair was a tangled mess of neon blueberry and whipped cherry. Her face was red, and she said not a word to anyone for the rest of the day.

I found Larry sitting on the back porch, legs spread to the breeze enjoying the warm morning. He was smoking a cigarette looking quite pleased with himself.

So went our life for the next few months.

Larry had whittled us down and was starting to get frustrated. We could barely hide our fear and contempt for him, and despite his many attempts to "cheer us up" The most we could muster was a forced chuckle to keep his wrath at bay.

Larry would sulk; he would hit walls and throw things. Then he would pop back up with flowers that sprayed water in your face.

We were all just going through the motions at that point.

He began to get sadistic in his torment. One day we were playing in the backyard, and we all jumped at the sound of a loud bang. We looked to the roof and saw a brick tumbling down the frayed roof. It thudded to the ground and kicked up a little dirt.

I saw Larry leaning against the back door eying the brick. Dad headed over to it, grumbling about calling a contractor or something like that. Larry came over to join him and froze as he clasped a paw on his shoulder.

"Place is falling apart on ya bud. Look at that, just a lonely little brick now." He said in a soothing voice. he leaned down and picked up the brick. It was chipped on its corners and had a rustic red hue to it. My father just stood there motionless.

"What should we do with this little brick now, what do you think bud." He asked rhetorically. He began to toss the brick, toying with it almost. He flicked it into the air and caught it with ease; it made a thump every time it impacted his gloved palm.

thump

"I-I don't know Larry." My dad muttered softly.

thump

"I think-"

thump

"-we should find a home for this brick."

thump

"What do you think nick?"

thump

"-wanna help me find a home for this bad boy."

thump

He smirked at my father and led him inside the house; the brick held tightly in his hand. Mom came out shortly after and ushered us to the movies for the rest of the afternoon. I don't know what happened to Dad that day

But he walked with a limp from then on.

--------------

It hit a breaking point on the eve of my 13^(th) birthday.

I was sitting in my room listening to music when Larry walked by and poked his head in.

"Hey there he is, boy you're really growing your hair out huh champ. I better stand back; you look like you can control fire." He held up his hands in surrender and chuckled. I looked at him with a stoney expression as he started to get uncomfortable.

"Why's that funny." I snapped. "What's it even mean?"

"W-what do you mean bud." Larry sputtered

"I can control fire-like how. Because my hair's long, because I'm chubby I mean what's the bit? Are you just saying random shit to get a rise out of me?" I yelled at him. Larry stepped into my room, gently closing the door behind him. 

"Well lets, ya know let's not raise our voices." He said unevenly.

"Why not, everyone's sick of walking around eggshells around here. You can't just go around saying whatever you want and expect a laugh, it's not funny. YOU'RE not funny." I ranted at him. Larry twitched his nose and I could see his temper loom over him. 

"What you fucking think you can do better you little punk." Larry snapped back. I was taken back, I had never heard him swear before. "You think it's easy being me, I have to be on all the time for you people, and you're all such ungrateful cunts. You don't appreciate the work I do around here, you just laugh and complain and giggle and whine. " Larry rambled on and on.

"Why don't you try it for a change huh, make me laugh. Go ahead do it." He loomed over me. I sat up in bed to face him. 

"Um ok uh. . ." My mind was a nervous blank. 

"I'm waiting." Lary spat, arms folded over his chest. I was sweating bullets; all I could think to say was:

"Why'd the chicken cross the road?"

It was at that moment I felt a sharp pain in my face as Larry backhanded me. I flew down on my bed and felt him grab me and toss me onto the floor like trash. I scrambled to get up but he smacked me down hard. He was pummeling me with his fists, I felt the bloody thud of every hit crashing down on me.

"See it's not so easy is it. You think I wanted this; you think I want to hurt you. WHY ARE YOU MAKING ME HURT YOU." He screeched at me as the beating continued.

He began stomping on my back, I howled out in pain and curled up into a ball. I tried to crawl away, but he pinned me down and started punching me full force in the back of the head.

"Don't you run from me." He commanded. I was crying out for help now through choked tears and powerful smacks across my face. I could taste iron in my mouth and could feel my cheeks start to swell up. Larry looked down on me with disgust.

"Stop crying. You want to cry I'll give you something to fucking cry about." He sneered at me as he began his assault once more.

I blacked out after that, and quite frankly I don't want to remember anything that happened after.

-----------

I woke up and Larry was gone, my entire body ached and was sore. My face was throbbing, and I was bleeding. My father was sitting on the bed, a look of shame on his face. He threw me a towel and told me to clean myself up. Dinner would be ready in an hour.

Dinner was quiet, everyone was battered and tense. Even Larry looked uncomfortable. His eyes darted between us like ping pong balls. He scarfed down a final bite and cleared his throat.

"Aw geez. Would you look at the time. I think I better skedaddle gang, I have a flight in the morning, and I want to go pick up some milk and smokes beforehand. It was really fun hanging out with you guys. I hope you remember me and all the fun we had and cherish all the life lessons I've tried so hard to pass on." He said with a smile. With that he got up and just left. We were all too stunned to speak at his sudden yet welcome departure.

For the next few days the tension remained, we were all too afraid he would pop up again. But he never did. Normality returned to our household eventually, but Larry had left behind a truly broken family.

We tried to get back into a normal routine; it was easier for Izzy. I think she just chalked it up to a bad dream. My parents tried, but in their private moments I could hear them sobbing.

Years later I would keep my dad's promise of never having kids. Izzy went across the state somewhere, shacked up with some guy. I rarely hear from her.

I met someone as well; we married after six months of dating.

A month ago, she had a positive pregnancy test, and we got into a massive fight about me not wanting kids. She shoved me and I snapped, pushing her to the ground. That's when I noticed the bleeding.

At the hospital she refused to look at me. I was begging her for forgiveness, saying we could try again. I told her:

"You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs, right?"

She gave me a disgusted look and that was that.

Now I'm sitting here alone in my rundown one bedroom. The TV blares some vile nonsense on the news but I sip my beer and barely acknowledge it.

I watch the news and chuckle to myself, sometimes you just gotta laugh right? The absurdity and cruelty of life will never get to you if you just laugh it off.

I got a call from Izzy the other day.

She had just welcomed the birth of her daughter; said I should pay her a visit sometime. Maybe I'll take her up on that offer.

Every kid needs an uncle after all.

"Are your kids always complaining bout how bored they are? Are they tired of the same old string beans and mushy carrots? Well then come on down to Allie Gator's BAYOU PIZZERIA!"

"Here at Allie's, we serve up some of the finest Cajun style pizza this side O da Mississippi, our secret blend of herbs and spices will have your mouth watering and leave you wanting more."

"We're open twenty-four hours a day to cater to your every need, be it catering, birthdays, weddings, funerals, promposals, bachelor parties, and more. Come on down and see our county famous ball pit and arcade row, where you can spend your hard-earned allowance!"

"Come see our state-of-the-art band, featuring Sally Stork, Otto Otter, Wart the frog and of course everyone's favorite, ALLIE GA-"

Fzzt

Steve snapped the mounted screen off, disdain washing over his face. He was alone in the Pizzeria employee break room, a royalty free tune humming softly from the cracked speakers above. The place was scummy looking, the sink overflowing with dishes and the fridge currently growing a new sub species of mold.

His brown hair was matted and dishelmed, his uniform baggy in all the wrong places. His pale blue eyes had saddle bags pilling under them. He stretched and cracked his back, an audible snap making him wince.

He took a swig from his tin flask and clocked back in to resume his patrol.

Steve was the nightshift security guard for Allie's, a gig he had held for almost three years now. When he started, he thought it would be easy, walk around at night and make sure any drifters are out before the real customers showed up. He thought he'd have plenty of time to goof off.

That was until he met the owner of the joint and realized how demanding and shady he was.

Bartholomew J Plath was a sturdy man, had at least three chins and a silver handlebar mustache that crawled down to his gullet.  He had a voice that would make Foghorn Leghorn blush and always wore a cream white suit with gold trims, and a ten-gallon hat to match. Not much was known about him, he had crossed the county lines about fifteen years back and somehow became an overnight sensation.

Steve recalled going to Allie's for a few birthday parties over the years, being in awe of the flashing arcade lights and the vibrant cartoon murals covering the walls. The birthday tables were always awash with green streamers to simulate vines, and the stage held four pristine animatronics that danced and delighted all.

Without the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, however, the place was a pigsty.

"How the hell is this firetrap still standing?" was the first thing that popped into Steve's head on orientation day. The floors were scuffed and covered in so many dusty shoeprints they worked as a makeshift map to the most popular places in the Pizzaria. The paint on the walls were chipped and moldy, those cartoon murals looked like they were designed with one hand. He had passed a family struggling to chew through a foul-smelling pizza that was crawling with shrimp and peppers.

Half the arcade machines were dead or outdated, the screen resolution a phantom of a flicker on what was left. The animatronics were visibly rotted, metal parts and springs poking out of their rough looking animal costumes. Their eyes were hollow, their movement jerky, they made grinding noises every time their mouths moved.

He was about to hightail it out of there when a beefy paw clamped down on his shoulder. He was face to face with Plath himself, who shook his hand with an iron clad grip and showed glistening white teeth as he shot Steve a gambler's smile.

"Well now welcome son. Glad to have you in the Allie's Bayou family. Lemme show you around, then we'll head to my office and kick our feet up, chat for a bit." His voice oozed Southern pleasantry to an almost cartoonish degree.

"I- appreciate the offer Mr. Plath but on second thought I'm not so sure this place suits me. . ." He tried to wiggle out of Plath's grip but only felt it tighten, that grin never once waning.

"Now son I know this place has seen better times, but it's bad all over. A cup of Joe down at Susie's diner is now a buck even, can you imagine hahaha." He had a hardy, boisterous laugh. "With a little elbow grease, we can turn this place around, just need the help of some mighty kind folk like yourself." He all but batted his eye lashes at Steve as he laid down the charm.

"Well, if we're all in this together." He shrugged as Plath finally let go of his hand only to grab him by the shoulders and steer him around the place.

"Wonderful, simply wonderful. You seem like an agreeable young lad, you'll have a bright future here if you just do what you're told and start every shift with a smile." Plath beamed.

With that Steve's career began, and he soon found the restaurant could get quite rowdy at night. Troublesome teens loitering after curfew, homeless drifters sleeping one off at the Everglade Bar, even the occasional midnight Birthday party.  Those rarities were either college kids desperately clinging to their youth or parents trying to overcompensate for working double shifts. Both options were incredibly depressing.

There was also Plath's real source of income these days. Every other night a truck would come in, and workers would scurry about and sneak white bricks out of it and into a fleet of vans adorning Allie Gator's cartoon mug.

Steve wasn't sure what Plath was into, but from the "powder breaks" he caught the workers have on occasion, he had heavy suspicions. Stealing from Plath was a one-way ticket to the basement, as was being rude to the customers. Sometimes a nasty piece of work would demand to talk to the manager, saying they'd sue the joint silly.

They were also quietly led to the basement, never to be seen again.

Three years of turning a blind eye, three years of being paid more than he knew what to do with. He told himself nothing horrid was happening down there, that basements were old and musty, and most of them smelled like that. Why just last week Carl was taken down and he was sure he spotted him at the grocery store the next day.

A delusion of course, but the pay was that ludicrous.

Whatever moral center Steve had had been whittled away by years of doing the odd favor for Plath and sending the pleading down below without a second thought. Now he numbed his guilt with sour brown poison and shitty late-night television. He had blacked out during reruns of the old George Lopez show so many times it had to be a world record by now.

Tonight was no different than usual, only a few troublesome souls were hanging around. Nothing to warrant a trip downstairs, he was thankful for that.

Truth be told, business had been painfully slow the last few months. People just weren't going, preferring other, more pedigreed venues these days. There was a rumor that Plath despised, that he would be selling the joint. A woman had come back once or twice already, offering to snatch the place up. Whenever she showed Plath would pull him aside and order him to "Get that harlot outta my joint."

Something would have to give sooner or later, Steve knew that much.

He was strolling around arcade row, empty machines mindlessly playing their demos at him as he did his rounds. Perfect pixelated loops that occasionally flashed high scores from people long past caring about such things.  At the far end of the dimly lit hall two delinquents were snickering near a cardboard cutout of Allie Gator. One of them, who was wearing a gray hoodie and blue slacks, was taking pictures of his buddy making vulgar gestures at the cutout.

Steve rolled his eyes with disdain and let out a sharp whistle. The teens stopped like deer in headlights for a brief moment then ran off giggling. The one making rude gestures, who wore a crimson hat and had pockmarked skin, slapped the back of the cutout as he ran. The cutout wobbled but it did not fall.

"Damn kids." Steve went over to inspect the damage. The cutout was about six feet tall and depicted Allie as a Jessica Rabbit mixed with an Alligator. Her scaled hands were on her hips, and she had pink cartoon hearts for eyes. She had flowing blonde hair and wore an ill-fitting tube top. The cartoon wore bubblegum pink lipstick at the end of her snout, which was curved in a salacious smile.

The cutout came with a speech bubble; half bent from miss use. It read "Have a slice, they're real nice." Which referred to the cartoonish looking slab of pizza dangling from the cutouts free hand. It was filled to the brim with toppings, globs of stoic melted cheese dripped from it. As disgusting as it looked, Steve still preferred the cardboard to the real thing.

He left arcade row and found himself his usual stool at the Everglades Bar. The pizzeria complex was a sort of "H" building. The front was the main stage, rows of tattered tables for birthdays, and the infamous ball pit right next to the entrance. The plastic dye used in the balls had long since corroded, every color within dull and smelling like rank urine.

There was arcade row of course, the connecting hall of never-ending thrills and blips and low neon. The walls within there were coated with the characters, looking down at the arcade with dead eyes and overdrawn features.

The Everglades bar was what one might call the "adult" section. It was a curved "u" counter with shelves stocked to the brim with some quality swill. There were a couple booths where people could eat in peace, in theory anyway. Then of course there were aged double doors that led to the grim filled kitchen, and an "employees only" door that led to the back, Plath's office, the lounge, the docking bay.

The basement door.

Steve flinched as he sat on the stool, his calves flexing and begging for rest. He rested his hairy arms on the counter, his eyes drifting to a screen above. It was playing some asinine toon involving a wad of pulpy meat and a foul talking cup. He shifted his focus down the way grunted, tapping his fingers against the smooth counter.

Dakota pretended not to hear him at first, dreading the "woe is me" routine Steve put on when he got sauced whilst working. But those timid taps echoed through the empty bar, and she sighed and put on a happy face. She leaned over the counter, brusher her platinum hair out of her face.

"What'll it be?" She asked as pleasant as a peach.

"Awe come on Dakota, you outta know it by heart by now." Steve laughed, his voice filled with phlegm and regret. Without another word she produced a bottle of bourbon, materializing it as a magician would a rabbit from a hat. The bottle made an audible thud when she slapped it onto the counter. Steve lipped his chapped lips just looking at it. He snatched it from her with a grateful grunt and popped the cork. The booze tasted foul and aged, hurt as it crawled down his greedy esophagus.

He had cleared a third of the bottle before slamming it back onto the table. He winced and let out a strained woo, wildfire in his worn eyes. Dakota regarded the drunk with sad eyes.

"Need a glass?" she gestured to the pristine mugs behind her.

"Nah, just leave the bottle. Put it on my tab." He sat there, focusing on keeping the swill quiet in his queasy stomach. His liver moaned and cried but soon fell silent as it drowned in poison.

"You gonna pay that tab anytime soon?" Dakota asked, already knowing the answer.

"Plath can take it out of my check if he wants." He waved a dismissive hand.

"Sure, sure. He'll end up taking it out of mine but sure." She replied under her breath. It was the duty of a good tender to uphold the tabs, have security intimidate deadbeats. Kinda hard to do when the deadbeat IS security though.

Dakota turned her back to the drunk and put away the silverware. Below the screens was a depiction of Otto Otter, a buff looking cartoon ferret with a bushy black beard. He had beady little pebble eyes and a smirk that wore thin.

He was flexing his oddly muscular arm, a shaved patch had some sort of uplifting quote on it: " If you're working hard, you're hardly working." It didn't make a lick of sense, and she hated looking at it all day. Steve let out a gaseous moan behind her, and she turned to see him turning a new shade of green.

She grimaced and inched the bottle away from him as he gripped the counter with both hands.

"I'm ok. Just haven't eaten today." Steve slurred. "Got any fibble fabble left." He requested.

Dakota nodded and produced half a jar of the "fibble fabble" which was a tin jug of assorted nuts and pretzels. He shoved his hand in the jar and pulled out a fistful of salt and crammed it into his gapping maw. He chewed like a mule, savoring every sodium filled morsel. His mouth turned to cotton and on queue Dakota shoved ice water his way.

"Maybe you should take it easy on that stuff." Dakota shifted, her denim short sleeve jacket creasing slightly.

"I'm fine." Steve protested, bits of pretzel spittle flying from his maw. "I just need to maintain." He grabbed another handful of nuts and chowed down on them.

"Whatever you say. Ain't been too busy tonight anyway." Dakota noted. Her voice was soft yet lived, a small twinge of the bayou in her tone. "Hell, no one's taken a trip down below in weeks."

"Aren't supposed to talk about the basement, it's in the handbook." Steve lamented, his eyes glazed over.

"Plath don't care, it's the biggest open secret around here. What do you suppose he does down there anyhow?" Dakota mused.

"Nothing, he's stern and a bit eccentric but he ain't a killer." Steve shook his head in ignorance.

"Boy you been dipping into the stock worker's stash?" She scoffed. "Plath is one of the shadiest men I ever met in my life. If the tips weren't good, I'd a bailed on this joint a long time ago."

"Guess you're no better than me then." Steve grumbled. He reached for the bottle, but Dakota snatched it away. She clinked the water glass with it and took a small swig before she put it away.

"Guess not. Seriously what do you think he does with 'em all. Brandi thinks it's where all the pepperoni comes from."  Dakota shivered.

"With an I or a Y?" Steve asked.

"I. The waitress with the flowers running up her arms. Says the meat lovers smells funky, like pork refried a dozen times over."

"Maybe he stuffs the bodies into the animatronics, that's why they smell like rot and ooze that oily gunk" Steve teased.

"You take that gallows humor and shove off, Steve." She waved a bejeweled hand at him. "I'm just saying we should get our stories straight for when we finally get raided."

"Oh, we ain't getting raided. No one cares about a few disappearances around these parts. All the money Plath funnels into "The policemen's ball?"" Steve used air quotes as he laughed off the ludicrous thought. From the far end of the room the rowdy teens snickered at their phones as they lounged in a booth. There was an ice-cold pitcher in front of them, half gone. Steve raised an eyebrow and Dakota shrugged her shoulders.

"Their IDS cleared."

"And their cash was green, right." He mumbled. "God this place sucks. How'd I get here, you know I used to wanna be something, I tried out-"

"- I tried out for the department, I flunked outta basic training, my dog got ran over by a drunk driver, I'm Steve and my life is blah-blah-blah." Dakota interrupted in a mocking tone. Steve's face turned beet red, embarrassment and anger flushing through him all at once.

"I've heard it a hundred times a night a thousand different ways, hun. You're so miserable, do something about. Otherwise shut your trap and do your job." She snapped at him.

"You have a lovely way with words." Steve smiled sadly and tapped his empty glass.

"So I've heard." She sighed, getting him another water. As he began to sober up, the double doors from across the room clattered open. Standing in the doorway like a Wildman was a short, pudgy man in a turquoise tracksuit. His face was saggy and what was left of his straw hair slicked back with an abhorrent amount of product. He was scanning the room until his crazed azure bulbs landed on Steve.

He rushed over and broke out in a boastful greeting like they were old friends. The man slapped Steve on the back and rubbed his belly and chest before finally embracing him.

"There he is! Mister thirty an hour!" The man boomed. His accent was thick and gave his Sicilian roots away.

"Can I help you?" Steve squinted his eyes, trying to remember where he had seen this guy before. The man raised his head and belted out a laugh that could make a clown blush, his saggy jowl jiggling the whole way.

"Can you help me; man is this kid a pisser or what?" He pointed at Steve as he shot Dakota a rhetorical glance. "Yeah, you can help me, we got a bit of a uh, well a bit of a thing in the back. Need a hand with something." The man shifted, his pupils dilatated and his breath wheezy. Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Do you work with Mr. Plath, don't think I've seen you around, how'd you get back there anyway?" Steve pestered. The man's eye twitched and the friendly facade cracked slightly. He laughed and patted Steve's chest once more, instinctively like he was checking for something.

"You ask a lotta questions, huh? You worry too much pal. You've seen me I'm in the back, uh deliveries and such. I'm Paulie, Plath's friend from upstate. Just need a hand with something, it'll be quick." Paulie's eyes darted around the room, anxiously waiting for Steve to oblige his strange request.

Steve got up, his back creaking as he did. Paulie slapped him once more and put his arms around him, dragging him to the back in a headlock almost.

"It'll just be a few minutes, thanks buddy I really appreciate it. Hey, barkeep, be a doll for me would you and just shoot Plath a message, tell him the pizza sauce has gone bad. Thanks hun you're terrific." He called out to Dakota as he dragged a confused Steve to the back. Dakota shrugged her shoulders and shot Plath the text, three dots appeared and disappeared almost instantly. She threw her phone to the side and went back to cleaning; she didn't get paid enough to care about Plath's misdealings, after all.

-------------

The back reeked of stale pizza dough and dry almonds. Paulie dropped the niceties as soon as they walked through the door and started moving with some pep in his step. Their shoes clicked against the concrete floor of the wide halls. They cleared the kitchen and went straight to the docking bay. The shutters were closed and the place reeked. A certain stench permeated the air; Steve couldn't quite place it. They passed a nervous stock boy, whose gaze went down as soon as Paulie and Steve passed. His nails were bitter and chewed, his eyes bloodshot.

Steve made a face, wasn't used to seeing the guys in the back up close. They turned a corner and Steve gagged, clenching his stomach.

On the ground were three dead men. Their hands were clawed and rigor, their eyes pink with fluid. Their skin was blue and bloated, their mouths coated in crimson foam. The surrounded a crate that was dashed across the ground, its powdered contents spilling around. Another goon was standing over in the corner, harshly whispering to some squirming malcontent. Paulie waved a hand at the carnage in front of them.

"Fucking morons, dipping into our stock. You know about this?" He asked Steve. Steve was in shock, he had never seen a dead body before, at least not one curled and frozen in a state of torment. Paulie jabbed a sausage finger into his side and shocked him back to reality.

"Wha-oh god, oh my ch-BLLEAUUGHH." The upchuck came all at one. A foul-smelling brown and chunky stream that spewed out of Steve onto the stone floor. Paulie swore under his breath and stepped back, careful not to get any on his nice cream white shoes. Steve stumbled away from the scene, retching all the way till the contents of his belly were strewn about the docking bay.

He stood there wheezing, spittles of acidic bile dripping from his quivering lips. From the other side of the room that whispered conversation paused, only for the goon to strike the squirming party and shout "Don't look over there you scumfuck they can't help you."

Paulie tiptoed around the pooling puke and helped Steve recompose himself. He recoiled in disgust as he eyed a bit of sick stuck to his chin.

"We, we need to call the cops or something." Steve was smacked upside the head by Paulie.

"Are you stupid?" Paulie demanded to know. "Scratch that, maybe you are. If you knew these schmucks were dipping into the goods." He shook his head. "No good."

"Hey, it ain't my business I patrol the front and kick out the rowdy customers. What goes on back here might as well be the wild west. I figured that's how you paid them anyway." Steve defended.

"Rule one of this thing, never get high on your own supply." Paulie lectured.

"Someone should have told them that." Steve nodded to the dead.

"Bad shit." Paulie muttered as he kicked a stiff leg. "Someone laced our supplies, rat poison or sumthing. Plath is gonna go on a warpath." Paulie reached down to one of the dead and started shifting through his pockets. He procured a wallet and stuffed it away for later.

As if on cue, from the end of the hall a door crashed open, and the thundering sound of Plath storming up the way echoed around the room, his ivory cane furiously tapping the ground.

"Y'all better have a damn good reason for calling me at this in at this time of night, what in the sam hell is going-aw fucking hell." Plath stopped in his tracks as soon he saw the dead, dropping his iconic Southern drawl for a brief moment. He readjusted his cream-white suit and turned towards Paulie and Steve, a raging fire in his auburn eyes.

"I apologize Mr. Plath, we had an incident as you can see." Paulie began but quickly fell silent as Plath held up a hand. He took a long look at the corpses, the only sound the harsh interrogation taking place a few feet away. The battered soul pleaded for a moment but was struck across the face as the goon handling him grabbed him by the shirt collar and brought him to Plath.

The goon wore a salmon tracksuit, hints of a grease-stained white undershirt. His hair was a solid black cube of product, his face hardened by a lifetime of bouncing. He threw the doomed man to Plath's feet. Steve recognized him, he was Freddy the delivery guy. He had a short nose and a buzz cut, his face covered in bruises and scrapes. His eyes were swollen shut, tears streaked down his puffy cheeks.

"He made a stop down near the gas station on Pilgrim, other than that he swears he never left the shipment unattended." The goon informed. Freddy tried to rise to his knees but struggled every step of the way.

"Mr. Plath, please, I-I-I don't know what happened, I didn't leave the truck I swear." He slurred through a busted lip. Steve winced at the sound of his broken voice. He had always liked Freddy, usually let him bum a cigarette or three while they unloaded his truck. Steve stepped in, his voice timid and sober in front of Plath.

"Sir, he's telling the truth. Freddy's a stand-up guy; he'd never do anything like this." He waved a grim hand at the dead.

"Frankly Steven, your opinion don't count for much right now. I can smell your breath from here; smell like you've been bathing in a brewery." Plath poked him in the gut with his cane and Steve felt queasy. He knelt down to meet poor Freddy, who flinched away from the blubbery, yet stern face of Plath.

"Now, Freddy my boy. You telling me you didn't leave the truck unattended once, not even for a minute. It's alright now, I know we roughed ya up a bit but Mr. Giovanni over there has quite a temper." He pointed his stick at the burly goon. "He was just being thorough, you ain't in any trouble now."

Freddy hesitated, then opened his naive mouth.

"I-I stopped by Route 53, stopped by the side of the road for-maybe five minutes. I-I had to take a leak." He looked down in shame, Giovanni, rolled his eyes and muttered something in broken Italian. Paulie shook his head and Steve said nothing, he knew what would happen next. They all did, save for poor gullible Freddy. Plath clamped a hand on his shoulder, a reassurance perhaps.

"There now son, don't be so hard on yourself. You had to go, ya had to go." Plath chuckled. "Why, when I was your age, I had a bladder the size of a walnut heheh. I drove my daddy nuts; every two seconds I'd be bawling and saying I hadda go." Plath roared with laughter. The goons joined in, like the sycophants they were. Freddy let out a nervous chuckle, Steve was silent, his face white as a sheet.

"Haha, you know, you know what I didn't do though?" Plath wiped a tear from his eyes, his grip tightening on his cane.

"Wha-" were Freddy's last words as the crack of Ivory smacking into his skull rang out. Freddy slumped to the ground as Plath stuck his head once more, Steve winced as he heard something snap, and it sure as hell wasn't the cane. Thwack after bloody thwack came as Plath ranted and raved like a mad dog.

"- I sure as shit didn't leave a truck fulla coke alone in the middle of nowhere, when I was FUCKING TOLD NOT TO STOP." He roared as he continued to bash Freddy's head in. His skull caved and splinted, bits of brain matter splattered all over the concrete floor. Freddy convulsed with every strike, his lifeless arms twitching at his side. There was a burgundy, pulpy stain where his head used to be, and even Giovanni had to look away, making the sign of the cross on himself as he did.

Plath was huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his crimson face, he looked like a lobster that had been torn from a steaming pot. The cane's handle was drenched in blood, bits of bone lodged in it as well. Plath procured a white hanker chef from his vestments and wiped his brow as he recomposed himself. He handed off the bloody cane to Giovanni who whisked it away. He turned his attention to Steve and Paulie, a dead look in his eyes.

"Steven, how long have you turned a blind eye to these idiots dipping into the supply?" He pointed at the dead as Steve swallowed a lump in his throat.

"I-I thought it was all kosher. They never took much, just enough to get through the evening." He replied earnestly. Plath regarded him as if he was the dumbest man alive, and at that moment he probably was, considering the runner up was laid out on the floor.

"You've been walking around here for weeks now like your shit don't stink, sleepwalking through your shifts and talking poor Dakota's ear off. You think I haven't noticed you slacking, boy?!?" His words boomed, Steve could smell the stench of aged sambuca and caviar on his breath.

"I'm sorry sir, I-I'll do better." Steve quivered in his boots, as he noticed Paulie moving up a bet too close behind him. Plath's nostrils flared as he let out an exhausted exhale. He took one last look at the corpses and nodded at Steve.

"Perhaps it's a good thing you didn't stop 'em. This had happened on the street, our operation would be history. Still, gonna have to teach you a lesson son, to remind you what happens to those who cross me." He took a step towards Steve, who placed a scared hand on his flask. Plath looked past him and barked an order to Paulie.

"Get some rugs and roll this garbage up, meet me down in the basement. BOTH of you." He made sure to look Steve dead in the eyes for that last bit, then twirled around and stomped off. Steve gulped and tried to take a swig from his flask, but Paulie snatched it out of his hands.

"Wassa matter with you? Didn't you hear a word he just frigging said? Follow me kid, I'll show you where we keep the rugs." Paulie nodded his head deeper into the loading bay and trudged off. Steve slunk behind him, terrified of what cruel fate awaited him in the basement.

--------

As it turns out, "rugs" were just code for really big, clear plastic tarps. Good for hiding blood splatter, Paulie had mentioned, though not that it would help them much. The pair grabbed a couple of cheap masks for the smell of the corpses and got to it. The act of wrapping bodies was surreal for Steve, their joints stiff and ridged, their skin felt like cold candle wax. The workmen's eyes were forever frozen in a pained state, their faces a contorted death mask that showed they did not pass peacefully.

Paulie took charge in the operation, casually hefting bodies into the tarps and rolling them with ease. They got two to a tarp, the broken bodies stacked on each other like logs and started to drag them off. No one batted an eye, not the chef who broke into a whistle as he fried some eggs, not the stock boy who suddenly found taking inventory simply riveting. The pair dragged in tandem, Steve struggling a bit. His arms whined and his muscles throbbed as he wheezed and struggled to keep up with the potbellied gangster beside him.

They found Giovanni waiting for them at the basement entrance. Giovanni took one look at Steve and groaned, pushing past him and grabbing the tail end of the makeshift body bag.

"Paulie, you go in front, then fucko, then me. Careful of the step at the bottom it's loose and I ain't gotten around to it yet." He ordered as he lifted the tarps with relative ease. Paulie kicked open the door with a nudge and Steve held it open for him. The bodies made a thunk sound as they hit the steel steps. Paulie winked as he passed, and soon disappeared into the dark below.

Steve stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to make a break for it. Giovanni barked at him to move his ass, and he practically jumped down the stairs. The only light into the basement stairwell came from behind, a meek shadow was cast as he tried to steady himself. The smell of rotten meat and musk was even strong in the stairwell. The only sounds were the bodies clunking on the metal steps, and footsteps droning on in the dreary dark.

Steve got a whiff of something else then, like rotten eggs and fish. There was a splash somewhere below, and they heard the bellowing laugh of Plath. They got to the bottom of the steps and Steve was shocked at his surroundings.

The only light was a string of azure lights spider-webbed across the ceiling. The stairs ended at the base of a makeshift deck, wet brown painted wood. The deck was littered with various amenities like a leather recliner and a flat screen mounted on the wall. Strewn about were half empty buckets with rotten chum in them. The stench made Steve gag. Giovanni nearly walked into him; he pushed Steve forward with a pissed off shove.

He stumbled onto the deck, the semi-rotten wood groaning as he did.

"Careful where ya step now, son. Don't wanna fall in." Plath called from a corner. He was at the edge of a massive pool that stretched out to the end of the room. The water was murky and filled with marsh foliage. Floating in there was a half-gnawed rubber chew toy, and a looming massive shape.

Steve's heart raced at the sight as Giovanni pushed past him, joining Paulie and Plath at the edge.

"Who ya think was dumb enough to try this anyhow?" Paulie groaned as he cracked his back.

"Ain't it obvious?" Plath snorted. "It's that Jezebel down in N'awlins again, trying to muscle me outta business. Ain't right, I tell ya. Used to be an honest man could get by on an honest day's work. Now the money's drying up, people flock to the next big thing. No one cares about Allie Gator no more. Cept me." The murky water behind him bubbled as something huge breached the surface.

It was a giant Alligator, easily thirty feet and as wide as a bus. Its scutes were of an obsidian shade; its eyes glowed in the dim light. It peeked its head up, showing off its horseshoe shaped snout, a row of teeth hungrily jutting down. The most impossible thing about the gator was not its size, but its attire.

Atop its head was a mop of straight, blond hair. The golden strands swayed in the water like tendrils. On the gator's body was an oversized and overstretched bubblegum pink tube top.  Plath knelt down to greet the gator, caressing its snout. Steve couldn't tell if the hair was a wig stapled on or not, but he wasn't sticking around to find out. He turned to leave but Paulie snuck up to him and grabbed his arm.

"You'll wanna watch this." He pointed to the water.

"Dinner time, Allie. Eat ya suppa now, don't be shy." Plath unrolled the bodies and they went in with a plop. Allie rushed towards them with unnatural speed, snapping her jaws and rolling. Her hair whipped water and blood all around, a glob of the disgusting water smacking him right in the face. Allie was quick to scarf down the four bodies, bones and all. The water ran red as she lapped up every last bit, the scrunch of a body being chomped by gator jaws imprinting in Steve's mind.

He was standing there shaking as the others laughed. Plath turned to face him, pride coming off him in waves.

"Ain't she a beaut? Raised her myself. She knows loyalty, not like some." he hinted. Paulie's grip on his arm became steel, and panic raced across Steve's face.

"Plath, good God man you can't do this, this is twisted!"

"Oh, don't prattle on Steven, you know what went on here. You suspected at least. How many poor folks you send down here at my behest." Plath sneered as Steve let his sullen face answer for him.

"Now cause I like ya, I'm gonna give you one chance." Paulie let go, taking a wide step back. "You quit the sauce; keep ya head down and maybe in a few days I have a new job for ya, pays far better as well. Either that or, well this is as far as we go." He let the implication hang in the air. Behind them, Allie bellowed, purring as it were after a satisfying meal. Steve stood there, mentally weighing his options. He steeled himself, and with a crazed yell rushed right at Plath.

He tackled him, and despite Plath's stature he was taken off guard and stumbled back. The pair splashed into the swampy depths, a plum of water soaking Plath's men. The water surprisingly cold, the shock sobering Steve up completely. He was near the bottom of the tank, his feet kicking up dirt and bones. His eyes winded as he adjusted to the sight around him, the bottom a blur of Plath's problems. His problem solver was lurking above, curious about the live bait in her domain. Steve swam upward, very aware of where Allie was.

He breached the surface and gasped, a stray shot whizzing by his face. Giovanni was standing there, smoking piece in hand. He cursed and raised his gun, but Paulie stopped him.

"You hit Plath or worse, the gator, we're screwed." he warned. Giovanni shoved him off.

He shot once more, barely missing Steve this time. He swam away in a panic, cursing as he did. A stray shot hit a lurking Allie right in the hide and she roared. She submerged as the room filled with the clicks of an empty gun.  He tossed it aside and ordered Paulie to give him his gun.

The two goons were so busy bickering they didn't notice Allie emerge and lunge up onto the deck. The rotten wood gave way and the goons tumbled into the thrashing maw of Allie. She chomped down and bit Giovanni in half with ease. Paulie scrambled to get away but Allie was quick to snag his leg. She tore it like one would a drumstick on an oversized turkey. Paulie screamed and grasped at where his leg used to be as Allie choked it down. She grabbed Giovanni's torso and slunk back below. Steve watched this happen in horror. There was still no sign of Plath, with any luck he was too fat to swim and just sank like a log.

He beelined it to a part of the deck that was still holding on. Allie noted the movement and slowly swam towards him, entranced by all the noise Steve was making. His heart was pounding against his ribs like a prisoner on death row as he grasped a piece of splintery wood. He hauled himself out of the murk and tried to scurry away when something grabbed his ankle and pulled him back in.

He looked back to see an out of breath Plath clenching his thighs, a wild look in his eye. His signature hat had been lost to the brink, and his curly red hair clung to his scalp.

"You sunnva bitch." He wheezed. "I ain't dying like this. I raised that girl from a pup you dumb fuck, she'd never hurt a hair on my he-"

With that Allie lunged from the depths and bit into Plath's waist. It proved tough to tear and she began a death roll. Steve heard Plath's belly tear and snap, twisting with every roll and thrash. Plath's grip loosened as his boastful taunts turned into childish screams. Steve scrambled back, nailing Plath in the face with the heel of his boot for good measure. Allie made a hungry groan as she dragged her prized meal down below, and all was silent once more.

Steve sat a few feet away from the edge, his breath shaky. He checked his pockets, then remembered where his flask was. He lurched up and went over to a delirious Paulie. Blood was pooling from his stump; he was slumped up against a wall. His eyes lit up when he saw Steve walking toward him.

"Awe thank Christ. Don't let me die here, kid, take me up I'm begging ya." he mumbled half conscious. Steve said nothing, searching his tracksuit for his prize. He found the flask and shook it, then took a long, savoring swig. He left Paulie there as he made his escape.

He had a big old smile on his face, finally after years of complicity he had done the right thing. This is what he needed, a fresh start and a new lease on life. As soon he walked up those stairs he'd be a changed man, a better man. A man who would stand up for injustice and finally make something of himself.

He took a galloping step and his foot fell through the broken bottom step and crashed straight through the rotten deck. He gasped as he fell, a stake jutting out and slicing through his leg as it fell. It lodged itself into his thigh and he cried out as his other leg did a split. He was in immense pain, trying and failing to free himself.

Then he noticed his trapped leg was wet. His eyes went wide as he began to try and pry the dagger of wood out of his thigh. The deck swayed and thumped as Allie closed in. She never saw the bite coming, just felt an enormous amount of pressure on his leg and the sensation of being yanked through the hole. His free leg snapped upward, as he was dragged under and devoured, the only thing left of him the echoes of a smoothed cry and a few dwindling air bubbles.

--------

Dakota sat on a stool of her favorite bar nursing a whisky sour. It had been several months since Plath up and vanished, and the rumor mill was always swirling. Some say he skipped town and moved to the Bahamas. Others say he faked his death for the insurance. Only Dakota, who heard the pained cries of a one-legged thug in the Pizzeria basement, knew the truth. She never told a soul, just dropped the half dead gangster off at the ER and never looked back. She was never paid that much to care to begin with anyway.

Allie Gator's got sold in auction to a charming woman from New Orleans who revamped the whole establishment. People came in droves and gave heaps of praise to the new owner. She had been there the other day, and the place had indeed gotten quite the face lift. The animatronics were new, the pizza no longer stale and the beer not watered down. She had met the new owner, a raven-haired woman with scarlet highlights by the name of Tamara Domingue. She had offered Dakota her old job back, but she politely declined.

Tamara simply shrugged and then said in a sugary sweet voice:

"Fine then hun, but you be sure to come back and visit ya hear? I'm sure Allie would love to see you sometime."

That little jab all but confirmed Dakota's suspicions about what still lurked in the basement. She had seen a rowdy teen being led down there by security as she left, in fact. She had simply shaken her head and left. Nothing had changed after all.

Same shit, different day.

"Are your kids always complaining bout how bored they are? Are they tired of the same old string beans and mushy carrots? Well then come on down to Allie Gator's BAYOU PIZZERIA!"

"Here at Allie's, we serve up some of the finest Cajun style pizza this side O da Mississippi, our secret blend of herbs and spices will have your mouth watering and leave you wanting more."

"We're open twenty-four hours a day to cater to your every need, be it catering, birthdays, weddings, funerals, promposals, bachelor parties, and more. Come on down and see our county famous ball pit and arcade row, where you can spend your hard-earned allowance!"

"Come see our state-of-the-art band, featuring Sally Stork, Otto Otter, Wart the frog and of course everyone's favorite, ALLIE GA-"

Fzzt

Steve snapped the mounted screen off, disdain washing over his face. He was alone in the Pizzeria employee break room, a royalty free tune humming softly from the cracked speakers above. The place was scummy looking, the sink overflowing with dishes and the fridge currently growing a new sub species of mold.

His brown hair was matted and dishelmed, his uniform baggy in all the wrong places. His pale blue eyes had saddle bags pilling under them. He stretched and cracked his back, an audible snap making him wince.

He took a swig from his tin flask and clocked back in to resume his patrol.

Steve was the nightshift security guard for Allie's, a gig he had held for almost three years now. When he started, he thought it would be easy, walk around at night and make sure any drifters are out before the real customers showed up. He thought he'd have plenty of time to goof off.

That was until he met the owner of the joint and realized how demanding and shady he was.

Bartholomew J Plath was a sturdy man, had at least three chins and a silver handlebar mustache that crawled down to his gullet.  He had a voice that would make Foghorn Leghorn blush and always wore a cream white suit with gold trims, and a ten-gallon hat to match. Not much was known about him, he had crossed the county lines about fifteen years back and somehow became an overnight sensation.

Steve recalled going to Allie's for a few birthday parties over the years, being in awe of the flashing arcade lights and the vibrant cartoon murals covering the walls. The birthday tables were always awash with green streamers to simulate vines, and the stage held four pristine animatronics that danced and delighted all.

Without the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, however, the place was a pigsty.

"How the hell is this firetrap still standing?" was the first thing that popped into Steve's head on orientation day. The floors were scuffed and covered in so many dusty shoeprints they worked as a makeshift map to the most popular places in the Pizzaria. The paint on the walls were chipped and moldy, those cartoon murals looked like they were designed with one hand. He had passed a family struggling to chew through a foul-smelling pizza that was crawling with shrimp and peppers.

Half the arcade machines were dead or outdated, the screen resolution a phantom of a flicker on what was left. The animatronics were visibly rotted, metal parts and springs poking out of their rough looking animal costumes. Their eyes were hollow, their movement jerky, they made grinding noises every time their mouths moved.

He was about to hightail it out of there when a beefy paw clamped down on his shoulder. He was face to face with Plath himself, who shook his hand with an iron clad grip and showed glistening white teeth as he shot Steve a gambler's smile.

"Well now welcome son. Glad to have you in the Allie's Bayou family. Lemme show you around, then we'll head to my office and kick our feet up, chat for a bit." His voice oozed Southern pleasantry to an almost cartoonish degree.

"I- appreciate the offer Mr. Plath but on second thought I'm not so sure this place suits me. . ." He tried to wiggle out of Plath's grip but only felt it tighten, that grin never once waning.

"Now son I know this place has seen better times, but it's bad all over. A cup of Joe down at Susie's diner is now a buck even, can you imagine hahaha." He had a hardy, boisterous laugh. "With a little elbow grease, we can turn this place around, just need the help of some mighty kind folk like yourself." He all but batted his eye lashes at Steve as he laid down the charm.

"Well, if we're all in this together." He shrugged as Plath finally let go of his hand only to grab him by the shoulders and steer him around the place.

"Wonderful, simply wonderful. You seem like an agreeable young lad, you'll have a bright future here if you just do what you're told and start every shift with a smile." Plath beamed.

With that Steve's career began, and he soon found the restaurant could get quite rowdy at night. Troublesome teens loitering after curfew, homeless drifters sleeping one off at the Everglade Bar, even the occasional midnight Birthday party.  Those rarities were either college kids desperately clinging to their youth or parents trying to overcompensate for working double shifts. Both options were incredibly depressing.

There was also Plath's real source of income these days. Every other night a truck would come in, and workers would scurry about and sneak white bricks out of it and into a fleet of vans adorning Allie Gator's cartoon mug.

Steve wasn't sure what Plath was into, but from the "powder breaks" he caught the workers have on occasion, he had heavy suspicions. Stealing from Plath was a one-way ticket to the basement, as was being rude to the customers. Sometimes a nasty piece of work would demand to talk to the manager, saying they'd sue the joint silly.

They were also quietly led to the basement, never to be seen again.

Three years of turning a blind eye, three years of being paid more than he knew what to do with. He told himself nothing horrid was happening down there, that basements were old and musty, and most of them smelled like that. Why just last week Carl was taken down and he was sure he spotted him at the grocery store the next day.

A delusion of course, but the pay was that ludicrous.

Whatever moral center Steve had had been whittled away by years of doing the odd favor for Plath and sending the pleading down below without a second thought. Now he numbed his guilt with sour brown poison and shitty late-night television. He had blacked out during reruns of the old George Lopez show so many times it had to be a world record by now.

Tonight was no different than usual, only a few troublesome souls were hanging around. Nothing to warrant a trip downstairs, he was thankful for that.

Truth be told, business had been painfully slow the last few months. People just weren't going, preferring other, more pedigreed venues these days. There was a rumor that Plath despised, that he would be selling the joint. A woman had come back once or twice already, offering to snatch the place up. Whenever she showed Plath would pull him aside and order him to "Get that harlot outta my joint."

Something would have to give sooner or later, Steve knew that much.

He was strolling around arcade row, empty machines mindlessly playing their demos at him as he did his rounds. Perfect pixelated loops that occasionally flashed high scores from people long past caring about such things.  At the far end of the dimly lit hall two delinquents were snickering near a cardboard cutout of Allie Gator. One of them, who was wearing a gray hoodie and blue slacks, was taking pictures of his buddy making vulgar gestures at the cutout.

Steve rolled his eyes with disdain and let out a sharp whistle. The teens stopped like deer in headlights for a brief moment then ran off giggling. The one making rude gestures, who wore a crimson hat and had pockmarked skin, slapped the back of the cutout as he ran. The cutout wobbled but it did not fall.

"Damn kids." Steve went over to inspect the damage. The cutout was about six feet tall and depicted Allie as a Jessica Rabbit mixed with an Alligator. Her scaled hands were on her hips, and she had pink cartoon hearts for eyes. She had flowing blonde hair and wore an ill-fitting tube top. The cartoon wore bubblegum pink lipstick at the end of her snout, which was curved in a salacious smile.

The cutout came with a speech bubble; half bent from miss use. It read "Have a slice, they're real nice." Which referred to the cartoonish looking slab of pizza dangling from the cutouts free hand. It was filled to the brim with toppings, globs of stoic melted cheese dripped from it. As disgusting as it looked, Steve still preferred the cardboard to the real thing.

He left arcade row and found himself his usual stool at the Everglades Bar. The pizzeria complex was a sort of "H" building. The front was the main stage, rows of tattered tables for birthdays, and the infamous ball pit right next to the entrance. The plastic dye used in the balls had long since corroded, every color within dull and smelling like rank urine.

There was arcade row of course, the connecting hall of never-ending thrills and blips and low neon. The walls within there were coated with the characters, looking down at the arcade with dead eyes and overdrawn features.

The Everglades bar was what one might call the "adult" section. It was a curved "u" counter with shelves stocked to the brim with some quality swill. There were a couple booths where people could eat in peace, in theory anyway. Then of course there were aged double doors that led to the grim filled kitchen, and an "employees only" door that led to the back, Plath's office, the lounge, the docking bay.

The basement door.

Steve flinched as he sat on the stool, his calves flexing and begging for rest. He rested his hairy arms on the counter, his eyes drifting to a screen above. It was playing some asinine toon involving a wad of pulpy meat and a foul talking cup. He shifted his focus down the way grunted, tapping his fingers against the smooth counter.

Dakota pretended not to hear him at first, dreading the "woe is me" routine Steve put on when he got sauced whilst working. But those timid taps echoed through the empty bar, and she sighed and put on a happy face. She leaned over the counter, brusher her platinum hair out of her face.

"What'll it be?" She asked as pleasant as a peach.

"Awe come on Dakota, you outta know it by heart by now." Steve laughed, his voice filled with phlegm and regret. Without another word she produced a bottle of bourbon, materializing it as a magician would a rabbit from a hat. The bottle made an audible thud when she slapped it onto the counter. Steve lipped his chapped lips just looking at it. He snatched it from her with a grateful grunt and popped the cork. The booze tasted foul and aged, hurt as it crawled down his greedy esophagus.

He had cleared a third of the bottle before slamming it back onto the table. He winced and let out a strained woo, wildfire in his worn eyes. Dakota regarded the drunk with sad eyes.

"Need a glass?" she gestured to the pristine mugs behind her.

"Nah, just leave the bottle. Put it on my tab." He sat there, focusing on keeping the swill quiet in his queasy stomach. His liver moaned and cried but soon fell silent as it drowned in poison.

"You gonna pay that tab anytime soon?" Dakota asked, already knowing the answer.

"Plath can take it out of my check if he wants." He waved a dismissive hand.

"Sure, sure. He'll end up taking it out of mine but sure." She replied under her breath. It was the duty of a good tender to uphold the tabs, have security intimidate deadbeats. Kinda hard to do when the deadbeat IS security though.

Dakota turned her back to the drunk and put away the silverware. Below the screens was a depiction of Otto Otter, a buff looking cartoon ferret with a bushy black beard. He had beady little pebble eyes and a smirk that wore thin.

He was flexing his oddly muscular arm, a shaved patch had some sort of uplifting quote on it: " If you're working hard, you're hardly working." It didn't make a lick of sense, and she hated looking at it all day. Steve let out a gaseous moan behind her, and she turned to see him turning a new shade of green.

She grimaced and inched the bottle away from him as he gripped the counter with both hands.

"I'm ok. Just haven't eaten today." Steve slurred. "Got any fibble fabble left." He requested.

Dakota nodded and produced half a jar of the "fibble fabble" which was a tin jug of assorted nuts and pretzels. He shoved his hand in the jar and pulled out a fistful of salt and crammed it into his gapping maw. He chewed like a mule, savoring every sodium filled morsel. His mouth turned to cotton and on queue Dakota shoved ice water his way.

"Maybe you should take it easy on that stuff." Dakota shifted, her denim short sleeve jacket creasing slightly.

"I'm fine." Steve protested, bits of pretzel spittle flying from his maw. "I just need to maintain." He grabbed another handful of nuts and chowed down on them.

"Whatever you say. Ain't been too busy tonight anyway." Dakota noted. Her voice was soft yet lived, a small twinge of the bayou in her tone. "Hell, no one's taken a trip down below in weeks."

"Aren't supposed to talk about the basement, it's in the handbook." Steve lamented, his eyes glazed over.

"Plath don't care, it's the biggest open secret around here. What do you suppose he does down there anyhow?" Dakota mused.

"Nothing, he's stern and a bit eccentric but he ain't a killer." Steve shook his head in ignorance.

"Boy you been dipping into the stock worker's stash?" She scoffed. "Plath is one of the shadiest men I ever met in my life. If the tips weren't good, I'd a bailed on this joint a long time ago."

"Guess you're no better than me then." Steve grumbled. He reached for the bottle, but Dakota snatched it away. She clinked the water glass with it and took a small swig before she put it away.

"Guess not. Seriously what do you think he does with 'em all. Brandi thinks it's where all the pepperoni comes from."  Dakota shivered.

"With an I or a Y?" Steve asked.

"I. The waitress with the flowers running up her arms. Says the meat lovers smells funky, like pork refried a dozen times over."

"Maybe he stuffs the bodies into the animatronics, that's why they smell like rot and ooze that oily gunk" Steve teased.

"You take that gallows humor and shove off, Steve." She waved a bejeweled hand at him. "I'm just saying we should get our stories straight for when we finally get raided."

"Oh, we ain't getting raided. No one cares about a few disappearances around these parts. All the money Plath funnels into "The policemen's ball?"" Steve used air quotes as he laughed off the ludicrous thought. From the far end of the room the rowdy teens snickered at their phones as they lounged in a booth. There was an ice-cold pitcher in front of them, half gone. Steve raised an eyebrow and Dakota shrugged her shoulders.

"Their IDS cleared."

"And their cash was green, right." He mumbled. "God this place sucks. How'd I get here, you know I used to wanna be something, I tried out-"

"- I tried out for the department, I flunked outta basic training, my dog got ran over by a drunk driver, I'm Steve and my life is blah-blah-blah." Dakota interrupted in a mocking tone. Steve's face turned beet red, embarrassment and anger flushing through him all at once.

"I've heard it a hundred times a night a thousand different ways, hun. You're so miserable, do something about. Otherwise shut your trap and do your job." She snapped at him.

"You have a lovely way with words." Steve smiled sadly and tapped his empty glass.

"So I've heard." She sighed, getting him another water. As he began to sober up, the double doors from across the room clattered open. Standing in the doorway like a Wildman was a short, pudgy man in a turquoise tracksuit. His face was saggy and what was left of his straw hair slicked back with an abhorrent amount of product. He was scanning the room until his crazed azure bulbs landed on Steve.

He rushed over and broke out in a boastful greeting like they were old friends. The man slapped Steve on the back and rubbed his belly and chest before finally embracing him.

"There he is! Mister thirty an hour!" The man boomed. His accent was thick and gave his Sicilian roots away.

"Can I help you?" Steve squinted his eyes, trying to remember where he had seen this guy before. The man raised his head and belted out a laugh that could make a clown blush, his saggy jowl jiggling the whole way.

"Can you help me; man is this kid a pisser or what?" He pointed at Steve as he shot Dakota a rhetorical glance. "Yeah, you can help me, we got a bit of a uh, well a bit of a thing in the back. Need a hand with something." The man shifted, his pupils dilatated and his breath wheezy. Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Do you work with Mr. Plath, don't think I've seen you around, how'd you get back there anyway?" Steve pestered. The man's eye twitched and the friendly facade cracked slightly. He laughed and patted Steve's chest once more, instinctively like he was checking for something.

"You ask a lotta questions, huh? You worry too much pal. You've seen me I'm in the back, uh deliveries and such. I'm Paulie, Plath's friend from upstate. Just need a hand with something, it'll be quick." Paulie's eyes darted around the room, anxiously waiting for Steve to oblige his strange request.

Steve got up, his back creaking as he did. Paulie slapped him once more and put his arms around him, dragging him to the back in a headlock almost.

"It'll just be a few minutes, thanks buddy I really appreciate it. Hey, barkeep, be a doll for me would you and just shoot Plath a message, tell him the pizza sauce has gone bad. Thanks hun you're terrific." He called out to Dakota as he dragged a confused Steve to the back. Dakota shrugged her shoulders and shot Plath the text, three dots appeared and disappeared almost instantly. She threw her phone to the side and went back to cleaning; she didn't get paid enough to care about Plath's misdealings, after all.

-------------

The back reeked of stale pizza dough and dry almonds. Paulie dropped the niceties as soon as they walked through the door and started moving with some pep in his step. Their shoes clicked against the concrete floor of the wide halls. They cleared the kitchen and went straight to the docking bay. The shutters were closed and the place reeked. A certain stench permeated the air; Steve couldn't quite place it. They passed a nervous stock boy, whose gaze went down as soon as Paulie and Steve passed. His nails were bitter and chewed, his eyes bloodshot.

Steve made a face, wasn't used to seeing the guys in the back up close. They turned a corner and Steve gagged, clenching his stomach.

On the ground were three dead men. Their hands were clawed and rigor, their eyes pink with fluid. Their skin was blue and bloated, their mouths coated in crimson foam. The surrounded a crate that was dashed across the ground, its powdered contents spilling around. Another goon was standing over in the corner, harshly whispering to some squirming malcontent. Paulie waved a hand at the carnage in front of them.

"Fucking morons, dipping into our stock. You know about this?" He asked Steve. Steve was in shock, he had never seen a dead body before, at least not one curled and frozen in a state of torment. Paulie jabbed a sausage finger into his side and shocked him back to reality.

"Wha-oh god, oh my ch-BLLEAUUGHH." The upchuck came all at one. A foul-smelling brown and chunky stream that spewed out of Steve onto the stone floor. Paulie swore under his breath and stepped back, careful not to get any on his nice cream white shoes. Steve stumbled away from the scene, retching all the way till the contents of his belly were strewn about the docking bay.

He stood there wheezing, spittles of acidic bile dripping from his quivering lips. From the other side of the room that whispered conversation paused, only for the goon to strike the squirming party and shout "Don't look over there you scumfuck they can't help you."

Paulie tiptoed around the pooling puke and helped Steve recompose himself. He recoiled in disgust as he eyed a bit of sick stuck to his chin.

"We, we need to call the cops or something." Steve was smacked upside the head by Paulie.

"Are you stupid?" Paulie demanded to know. "Scratch that, maybe you are. If you knew these schmucks were dipping into the goods." He shook his head. "No good."

"Hey, it ain't my business I patrol the front and kick out the rowdy customers. What goes on back here might as well be the wild west. I figured that's how you paid them anyway." Steve defended.

"Rule one of this thing, never get high on your own supply." Paulie lectured.

"Someone should have told them that." Steve nodded to the dead.

"Bad shit." Paulie muttered as he kicked a stiff leg. "Someone laced our supplies, rat poison or sumthing. Plath is gonna go on a warpath." Paulie reached down to one of the dead and started shifting through his pockets. He procured a wallet and stuffed it away for later.

As if on cue, from the end of the hall a door crashed open, and the thundering sound of Plath storming up the way echoed around the room, his ivory cane furiously tapping the ground.

"Y'all better have a damn good reason for calling me at this in at this time of night, what in the sam hell is going-aw fucking hell." Plath stopped in his tracks as soon he saw the dead, dropping his iconic Southern drawl for a brief moment. He readjusted his cream-white suit and turned towards Paulie and Steve, a raging fire in his auburn eyes.

"I apologize Mr. Plath, we had an incident as you can see." Paulie began but quickly fell silent as Plath held up a hand. He took a long look at the corpses, the only sound the harsh interrogation taking place a few feet away. The battered soul pleaded for a moment but was struck across the face as the goon handling him grabbed him by the shirt collar and brought him to Plath.

The goon wore a salmon tracksuit, hints of a grease-stained white undershirt. His hair was a solid black cube of product, his face hardened by a lifetime of bouncing. He threw the doomed man to Plath's feet. Steve recognized him, he was Freddy the delivery guy. He had a short nose and a buzz cut, his face covered in bruises and scrapes. His eyes were swollen shut, tears streaked down his puffy cheeks.

"He made a stop down near the gas station on Pilgrim, other than that he swears he never left the shipment unattended." The goon informed. Freddy tried to rise to his knees but struggled every step of the way.

"Mr. Plath, please, I-I-I don't know what happened, I didn't leave the truck I swear." He slurred through a busted lip. Steve winced at the sound of his broken voice. He had always liked Freddy, usually let him bum a cigarette or three while they unloaded his truck. Steve stepped in, his voice timid and sober in front of Plath.

"Sir, he's telling the truth. Freddy's a stand-up guy; he'd never do anything like this." He waved a grim hand at the dead.

"Frankly Steven, your opinion don't count for much right now. I can smell your breath from here; smell like you've been bathing in a brewery." Plath poked him in the gut with his cane and Steve felt queasy. He knelt down to meet poor Freddy, who flinched away from the blubbery, yet stern face of Plath.

"Now, Freddy my boy. You telling me you didn't leave the truck unattended once, not even for a minute. It's alright now, I know we roughed ya up a bit but Mr. Giovanni over there has quite a temper." He pointed his stick at the burly goon. "He was just being thorough, you ain't in any trouble now."

Freddy hesitated, then opened his naive mouth.

"I-I stopped by Route 53, stopped by the side of the road for-maybe five minutes. I-I had to take a leak." He looked down in shame, Giovanni, rolled his eyes and muttered something in broken Italian. Paulie shook his head and Steve said nothing, he knew what would happen next. They all did, save for poor gullible Freddy. Plath clamped a hand on his shoulder, a reassurance perhaps.

"There now son, don't be so hard on yourself. You had to go, ya had to go." Plath chuckled. "Why, when I was your age, I had a bladder the size of a walnut heheh. I drove my daddy nuts; every two seconds I'd be bawling and saying I hadda go." Plath roared with laughter. The goons joined in, like the sycophants they were. Freddy let out a nervous chuckle, Steve was silent, his face white as a sheet.

"Haha, you know, you know what I didn't do though?" Plath wiped a tear from his eyes, his grip tightening on his cane.

"Wha-" were Freddy's last words as the crack of Ivory smacking into his skull rang out. Freddy slumped to the ground as Plath stuck his head once more, Steve winced as he heard something snap, and it sure as hell wasn't the cane. Thwack after bloody thwack came as Plath ranted and raved like a mad dog.

"- I sure as shit didn't leave a truck fulla coke alone in the middle of nowhere, when I was FUCKING TOLD NOT TO STOP." He roared as he continued to bash Freddy's head in. His skull caved and splinted, bits of brain matter splattered all over the concrete floor. Freddy convulsed with every strike, his lifeless arms twitching at his side. There was a burgundy, pulpy stain where his head used to be, and even Giovanni had to look away, making the sign of the cross on himself as he did.

Plath was huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his crimson face, he looked like a lobster that had been torn from a steaming pot. The cane's handle was drenched in blood, bits of bone lodged in it as well. Plath procured a white hanker chef from his vestments and wiped his brow as he recomposed himself. He handed off the bloody cane to Giovanni who whisked it away. He turned his attention to Steve and Paulie, a dead look in his eyes.

"Steven, how long have you turned a blind eye to these idiots dipping into the supply?" He pointed at the dead as Steve swallowed a lump in his throat.

"I-I thought it was all kosher. They never took much, just enough to get through the evening." He replied earnestly. Plath regarded him as if he was the dumbest man alive, and at that moment he probably was, considering the runner up was laid out on the floor.

"You've been walking around here for weeks now like your shit don't stink, sleepwalking through your shifts and talking poor Dakota's ear off. You think I haven't noticed you slacking, boy?!?" His words boomed, Steve could smell the stench of aged sambuca and caviar on his breath.

"I'm sorry sir, I-I'll do better." Steve quivered in his boots, as he noticed Paulie moving up a bet too close behind him. Plath's nostrils flared as he let out an exhausted exhale. He took one last look at the corpses and nodded at Steve.

"Perhaps it's a good thing you didn't stop 'em. This had happened on the street, our operation would be history. Still, gonna have to teach you a lesson son, to remind you what happens to those who cross me." He took a step towards Steve, who placed a scared hand on his flask. Plath looked past him and barked an order to Paulie.

"Get some rugs and roll this garbage up, meet me down in the basement. BOTH of you." He made sure to look Steve dead in the eyes for that last bit, then twirled around and stomped off. Steve gulped and tried to take a swig from his flask, but Paulie snatched it out of his hands.

"Wassa matter with you? Didn't you hear a word he just frigging said? Follow me kid, I'll show you where we keep the rugs." Paulie nodded his head deeper into the loading bay and trudged off. Steve slunk behind him, terrified of what cruel fate awaited him in the basement.

--------

As it turns out, "rugs" were just code for really big, clear plastic tarps. Good for hiding blood splatter, Paulie had mentioned, though not that it would help them much. The pair grabbed a couple of cheap masks for the smell of the corpses and got to it. The act of wrapping bodies was surreal for Steve, their joints stiff and ridged, their skin felt like cold candle wax. The workmen's eyes were forever frozen in a pained state, their faces a contorted death mask that showed they did not pass peacefully.

Paulie took charge in the operation, casually hefting bodies into the tarps and rolling them with ease. They got two to a tarp, the broken bodies stacked on each other like logs and started to drag them off. No one batted an eye, not the chef who broke into a whistle as he fried some eggs, not the stock boy who suddenly found taking inventory simply riveting. The pair dragged in tandem, Steve struggling a bit. His arms whined and his muscles throbbed as he wheezed and struggled to keep up with the potbellied gangster beside him.

They found Giovanni waiting for them at the basement entrance. Giovanni took one look at Steve and groaned, pushing past him and grabbing the tail end of the makeshift body bag.

"Paulie, you go in front, then fucko, then me. Careful of the step at the bottom it's loose and I ain't gotten around to it yet." He ordered as he lifted the tarps with relative ease. Paulie kicked open the door with a nudge and Steve held it open for him. The bodies made a thunk sound as they hit the steel steps. Paulie winked as he passed, and soon disappeared into the dark below.

Steve stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to make a break for it. Giovanni barked at him to move his ass, and he practically jumped down the stairs. The only light into the basement stairwell came from behind, a meek shadow was cast as he tried to steady himself. The smell of rotten meat and musk was even strong in the stairwell. The only sounds were the bodies clunking on the metal steps, and footsteps droning on in the dreary dark.

Steve got a whiff of something else then, like rotten eggs and fish. There was a splash somewhere below, and they heard the bellowing laugh of Plath. They got to the bottom of the steps and Steve was shocked at his surroundings.

The only light was a string of azure lights spider-webbed across the ceiling. The stairs ended at the base of a makeshift deck, wet brown painted wood. The deck was littered with various amenities like a leather recliner and a flat screen mounted on the wall. Strewn about were half empty buckets with rotten chum in them. The stench made Steve gag. Giovanni nearly walked into him; he pushed Steve forward with a pissed off shove.

He stumbled onto the deck, the semi-rotten wood groaning as he did.

"Careful where ya step now, son. Don't wanna fall in." Plath called from a corner. He was at the edge of a massive pool that stretched out to the end of the room. The water was murky and filled with marsh foliage. Floating in there was a half-gnawed rubber chew toy, and a looming massive shape.

Steve's heart raced at the sight as Giovanni pushed past him, joining Paulie and Plath at the edge.

"Who ya think was dumb enough to try this anyhow?" Paulie groaned as he cracked his back.

"Ain't it obvious?" Plath snorted. "It's that Jezebel down in N'awlins again, trying to muscle me outta business. Ain't right, I tell ya. Used to be an honest man could get by on an honest day's work. Now the money's drying up, people flock to the next big thing. No one cares about Allie Gator no more. Cept me." The murky water behind him bubbled as something huge breached the surface.

It was a giant Alligator, easily thirty feet and as wide as a bus. Its scutes were of an obsidian shade; its eyes glowed in the dim light. It peeked its head up, showing off its horseshoe shaped snout, a row of teeth hungrily jutting down. The most impossible thing about the gator was not its size, but its attire.

Atop its head was a mop of straight, blond hair. The golden strands swayed in the water like tendrils. On the gator's body was an oversized and overstretched bubblegum pink tube top.  Plath knelt down to greet the gator, caressing its snout. Steve couldn't tell if the hair was a wig stapled on or not, but he wasn't sticking around to find out. He turned to leave but Paulie snuck up to him and grabbed his arm.

"You'll wanna watch this." He pointed to the water.

"Dinner time, Allie. Eat ya suppa now, don't be shy." Plath unrolled the bodies and they went in with a plop. Allie rushed towards them with unnatural speed, snapping her jaws and rolling. Her hair whipped water and blood all around, a glob of the disgusting water smacking him right in the face. Allie was quick to scarf down the four bodies, bones and all. The water ran red as she lapped up every last bit, the scrunch of a body being chomped by gator jaws imprinting in Steve's mind.

He was standing there shaking as the others laughed. Plath turned to face him, pride coming off him in waves.

"Ain't she a beaut? Raised her myself. She knows loyalty, not like some." he hinted. Paulie's grip on his arm became steel, and panic raced across Steve's face.

"Plath, good God man you can't do this, this is twisted!"

"Oh, don't prattle on Steven, you know what went on here. You suspected at least. How many poor folks you send down here at my behest." Plath sneered as Steve let his sullen face answer for him.

"Now cause I like ya, I'm gonna give you one chance." Paulie let go, taking a wide step back. "You quit the sauce; keep ya head down and maybe in a few days I have a new job for ya, pays far better as well. Either that or, well this is as far as we go." He let the implication hang in the air. Behind them, Allie bellowed, purring as it were after a satisfying meal. Steve stood there, mentally weighing his options. He steeled himself, and with a crazed yell rushed right at Plath.

He tackled him, and despite Plath's stature he was taken off guard and stumbled back. The pair splashed into the swampy depths, a plum of water soaking Plath's men. The water surprisingly cold, the shock sobering Steve up completely. He was near the bottom of the tank, his feet kicking up dirt and bones. His eyes winded as he adjusted to the sight around him, the bottom a blur of Plath's problems. His problem solver was lurking above, curious about the live bait in her domain. Steve swam upward, very aware of where Allie was.

He breached the surface and gasped, a stray shot whizzing by his face. Giovanni was standing there, smoking piece in hand. He cursed and raised his gun, but Paulie stopped him.

"You hit Plath or worse, the gator, we're screwed." he warned. Giovanni shoved him off.

He shot once more, barely missing Steve this time. He swam away in a panic, cursing as he did. A stray shot hit a lurking Allie right in the hide and she roared. She submerged as the room filled with the clicks of an empty gun.  He tossed it aside and ordered Paulie to give him his gun.

The two goons were so busy bickering they didn't notice Allie emerge and lunge up onto the deck. The rotten wood gave way and the goons tumbled into the thrashing maw of Allie. She chomped down and bit Giovanni in half with ease. Paulie scrambled to get away but Allie was quick to snag his leg. She tore it like one would a drumstick on an oversized turkey. Paulie screamed and grasped at where his leg used to be as Allie choked it down. She grabbed Giovanni's torso and slunk back below. Steve watched this happen in horror. There was still no sign of Plath, with any luck he was too fat to swim and just sank like a log.

He beelined it to a part of the deck that was still holding on. Allie noted the movement and slowly swam towards him, entranced by all the noise Steve was making. His heart was pounding against his ribs like a prisoner on death row as he grasped a piece of splintery wood. He hauled himself out of the murk and tried to scurry away when something grabbed his ankle and pulled him back in.

He looked back to see an out of breath Plath clenching his thighs, a wild look in his eye. His signature hat had been lost to the brink, and his curly red hair clung to his scalp.

"You sunnva bitch." He wheezed. "I ain't dying like this. I raised that girl from a pup you dumb fuck, she'd never hurt a hair on my he-"

With that Allie lunged from the depths and bit into Plath's waist. It proved tough to tear and she began a death roll. Steve heard Plath's belly tear and snap, twisting with every roll and thrash. Plath's grip loosened as his boastful taunts turned into childish screams. Steve scrambled back, nailing Plath in the face with the heel of his boot for good measure. Allie made a hungry groan as she dragged her prized meal down below, and all was silent once more.

Steve sat a few feet away from the edge, his breath shaky. He checked his pockets, then remembered where his flask was. He lurched up and went over to a delirious Paulie. Blood was pooling from his stump; he was slumped up against a wall. His eyes lit up when he saw Steve walking toward him.

"Awe thank Christ. Don't let me die here, kid, take me up I'm begging ya." he mumbled half conscious. Steve said nothing, searching his tracksuit for his prize. He found the flask and shook it, then took a long, savoring swig. He left Paulie there as he made his escape.

He had a big old smile on his face, finally after years of complicity he had done the right thing. This is what he needed, a fresh start and a new lease on life. As soon he walked up those stairs he'd be a changed man, a better man. A man who would stand up for injustice and finally make something of himself.

He took a galloping step and his foot fell through the broken bottom step and crashed straight through the rotten deck. He gasped as he fell, a stake jutting out and slicing through his leg as it fell. It lodged itself into his thigh and he cried out as his other leg did a split. He was in immense pain, trying and failing to free himself.

Then he noticed his trapped leg was wet. His eyes went wide as he began to try and pry the dagger of wood out of his thigh. The deck swayed and thumped as Allie closed in. She never saw the bite coming, just felt an enormous amount of pressure on his leg and the sensation of being yanked through the hole. His free leg snapped upward, as he was dragged under and devoured, the only thing left of him the echoes of a smoothed cry and a few dwindling air bubbles.

--------

Dakota sat on a stool of her favorite bar nursing a whisky sour. It had been several months since Plath up and vanished, and the rumor mill was always swirling. Some say he skipped town and moved to the Bahamas. Others say he faked his death for the insurance. Only Dakota, who heard the pained cries of a one-legged thug in the Pizzeria basement, knew the truth. She never told a soul, just dropped the half dead gangster off at the ER and never looked back. She was never paid that much to care to begin with anyway.

Allie Gator's got sold in auction to a charming woman from New Orleans who revamped the whole establishment. People came in droves and gave heaps of praise to the new owner. She had been there the other day, and the place had indeed gotten quite the face lift. The animatronics were new, the pizza no longer stale and the beer not watered down. She had met the new owner, a raven-haired woman with scarlet highlights by the name of Tamara Domingue. She had offered Dakota her old job back, but she politely declined.

Tamara simply shrugged and then said in a sugary sweet voice:

"Fine then hun, but you be sure to come back and visit ya hear? I'm sure Allie would love to see you sometime."

That little jab all but confirmed Dakota's suspicions about what still lurked in the basement. She had seen a rowdy teen being led down there by security as she left, in fact. She had simply shaken her head and left. Nothing had changed after all.

Same shit, different day.

"Are your kids always complaining bout how bored they are? Are they tired of the same old string beans and mushy carrots? Well then come on down to Allie Gator's BAYOU PIZZERIA!"

"Here at Allie's, we serve up some of the finest Cajun style pizza this side O da Mississippi, our secret blend of herbs and spices will have your mouth watering and leave you wanting more."

"We're open twenty-four hours a day to cater to your every need, be it catering, birthdays, weddings, funerals, promposals, bachelor parties, and more. Come on down and see our county famous ball pit and arcade row, where you can spend your hard-earned allowance!"

"Come see our state-of-the-art band, featuring Sally Stork, Otto Otter, Wart the frog and of course everyone's favorite, ALLIE GA-"

Fzzt

Steve snapped the mounted screen off, disdain washing over his face. He was alone in the Pizzeria employee break room, a royalty free tune humming softly from the cracked speakers above. The place was scummy looking, the sink overflowing with dishes and the fridge currently growing a new sub species of mold.

His brown hair was matted and dishelmed, his uniform baggy in all the wrong places. His pale blue eyes had saddle bags pilling under them. He stretched and cracked his back, an audible snap making him wince.

He took a swig from his tin flask and clocked back in to resume his patrol.

Steve was the nightshift security guard for Allie's, a gig he had held for almost three years now. When he started, he thought it would be easy, walk around at night and make sure any drifters are out before the real customers showed up. He thought he'd have plenty of time to goof off.

That was until he met the owner of the joint and realized how demanding and shady he was.

Bartholomew J Plath was a sturdy man, had at least three chins and a silver handlebar mustache that crawled down to his gullet.  He had a voice that would make Foghorn Leghorn blush and always wore a cream white suit with gold trims, and a ten-gallon hat to match. Not much was known about him, he had crossed the county lines about fifteen years back and somehow became an overnight sensation.

Steve recalled going to Allie's for a few birthday parties over the years, being in awe of the flashing arcade lights and the vibrant cartoon murals covering the walls. The birthday tables were always awash with green streamers to simulate vines, and the stage held four pristine animatronics that danced and delighted all.

Without the rose-tinted glasses of childhood, however, the place was a pigsty.

"How the hell is this firetrap still standing?" was the first thing that popped into Steve's head on orientation day. The floors were scuffed and covered in so many dusty shoeprints they worked as a makeshift map to the most popular places in the Pizzaria. The paint on the walls were chipped and moldy, those cartoon murals looked like they were designed with one hand. He had passed a family struggling to chew through a foul-smelling pizza that was crawling with shrimp and peppers.

Half the arcade machines were dead or outdated, the screen resolution a phantom of a flicker on what was left. The animatronics were visibly rotted, metal parts and springs poking out of their rough looking animal costumes. Their eyes were hollow, their movement jerky, they made grinding noises every time their mouths moved.

He was about to hightail it out of there when a beefy paw clamped down on his shoulder. He was face to face with Plath himself, who shook his hand with an iron clad grip and showed glistening white teeth as he shot Steve a gambler's smile.

"Well now welcome son. Glad to have you in the Allie's Bayou family. Lemme show you around, then we'll head to my office and kick our feet up, chat for a bit." His voice oozed Southern pleasantry to an almost cartoonish degree.

"I- appreciate the offer Mr. Plath but on second thought I'm not so sure this place suits me. . ." He tried to wiggle out of Plath's grip but only felt it tighten, that grin never once waning.

"Now son I know this place has seen better times, but it's bad all over. A cup of Joe down at Susie's diner is now a buck even, can you imagine hahaha." He had a hardy, boisterous laugh. "With a little elbow grease, we can turn this place around, just need the help of some mighty kind folk like yourself." He all but batted his eye lashes at Steve as he laid down the charm.

"Well, if we're all in this together." He shrugged as Plath finally let go of his hand only to grab him by the shoulders and steer him around the place.

"Wonderful, simply wonderful. You seem like an agreeable young lad, you'll have a bright future here if you just do what you're told and start every shift with a smile." Plath beamed.

With that Steve's career began, and he soon found the restaurant could get quite rowdy at night. Troublesome teens loitering after curfew, homeless drifters sleeping one off at the Everglade Bar, even the occasional midnight Birthday party.  Those rarities were either college kids desperately clinging to their youth or parents trying to overcompensate for working double shifts. Both options were incredibly depressing.

There was also Plath's real source of income these days. Every other night a truck would come in, and workers would scurry about and sneak white bricks out of it and into a fleet of vans adorning Allie Gator's cartoon mug.

Steve wasn't sure what Plath was into, but from the "powder breaks" he caught the workers have on occasion, he had heavy suspicions. Stealing from Plath was a one-way ticket to the basement, as was being rude to the customers. Sometimes a nasty piece of work would demand to talk to the manager, saying they'd sue the joint silly.

They were also quietly led to the basement, never to be seen again.

Three years of turning a blind eye, three years of being paid more than he knew what to do with. He told himself nothing horrid was happening down there, that basements were old and musty, and most of them smelled like that. Why just last week Carl was taken down and he was sure he spotted him at the grocery store the next day.

A delusion of course, but the pay was that ludicrous.

Whatever moral center Steve had had been whittled away by years of doing the odd favor for Plath and sending the pleading down below without a second thought. Now he numbed his guilt with sour brown poison and shitty late-night television. He had blacked out during reruns of the old George Lopez show so many times it had to be a world record by now.

Tonight was no different than usual, only a few troublesome souls were hanging around. Nothing to warrant a trip downstairs, he was thankful for that.

Truth be told, business had been painfully slow the last few months. People just weren't going, preferring other, more pedigreed venues these days. There was a rumor that Plath despised, that he would be selling the joint. A woman had come back once or twice already, offering to snatch the place up. Whenever she showed Plath would pull him aside and order him to "Get that harlot outta my joint."

Something would have to give sooner or later, Steve knew that much.

He was strolling around arcade row, empty machines mindlessly playing their demos at him as he did his rounds. Perfect pixelated loops that occasionally flashed high scores from people long past caring about such things.  At the far end of the dimly lit hall two delinquents were snickering near a cardboard cutout of Allie Gator. One of them, who was wearing a gray hoodie and blue slacks, was taking pictures of his buddy making vulgar gestures at the cutout.

Steve rolled his eyes with disdain and let out a sharp whistle. The teens stopped like deer in headlights for a brief moment then ran off giggling. The one making rude gestures, who wore a crimson hat and had pockmarked skin, slapped the back of the cutout as he ran. The cutout wobbled but it did not fall.

"Damn kids." Steve went over to inspect the damage. The cutout was about six feet tall and depicted Allie as a Jessica Rabbit mixed with an Alligator. Her scaled hands were on her hips, and she had pink cartoon hearts for eyes. She had flowing blonde hair and wore an ill-fitting tube top. The cartoon wore bubblegum pink lipstick at the end of her snout, which was curved in a salacious smile.

The cutout came with a speech bubble; half bent from miss use. It read "Have a slice, they're real nice." Which referred to the cartoonish looking slab of pizza dangling from the cutouts free hand. It was filled to the brim with toppings, globs of stoic melted cheese dripped from it. As disgusting as it looked, Steve still preferred the cardboard to the real thing.

He left arcade row and found himself his usual stool at the Everglades Bar. The pizzeria complex was a sort of "H" building. The front was the main stage, rows of tattered tables for birthdays, and the infamous ball pit right next to the entrance. The plastic dye used in the balls had long since corroded, every color within dull and smelling like rank urine.

There was arcade row of course, the connecting hall of never-ending thrills and blips and low neon. The walls within there were coated with the characters, looking down at the arcade with dead eyes and overdrawn features.

The Everglades bar was what one might call the "adult" section. It was a curved "u" counter with shelves stocked to the brim with some quality swill. There were a couple booths where people could eat in peace, in theory anyway. Then of course there were aged double doors that led to the grim filled kitchen, and an "employees only" door that led to the back, Plath's office, the lounge, the docking bay.

The basement door.

Steve flinched as he sat on the stool, his calves flexing and begging for rest. He rested his hairy arms on the counter, his eyes drifting to a screen above. It was playing some asinine toon involving a wad of pulpy meat and a foul talking cup. He shifted his focus down the way grunted, tapping his fingers against the smooth counter.

Dakota pretended not to hear him at first, dreading the "woe is me" routine Steve put on when he got sauced whilst working. But those timid taps echoed through the empty bar, and she sighed and put on a happy face. She leaned over the counter, brusher her platinum hair out of her face.

"What'll it be?" She asked as pleasant as a peach.

"Awe come on Dakota, you outta know it by heart by now." Steve laughed, his voice filled with phlegm and regret. Without another word she produced a bottle of bourbon, materializing it as a magician would a rabbit from a hat. The bottle made an audible thud when she slapped it onto the counter. Steve lipped his chapped lips just looking at it. He snatched it from her with a grateful grunt and popped the cork. The booze tasted foul and aged, hurt as it crawled down his greedy esophagus.

He had cleared a third of the bottle before slamming it back onto the table. He winced and let out a strained woo, wildfire in his worn eyes. Dakota regarded the drunk with sad eyes.

"Need a glass?" she gestured to the pristine mugs behind her.

"Nah, just leave the bottle. Put it on my tab." He sat there, focusing on keeping the swill quiet in his queasy stomach. His liver moaned and cried but soon fell silent as it drowned in poison.

"You gonna pay that tab anytime soon?" Dakota asked, already knowing the answer.

"Plath can take it out of my check if he wants." He waved a dismissive hand.

"Sure, sure. He'll end up taking it out of mine but sure." She replied under her breath. It was the duty of a good tender to uphold the tabs, have security intimidate deadbeats. Kinda hard to do when the deadbeat IS security though.

Dakota turned her back to the drunk and put away the silverware. Below the screens was a depiction of Otto Otter, a buff looking cartoon ferret with a bushy black beard. He had beady little pebble eyes and a smirk that wore thin.

He was flexing his oddly muscular arm, a shaved patch had some sort of uplifting quote on it: " If you're working hard, you're hardly working." It didn't make a lick of sense, and she hated looking at it all day. Steve let out a gaseous moan behind her, and she turned to see him turning a new shade of green.

She grimaced and inched the bottle away from him as he gripped the counter with both hands.

"I'm ok. Just haven't eaten today." Steve slurred. "Got any fibble fabble left." He requested.

Dakota nodded and produced half a jar of the "fibble fabble" which was a tin jug of assorted nuts and pretzels. He shoved his hand in the jar and pulled out a fistful of salt and crammed it into his gapping maw. He chewed like a mule, savoring every sodium filled morsel. His mouth turned to cotton and on queue Dakota shoved ice water his way.

"Maybe you should take it easy on that stuff." Dakota shifted, her denim short sleeve jacket creasing slightly.

"I'm fine." Steve protested, bits of pretzel spittle flying from his maw. "I just need to maintain." He grabbed another handful of nuts and chowed down on them.

"Whatever you say. Ain't been too busy tonight anyway." Dakota noted. Her voice was soft yet lived, a small twinge of the bayou in her tone. "Hell, no one's taken a trip down below in weeks."

"Aren't supposed to talk about the basement, it's in the handbook." Steve lamented, his eyes glazed over.

"Plath don't care, it's the biggest open secret around here. What do you suppose he does down there anyhow?" Dakota mused.

"Nothing, he's stern and a bit eccentric but he ain't a killer." Steve shook his head in ignorance.

"Boy you been dipping into the stock worker's stash?" She scoffed. "Plath is one of the shadiest men I ever met in my life. If the tips weren't good, I'd a bailed on this joint a long time ago."

"Guess you're no better than me then." Steve grumbled. He reached for the bottle, but Dakota snatched it away. She clinked the water glass with it and took a small swig before she put it away.

"Guess not. Seriously what do you think he does with 'em all. Brandi thinks it's where all the pepperoni comes from."  Dakota shivered.

"With an I or a Y?" Steve asked.

"I. The waitress with the flowers running up her arms. Says the meat lovers smells funky, like pork refried a dozen times over."

"Maybe he stuffs the bodies into the animatronics, that's why they smell like rot and ooze that oily gunk" Steve teased.

"You take that gallows humor and shove off, Steve." She waved a bejeweled hand at him. "I'm just saying we should get our stories straight for when we finally get raided."

"Oh, we ain't getting raided. No one cares about a few disappearances around these parts. All the money Plath funnels into "The policemen's ball?"" Steve used air quotes as he laughed off the ludicrous thought. From the far end of the room the rowdy teens snickered at their phones as they lounged in a booth. There was an ice-cold pitcher in front of them, half gone. Steve raised an eyebrow and Dakota shrugged her shoulders.

"Their IDS cleared."

"And their cash was green, right." He mumbled. "God this place sucks. How'd I get here, you know I used to wanna be something, I tried out-"

"- I tried out for the department, I flunked outta basic training, my dog got ran over by a drunk driver, I'm Steve and my life is blah-blah-blah." Dakota interrupted in a mocking tone. Steve's face turned beet red, embarrassment and anger flushing through him all at once.

"I've heard it a hundred times a night a thousand different ways, hun. You're so miserable, do something about. Otherwise shut your trap and do your job." She snapped at him.

"You have a lovely way with words." Steve smiled sadly and tapped his empty glass.

"So I've heard." She sighed, getting him another water. As he began to sober up, the double doors from across the room clattered open. Standing in the doorway like a Wildman was a short, pudgy man in a turquoise tracksuit. His face was saggy and what was left of his straw hair slicked back with an abhorrent amount of product. He was scanning the room until his crazed azure bulbs landed on Steve.

He rushed over and broke out in a boastful greeting like they were old friends. The man slapped Steve on the back and rubbed his belly and chest before finally embracing him.

"There he is! Mister thirty an hour!" The man boomed. His accent was thick and gave his Sicilian roots away.

"Can I help you?" Steve squinted his eyes, trying to remember where he had seen this guy before. The man raised his head and belted out a laugh that could make a clown blush, his saggy jowl jiggling the whole way.

"Can you help me; man is this kid a pisser or what?" He pointed at Steve as he shot Dakota a rhetorical glance. "Yeah, you can help me, we got a bit of a uh, well a bit of a thing in the back. Need a hand with something." The man shifted, his pupils dilatated and his breath wheezy. Steve narrowed his eyes.

"Do you work with Mr. Plath, don't think I've seen you around, how'd you get back there anyway?" Steve pestered. The man's eye twitched and the friendly facade cracked slightly. He laughed and patted Steve's chest once more, instinctively like he was checking for something.

"You ask a lotta questions, huh? You worry too much pal. You've seen me I'm in the back, uh deliveries and such. I'm Paulie, Plath's friend from upstate. Just need a hand with something, it'll be quick." Paulie's eyes darted around the room, anxiously waiting for Steve to oblige his strange request.

Steve got up, his back creaking as he did. Paulie slapped him once more and put his arms around him, dragging him to the back in a headlock almost.

"It'll just be a few minutes, thanks buddy I really appreciate it. Hey, barkeep, be a doll for me would you and just shoot Plath a message, tell him the pizza sauce has gone bad. Thanks hun you're terrific." He called out to Dakota as he dragged a confused Steve to the back. Dakota shrugged her shoulders and shot Plath the text, three dots appeared and disappeared almost instantly. She threw her phone to the side and went back to cleaning; she didn't get paid enough to care about Plath's misdealings, after all.

-------------

The back reeked of stale pizza dough and dry almonds. Paulie dropped the niceties as soon as they walked through the door and started moving with some pep in his step. Their shoes clicked against the concrete floor of the wide halls. They cleared the kitchen and went straight to the docking bay. The shutters were closed and the place reeked. A certain stench permeated the air; Steve couldn't quite place it. They passed a nervous stock boy, whose gaze went down as soon as Paulie and Steve passed. His nails were bitter and chewed, his eyes bloodshot.

Steve made a face, wasn't used to seeing the guys in the back up close. They turned a corner and Steve gagged, clenching his stomach.

On the ground were three dead men. Their hands were clawed and rigor, their eyes pink with fluid. Their skin was blue and bloated, their mouths coated in crimson foam. The surrounded a crate that was dashed across the ground, its powdered contents spilling around. Another goon was standing over in the corner, harshly whispering to some squirming malcontent. Paulie waved a hand at the carnage in front of them.

"Fucking morons, dipping into our stock. You know about this?" He asked Steve. Steve was in shock, he had never seen a dead body before, at least not one curled and frozen in a state of torment. Paulie jabbed a sausage finger into his side and shocked him back to reality.

"Wha-oh god, oh my ch-BLLEAUUGHH." The upchuck came all at one. A foul-smelling brown and chunky stream that spewed out of Steve onto the stone floor. Paulie swore under his breath and stepped back, careful not to get any on his nice cream white shoes. Steve stumbled away from the scene, retching all the way till the contents of his belly were strewn about the docking bay.

He stood there wheezing, spittles of acidic bile dripping from his quivering lips. From the other side of the room that whispered conversation paused, only for the goon to strike the squirming party and shout "Don't look over there you scumfuck they can't help you."

Paulie tiptoed around the pooling puke and helped Steve recompose himself. He recoiled in disgust as he eyed a bit of sick stuck to his chin.

"We, we need to call the cops or something." Steve was smacked upside the head by Paulie.

"Are you stupid?" Paulie demanded to know. "Scratch that, maybe you are. If you knew these schmucks were dipping into the goods." He shook his head. "No good."

"Hey, it ain't my business I patrol the front and kick out the rowdy customers. What goes on back here might as well be the wild west. I figured that's how you paid them anyway." Steve defended.

"Rule one of this thing, never get high on your own supply." Paulie lectured.

"Someone should have told them that." Steve nodded to the dead.

"Bad shit." Paulie muttered as he kicked a stiff leg. "Someone laced our supplies, rat poison or sumthing. Plath is gonna go on a warpath." Paulie reached down to one of the dead and started shifting through his pockets. He procured a wallet and stuffed it away for later.

As if on cue, from the end of the hall a door crashed open, and the thundering sound of Plath storming up the way echoed around the room, his ivory cane furiously tapping the ground.

"Y'all better have a damn good reason for calling me at this in at this time of night, what in the sam hell is going-aw fucking hell." Plath stopped in his tracks as soon he saw the dead, dropping his iconic Southern drawl for a brief moment. He readjusted his cream-white suit and turned towards Paulie and Steve, a raging fire in his auburn eyes.

"I apologize Mr. Plath, we had an incident as you can see." Paulie began but quickly fell silent as Plath held up a hand. He took a long look at the corpses, the only sound the harsh interrogation taking place a few feet away. The battered soul pleaded for a moment but was struck across the face as the goon handling him grabbed him by the shirt collar and brought him to Plath.

The goon wore a salmon tracksuit, hints of a grease-stained white undershirt. His hair was a solid black cube of product, his face hardened by a lifetime of bouncing. He threw the doomed man to Plath's feet. Steve recognized him, he was Freddy the delivery guy. He had a short nose and a buzz cut, his face covered in bruises and scrapes. His eyes were swollen shut, tears streaked down his puffy cheeks.

"He made a stop down near the gas station on Pilgrim, other than that he swears he never left the shipment unattended." The goon informed. Freddy tried to rise to his knees but struggled every step of the way.

"Mr. Plath, please, I-I-I don't know what happened, I didn't leave the truck I swear." He slurred through a busted lip. Steve winced at the sound of his broken voice. He had always liked Freddy, usually let him bum a cigarette or three while they unloaded his truck. Steve stepped in, his voice timid and sober in front of Plath.

"Sir, he's telling the truth. Freddy's a stand-up guy; he'd never do anything like this." He waved a grim hand at the dead.

"Frankly Steven, your opinion don't count for much right now. I can smell your breath from here; smell like you've been bathing in a brewery." Plath poked him in the gut with his cane and Steve felt queasy. He knelt down to meet poor Freddy, who flinched away from the blubbery, yet stern face of Plath.

"Now, Freddy my boy. You telling me you didn't leave the truck unattended once, not even for a minute. It's alright now, I know we roughed ya up a bit but Mr. Giovanni over there has quite a temper." He pointed his stick at the burly goon. "He was just being thorough, you ain't in any trouble now."

Freddy hesitated, then opened his naive mouth.

"I-I stopped by Route 53, stopped by the side of the road for-maybe five minutes. I-I had to take a leak." He looked down in shame, Giovanni, rolled his eyes and muttered something in broken Italian. Paulie shook his head and Steve said nothing, he knew what would happen next. They all did, save for poor gullible Freddy. Plath clamped a hand on his shoulder, a reassurance perhaps.

"There now son, don't be so hard on yourself. You had to go, ya had to go." Plath chuckled. "Why, when I was your age, I had a bladder the size of a walnut heheh. I drove my daddy nuts; every two seconds I'd be bawling and saying I hadda go." Plath roared with laughter. The goons joined in, like the sycophants they were. Freddy let out a nervous chuckle, Steve was silent, his face white as a sheet.

"Haha, you know, you know what I didn't do though?" Plath wiped a tear from his eyes, his grip tightening on his cane.

"Wha-" were Freddy's last words as the crack of Ivory smacking into his skull rang out. Freddy slumped to the ground as Plath stuck his head once more, Steve winced as he heard something snap, and it sure as hell wasn't the cane. Thwack after bloody thwack came as Plath ranted and raved like a mad dog.

"- I sure as shit didn't leave a truck fulla coke alone in the middle of nowhere, when I was FUCKING TOLD NOT TO STOP." He roared as he continued to bash Freddy's head in. His skull caved and splinted, bits of brain matter splattered all over the concrete floor. Freddy convulsed with every strike, his lifeless arms twitching at his side. There was a burgundy, pulpy stain where his head used to be, and even Giovanni had to look away, making the sign of the cross on himself as he did.

Plath was huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his crimson face, he looked like a lobster that had been torn from a steaming pot. The cane's handle was drenched in blood, bits of bone lodged in it as well. Plath procured a white hanker chef from his vestments and wiped his brow as he recomposed himself. He handed off the bloody cane to Giovanni who whisked it away. He turned his attention to Steve and Paulie, a dead look in his eyes.

"Steven, how long have you turned a blind eye to these idiots dipping into the supply?" He pointed at the dead as Steve swallowed a lump in his throat.

"I-I thought it was all kosher. They never took much, just enough to get through the evening." He replied earnestly. Plath regarded him as if he was the dumbest man alive, and at that moment he probably was, considering the runner up was laid out on the floor.

"You've been walking around here for weeks now like your shit don't stink, sleepwalking through your shifts and talking poor Dakota's ear off. You think I haven't noticed you slacking, boy?!?" His words boomed, Steve could smell the stench of aged sambuca and caviar on his breath.

"I'm sorry sir, I-I'll do better." Steve quivered in his boots, as he noticed Paulie moving up a bet too close behind him. Plath's nostrils flared as he let out an exhausted exhale. He took one last look at the corpses and nodded at Steve.

"Perhaps it's a good thing you didn't stop 'em. This had happened on the street, our operation would be history. Still, gonna have to teach you a lesson son, to remind you what happens to those who cross me." He took a step towards Steve, who placed a scared hand on his flask. Plath looked past him and barked an order to Paulie.

"Get some rugs and roll this garbage up, meet me down in the basement. BOTH of you." He made sure to look Steve dead in the eyes for that last bit, then twirled around and stomped off. Steve gulped and tried to take a swig from his flask, but Paulie snatched it out of his hands.

"Wassa matter with you? Didn't you hear a word he just frigging said? Follow me kid, I'll show you where we keep the rugs." Paulie nodded his head deeper into the loading bay and trudged off. Steve slunk behind him, terrified of what cruel fate awaited him in the basement.

--------

As it turns out, "rugs" were just code for really big, clear plastic tarps. Good for hiding blood splatter, Paulie had mentioned, though not that it would help them much. The pair grabbed a couple of cheap masks for the smell of the corpses and got to it. The act of wrapping bodies was surreal for Steve, their joints stiff and ridged, their skin felt like cold candle wax. The workmen's eyes were forever frozen in a pained state, their faces a contorted death mask that showed they did not pass peacefully.

Paulie took charge in the operation, casually hefting bodies into the tarps and rolling them with ease. They got two to a tarp, the broken bodies stacked on each other like logs and started to drag them off. No one batted an eye, not the chef who broke into a whistle as he fried some eggs, not the stock boy who suddenly found taking inventory simply riveting. The pair dragged in tandem, Steve struggling a bit. His arms whined and his muscles throbbed as he wheezed and struggled to keep up with the potbellied gangster beside him.

They found Giovanni waiting for them at the basement entrance. Giovanni took one look at Steve and groaned, pushing past him and grabbing the tail end of the makeshift body bag.

"Paulie, you go in front, then fucko, then me. Careful of the step at the bottom it's loose and I ain't gotten around to it yet." He ordered as he lifted the tarps with relative ease. Paulie kicked open the door with a nudge and Steve held it open for him. The bodies made a thunk sound as they hit the steel steps. Paulie winked as he passed, and soon disappeared into the dark below.

Steve stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if it would be worth it to make a break for it. Giovanni barked at him to move his ass, and he practically jumped down the stairs. The only light into the basement stairwell came from behind, a meek shadow was cast as he tried to steady himself. The smell of rotten meat and musk was even strong in the stairwell. The only sounds were the bodies clunking on the metal steps, and footsteps droning on in the dreary dark.

Steve got a whiff of something else then, like rotten eggs and fish. There was a splash somewhere below, and they heard the bellowing laugh of Plath. They got to the bottom of the steps and Steve was shocked at his surroundings.

The only light was a string of azure lights spider-webbed across the ceiling. The stairs ended at the base of a makeshift deck, wet brown painted wood. The deck was littered with various amenities like a leather recliner and a flat screen mounted on the wall. Strewn about were half empty buckets with rotten chum in them. The stench made Steve gag. Giovanni nearly walked into him; he pushed Steve forward with a pissed off shove.

He stumbled onto the deck, the semi-rotten wood groaning as he did.

"Careful where ya step now, son. Don't wanna fall in." Plath called from a corner. He was at the edge of a massive pool that stretched out to the end of the room. The water was murky and filled with marsh foliage. Floating in there was a half-gnawed rubber chew toy, and a looming massive shape.

Steve's heart raced at the sight as Giovanni pushed past him, joining Paulie and Plath at the edge.

"Who ya think was dumb enough to try this anyhow?" Paulie groaned as he cracked his back.

"Ain't it obvious?" Plath snorted. "It's that Jezebel down in N'awlins again, trying to muscle me outta business. Ain't right, I tell ya. Used to be an honest man could get by on an honest day's work. Now the money's drying up, people flock to the next big thing. No one cares about Allie Gator no more. Cept me." The murky water behind him bubbled as something huge breached the surface.

It was a giant Alligator, easily thirty feet and as wide as a bus. Its scutes were of an obsidian shade; its eyes glowed in the dim light. It peeked its head up, showing off its horseshoe shaped snout, a row of teeth hungrily jutting down. The most impossible thing about the gator was not its size, but its attire.

Atop its head was a mop of straight, blond hair. The golden strands swayed in the water like tendrils. On the gator's body was an oversized and overstretched bubblegum pink tube top.  Plath knelt down to greet the gator, caressing its snout. Steve couldn't tell if the hair was a wig stapled on or not, but he wasn't sticking around to find out. He turned to leave but Paulie snuck up to him and grabbed his arm.

"You'll wanna watch this." He pointed to the water.

"Dinner time, Allie. Eat ya suppa now, don't be shy." Plath unrolled the bodies and they went in with a plop. Allie rushed towards them with unnatural speed, snapping her jaws and rolling. Her hair whipped water and blood all around, a glob of the disgusting water smacking him right in the face. Allie was quick to scarf down the four bodies, bones and all. The water ran red as she lapped up every last bit, the scrunch of a body being chomped by gator jaws imprinting in Steve's mind.

He was standing there shaking as the others laughed. Plath turned to face him, pride coming off him in waves.

"Ain't she a beaut? Raised her myself. She knows loyalty, not like some." he hinted. Paulie's grip on his arm became steel, and panic raced across Steve's face.

"Plath, good God man you can't do this, this is twisted!"

"Oh, don't prattle on Steven, you know what went on here. You suspected at least. How many poor folks you send down here at my behest." Plath sneered as Steve let his sullen face answer for him.

"Now cause I like ya, I'm gonna give you one chance." Paulie let go, taking a wide step back. "You quit the sauce; keep ya head down and maybe in a few days I have a new job for ya, pays far better as well. Either that or, well this is as far as we go." He let the implication hang in the air. Behind them, Allie bellowed, purring as it were after a satisfying meal. Steve stood there, mentally weighing his options. He steeled himself, and with a crazed yell rushed right at Plath.

He tackled him, and despite Plath's stature he was taken off guard and stumbled back. The pair splashed into the swampy depths, a plum of water soaking Plath's men. The water surprisingly cold, the shock sobering Steve up completely. He was near the bottom of the tank, his feet kicking up dirt and bones. His eyes winded as he adjusted to the sight around him, the bottom a blur of Plath's problems. His problem solver was lurking above, curious about the live bait in her domain. Steve swam upward, very aware of where Allie was.

He breached the surface and gasped, a stray shot whizzing by his face. Giovanni was standing there, smoking piece in hand. He cursed and raised his gun, but Paulie stopped him.

"You hit Plath or worse, the gator, we're screwed." he warned. Giovanni shoved him off.

He shot once more, barely missing Steve this time. He swam away in a panic, cursing as he did. A stray shot hit a lurking Allie right in the hide and she roared. She submerged as the room filled with the clicks of an empty gun.  He tossed it aside and ordered Paulie to give him his gun.

The two goons were so busy bickering they didn't notice Allie emerge and lunge up onto the deck. The rotten wood gave way and the goons tumbled into the thrashing maw of Allie. She chomped down and bit Giovanni in half with ease. Paulie scrambled to get away but Allie was quick to snag his leg. She tore it like one would a drumstick on an oversized turkey. Paulie screamed and grasped at where his leg used to be as Allie choked it down. She grabbed Giovanni's torso and slunk back below. Steve watched this happen in horror. There was still no sign of Plath, with any luck he was too fat to swim and just sank like a log.

He beelined it to a part of the deck that was still holding on. Allie noted the movement and slowly swam towards him, entranced by all the noise Steve was making. His heart was pounding against his ribs like a prisoner on death row as he grasped a piece of splintery wood. He hauled himself out of the murk and tried to scurry away when something grabbed his ankle and pulled him back in.

He looked back to see an out of breath Plath clenching his thighs, a wild look in his eye. His signature hat had been lost to the brink, and his curly red hair clung to his scalp.

"You sunnva bitch." He wheezed. "I ain't dying like this. I raised that girl from a pup you dumb fuck, she'd never hurt a hair on my he-"

With that Allie lunged from the depths and bit into Plath's waist. It proved tough to tear and she began a death roll. Steve heard Plath's belly tear and snap, twisting with every roll and thrash. Plath's grip loosened as his boastful taunts turned into childish screams. Steve scrambled back, nailing Plath in the face with the heel of his boot for good measure. Allie made a hungry groan as she dragged her prized meal down below, and all was silent once more.

Steve sat a few feet away from the edge, his breath shaky. He checked his pockets, then remembered where his flask was. He lurched up and went over to a delirious Paulie. Blood was pooling from his stump; he was slumped up against a wall. His eyes lit up when he saw Steve walking toward him.

"Awe thank Christ. Don't let me die here, kid, take me up I'm begging ya." he mumbled half conscious. Steve said nothing, searching his tracksuit for his prize. He found the flask and shook it, then took a long, savoring swig. He left Paulie there as he made his escape.

He had a big old smile on his face, finally after years of complicity he had done the right thing. This is what he needed, a fresh start and a new lease on life. As soon he walked up those stairs he'd be a changed man, a better man. A man who would stand up for injustice and finally make something of himself.

He took a galloping step and his foot fell through the broken bottom step and crashed straight through the rotten deck. He gasped as he fell, a stake jutting out and slicing through his leg as it fell. It lodged itself into his thigh and he cried out as his other leg did a split. He was in immense pain, trying and failing to free himself.

Then he noticed his trapped leg was wet. His eyes went wide as he began to try and pry the dagger of wood out of his thigh. The deck swayed and thumped as Allie closed in. She never saw the bite coming, just felt an enormous amount of pressure on his leg and the sensation of being yanked through the hole. His free leg snapped upward, as he was dragged under and devoured, the only thing left of him the echoes of a smoothed cry and a few dwindling air bubbles.

--------

Dakota sat on a stool of her favorite bar nursing a whisky sour. It had been several months since Plath up and vanished, and the rumor mill was always swirling. Some say he skipped town and moved to the Bahamas. Others say he faked his death for the insurance. Only Dakota, who heard the pained cries of a one-legged thug in the Pizzeria basement, knew the truth. She never told a soul, just dropped the half dead gangster off at the ER and never looked back. She was never paid that much to care to begin with anyway.

Allie Gator's got sold in auction to a charming woman from New Orleans who revamped the whole establishment. People came in droves and gave heaps of praise to the new owner. She had been there the other day, and the place had indeed gotten quite the face lift. The animatronics were new, the pizza no longer stale and the beer not watered down. She had met the new owner, a raven-haired woman with scarlet highlights by the name of Tamara Domingue. She had offered Dakota her old job back, but she politely declined.

Tamara simply shrugged and then said in a sugary sweet voice:

"Fine then hun, but you be sure to come back and visit ya hear? I'm sure Allie would love to see you sometime."

That little jab all but confirmed Dakota's suspicions about what still lurked in the basement. She had seen a rowdy teen being led down there by security as she left, in fact. She had simply shaken her head and left. Nothing had changed after all.

Same shit, different day.

Barry "Bubba" Jones was exhausted. He had been on the road nearly seventeen hours now. He was a long-haul trucker on a midnight run to the West Coast. The floor of his cab was littered with Styrofoam cups stained with the lingering scent of cheap gas station coffee.

His eyes were sprouting saddlebags, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. HIs high beams were on, and even though he had a schedule to keep he was keeping it under thirty on this road.

He was on an offbeat stretch of land affectionally referred to as "The Barren" a straight shot through the desert people used when they tired of the gridlock on the main roads. Once night fell on the barren, it was pitch black; his semi's high beams could barely penetrate the inky thickness of the dark.

There had been a multitude of accidents on the barren over the years, animals dashing across the way, drifters drunkenly wandering where they shouldn't have.

Bubba was careful, took his time in the abyss and was quick to react to any slight deviation to the pavement in front of him.

It was how he noticed the slim figure cautiously sticker her thumb out. She was standing to the right ride, her face coated in darkness. He could only make out the faint glow of light reflecting from her eyes.

She wore a striking red dress and a leather jacket, faded and worn from use.

Bubba squinted, a chill running down his spine. A cruel sense of dejavu he quickly brushed aside as he went past the hitcher and slowly pulled alongside the road. He wouldn't normally stop for one, especially at this time of night. But he knew how traitorous the barren could be and felt like doing a good deed.

For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of his idle engine and the slow, deliberate steps of heels clicking on pavement. The side door opened with a rough Ka-thunk, the cab barely buckled as the hitcher crawled inside.

The door slammed behind her, and as Bubba turned his focus back on the road, he stole a quick glance at the hitcher. Her face was covered in messy crimson hair, what little skin he saw was deathly pale.

A pit began to form in his stomach as he put his foot on the gas and the cab lurched forward.

"Thanks for the ride, mister." A soft voice cooed beside him. Her tone was stone and carried a tune of indifference.

"Nothing to it, miss. Bad place to be stuck this time of night." Bubba didn't take his worn eyes off the road, he didn't dare. He cleared his throat and asked the hitcher a pointed question.

"Where you coming from anyhow? Didn't see no car or bike broken down." The hitcher was silent for a moment, as if amused by the question.

"I was just out for a stroll. I got lost. Then you came along." The hitcher replied, and though her head didn't move he felt eyes boring into his skull.

"Rotten place for a walk." Bubba muttered. " You got a name?"

"I did." The hitcher uttered. "I forget what it was, Mandy, Matilda, something like that."

Bubba's blood ran cold, and he gripped the wheel tighter.

"Matilda, fine name." He clamored.

"It is, isn't it?" The hitcher replied cooly. They sat in silence for a while then, the road seeming to stretch out into the infinite dark for eons. Bubba kept glancing at his passenger, desperate to see her face and reassure that sinking feeling in his gut. The air in the cab was as cold as an ice box; he could see his frost breath with every shaky exhale.

There was nothing in front of Matilda, she was deathly still.

"You ever been down this way before? Town ain't far now, maybe another twenty minutes or so." Bubba offered, digging for info on his passenger.

"I drove this way once, bout two years back. Was on my way to the harvest moon dance. I never got there." There was a bitter sorrow in her voice. Bubba's own visage grew deathly pale.

"Is-is that right?" He deflected, feigning ignorance.

"I was too close to the road. Or they were dowsing off and drifted a bit too far to the left." Bubba tried to speak then but noticed his hands were deadlocked to the wheel; he couldn't move them no matter how much he strained. His foot slammed down on the gas. The semi began quickly picking up speed.

It went from a cozy twenty-five, to an uneasy thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five; the speedometer was gaining, the outside whizzing by.

Bubba struggled against the wheel, his belt felt suffocating and he found it difficult to breathe. He turned his head to Matilda. She slowly met his eyes, and he recoiled in horror at the sight before him.

Her face was stripped of flesh, her eye sockets hollow yet full of malice. Her skull was bleached bloody, remnants of a cruel and sudden end. She had an empty grin on her face; bits of roadkill stuck to yellowed and decaying teeth. Bubba screamed at the sight of her, this vengeful phantasm.

"Please." He blubbered through choked tears. "It was an accident, I never meant- I was, I was going to fast I-I-I-" He couldn't excuse himself fast enough. Matilda tilted her skull in silence. She reached out with a pale hand and gently touched his on the wheel. Her touch was ice cold.

"It's ok Barry. I forgive you." With that she jerked the wheel to the right, and the semi screeched and hollered as the cab buckled and turned over. Bubba slammed his head into the driver's window, splinters of glass shredding into him. The semi crashed into the Earth, flipped over completely.

The last thing Bubba saw before the icy dark took him was Matilda watching over him, satisfaction gleaming in her hollow eyes.

Barry "Bubba" Jones was exhausted. He had been on the road nearly seventeen hours now. He was a long-haul trucker on a midnight run to the West Coast. The floor of his cab was littered with Styrofoam cups stained with the lingering scent of cheap gas station coffee.

His eyes were sprouting saddlebags, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. HIs high beams were on, and even though he had a schedule to keep he was keeping it under thirty on this road.

He was on an offbeat stretch of land affectionally referred to as "The Barren" a straight shot through the desert people used when they tired of the gridlock on the main roads. Once night fell on the barren, it was pitch black; his semi's high beams could barely penetrate the inky thickness of the dark.

There had been a multitude of accidents on the barren over the years, animals dashing across the way, drifters drunkenly wandering where they shouldn't have.

Bubba was careful, took his time in the abyss and was quick to react to any slight deviation to the pavement in front of him.

It was how he noticed the slim figure cautiously sticker her thumb out. She was standing to the right ride, her face coated in darkness. He could only make out the faint glow of light reflecting from her eyes.

She wore a striking red dress and a leather jacket, faded and worn from use.

Bubba squinted, a chill running down his spine. A cruel sense of dejavu he quickly brushed aside as he went past the hitcher and slowly pulled alongside the road. He wouldn't normally stop for one, especially at this time of night. But he knew how traitorous the barren could be and felt like doing a good deed.

For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of his idle engine and the slow, deliberate steps of heels clicking on pavement. The side door opened with a rough Ka-thunk, the cab barely buckled as the hitcher crawled inside.

The door slammed behind her, and as Bubba turned his focus back on the road, he stole a quick glance at the hitcher. Her face was covered in messy crimson hair, what little skin he saw was deathly pale.

A pit began to form in his stomach as he put his foot on the gas and the cab lurched forward.

"Thanks for the ride, mister." A soft voice cooed beside him. Her tone was stone and carried a tune of indifference.

"Nothing to it, miss. Bad place to be stuck this time of night." Bubba didn't take his worn eyes off the road, he didn't dare. He cleared his throat and asked the hitcher a pointed question.

"Where you coming from anyhow? Didn't see no car or bike broken down." The hitcher was silent for a moment, as if amused by the question.

"I was just out for a stroll. I got lost. Then you came along." The hitcher replied, and though her head didn't move he felt eyes boring into his skull.

"Rotten place for a walk." Bubba muttered. " You got a name?"

"I did." The hitcher uttered. "I forget what it was, Mandy, Matilda, something like that."

Bubba's blood ran cold, and he gripped the wheel tighter.

"Matilda, fine name." He clamored.

"It is, isn't it?" The hitcher replied cooly. They sat in silence for a while then, the road seeming to stretch out into the infinite dark for eons. Bubba kept glancing at his passenger, desperate to see her face and reassure that sinking feeling in his gut. The air in the cab was as cold as an ice box; he could see his frost breath with every shaky exhale.

There was nothing in front of Matilda, she was deathly still.

"You ever been down this way before? Town ain't far now, maybe another twenty minutes or so." Bubba offered, digging for info on his passenger.

"I drove this way once, bout two years back. Was on my way to the harvest moon dance. I never got there." There was a bitter sorrow in her voice. Bubba's own visage grew deathly pale.

"Is-is that right?" He deflected, feigning ignorance.

"I was too close to the road. Or they were dowsing off and drifted a bit too far to the left." Bubba tried to speak then but noticed his hands were deadlocked to the wheel; he couldn't move them no matter how much he strained. His foot slammed down on the gas. The semi began quickly picking up speed.

It went from a cozy twenty-five, to an uneasy thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five; the speedometer was gaining, the outside whizzing by.

Bubba struggled against the wheel, his belt felt suffocating and he found it difficult to breathe. He turned his head to Matilda. She slowly met his eyes, and he recoiled in horror at the sight before him.

Her face was stripped of flesh, her eye sockets hollow yet full of malice. Her skull was bleached bloody, remnants of a cruel and sudden end. She had an empty grin on her face; bits of roadkill stuck to yellowed and decaying teeth. Bubba screamed at the sight of her, this vengeful phantasm.

"Please." He blubbered through choked tears. "It was an accident, I never meant- I was, I was going to fast I-I-I-" He couldn't excuse himself fast enough. Matilda tilted her skull in silence. She reached out with a pale hand and gently touched his on the wheel. Her touch was ice cold.

"It's ok Barry. I forgive you." With that she jerked the wheel to the right, and the semi screeched and hollered as the cab buckled and turned over. Bubba slammed his head into the driver's window, splinters of glass shredding into him. The semi crashed into the Earth, flipped over completely.

The last thing Bubba saw before the icy dark took him was Matilda watching over him, satisfaction gleaming in her hollow eyes.

Barry "Bubba" Jones was exhausted. He had been on the road nearly seventeen hours now. He was a long-haul trucker on a midnight run to the West Coast. The floor of his cab was littered with Styrofoam cups stained with the lingering scent of cheap gas station coffee.

His eyes were sprouting saddlebags, and his hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. HIs high beams were on, and even though he had a schedule to keep he was keeping it under thirty on this road.

He was on an offbeat stretch of land affectionally referred to as "The Barren" a straight shot through the desert people used when they tired of the gridlock on the main roads. Once night fell on the barren, it was pitch black; his semi's high beams could barely penetrate the inky thickness of the dark.

There had been a multitude of accidents on the barren over the years, animals dashing across the way, drifters drunkenly wandering where they shouldn't have.

Bubba was careful, took his time in the abyss and was quick to react to any slight deviation to the pavement in front of him.

It was how he noticed the slim figure cautiously sticker her thumb out. She was standing to the right ride, her face coated in darkness. He could only make out the faint glow of light reflecting from her eyes.

She wore a striking red dress and a leather jacket, faded and worn from use.

Bubba squinted, a chill running down his spine. A cruel sense of dejavu he quickly brushed aside as he went past the hitcher and slowly pulled alongside the road. He wouldn't normally stop for one, especially at this time of night. But he knew how traitorous the barren could be and felt like doing a good deed.

For a moment, the only sounds were the soft hum of his idle engine and the slow, deliberate steps of heels clicking on pavement. The side door opened with a rough Ka-thunk, the cab barely buckled as the hitcher crawled inside.

The door slammed behind her, and as Bubba turned his focus back on the road, he stole a quick glance at the hitcher. Her face was covered in messy crimson hair, what little skin he saw was deathly pale.

A pit began to form in his stomach as he put his foot on the gas and the cab lurched forward.

"Thanks for the ride, mister." A soft voice cooed beside him. Her tone was stone and carried a tune of indifference.

"Nothing to it, miss. Bad place to be stuck this time of night." Bubba didn't take his worn eyes off the road, he didn't dare. He cleared his throat and asked the hitcher a pointed question.

"Where you coming from anyhow? Didn't see no car or bike broken down." The hitcher was silent for a moment, as if amused by the question.

"I was just out for a stroll. I got lost. Then you came along." The hitcher replied, and though her head didn't move he felt eyes boring into his skull.

"Rotten place for a walk." Bubba muttered. " You got a name?"

"I did." The hitcher uttered. "I forget what it was, Mandy, Matilda, something like that."

Bubba's blood ran cold, and he gripped the wheel tighter.

"Matilda, fine name." He clamored.

"It is, isn't it?" The hitcher replied cooly. They sat in silence for a while then, the road seeming to stretch out into the infinite dark for eons. Bubba kept glancing at his passenger, desperate to see her face and reassure that sinking feeling in his gut. The air in the cab was as cold as an ice box; he could see his frost breath with every shaky exhale.

There was nothing in front of Matilda, she was deathly still.

"You ever been down this way before? Town ain't far now, maybe another twenty minutes or so." Bubba offered, digging for info on his passenger.

"I drove this way once, bout two years back. Was on my way to the harvest moon dance. I never got there." There was a bitter sorrow in her voice. Bubba's own visage grew deathly pale.

"Is-is that right?" He deflected, feigning ignorance.

"I was too close to the road. Or they were dowsing off and drifted a bit too far to the left." Bubba tried to speak then but noticed his hands were deadlocked to the wheel; he couldn't move them no matter how much he strained. His foot slammed down on the gas. The semi began quickly picking up speed.

It went from a cozy twenty-five, to an uneasy thirty-five, forty-five, fifty-five; the speedometer was gaining, the outside whizzing by.

Bubba struggled against the wheel, his belt felt suffocating and he found it difficult to breathe. He turned his head to Matilda. She slowly met his eyes, and he recoiled in horror at the sight before him.

Her face was stripped of flesh, her eye sockets hollow yet full of malice. Her skull was bleached bloody, remnants of a cruel and sudden end. She had an empty grin on her face; bits of roadkill stuck to yellowed and decaying teeth. Bubba screamed at the sight of her, this vengeful phantasm.

"Please." He blubbered through choked tears. "It was an accident, I never meant- I was, I was going to fast I-I-I-" He couldn't excuse himself fast enough. Matilda tilted her skull in silence. She reached out with a pale hand and gently touched his on the wheel. Her touch was ice cold.

"It's ok Barry. I forgive you." With that she jerked the wheel to the right, and the semi screeched and hollered as the cab buckled and turned over. Bubba slammed his head into the driver's window, splinters of glass shredding into him. The semi crashed into the Earth, flipped over completely.

The last thing Bubba saw before the icy dark took him was Matilda watching over him, satisfaction gleaming in her hollow eyes.

Jordan was a down on his luck fella who had been in and out of work for weeks now. He was an office manager, ran the most successful branch in the company, no one said a word about him blowing off work. 

That was the issue, he was bored. He found work mundane and hated how his life was filled with mediocrity. He wore the same suits, traveled the same route to work, ate the same grilled cheese deluxe with the crust cut off every single day for lunch. He used to have dreams, aspirations even. When he was young and his chair didn’t need lumbar support he wanted to be a great author, like King but without the coke problem. Life got in the way, bills, car trouble, more than a few relationships going down in flames. 

Eventually he settled for the tedium and security of his manager job, but he yearned for more. He just didn’t want to work for it. He wished he could just stumble across the keys to success and live the rest of his life in luxury. 

That was how he found himself wandering the neighborhood, the sky a dull blue and the sun an eerie sort of bright. Children played in the yards, dogs chased sticks, milk men checked in on lonely housewives. Same old same old.

Something was different that day though, there was a yard sale. 

He spotted a makeshift sign that was sloppily painted with a shade of red reminiscent of a pristine merlot. The yard was littered in knickknacks and paddywhacks, a dog even had a bone. Some neighbors perused the yard, looks of mild interest on their faces. The house the yard belonged to was a towering caricature of a haunted manor. The windows shuttered and the front porch dreary and gothic.

An old man with foggy pale eyes sat in a rocking chair there stroking a stuffed raven. He was mumbling to himself in a language forgotten to all but the ones that came before. 

Jordan’s interest was piqued, and despite the house giving him the creeps he decided “What the hell, got nothing better to do” he waltzed up the crooked walk and shoulder checked a slim man inspecting a vase. 

“Watch it buddy.” The slim man barked, his eyes never once leaving the inscriptions on the vase. 

“Sorry pal, didn’t see you there.” Jordan shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “You happen to know the owner of this joint?”
The slim man pointed to a bald man with a sharpened black goatee sitting at a long oval table close to the house. Jordan walked over to the table. The bald man barely regarded him, looking over various accounts and cash. 

“Howdy Jordan, anything I can help you with today?” The bald man asked. 
Before Jordan could inquire as to how the stranger knew him, his verdant eyes flicked to the table and widened. In front of the man’s pointed elbows was a flamboyantly gorgeous royal purple fountain pen. The pen had gold trimmings, and a crimson red tip. Near the top was a crystal skull with ruby eyes. 

“Woah, that’s a cool pen.” The bald man’s gaze flicked to the table and his overly pale face blushed beet red. 

“Heavens, I’m afraid this shouldn’t have even been out. My apologies sir.” He grabbed the pen and started to put it away. 

“Woah woah woah hold on there buckaroo, what’s the big deal? It’s just a fancy looking pen.” Jordan protested. The bald gentleman held it in front of his face, regarding it with mild contempt. 

“This thing? I’m sorry Jordan you don’t want this. Wouldn’t do you much good.” 

“Well why not?” Jordan begged, his gaze fixated on the strange pen. 

“Well it’s a rare item, only for serious authors. It once belonged to Ernest Hemingway and Dickens, to name drop a few.” The bald dude mused. 

“I’m an author.” Jordan blurted out without thinking. Baldy raised an eyebrow at that.

“Really, what have you published?”

"Well-nothing yet, I haven’t had the time.” 

“Ah but you want to, don’t you? You see this gem of an item and think “Maybe if I buy it I’ll finally motivate myself to do it.”” The bald one exposisted. 

“Just, look I want to buy the pen. How much?” Jordan reached for his wallet. 

“Not for sale. Sorry, like I said, damn thing shouldn’t have even been out.” 

“Oh come on, everything's for sale, it’s a yard sale.” Jordan complained. 

“True. You really want this pen huh?” 

“Yeah.” A stubborn Jordan persisted. 

“Oh fine, you’ve twisted my arm. Here you go Jordan.” The bald man smiled a trickster’s grin as Jordan snatched it from his hands. 

“Hey thanks friend. How much do I owe ya?” Jordan offered once more but that bald guy just shook his head. 

“No charge sir. One doesn't pay here. With money anyway. Heh, ha ha, hahaha HAHAHAH-” The man tilted his bald head back and roared with laughter, probably at some joke he had just thought of. Jordan walked away admiring the pen, excited to get home and try it out. 

When Jordan got home he sat at his ivory desk and pulled out a wad of fresh clean paper. It had that lingering stench of paper fresh from the copier, the faithful smell curled his nostrils as he sat down to write his magnum opus. 

The moment the tip touched the paper he let out a pained gasp. He had nicked his finger on a sharpened gold trimming. The skull atop the pen seemed to laugh at him, lapping up the fresh droplets that now stained the paper. He cursed under his breath and pushed on. He was shocked to find that for the first time in his life, the ideas just seemed to flow through him.

He sat for hours, enthralled with his own genius. He was pouring his heart out, page after page filled with drama, comedy, sorrow, and love. There were no spelling errors, no typos, just word after perfect word. Hours passed before he noticed how ghostly pale and translucent his hand had begun. He winced and gripped it, a slight cramp forming in his throbbing blue veins. 

He took a break then, and in the morning set his masterpiece off to be edited and reviewed. His publisher, who had long since written him off as a hack fraud, gave it a glamorous review. Within weeks it had gone to print, thousands of copies shipped off and sold. The money came rolling in and for the first time in his mediocre life he felt satisfaction.

Fame smacked him like a frying pan, women threw himself at him and men wanted to be him. He traveled the world with his new found wealth and yet, nothing brought him as much joy as writing did. 

Jordan noticed though, how dreadfully pale he had become. His eyes were a sickly yellow and he seemed almost anemic. It was during the release of his second book he underwent his first blood transfusion. It barely took, his body rejecting donor after donor. The only thing that brought him comfort was writing, sitting in his favorite chair and scribbling word after word. His heart beat slowed to a crawl and his breath barely a wheeze. 

His skin became thinner than paper and clung to his bones. His hair fell off in clumps, his scalp dry and itchy. Those around him spoke nothing of it, they only praised his immaculate writing abilities. 

On the eve of his third book the bald man came to see Jordan. He was bed ridden, his left hand curled into a claw. Fit only to hold that vampiric pen that sucked the life out of him. All sorts of things were plugged into him, saline drips and plasma transfusions, just barely keeping the poor bugger alive. Still Jordan wrote, penning a fourth novel, a fantasy about frost and flame or some such nonsense. The bald man had a somber expression.

“I must admit, you’ve held out longer than most. You’ve become rich beyond your wildest dreams, experienced sights and pleasures you could scarcely enjoy in your condition. Was it all worth it Jordan?” The bald man asked. 

“. . . I must, finish it. The fans will want it.” Jordan barely whispered. His clawed hand scraped against bloodied paper. The bald man sighed, a faint knock on the bedroom door.

“I don’t usually do this, but I must admit your last novel? Brought me to tears, I mean that twist with the woman in Paris, so tragic.” The bedroom door opened and a skinny guy with a book nervously came up to them. He held out a first edition copy of his first novel. Jordan smiled weakly, always eager to meet a fan. 

“Mr. Belfast, I'm a huge fan. I-I’ve always wanted to be a writer as well, do you have any tips?” The fanboy held out the book for Jordan to sign. He weakly signed it, and noticed the fanboy’s eyes lingering on the pen.

“Always-follow your dreams sport. Never let life hold you down.” Jordan offered. The fanboy nodded his head. 

“Mr. Belfast, I have to say. That pen, it’s so mesmerizing."

“This-old thing? Ah yes, a nice pen I suppose. Not for the faint of heart though.” Jordan coughed and chuckled. 

“I don’t suppose I could. . .” The fanboy trailed off meekly 

“This pen? You don’t want this thing, it barely works nowadays. Besides, it's only for serious authors.”

“Oh I.m serious Mr.Belfast, I want to be the best author in the world!”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I could part with it, sell you this old thing. Hell I’ll even give it to you, call it a memento.” Jordan’s fingers cracked and creaked his he unfurled his palm. The fanboy eagerly snatched the pen, his eyes filling with tears of joy. 

“Oh thank you sir!” He gleefully exclaimed. “How can I ever repay you?” 

“Oh think nothing of it dear boy.” Jordan’s face contorted in a strange smile. 

“Let’s just say you don’t pay with money.”

Jordan was a down on his luck fella who had been in and out of work for weeks now. He was an office manager, ran the most successful branch in the company, no one said a word about him blowing off work. 

That was the issue, he was bored. He found work mundane and hated how his life was filled with mediocrity. He wore the same suits, traveled the same route to work, ate the same grilled cheese deluxe with the crust cut off every single day for lunch. He used to have dreams, aspirations even. When he was young and his chair didn’t need lumbar support he wanted to be a great author, like King but without the coke problem. Life got in the way, bills, car trouble, more than a few relationships going down in flames. 

Eventually he settled for the tedium and security of his manager job, but he yearned for more. He just didn’t want to work for it. He wished he could just stumble across the keys to success and live the rest of his life in luxury. 

That was how he found himself wandering the neighborhood, the sky a dull blue and the sun an eerie sort of bright. Children played in the yards, dogs chased sticks, milk men checked in on lonely housewives. Same old same old.

Something was different that day though, there was a yard sale. 

He spotted a makeshift sign that was sloppily painted with a shade of red reminiscent of a pristine merlot. The yard was littered in knickknacks and paddywhacks, a dog even had a bone. Some neighbors perused the yard, looks of mild interest on their faces. The house the yard belonged to was a towering caricature of a haunted manor. The windows shuttered and the front porch dreary and gothic.

An old man with foggy pale eyes sat in a rocking chair there stroking a stuffed raven. He was mumbling to himself in a language forgotten to all but the ones that came before. 

Jordan’s interest was piqued, and despite the house giving him the creeps he decided “What the hell, got nothing better to do” he waltzed up the crooked walk and shoulder checked a slim man inspecting a vase. 

“Watch it buddy.” The slim man barked, his eyes never once leaving the inscriptions on the vase. 

“Sorry pal, didn’t see you there.” Jordan shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “You happen to know the owner of this joint?”
The slim man pointed to a bald man with a sharpened black goatee sitting at a long oval table close to the house. Jordan walked over to the table. The bald man barely regarded him, looking over various accounts and cash. 

“Howdy Jordan, anything I can help you with today?” The bald man asked. 
Before Jordan could inquire as to how the stranger knew him, his verdant eyes flicked to the table and widened. In front of the man’s pointed elbows was a flamboyantly gorgeous royal purple fountain pen. The pen had gold trimmings, and a crimson red tip. Near the top was a crystal skull with ruby eyes. 

“Woah, that’s a cool pen.” The bald man’s gaze flicked to the table and his overly pale face blushed beet red. 

“Heavens, I’m afraid this shouldn’t have even been out. My apologies sir.” He grabbed the pen and started to put it away. 

“Woah woah woah hold on there buckaroo, what’s the big deal? It’s just a fancy looking pen.” Jordan protested. The bald gentleman held it in front of his face, regarding it with mild contempt. 

“This thing? I’m sorry Jordan you don’t want this. Wouldn’t do you much good.” 

“Well why not?” Jordan begged, his gaze fixated on the strange pen. 

“Well it’s a rare item, only for serious authors. It once belonged to Ernest Hemingway and Dickens, to name drop a few.” The bald dude mused. 

“I’m an author.” Jordan blurted out without thinking. Baldy raised an eyebrow at that.

“Really, what have you published?”

"Well-nothing yet, I haven’t had the time.” 

“Ah but you want to, don’t you? You see this gem of an item and think “Maybe if I buy it I’ll finally motivate myself to do it.”” The bald one exposisted. 

“Just, look I want to buy the pen. How much?” Jordan reached for his wallet. 

“Not for sale. Sorry, like I said, damn thing shouldn’t have even been out.” 

“Oh come on, everything's for sale, it’s a yard sale.” Jordan complained. 

“True. You really want this pen huh?” 

“Yeah.” A stubborn Jordan persisted. 

“Oh fine, you’ve twisted my arm. Here you go Jordan.” The bald man smiled a trickster’s grin as Jordan snatched it from his hands. 

“Hey thanks friend. How much do I owe ya?” Jordan offered once more but that bald guy just shook his head. 

“No charge sir. One doesn't pay here. With money anyway. Heh, ha ha, hahaha HAHAHAH-” The man tilted his bald head back and roared with laughter, probably at some joke he had just thought of. Jordan walked away admiring the pen, excited to get home and try it out. 

When Jordan got home he sat at his ivory desk and pulled out a wad of fresh clean paper. It had that lingering stench of paper fresh from the copier, the faithful smell curled his nostrils as he sat down to write his magnum opus. 

The moment the tip touched the paper he let out a pained gasp. He had nicked his finger on a sharpened gold trimming. The skull atop the pen seemed to laugh at him, lapping up the fresh droplets that now stained the paper. He cursed under his breath and pushed on. He was shocked to find that for the first time in his life, the ideas just seemed to flow through him.

He sat for hours, enthralled with his own genius. He was pouring his heart out, page after page filled with drama, comedy, sorrow, and love. There were no spelling errors, no typos, just word after perfect word. Hours passed before he noticed how ghostly pale and translucent his hand had begun. He winced and gripped it, a slight cramp forming in his throbbing blue veins. 

He took a break then, and in the morning set his masterpiece off to be edited and reviewed. His publisher, who had long since written him off as a hack fraud, gave it a glamorous review. Within weeks it had gone to print, thousands of copies shipped off and sold. The money came rolling in and for the first time in his mediocre life he felt satisfaction.

Fame smacked him like a frying pan, women threw himself at him and men wanted to be him. He traveled the world with his new found wealth and yet, nothing brought him as much joy as writing did. 

Jordan noticed though, how dreadfully pale he had become. His eyes were a sickly yellow and he seemed almost anemic. It was during the release of his second book he underwent his first blood transfusion. It barely took, his body rejecting donor after donor. The only thing that brought him comfort was writing, sitting in his favorite chair and scribbling word after word. His heart beat slowed to a crawl and his breath barely a wheeze. 

His skin became thinner than paper and clung to his bones. His hair fell off in clumps, his scalp dry and itchy. Those around him spoke nothing of it, they only praised his immaculate writing abilities. 

On the eve of his third book the bald man came to see Jordan. He was bed ridden, his left hand curled into a claw. Fit only to hold that vampiric pen that sucked the life out of him. All sorts of things were plugged into him, saline drips and plasma transfusions, just barely keeping the poor bugger alive. Still Jordan wrote, penning a fourth novel, a fantasy about frost and flame or some such nonsense. The bald man had a somber expression.

“I must admit, you’ve held out longer than most. You’ve become rich beyond your wildest dreams, experienced sights and pleasures you could scarcely enjoy in your condition. Was it all worth it Jordan?” The bald man asked. 

“. . . I must, finish it. The fans will want it.” Jordan barely whispered. His clawed hand scraped against bloodied paper. The bald man sighed, a faint knock on the bedroom door.

“I don’t usually do this, but I must admit your last novel? Brought me to tears, I mean that twist with the woman in Paris, so tragic.” The bedroom door opened and a skinny guy with a book nervously came up to them. He held out a first edition copy of his first novel. Jordan smiled weakly, always eager to meet a fan. 

“Mr. Belfast, I'm a huge fan. I-I’ve always wanted to be a writer as well, do you have any tips?” The fanboy held out the book for Jordan to sign. He weakly signed it, and noticed the fanboy’s eyes lingering on the pen.

“Always-follow your dreams sport. Never let life hold you down.” Jordan offered. The fanboy nodded his head. 

“Mr. Belfast, I have to say. That pen, it’s so mesmerizing."

“This-old thing? Ah yes, a nice pen I suppose. Not for the faint of heart though.” Jordan coughed and chuckled. 

“I don’t suppose I could. . .” The fanboy trailed off meekly 

“This pen? You don’t want this thing, it barely works nowadays. Besides, it's only for serious authors.”

“Oh I.m serious Mr.Belfast, I want to be the best author in the world!”

“Hmm. Well, I suppose I could part with it, sell you this old thing. Hell I’ll even give it to you, call it a memento.” Jordan’s fingers cracked and creaked his he unfurled his palm. The fanboy eagerly snatched the pen, his eyes filling with tears of joy. 

“Oh thank you sir!” He gleefully exclaimed. “How can I ever repay you?” 

“Oh think nothing of it dear boy.” Jordan’s face contorted in a strange smile. 

“Let’s just say you don’t pay with money.”

The freakish, obscene thing that masquerades as "The Nostalgia Critic" has been popular for almost two decades. It seems like yesterday when I first stumbled across one of his videos. It was one of the early ones; the wall was still the right color and the camerawork just slightly above amateur porn. It was a review of some ancient video game movie-"Street Fighter."

It was full of random clips all cut together, random memes intersected in with the shrillest yell I had ever heard a man produce.

It was the funniest thing I had ever seen in my entire life.

Granted, I was about eight years old at the time. That's not to discount the "man" either-over the years he's evolved, grown his content with the times instead of against it. But in that first video, this odd suit wearing man with a news cap and a hastily trimmed goatee; he was my idol.

As time grew and my YouTube tastes changed, Doug fell off my radar in favor of bug-eyed streamers and brain rotting lets plays. But he always held a . . . nostalgic place in my heart. I stayed sub to him and watched the occasional review that piqued my interest.

One of my favorites from the newer videos was "Son Of The Mask." He does this bizarre Lord Of The Rings sketch halfway through the review; I think it's some sort of metaphor saying Jamie Kennedy is the embodiment of evil.

Then again maybe I'm reading too much into it. A lot of the new stuff is like that, sketch comedy often lampooning the movie he's reviewing. A lot of it is hit or miss-but I can't dog the "guy" for branching out and trying something new. 

But I'm getting off topic now.

A few nights ago, a new video popped up in my feed. It was around 8pm, a couple hours off from his usual upload schedule. The title of the video simply read: Found Footage.

This hyped me up to no end-he almost never did horror content outside of October. I queued up the video on my obnoxiously large Fire TV and relaxed in my lazy boy to watch it in style. The thumbnail for this video was Doug super imposed against a backdrop of characters from various found footage films.

The characters were lazily photoshopped behind Doug-who was looking directly at the audience with his patented scowl. The whole thing was just low effort really. Not that his thumbnails were anything to write home about to begin with; but this whole thing seemed phoned in right off the bat.

The view count was almost non-existent as well. You could count it on one hand actually. I chalked that off to a glitch and clicked the video. 

It started with the Iconic Nostalgia Critic guitar riff; a metal version of "The Show Must Go On." Usually, the cast flies by as clips from past reviews play, but this time it was just Doug. He was dancing and frolicking in the green screened credits; constantly making soy faces and exaggerated screams.

Then the title screen popped up as the theme died down. The title screen is pretty amusing. The Critic puts his best tough guy face on and stands menacingly against a black backdrop with a glock in his hand as it then slowly dissolves to a cartoony logo.

This dissolves as well- he loves that effect- and we cut to The Critic sitting against a blueish wall. He had a smarmy look on his face as his hands are tented and crossed. His lips clicked as he swirled his head upward to a comical degree as he started the review. 

"Hel-loooo I'm the Nostalgia Critic, I remember it, so you don't have to." he spoke with a prideful conviction. "Am I the only one getting sick of these? He whined. It then cut to various clips from a bunch of classic "FF" movies like Paranormal and Willow Creek. Royalty free music played over these clips as Doug explained his take. 

"After Blair Witch came out in 1999, audiences were astounded by this new type of film and craved more. Eventually, after the popularity of movies like Paranormal Activity the genre exploded. Unfortunately, that's when every Schmuck with a camera went- Hey I can do that!" 

He sounded more cynical than usual, but despite his brash attitude he had a point. If you went on any streaming service, you could find dozens, if not hundreds of FF movies.

"Some of them are good, but most are just low effort, low grade slop with a gimmick. And today we're going to be looking at the worst of the worst. Because GOD forbid, we ever watch anything with substance on this show." He shrilly spat. There was a look of pure disdain in his piercing eyes, like he could choke the life out of you just with a look.

"Let's start off with-eugh, The Borneo Incident." He said with disgust. It was odd, seeing him have such visceral hatred for what he was watching. I'm not talking about his overacted rants about stuff like "Battlefield Earth," looking at him now he was repulsed by the sheer mention of this movie.

Then it cut to. . . the beginning of the movie. I don't mean like a quick clip where he speaks over it and then it skips ahead after a snarky quip.

I mean it just started playing the movie.

The whole thing.

At times it would just cut to Doug sitting alone in his studio, boredom wrapped around him like a blanket. His face had the frozen expression of sheer disdain, no jokes, no annoyed comebacks. There was nothing.

In fact, as the movie played, he would comment over it-he would whisper:

"There's nothing here. Just nothing." over and over again. It was halfway through the movie, which is an hour and a half of shitty shaky cam footage in the jungle by the way; when I checked how long the video was.

The video was about 14 long. Not even his commercial compilations were this long. My immediate guess was this was some sort of stream I had missed that got archived.

Frowning, I skipped ahead to the end of the movie and stopped when Doug reappeared. He was holding a DVD copy of The Borneo Incident in his hands. He was looking down on it, pure disgust coming off his face in waves. He opened his jaw then, his disturbingly stainless white teeth glistening in the light.

He opened wide- his lower jaw seeming to unhinge itself like a snake. He chomped down with a sickening crunch, slowly chewing the bits of plastic and glass. He closed his eyes and let out a soft moan as he chewed, his face contorting in pain.

I could hear the bits of glass shatter and liquefy as chowed down. There was no blood- but a black ooze dribbled from his lips and down his chin. He titled his head up, his cap falling to the ground. I could see his head now, his impossibly bald head.

There were zero traces of any follicle on his scalp. It looked like he had been sheared clean with a laser, then any remains singed off. As he forced himself to chew, I could see veins pulsating and rising in his forehead. Sweat clung to his dome like angsty ants; his head shone like a radiant diamond as he groaned in agony.

His lips parted-his teeth stained with the faint black ooze. He let the sludge fall from his mouth and it landed on his shirt with a clump. His eyes rolled over white as he slumped back in his seat. The camera focused on that ball of gunk on his shirt; it looked like a furball with chunks of plastic and bile fused together.

The Critic was groaning, low vocalizations that reverberated around the room like the echoes of the damned. The camera panned up to his face. He was deathly pale, the only color the dried spittle on his chapped lips. His scalp twitched and shuddered, like something under the skin was shifting and stirring. 

"There's nothing here. So bland. So dull. So tasteless and-mediocre." He drooled. His tone was dull and lifeless; there was no music or sound-just a shot of a man in the throes of mental torment. Suddenly he sprung forward, like a marionette flinging to life. His movements were jerky; I could see the skin on his arms shuffle across his forearms like wilted puddy.

With a shake and a blink, he was back to normal, giving a wide-eyed smile that showed off his entire row of front teeth. The only sign that anything had been wrong was the moist clump of filth on his shirt. 

"Well, that sucked. Maybe the next film will be better." he said cheerfully. He leaned forward, making like he was reading a que card.  "Next up let's take a look at-Slender? Isn't that a game?" There was a garbled voice off camera as Doug squared his face.

"They made a movie-this isn't the Sony one???" The garbled voice continued as horror washed over Doug's face. "What do you mean it's WORSE?" He moaned and put his head in his hands. The theme kicked in as it faded to black where it would usually go to an ad.

I was thoroughly confused by all this to say the least. Was this all just some elaborate bit? These special effects were outstanding, so life-like. It really looked like he had eaten that DVD. I skipped ahead a little, I had actually seen Slender before.

Dreadful movie, but the Slenderman costume they built was pretty cool I have to admit. Every time I resumed the video, I heard this gurgling noise. It sounded like someone was choking on their own spit and kept drying heaving to clear it.

I found a cut to Doug, and he was sitting there making that horrid noise. Drool pooled down the bottom of his lower lip, his eyes drifted lazily to the side as he consumed this awful flick. The movie was an hour and a half long, I think he was making that noise throughout the entire runtime.

Yeah, that's right-he just watched the whole movie again.

It was getting late now, but my curiosity was getting the better of me. After the movie ended it again cut to Doug holding a copy of it in his hands. He pursed his lips in sorrow as he cried, inky tears streaking down his face. His cheeks seemed sullen yet also bloated, his hands were misshapen and puffy. He seemed to be melting, like he was wearing a skin suit that was three sizes too large.

Again he unhinged his jaw, this gaping thing now, and sunk his perfectly molded teeth into the disk. The sounds of him chewing were grating to listen to-like glass striking a chalkboard. His cheek flaps flopped around as he did, jowls of flabby flesh bouncing to the rhythm of pained chewing. 

I winced away from my screen, my stomach churning at this grotesque sight. Eventually I heard him force a swallow and resume that awful moaning noise. It was then I noticed his pulsating cranium had grown. The top of his skull had embiggened, spider-like veins encircled his scalp as it throbbed like a heartbeat.

His eyes were empty, milky things as he mumbled and rocked silently in his chair. The skin around his scalp seemed to slope near the edge, like his skull had grown so large it had begun to collapse onto itself.

Finally black bile spewed from his mouth, and he smiled as he let himself be bathed in filth. His smile was ear to ear, a mocking grimace with perfectly outlined teeth. 

"Awful-rancid taste. Cliche and poor production design. No substance, no heart, no soul." He chattered. I was frozen in my seat, horrified at a bit gone too far. His suit was filthy and haggard; wrinkled and torn like he had pulled it out of a gutter. His glasses hung by the bridge of his nose, barely hanging on with each mournful breath he took.

 "Next movie-it-it must have substance." He wheezed. His voice sounded so shrill and sickly at the same time. He looked offscreen at some unseen thing that gurgled at him. He blinked his empty eyes and spoke once more. "What-the hell is Bad Kitties?" 

The next movie was, I can't even call it a movie really. It was an hour-long collection of teenage girls bitching each other out and committing petty theft. It kept ramping up and at some point, I thought they were going to go on a killing spree or something but no, it just sort of ends after one of them ODS or something, I forget it was so boring and nonsensical.

Afterwards he consumed the disk once more, forcing himself to swallow the nonsensical slop. Doug sank further, deflating like a flesh balloon. Black ooze foamed at his mouth, an abysmal bile boiling up from whatever churning hell his guts had become. 

"Awful." the thing on my screen gurgled. "Non-sense plot. Spin-ing Wh-eels for two hours. Need-sub-stance." It choked out. I skipped through most of the next two movies.

The next was Meghan Is Missing-which the gelatinous thing turned off in disgust and frankly I don't blame it.

The final film was V/H/S: Viral. When it started The Critic let out a piercing death scream, like the movie had physically assaulted him. Which given how bad V/H/S: Viral is that actually wouldn't surprise me.

It consumed two more DVDs, forcing them disks down his decaying gullet in agony. I couldn't look away from this video, it was like a trainwreck unfolding. After he choked down Viral, the screen flickered off and for a moment I thought it was over. Yet I could still hear the bubbling, gurgling mass of flesh Doug had turned into.

I dreaded what would appear once the video returned. To my terror, once it did, I clasped my mouth in shock.

The head was like an overgrown deflated mushroom. The cranium had grown so large it hid the still frothing mouth. What was once his perfectly bald scalp wrapped around his shriveled body like a comforter. His arms were gangly, loose skin hanging off his boney limbs like ill-fitting clothing.

They carefully waved around, searching for something to steady its dissolving form. It leaned forward and snapped back quickly, the flap of skin hiding its face now folding on itself. Poison was rushing out of The Crtic's mouth, a raging river of pure hatred with cheap plastic and even cheaper filmmaking.

His eyes were hollow and cloudy- I wasn't even sure the thing was fully conscious at this point. It twitched and gurgled like a deformed, malfunctioning puppet. It kept gaping his mouth like a trout gasping for water. 

"La-zy. . . Filmmaking." It choked out. He wheezed and brayed like a dying animal; his mushroom scalp scarred with frayed veins and withered skin. "Found-footage, hopeless. All-lost, art is-dead. We are all-dead." It croaked, sorrow in his voice.

From an unseen corner I heard a door open, and a voice calling for Doug. From the cranky Chicago accent, I think it was his brother Rob.

"Hey Doug, I need you to sign off on this script-oh Christ again?" He bemoaned. All the frayed pile could do in response was weep. Rob stormed off, speaking to others in the studio.

"Somebody get the movie box-it happened again." He sounded more annoyed then horrified his brother had devolved to this thing before me. Eventually Rob returned and fiddled with something offscreen-a DVD player maybe. Another voice was with him, a woman who sounded an awful lot like Tamara-one of his employees. 

"Third time this month." She muttered as Rob bashed his fist against something metal.

"Yeah, yeah, just cash your checks and keep your mouth shut." He grumbled. "Grab me something- I don't care as long as it's good." Tamara grabbed something and the screen cut once more to the beginning of another movie: Savage Land.

This one was great, a faux documentary that details the aftermath of a zombie take through the use of horrifying photos. They left the room, and I could hear Rob say, "This is nowhere near as bad as when he watched Scary Movie 5." 

I scrubbed through the rest of the video. Slowly but surely, as the film went on Doug began to regain some form of coherent speech. I could hear flesh squelching and bones snapping back into place as Doug began to praise the movie.

The camera did not cut to him once during this time, but I could hear every disgusting detail as his body reformed. 

"Yes-yes it's so good." He moaned. "The movie is such a unique take on this oversaturated field.  The use of haunting photos to tell a story like this is such a breath of fresh air." he critiqued. "It's a tragic story as well, that warns us all that humanity's true nature will always be callus, and that irrational fear can always override rational evidence." He mused.

Finaly the film ended-and it cut back to a smiling, fully formed Doug. He was already chewing, savoring the taste of the movie. With an audible gulp, I could see something slide down his throat as he looked pleased with himself.

His bald head throbbed slightly, but he quickly put his cap back on and readjusted his suit for the camera. Then he just went on his end of the video tirade like nothing happened.

"-That was a much-needed reprieve, but honestly I think I've had my fill of found footage movies. Between the obscenely shaky footage, horrible overacting and just disgusting handling of certain topics, there is a lot of garbage out there. But even in a landfill, you can find a rose. Stuff like Savageland gives me hope for all the up-and-coming filmmakers out there-so more of that, and less of Bad Kitties." He said.

"I'm the Nostalgia Critic. I remembered it, so you don't have to." He waved himself off camera and the screen cut to the credits as his theme roared.

I was stunned by what I had just witnessed. Doug's true nature, this tortured blob of flesh and blood. I tried to ignore it, but my nightmares of that night thought otherwise. I tried to find the video when I awoke from my restless sleep; but it was gone. vanished without a trace.

I tried looking for it, reaching out to fan forums and YouTube support. I was laughed off them and labeled an elaborate troll.

No one believes me about Doug.

The thing is- I don't think he's malevolent, or evil or anything. I just feel bad for the creature. Forced to scour the dredges of entertainment for our amusement. It starves itself for our benefit, ever searching for something with "Substance." I hope it finds what it's looking for someday, and whatever he "reviews" next, I hope it sustains him

So, my daughter has been begging for a dog for several months, and a few weeks ago I finally relented. I went to this shelter that was a bit out of the way run by this extremely pale bald gentleman.

I told him I wasn't looking for a project, just something cute and easy to train. He didn't speak, didn't even blink once, he just outstretched his bony hand to the door and out popped a handler.

That dude had this weird velvet cloak with scribbles all over the lining, and he was also hairless and shockingly pale. In his hands was a small coal black pup that had barely opened its eyes. I snatched the pupper from him, it felt unusually warm, almost feverish. But it opened its eyes, foggy glass bulbs that seemed full of life.

It squeaked out a yawn and licked my palm; it's little nub of tail hitting my arm.

"Is this one satisfactory?" The first bald man hissed at me. I nodded and brought out my wallet, but he held up a hand in protest. "One does not pay with money. In due time we will take what is owed."

Well, I had never heard of getting a dog on a payment plan but if it gave me time to scrounge up some dough I wasn't going to complain. I had a little bed for the pup in my sedan and sat him comfortably in the passenger side.

It took about an hour to get home, and it's the darndest thing. I looked over at the little fella, and I swear he seemed a bit bigger.

In fact, he was using that little doggy bed as a pillow, his long, brawny legs sliding off the side. An ear twitched and he raised is head with a guttural groan. His coat seemed darker, like looking into the blighted eye of a black hole. His eyes were a sea foam pale, marbles really.

I blinked at the thing, dumbfounded. He was just really small to hold. Like an optical illusion. He tilted his head and barked, the sharp tone startling me a bit.

Obviously, I was having second thoughts about all this, but I refused to let my little girl down.

The dog burst out of the car and ran right towards Becca's ear-piercing cheer. Even from the car it stabbed me right in the brain. The dog regarded Becca with an almost human level of curiosity, sniffing her up and down. Finally, he sat, perched on the ground towering over her like a stone gargoyle.

Becca could barely wrap her arms around his burly physique. The dog rested his drooling maw on her shoulders. She looked at me, tears of joy springing from her hazel eyes.

"Oh, daddy he's wonderful!" She could barely contain her happiness. I faked a smile to hide my unease at the dog's sudden growth spurt.

"Only the best for you, Jellybean. You pick out a name?" I asked. She opened her mouth for a fraction of a second to respond then froze. She leaned her ear closer to the dog, like he was whispering to her. A ridiculous notion I know but still. Finally, she looked at me, a wide gleeful grin on her chubby face.

"He says he has a name. It's Braxton Murkwater, scourge hound of the nine hells. He says we can call him Brax for short." I nodded and patted Brax on the head. She was always so imaginative.

Life with Brax got weird fast, it was the little thing you know?

He never went to the bathroom; He'd drag Becca up and down the street for an hour or so doing nothing but patrol until he grew bored and dragged her back inside. He would barely touch his wet food, not even when I threw in a hot dog for good measure.

He would cling to Becca's side; I'd hear soft growls whenever I went near her.

"He's just protective daddy, he says it's all part of the pact." Becca would attempt to reassure, which sounded maddening.

The final straw was when I let him out to play in the yard, and he instantly spotted a bunny. He sprinted towards it, galloping almost, and snatched the screeching creature, leaving nothing but a bloody patch of grass.

Brax titled his head upwards, the poor bunny still struggling in his maw. His glass eyes rolled back as he began to consume the doomed critter. He forced it down his gullet, I could see the scrunched outline of the thing scratching his bulging throat as he choked it down whole.

I looked on horrified, and I couldn't believe it when Brax turned to me, his sagging, frothing jowls flapping in the breeze.

I could swear he smiled at me, and then he squeaked at me with the dying cries of the rabbit he had slaughtered.

After that he pushed past me and trudged back inside, Becca welcomed him in with open arms. They went off together, Becca said something about Brax needing her help fulfilling the pact. I should have stopped her, instead I called the shelter.

"Yesss Mr. Buntley?" A slithering voice cooed from the receiver.

"How did- Listen you need to take this dog back, he's too much." I begged.

"I'm sorry Mr. Buntley, I'm afraid all sales are final. No refunds, as it were." The voice mocked.

"I didn't even pay anything for him!" I screeched.

"Didn't you?" The voice chuckled. The phone fell from my hand as the realization hit me like a truck. I charged upstairs, calling Becca's name. She was nowhere to be seen in her room.

"Becca! Becca where are you?!?" I sounded like a mad man, tearing her room apart.

Then I heard her voice from behind.

"I'm right here dad." My blood froze, and I slowly turned. Brax stood there, blood still dripping from his snout.

"I'm right here." the hellhound mocked. "And I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

This is gonna sound out there but bear with me here folks.

I had this idea for a story about a dude whose cat turns into a cat girl, and he ends up banging the cat girl.

I wanted to use this as the crux of the story about taboo themes like "wouldn't it be fucked up if this happened" and "what if hentai were real?"

My big problem so far is I don't think it's gratuitous enough, I have no idea how to really hammer home this sleazy idea and make it as tasteless as possible. Plus, I think it might be a rip off of this other story here and I don't want to be derivative.

Should I slap a NSFW filter on it and call it a day or should I buckle down and make it as graphic as possible.

I've never even written a hand holding scene either, so any advice is good, please I'm begging you.