u/walkerbswitchinghour

CW: vomit, cannibalism

Carver’s Challenge:

Test your skill, endurance, and love of BBQ with our six-pound platter of the gods.

A goliath sandwich on the biggest bun we could rustle up, with a pound of our famous pulled pork, a pound of smoked brisket, a pound of coleslaw, and your choice of sauce, served with half a dozen Inferno wings and a full pound of crispy fries.

Finish this colossus of a plate in 45 minutes and win our official I CARVED THE COMPETITION challenge tee, a spot on our Wall of Fame, and a waived bill for your efforts.

Think you’re worthy?

$39.99 (if you lose)

A picture of the monstrous plate sat underneath the description. My mouth watered at the thought of the savory sauce and tender meat. I looked over my shoulder to see the Wall of Fame, decorated with six photos under the large heading. Only six photos. Only six people vanquished Carver’s Challenge. I was here to be lucky number seven.

“Welcome to Carver’s BBQ Shack!” A cheery brown-haired young woman wearing a black CARVER’S BBQ shirt approached my table. “My name’s Gracie, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I get you started with something to drink?” She placed a glass of water in front of me.

I smirked. “I’m good with the water, thank you. I’m actually here for the challenge. Gonna make the Wall.” I gestured over my shoulder.

Gracie’s eyes gleamed at the words. “Another challenger, aye? Third one this week. Hope you do better than the others.” Her smile widened and she jotted something down on her notepad. “Sauce for the sandwich?”

“Inferno,” I said without hesitation. No use doing the challenge if I wasn’t going the whole nine yards.

Worry flashed across her face. “Are you sure? No one’s finished an Inferno sandwich yet. Hottest a challenge winner’s gone so far has been Carver’s Special.”

I stuck to it. “I’ll take the Inferno.”

She scribbled it down and looked back with a smile. “I’ll be back in a bit with your challenge, then. Good luck!” She turned to head to the kitchen and I sat back, mentally preparing. About four pounds of sandwich, a pound of fries, and six wings, all drenched in the restaurant’s infamous Inferno sauce. How bad could it be? I had never actually attempted a challenge such as this, but I'd seen enough Man v. Food and eaten enough Tabasco in my lifetime.

Minutes went by. I sipped my water, taking in the restaurant’s ambience. Carver’s BBQ Shack was a great pig out spot, literally and figuratively—pigs were all over the menus, walls and T-shirts, and their pulled pork was famous. Every breath through my nostrils made my mouth water. It was still a relatively new place, little more than a hole in the wall, but its reputation was growing fast. The literal mountain of meat was a large part of that, attracting gastric warriors from all over to test their mettle.

The low blues music and restaurant chatter was interrupted by the door swinging open and a loud, brash voice: “Carver’s Challenge, here I come!” A young man, blond and baby-faced, swaggered in, an entourage behind him. One of the guys next to him held a video camera, panning it around the restaurant then back at his friend. People turned to look at the group briefly, then went back to their meals and chitchat.

“Four of us,” the loudmouthed leader said to the hostess, a mousy high-school girl. I groaned when she led the group to the table right next to mine. They made a whole scene of sitting down, cameraman recording the entire process. The leader whipped off his sunglasses, draped his jacket over the chair, and sat down, smirking into the camera.

“What is up guys, Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller here at…” He paused so the cameraman could do another pan, “…Carver’s BBQ Shack. This one’s been on the radar for a hot minute. Six people have won the challenge here, and I’m going to be lucky number seven today.” I rolled my eyes and scowled when I saw the camera point at me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gracie strolling up to them, pad in hand. Before she could get a word out, Jeremy blurted, “One Carver’s Challenge, please, Pilot Light on the sandwich.” She scribbled, and as she attempted to take drink orders he interrupted her again. “Get ready to see this face on the Wall of Fame.” He flashed her a smarmy smile and ordered a round of Coronas for his table.

I couldn’t believe the guy. Marching in here with all of his bravado and then picking Pilot Light. The five homemade sauces were another staple of Carver’s: from mildest to hottest you have Pilot Light, Campfire Smoke, Carver’s Special, Sweat Maker, and Inferno. Of course, he was going to have some Inferno on his wings next to the Pilot Light sandwich. As was I, a fact that Gracie unfortunately remembered.

“Looks like we got ourselves a duel here,” she exclaimed, looking Jeremy in the eye before shrugging at me. Dammit. She turned and strolled back into the kitchen, ignoring the whistle from one of Jeremy’s friends.

With her gone, the gang turned toward me and I had the camera in my face before I could react. “You’re also taking on Carver’s Challenge?” Jeremy inquired, sneering. I nodded. “What’s your name, man?”

“Mike.”

Jeremy got up and plopped down in the chair next to mine, wrapping an arm around me. “Well, Mike, best of luck to ya. Hope to see that handsome face next to mine on the Wall of Fame after dinner!” I leaned away from his arm and gave him the best don’t-talk-to-me look I could muster. He had none of it, though. “Any pointers, Mike?” The guy yapped at me for what seemed like eternity before Gracie, another waitress, and Rich came out, trash-lid-sized platters in their hands.

Rich Carver was the owner and head chef of Carver’s BBQ Shack. He was a big man in every sense of the word: tall, big-boned, a bit too well-fed, with a personality to match his stature. His voice boomed across the restaurant. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next 45 minutes may live in infamy. My humble little shack’s about to be a battlefield. Not one, but two gladiators are going into the meat colosseum this evening.” Many heads snapped toward my table, where Jeremy still lingered. The cameraman watched Rich intently, recording the speech.

Gracie and the other girl approached, putting the plates down. “Pilot Light…” Gracie said, nudging one of the giant platters toward Jeremy, “…and Inferno.” She placed the other in front of me. Jeremy’s eyebrow raised at the word and he looked at me curiously.

Carver’s Challenge was daunting, to say the least. The sandwich was the biggest I’d ever seen, both in diameter and height. Pork, brisket, coleslaw and sauce oozed between the gigantic bun slices. Next to it were the six wings and the nearly overflowing pile of crisped fries. I eyed the ketchup bottle sitting next to the five Carver’s sauces in the middle of the table. The harsh smell of the Inferno emanating from my sandwich and the wings burned my nostrils.

Rich sauntered over and put one meaty hand on Jeremy’s back and the other on mine. “Our brave challengers tonight are…” He looked at Jeremy, then turned his head at me.

Jeremy shot out of his chair and struck a pose. “I’m Jeremy ‘Iron Belly’ Miller. You can find me on YouTube at Iron Belly Challenges, and soon on Carver’s BBQ Shack’s Wall of Fame!” He looked down at the plate and threw a few punches out. His friends whooped. Gracie rolled her eyes.

“And you?” Rich directed his boom at me.

“Mike,” I said flatly.

“Mike who?” Rich pressed.

“Just Mike.” Rich’s enthusiasm I could handle—every time someone attempted the challenge he made a big deal of it. I’d seen videos where the pat on the back he gave the winners nearly knocked them out of their seats, and the losers were subjected to one bad joke or another. But much of my excitement for the challenge was deflated by Jeremy’s loud mouth and the camera in my face

“Well, Just Mike, I hope you’re hungry,” Rich started up again. “Iron Belly and Just Mike, are you ready for the most delicious pain you’ll ever experience? Sure to satisfy and bust your guts?” He smiled broadly and produced a digital timer from his KISS THE COOK apron. It was set for 45 minutes. Jeremy enthusiastically nodded. I locked eyes with Rich and nodded as well, the excitement returning. Delicious food, eternal glory, and a chance to show up this clown? It was challenge time.

A few people from other tables had begun to crowd around us. Rich took a seat in one of the other unoccupied chairs, quickly glancing around the restaurant. Gracie leaned down and whispered something into his ear before disappearing to the back with the other girl. I unwrapped my fork and knife, my weapons against the plated foes before me.

“45 minutes on the clock… FIGHT!” Rich pounded the table with a fist the size of the sandwich.

I immediately dove in, picking up the behemoth sandwich and sinking my teeth in. It was heaven and hell together on a bun—immaculately tasty and agonizingly hot, both from the freshness and the sauce. Carver’s Inferno was a jet fuel of a sauce, combining habanero and cayenne into a blend straight out of the seventh circle. One bite in and I could feel the first beads of sweat on my face. But I had a challenge to take on so I stuffed my face with another bite.

More and more droplets of sweat formed as I chewed, my jaw working its hardest. The sandwich was pure sensory overload. And I was only two bites in. A fleeting thought that I’d bitten off more than I could chew entered my mind, but I kept on chewing anyway. I took a slug of water, swallowed, and commenced my attack.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jeremy analytically studying his plate and drenching the pile of fries in ketchup. After a moment of hesitation, his hand skimmed past the sandwich and went for a wing. He held the drummie up for the crowd to see before biting into it. I could see his face scrunch up as the Inferno went straight to his head. He quickly grabbed a handful of ketchup-covered fries and shoveled them into his mouth, chasing with a gulp of Corona.

I immediately followed his lead and upended the ketchup bottle over my fries. Seemed like a viable strategy—bite of sandwich, bite of fries, rinse and repeat. I took another bite and was once again assaulted by the capsaicin. I was sweating bullets, my face as red as the ketchup. And the sandwich didn’t seem to be getting any smaller. I took a glance at the clock: five minutes down, forty to go. There was plenty of time.

Jeremy was tearing through the wings like a termite through wood. Five of them were down, little bones stacked at the edge of his plate. He was breathing deep, doing his best to look unfazed but the sauce had him in its grasp. The pile of fries on his plate had a sizable dent and his beer was nearing the bottom. With a look of steely determination, he tore into the final hellish wing, stripping it bare and holding the bone up.

He swallowed, sighed, and looked Rich in the eye. “No problem,” he said with a sputter. A few people cheered. Rich guffawed.

Cocky prick. I couldn’t be outdone by him. Tears formed in my eyes as I tore back into the sandwich. The heat was relentless and the amount I’d already eaten felt heavy in my stomach. I grabbed some fries and stuffed them in, my jaws mixing everything together like concrete. My heart sank when I looked at the plate—the sandwich looked maybe half done. And I still had my wings to contend with, as well as the remaining fries.

Jeremy looked to have calmed down some, a few bites into his sandwich. His red flush had gone down and he seemed much more at ease, enjoying what remained of his meal. The realizations hit me as hard as the Inferno: one, that the Pilot Light sandwich was a strategic decision rather than an admission of weakness; two, that Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller was going to handily clear Carver’s Challenge; and three, that I was struggling bad. He had it all figured out—blitz and suffer through the wings early on and then casually pick apart the colossal sandwich, enjoying Rich’s creation to its fullest. He was coasting, and I was in hell.

I continued forward, though, pushing as much of the sandwich into my face as humanly possible and doing my best to ignore the pain. The giant thing got smaller and smaller. I was in a frenzy, an eating berserker. I was drenched in sweat and could barely see through the tears. My mouth was on fire. More sandwich. More fries. Chewing. Pain. Swallowing. Repeat. The crowd cheered. I splashed my face with my water. 25 minutes in. Light at the end of the tunnel—two more bites of sandwich.

Jeremy shot out of his chair, gave Rich a salute and the audience a bow, and popped the final bite of sandwich into his mouth. The room exploded into applause. Rich clapped him on the back and handed him a beige I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt. Gracie snapped a picture of him with the empty platter. Jeremy’s friend trained his camera on me. And then every eye in the place fixed on me and the reality of everything sunk in. My frenzy subsided, and I felt every bit of what I’d eaten. I was a mess of sweat and tears, mouth aflame and stomach full to the brim. But still, I soldiered on.

Going for it, I crammed what was left of the sandwich into my mouth, stuffing my cheeks like a squirrel. I could barely chew, mouth opening with each jaw movement to the disgust of the onlookers. I had slowed to a crawl, the pain almost unbearable. I felt sick. After a few agony-filled moments, I forced the huge glob down, felt it slide down to my bowels. And then my stomach betrayed me.

What happened next was the greatest humiliation of my life. I doubled over in pain, leaning over the handful of fries and six Inferno wings, and began to heave. I fought it and the first heave was dry. The faces of the crowd turned to shock. Rich got up and bolted to the back with a speed uncharacteristic of a man his size. Jeremy’s eyes widened. Then it happened. I heaved again, and Rich Carver’s infamous sandwich made its way back onto the plate.

A few people covered their eyes, some pinched their noses, and others looked away. I could feel more coming, and the pungent smell just made me sicker. I had rendered the rest of my challenge inedible—the six wings and fries were covered in bile and bits of semi-digested meat. Rich barreled out of the back, a bucket in hand and Gracie behind him. Luckily I was able to hold the rest back until he got to my side. Sticking my face in the bucket, I let the rest out, retching and retching. The crowd thinned out, a few morbid onlookers staying to watch my challenge’s tragic end.

Rich stayed next to me, gently rubbing my back until the heaving stopped. After what felt like ages, I found enough strength to pull my head out of the bucket. The platter was gone and poor Gracie was scrubbing the table, shirt pulled up over her nose. Rich shooed away the remaining spectators. Only Jeremy and his goons remained, sitting at the table next to me drinking their Coronas and gawking.

Rich tried to lighten the moment. “Didn’t care for my food, huh?” he joked.

The four guys next to me began laughing like hyenas. I couldn’t take it anymore—I pushed out of the chair, shouldered past Rich and stormed out of Carver’s BBQ Shack. On my way out, I slapped two $20s on the host stand, startling the mousy hostess. Rich was a nice enough guy and likely would have comped this challenge loss given the circumstances, but I didn’t want his pity. I wordlessly ran to my car, tore out of there, went home and sobbed until I fell asleep.

The next few days were spent numb and blurry. Lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, occasionally watching mindless cable and changing the channel every time a Carver’s commercial aired. I barely ate—the very thought of food made me upset. After a few days, I ventured back out into the world. I immediately regretted it.

I was at the grocery store, scouring the produce section and steering clear of the meat, when I heard a voice behind me. “Are you Just Mike?” I turned to see a kid of about 13 or 14 staring at me. His eyes lit up when he saw my face closer. “Holy shit, you are.” He raised his voice and began gesturing. Two other kids, another boy and a girl, ran over.

“Can I help you?” I said, voice quavering.

“You’re famous, dude!” the first boy piped up, voice slightly cracking. “Just Mike the pukey guy from Iron Belly Jeremy’s channel!” I went pale.

“Can I get a selfie?” the second boy asked. Before I could react he whipped his phone out and took a picture.

I dropped my basket and ran out of the store, tears in my eyes. As much as I didn’t want to look, I had to see Jeremy’s video now. When I pulled up YouTube, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Front page, an edited thumbnail of an astonished Jeremy imposed onto a still of me, face red and twisted, with half my sandwich on the platter.

IRON BELLY CHALLENGES -- CAN JEREMY DEFEAT THIS GUT-BUSTER BBQ CHALLENGE? COMPETITION CAN’T HANG!

Over 200,000 views.

I was mortified but had to see it. Hand shaking over the mouse, I clicked. Various shots of Carver’s BBQ Shack filled my screen, inside and outside, with Jeremy providing a voiceover. “Last week I shattered a spaghetti-eating record, this week it’s time to pig out on some pig! We’re here at Carver’s BBQ Shack…” his annoyingly braggadocious voice narrated. It cut to an interview with Rich where the big man talked about his love for food and described the challenge.

JEREMY vs. CARVER’S CHALLENGE popped up, extravagant red font against a black screen. From the cameraman’s POV, Jeremy and his cronies strutted into Carver’s and sat down, the annoying voiceover continuing. I could see myself in the background, glancing at the camera with a scowl. I winced seeing the shot zoom in on my face. Jeremy continued to narrate, voiceover interspersed with his on-camera banter, “See this guy here? Remember him, he’ll be attempting the challenge too.” He then rattled off his strategy for the challenge over shots of them ordering, the camera lingering uncomfortably long on Gracie. “Think I got what it takes? Stay tuned for the challenge.” The video cut to an ad, thankfully not another Carver’s commercial.

The next several minutes of video were a highlight reel of the challenge with minimal voiceover. Rich’s booming introduction was captured, with zoom ins on both of our faces when our names were announced. The majority of the footage was Jeremy eating with a dramatically narrated recap, but the shot would occasionally switch to me, always with a snarky or condescending comment. “He’s trying but that Inferno sauce is no joke.” “Poor guy’s on fire right now, not in a good way.” “I don’t think he’s going to make it.”

The shot cut to his final bite and victory antics. WINNER: JEREMY flashed onscreen. I was already having a hard enough time watching, but the next part turned my emotions to white-hot anger.

“I completed Carver’s Challenge, but we still gotta check up on Just Mike over here. He’s looking pretty desperate.” A closeup of my final defiant bite. “Is he going to do it?” The shot lingered as I chewed, swallowed, heaved, and retched, not missing a single detail. A zoom in on the puke-covered plate, a shot of the disgusted audience, me with my head in the bucket. “I may have carved Carver’s Challenge, but Just Mike was on the receiving end. Better luck next time, pal.”

I couldn’t watch anymore. I slammed my laptop shut and let out a scream of rage, tears streaming down my face. 200,000 views. Kids recognizing me as “Just Mike the pukey guy” in the grocery store. A hatred I’d never felt before filled me, burning hotter than Carver’s Inferno. Hatred toward Rich Carver, whose stupid fucking challenge did this to me. Hatred toward Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller, whose video will never let me live it down. My anger gave way to a detached numbness, the wheels in my head began to spin, and I realized the things I needed to do next.

A few weeks later, I sat in my car on the side of a country road, Jeremy’s newest video winding down on my phone. After finishing a sundae the size of his head from a diner in middle-of-nowhere Illinois, he looked into the camera and teased his next challenge before signing off. And what do you know, it was another BBQ place. His next destination was St. Louis, about four hours from here, and according to his social media, he’d be attempting the challenge the day after tomorrow. I would deal with Jeremy in due time, but right now the priority was Rich.

It was a quiet Saturday night, a little after 10pm. Carver’s was open 11am-10pm Monday through Saturday. Rich would likely be finishing his prep work right about now, ambling out to his red pickup, stopping at LiquorMart, then heading home. I had been following Rich for about a week, staking out Carver’s from a nearby strip mall lot. The guy practically lived at the restaurant—he was there open-close every day of operation, and didn’t leave his house on his one day off. I looked at my watch: 10:13pm. He would be getting back soon, back to the home I sat half a mile down the road from.

I got out of my car, zipping up my jacket and grabbing a backpack off the seat. It was a cool night, clouds blocking the moonlight and stars. Not a streetlight in sight for miles, and even better, not a single passing car. I walked at a steady clip, head on a swivel, but nothing. The night was eerily silent, my footfalls the only sounds. Until my stomach let out a loud growl. The thought of the tasks at hand somehow overpowered the hunger I felt—the last substantial meal I’d had was midday the day before. Water, the occasional protein shake, and granola bars had made up my sustenance since. I was starving, but had to focus. Rich would make a good meal for me soon enough.

Soon enough, I was walking up the long driveway toward the cook’s house. It was a simple, unassuming one-story with a detached garage and front porch. His red truck was nowhere to be found. I took in my surroundings before walking up the porch and clutching the doorknob. To my surprise, it opened right up with a slight creak. This was going much easier than anticipated.

I entered, shutting the door behind me. Looking around, I realized that Rich Carver had no reason to batten down the hatches. The house was filled with junk—empty liquor bottles and Carver’s takeout boxes, crumpled up newspapers, little trinkets and doodads. I entered his small living room, complete with a La-Z-Boy, small side table, oversized TV, Miller Lite Girl poster, and more shit everywhere. The room was a pigsty—fitting for a guy whose claim to fame was pig.

The kitchen was jarring by comparison. It was similarly small, but much more upkept. Not a stain on the stovetop, not a dish in the sink, not even a scuff on the tile floor. A lot could be said about Rich Carver, but there was no doubting the guy’s passion and love for all things culinary. A dim light was on over the stove, enough to see around the room. I gently opened one of the cabinets and peered at the various cooking gadgets. A block of fancy-looking knives caught my eye.

The sound of an engine snapped me back. I peeked around the corner and saw lights through the living room blinds that soon dimmed. A truck door slammed. I fished around in my backpack, looking across the living room to the doorway. The door started to creak open. I crouched back into the kitchen and found what I was looking for. Heavy footsteps thumped their way in. I was expecting to hear the plop of a large body collapsing into a recliner, but the steps kept going. Going in my direction. He was coming to the kitchen.

Before I could scramble away, Rich rounded the corner. BANG. The surprised look in his eyes glazed over and he tottered back, crashing to the ground with blood trickling out of his forehead. The bottle of vodka in his meaty hand shattered on impact. My whole body shook with adrenaline as I put the pistol back in the backpack and began to fish out a large tarp. Blood was beginning to pool on the tile around his head.

I grabbed him by one of his legs and pulled with all my might. He was one heavy sonofabitch but eventually I got him onto the tarp and rolled it up, making sure to spritz up the blood. Even in death Rich Carver needed a spotless kitchen. Dragging him through the house to the door was a Herculean labor—I might as well have been pulling his truck. After an eternity of the hard physical labor, I got him to the garage, the door opening just as effortlessly as the house’s front.

Firing up a flashlight, I looked around the wide, empty garage. Various tools adorned the walls, a couple workbenches and more junk. I flicked the light from spot to spot, wondering what would be best for the gruesome undertaking about to begin. An axe? A hacksaw, maybe? The light landed on an electric circular saw. Bingo.

I quickly searched Rich’s body before preparing it: his wallet with a few bills, license, credit card and Carver’s business card, a pack of Marlboro Reds with two remaining, some pocket lint, and a set of keys. A house key, a truck key, and a few I didn’t recognize. Likely a key for the restaurant and a lockbox within. I pocketed the keys as an idea flashed through my head, but I quickly dispelled the thought. I had a challenge to win.

I’ll spare you the gory details of dismantling the big man, but one thing was certain: cutting through bone wasn’t easy. I threw his various appendages into trash bags—I’d deal with them later. The softer bits were the priority. I filled a few Ziplocs with various pieces and reentered the house, stepping over the clutter to get to the kitchen. Rich’s passion for food was very beneficial to me—within a few minutes of looking, I found a meat grinder and kitchen scale.

I never claimed to be a good cook. I could make a mean microwave burrito or frozen pizza, but nothing fancy. But with the head chef and owner of Carver’s BBQ Shack’s home kitchen at my disposal, anything was possible. I worked throughout the night, grinding the meat and cooking it stovetop in some fancy oil from Rich’s cupboard and generous amounts of Carver’s Pilot Light. As the first rays of Sunday’s sunlight peeked through the window, I began to plate my redemption.

Two pounds of Rich Carver on a bun, topped with a pound of various vegetables from the fridge and Pilot Light. About a pound cut into small bites, drizzled in Inferno. A pound of fries from the freezer, air-fried to a crisp. I set a timer for 45 minutes, and dug in. As much as I hated to admit it, Jeremy had a point. I attacked the Inferno bites first, quickly taking them down in between handfuls of fries and gulps out of a milk jug from the fridge. The fiery ordeal was done in a matter of minutes, much less painful than last time. It was smooth sailing from there.

Visions of my humiliation flashed through my head as I took the sandwich bite by bite. It wasn’t quite Rich’s famous pulled pork, but it had a certain flavor to it. Plus, you could probably make cardboard edible if you put Carver’s sauce on it. His voice echoed in my head as I ate: Didn’t like my food, huh? I could see the image of him clapping Jeremy on the back so hard it almost knocked him from his chair. Jeremy. I wondered how he would fare in this round of Carver’s Challenge.

I could feel myself filling up but I was nearing the end. I was going to do it. The frenzy I felt back at the restaurant overcame me once more and I tore, chewed, and swallowed my way to victory. With a grin on my face that widened when I saw the timer, I popped the last bite. I had defeated Carver’s Challenge in 24 minutes, a minute faster than Jeremy “Iron Belly” Miller.

The trek back to the car was slow and bloated, but I was triumphant. It was time to hit the road, but I had a couple pit stops to make. First: back to Rich’s house. Garbage bags in the trunk and a few pounds of ground Rich in a cooler. I did a once-over before I left, making sure the kitchen was as spotless as he normally kept it. Next was Carver’s BBQ Shack. Ignoring the CLOSED sign, I fumbled with Rich’s keys until the door opened, looked around a bit, and left with what I came for. I slipped my hard-earned I CARVED THE COMPETITION shirt over my head, and then broke a certain framed Wall of Fame photo over my knee.

That was just the beginning of my business with Jeremy. Cooler in the back, bags in the trunk, it was time for a road trip. I punched St. Louis into my GPS and pulled out of Carver’s for the last time, not looking back. Jeremy’s next, and final, challenge would be of my making. I was going to find him.

Carver’s wouldn’t open back up until tomorrow. I had a head start—no one would notice Rich’s absence for now. But they’d catch on soon enough. Whether I found Jeremy or the authorities found me first, this would all be over soon. Something shattered in me after Carver’s Challenge, and there would be no walking away from the things I did and would soon do. No return to normal life. I decided I would turn myself in after I finished up with Jeremy, confess it all. No one would talk about Just Mike puking into a bucket anymore—I would be immortalized as the man who truly carved the competition.

I just hope I can get Carver’s sauce on my last meal.

Big thanks to u/Sully-the-Skeleton for taking a chance on my story! And thanks to everyone in this community for being supportive and checking out my writing.

CW: self-harm.

According to some, blues legend Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil at the crossroads in exchange for his guitar prowess. At this point, I would probably do the same. My name is Johnny Styx. Well, I was born John Rivers, but I can’t really see a crowd going wild for John Rivers. I’m 26 years young, with a birthday a few weeks out, and I’m going to be the next big rock star.

At least that’s what I tell myself as I finish up another open mic night at The Pit, a crowd of ten people tops occasionally looking up from their drinks at me. The Pit is a fitting name for this establishment—a dimly lit dive bar permeated with the perpetual smell of stale beer and cigarettes, cheap drinks, and cheaper clientele. The bar was on one side of the room, the few stools belonging to regulars, while a few tables and a makeshift stage comprised the rest of it. The far wall was adorned with a gaudy mural: an overly muscular Satan and a voluptuous witch atop her broomstick clad only in a hat against a deep red backdrop. Real classy place, but the only bar within walking distance that has Open Mic Saturdays, and the owner Vince claims to “know people in the biz.”

“Johnny Styx, everyone,” Vince called from the bar, slow-clapping with a slight head shake. I unslung my guitar, a cheap pawn-shop Ibanez, from around my neck and placed it into its case, pocketing the three dollars one of the patrons threw in. Vince already had a Coors Light bottle cracked open at the end of the bar as I sauntered up. “Keep ya money, this ‘un’s on me,” he said, waving away the couple bucks in my hand. He was a surly bastard, with a beer belly, short brown hair and sideburns, and a pack-a-day rasp. I gave him a nod and sipped, reflecting on another Open Mic Saturday.

The Pit doesn’t tend to pull in a ton of people outside its dedicated regulars, and Open Mic Saturday isn’t an exception. It’s always the same couple people stepping up to the mic every week—me, this shitty excuse for a comedian who prattles about the political climate, and sometimes this pretty early-twenties hippie chick playing acoustic folk songs. I usually have time for three, sometimes four, songs, and I try to make them count. Covers of Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones, classics everyone knows. I’m a passable guitar player, nowhere near the greats, but for some reason or another I always sound like shit at The Pit. Tonight was particularly bad—with my missed notes and flat singing, I think the comedian gave a better performance.

I slammed my Coors and gestured to Vince. He came over, another beer, a bottle of Jack and two shot glasses in his hands. I could see the pity in his eyes as he poured. “Fucking guitar,” I muttered as we clinked glasses and downed the whiskey. I needed a new guitar. I’d had the Ibanez for a few years now, and no matter what gear, strings, picks I used, it was sounding worse and worse. I sat at the bar for about an hour, drowning my sorrows before deciding to call it.

Getting up, the booze went straight to my head. I walked, or rather stumbled, toward the side door and exited into the alley. The cool night air was welcome after The Pit’s sticky warmth. I leaned against the dumpster and lit a cigarette with a sigh. “Got another one?” came a voice from behind me.

I turned around to see a dirty motherfucker with a stained Bud Light t-shirt, patchy beard and missing teeth reaching an arm toward me. “Dammit, Bud,” I said, flicking another cigarette from the pack and handing it to him. Bud is a staple of The Pit—he camps in the alley next to the bar, always begging for cigarettes and change. Vince sometimes lets him sleep in the bar on cold nights, and, when he’s in a good mood, spots him the occasional drink. No one knows Bud’s real name—we call him Bud cause he always wears that filthy Bud Light shirt and spends every panhandled cent on The Pit’s supply of Bud.

Feeling a sense of pity for both of us, I fished the three dollars from tonight’s performance out of my pocket and handed them over. With no hesitation, Bud ducked into the bar, flashing his gapped smile at me. Right as the door closed, I heard Vince shout some expletive. I uneventfully stumbled back to my shithole building, climbed the stairs to my shithole apartment, and collapsed on my bed. I didn’t even bother putting the guitar where it belonged.

“Fuck,” I grumbled, waking up to the fog of hangover. My whole body ached. I looked at the clock—10AM. I dragged my ass out of bed and lurched toward the shower. The pawn shop opened in an hour. After I indulged in some hair of the dog and made myself look at the very least more presentable than Bud, I made my way over, Ibanez in hand. I’d admired a few of their musical wares before but never had the money for the good ones. Maybe trading this piece of shit in will get me something, at least. Probably another piece of shit but still something.

I noticed two things as I entered the shop. One, the cashier—a tall, gaunt, and pale man with long black hair. He stared at me with a stony expression. This jovial, jowly dude named Dean normally runs the store and has been behind the counter every time I’ve come in here except today. The other thing I noticed is the guitar hanging behind the counter. I had never seen anything like it. An electric, with a body shaped almost like a coffin. The body and fretboard were black, the deepest black I have ever seen. The only nonblack parts were the strings and frets, crimson like blood. I couldn’t take my eyes off it, felt like it was calling to me somehow. It was definitely out of my price range, but I needed it.

I approached the counter and placed the Ibanez down. “How much for that?” I pointed at the odd instrument. The cashier looked at me, a smile starting to form on his face. He pulled the guitar off the wall and handed it to me, the smile widened to a creepy grin. I was a bit unsettled, but reached out and took it. It was surprisingly light for how sturdy it looked, and the fretboard fit my fingers perfectly. I couldn’t describe it, but it just felt right. I gave it a strum, thumb gliding effortlessly over the strings.

The cashier looked at me intently. “Trade in this one and it’s yours,” he said, curling his mouth into that creepy grin once more. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head.

“Really?” I stammered.

“Really,” he calmly stated, grabbing the Ibanez off the counter. “Do we have a deal?”

I nodded enthusiastically and shook his hand. His grip was firm, hand cold as ice. The guy creeped me out, but the guitar was perfect. He disappeared into the back, my Ibanez in hand. I loved that old thing for a while, but with the amount of times it fucked me over at The Pit, I shed no tears watching it go.

I immediately plugged the new one in when I got home. I had no clue what brand or model it was—there was nothing signifying a creator or anything on it. Curiosity be damned, though, this thing was mine. “Johnny Styx, everyone,” I said to myself, imagining Vince calling it out at the end of an Open Mic Saturday, The Pit packed to the gills with a rowdy and cheering crowd. My guitar case filled with bills. The cute acoustic hippie chick giving me a kiss on the cheek and then head in the bathroom. Vince hooking me up with one of his biz contacts. Playing on a real stage. Tour buses. Groupies. A record label suit handing me a check. Playing in a stadium. More groupies.

An unholy feedback squeal snapped me out of my reverie. I adjusted the plugins on the amp and guitar, and started picking away at the intro to “Stairway to Heaven.” Maybe it was my hangover, maybe I just sucked at the song, but it sounded like shit. I started over. What the fuck? It sounded worse, even worse than it did on the Ibanez at The Pit last night. I started over again. Even worse than before, flat and twangy, and when I hit the notes on the high E the thin red string snapped.

“Goddammit!” I yelled, putting the guitar down. I stormed into my kitchen, grabbed a half-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey, and took a huge swig. My mind raced, the fantasy of Johnny Styx the rock star snapping with the string. John Rivers, the burnout, The Pit’s worst performer. I took another drink, telling myself to calm down. “I’ll just get new strings, restring the whole thing,” I muttered to myself, pacing around the kitchen, bottle in hand. Pace, swig, pace, swig, the process repeated for a few minutes. I slugged down the last of the whiskey and slammed the bottle on the counter a bit too hard, forgetting it was glass.

“Goddammit!” I yelled again. Broken glass covered the counter, a few pieces embedded in my left hand. It hurt like a motherfucker but the whiskey dulled some of the pain. I quickly swept the glass off the counter into the trash, picked the shards out of my hand, and ran it under the faucet for a bit. Most of it wasn’t too bad, but there was a nasty cut that wouldn’t stop bleeding on my upper palm. I wadded up a paper towel in my left hand and staggered back to the other room. The guitar was where I left it, lying across the couch, string snapped to all hell.

I moved it to the side and sat back, letting the whiskey cloud my thoughts. This is a disaster. The Pit last night, the Ibanez, now this. My arms slumped beside me and the paper towel fell from my left hand. Blood dripped from the cut, drops landing on the fretboard of the guitar. I rolled my eyes and sighed, ready for another “Goddammit,” but then saw it. “What the hell?” I mouthed, looking at the guitar. The neck was clean, no blood to be found. Odder, though, is that the high E string looked intact, good as new.

Hand be damned, I picked it up and put my fingers to the fretboard. My palm continued to bleed, but the droplets disappeared in an instant when they touched the black body. Like they were being absorbed. Wincing slightly, I started “Stairway to Heaven” once more. As I picked the first few notes, the difference was night and day. The sounds that came out of the amp were the cleanest tones I’d ever heard, notes that could have been played by Jimmy Page himself. It sounded heavenly.

Immediately my reverie began anew. “Johnny Styx, everyone,” I said, standing up and giving a mock bow. I fiddled with the knobs on the amp a bit, adding some distortion and a darker tone, and broke into the best rendition of “War Pigs” I’d ever played. The sounds coming out of this thing were astonishing. Could I always play like this? And the string baffled me, I could have sworn it broke but here it was. After a couple more perfect-sounding plays of my usual repertoire, I decided to wind down and call it a night. The Pit wouldn’t know what hit it on Saturday.

The next morning, I immediately went for the guitar again. Plugged in and ready, I plucked the first notes of “Stairway to Heaven,” expecting that angelic sound once more, but I was greeted with the flat and twangy cacophony that came out when I first brought the guitar home. Confused, I started the song over to the same results. My mind buzzed with possibilities—was yesterday’s perfect, smooth tone the aural version of whiskey goggles? Either way, the thing sounded like shit right now.

Then it hit me. The idea was batshit insane, but I had to try it. “The string repaired itself,” I muttered to myself as I went into the kitchen and grabbed a knife from the drawer. The guitar was propped up where I left it, seemingly staring at me. Challenging me. I rested the guitar on my lap as I poked the tip of the knife into my palm, reopening yesterday’s wound. Grunting, I pushed it in until my palm was red with blood. A few drops fell onto the fretboard and promptly disappeared, followed by more as I shook my hand and closed it into a fist. The body’s black sheen and red strings seemed to glow as it absorbed the red fluid.

I washed the wound once more and wrapped it up before picking up the guitar once more. It felt light as a feather, and my fingers fit the fretboard like a glove. I slung the strap around my neck, noodled around with some scales, and got to playing. It sounded immaculate. “Showtime,” I said, grinning from ear to ear, the pain in my hand nonexistent compared to the euphoria I felt.

The week leading up to Open Mic Saturday was a blur. I hardly needed to practice—just a couple drops of blood and I was playing like a virtuoso. Anything I could imagine, I picked up straightaway. I was addicted, and bore the track marks—my left arm was nicked and cut to hell. A small price to pay, and one I was more than willing to for what it bought. The days went by. The knife kept going in and out of my arm and I got used to the pain, welcomed it even. I played like a god. I wasn’t eating, hardly sleeping, and completely confined to the apartment.

When Saturday rolled around, I was all but a zombie. My hair was greasy, complexion pallid, face patchy with stubble. My arm looked like a Picasso painting. I was delirious, hungry, and smelled something awful. But The Pit had a microphone ready for me, so I had to get my shit together. I jumped in the shower for the first time in a week, letting the hot water slough off days of dried sweat and blood. I shoveled down some instant ramen and chased it with a couple cans of Coors Light. Lastly, I put on my best Van Halen shirt and leather jacket, packed up the guitar, and made for The Pit. Tonight, Johnny Styx would be truly reborn.

I arrived fashionably late, right as the comedian was wrapping up his set with a tasteless joke about the conflict in Gaza. What the joke was, I couldn’t tell you, as it was nearly drowned out by his audience’s groans. Same crowd as usual, the ten-or-so regulars on their stools and the hippie chick sitting at a table on her phone. The Pit was how it always was, hazy and dim, smelling of stale beer and cigarettes.

Vince raised an eyebrow as I walked in. “Back for more, aye?” he asked in his gravelly voice as I commandeered an empty stool. I nodded. “Can’t be any worse than that chucklefuck.” He gestured at said chucklefuck, who was strutting toward the bar from the mic. “Can’t stand that fucking guy. Yer up, then. Give em hell.” He flashed me a smile, pulled a bottle of Jack out of nowhere and poured me a shot. 

“To my new guitar,” I said, winking at Vince before taking the shot. He rolled his eyes and gestured toward the mic. I could tell he expected another trainwreck out of me, and if nothing else a profit from the post-set drowning of sorrows. A smile crept onto my face at the thought of proving that old bastard wrong. I snuck a glance at the hippie chick on the way to the stage, pretty as usual, smooth blonde hair, tight green tank top, face buried in her phone. My smile widened at the thought of my music catching her attention, her eyes fixing on me.

I had to make a quick pit stop before the mic, though. Bringing a full guitar case into a bar bathroom, especially a graffitied hellhole like The Pit’s, may seem weird, but no one out there was paying attention. I shut myself in one of the stalls, took my jacket off, and opened the case. The guitar had that look to it like it was staring at me. Fishing around in my pants, I found the small pocketknife I made sure to bring and flipped out the blade. “Johnny Styx, everyone,” I said under my breath, with the best impression of Vince’s rasp I could muster, before running the blade across my forearm. The leather jacket went straight back on—The Pit was disgustingly warm, but I could take it to hide my arms.

With my instrument satiated, I took my post at the mic. Amp on, guitar slung, case open in front of me, I was ready to tear The Pit up. I took in my audience—not a soul looking at me, just shooting the shit, drinking. The comedian had what looked like a Long Island in front of him and was yapping at a pair of overly tanned older women. The hippie chick continued to stare intently into her phone. Vince took a shot with this burly biker-looking guy. People laughed, conversed, had a good old time. They didn’t even spare me a glance, that is, until I started to play.

I decided to start out with a bang, and I could see people’s heads turn as the first few notes of Eric Johnson’s “Cliffs of Dover” sang from the amp. My fingers flew across the fretboard with a grace The Pit had never witnessed before, and my pick struck gold with each note. Halfway through the song, every eye in the bar was on me. Savoring the moment and reveling in the beautiful sounds, I continued to play, shredding my way to the end.

For once in his life, the comedian had nothing to say. The hippie chick looked up with awe in her eyes, distracted from her phone. Vince stared at me, slack-jawed. People began to clap, but I cut them off without missing a beat, jumping right into a rendition of The Allman Brothers’ “Jessica” with the same precision. I had The Pit moving, people bobbing their heads, the two tan ladies off their stools dancing. And the cash. My guitar case was a black hole, sucking in the bills, change, pocket linings of nearly every bar patron.

As “Jessica” came to a close, I gave my newfound admirers a smile, winked toward Vince, and went into my third and final song of the night, the one that I butchered last week. The room was silent, save for the slow picking of the intro. I began to croon into the mic, my hands autopiloting. I could feel every eye in the room on me, feel their love, their appreciation. True to the song, I felt like I was on a stairway to heaven. After what felt like an eternity lost in Led Zeppelin, I wrapped up, unslinging my guitar and giving a bow. As high as I felt in that moment, I couldn’t help but notice the last few notes having a flat twang to them.

“Mothafuckin’ Johnny Styx, everyone,” Vince said in a breathless tone. The room exploded into applause. I made eye contact with the hippie chick, winked and chuckled as she turned as red as the wall behind her. I packed up, pocketed the cash from the case and sauntered up to the bar, more swagger in my step than last week. Vince, per usual, had my Coors ready. “How the fuck ya do that, kid?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

“Told you, I needed a new guitar and I got one,” I replied, smirking. I took a sip of my beer.

“Well, come back next week, do it again. Pack the place full. Maybe I can get some, ya know, friends in here.” Vince grinned, and I could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes.

I decided to pry: “Friends, huh? Don’t bullshit me, Vince. Get me a deal?”

“Play like that again, pack the bar, I’ll suck ya cock if I have ta,” he rasped, laughing.

Good enough for me. I slapped a couple of bills onto the bar. “Round for the bar!” I roared, voice full of raw confidence. The next hour was the best of my life. Drinks flowing, all the compliments a man could ask for, the hippie chick’s number on a napkin. Life was good. Before long, I was stumbling out the side door once more, case in hand. Before he could even ask, I beat ol’ Bud to the punch with a twenty and a cigarette. Same as last week, he ducked into The Pit and the last thing I heard was Vince swearing. I whistled as I walked back to my shithole building and had some extra pep in my step climbing the stairs to my shithole apartment. I gently placed the guitar in its stand and gave it a kiss before collapsing onto my bed.

From the moment I woke up, it was go time. Whether or not I believed Vince about the “friends,” I had The Pit’s undivided attention, and wasn’t about to let it go. I picked up the guitar and noodled a bit before carving another gash into my arm. At this point I could barely feel the cuts, only the elation of what they brought. I strummed and began to contemplate my setlist for the next Open Mic Saturday.

As fun and crowd-pleasing as last night’s tracks were, I couldn’t repeat them two, or three in the case of “Stairway to Heaven,” weeks in a row. I needed three tracks that would count. My mind immediately went to Ozzy Osbourne. Maybe “Crazy Train”—one that’ll get the crowd moving and pay fitting tribute to the Prince of Darkness. “Free Bird” was another that immediately came to mind, as I’d always wished I could play it but could never nail the thing. I just needed to think of one more, an encore after knocking their socks off with “Free Bird.”

The week leading up was another blur of blood, sweat, and more blood. I counted down the days. Nothing mattered to me anymore outside of playing and being in tip-top shape for The Pit. Another week of hardly eating, with the bulk of my nutrition consisting of whiskey, beer, and cigarettes. Another week without leaving my apartment, the only light being my dimming living room bulb and the little sunlight let in through my blinds. Another week with little to no human contact. I did shoot the hippie chick a text, though: “pit on saturday? gonna tear it up again \m/ ;) — j.s.”

And there was the matter of the guitar. While still sounding as immaculate as ever, I noticed it was acting faulty. The sound was sliding from sweet to sour after a few songs, like the effect was wearing off early. Last week, I’d cut myself once or twice and the thing would play like heaven for an entire day. Now, I’d have to give it a bloody re-up every few songs. My left arm looked terrible, and I had begun cutting into my right arm as well. I felt wooziness setting in throughout the days. This was not sustainable.

When Friday came around, I was once again a greasy, bloody mess. A thought entered my mind a few times over the course of the week, and it sat in my weary brain as I lay down for bed. The guitar was draining me. I’d play The Pit with it one more time and stash it. Use the money for a legitimate new guitar, learn my way up from the bottom again. Practice harder. Eliminate the need for the coffin-shaped instrument, as gorgeous as it sounded. Or I could just keep playing the current guitar. Wow The Pit, and then wow the world. I drifted off to sleep after deciding to make that decision tomorrow night.

The ding of my phone woke me up. Saturday morning, mere hours until Johnny Styx rocked The Pit again. And another occasion, I soon realized as I groggily checked my notifications. The one text I get a year from my mom: “Happy birthday, John! Miss you, call soon. – Mom.” In the whirlwind of the last couple weeks, I had completely forgotten about my 27th birthday.

I had grown estranged from my mom in the last several years, getting my own place and getting mixed up in music, or rather the skeevier parts of the culture. She still held out hope that I’d be successful and come back to her, though, and sent me the same message every year on my birthday. Even with “call soon” in every message, I never did actually call. But the thoughts of my incoming success possessed my fingers to tap out a message: “miss u too, playing at pit bar tonite – john.”

With showtime in a few hours, it was time to return to the land of the living. Just like the previous week, I choked down some insta-ramen and a few beers and took a long, steamy shower. I could almost pass for a functional person, gaunt and pale, but alive. I ran a brush through my tangled mop of hair, quickly dressed in faded jeans and a Black Sabbath tee, and went to pack up my axe. The guitar had this aura about it, like it was beckoning to me. I picked it up, planted a kiss on its deep, dark body, and gently placed it in the case.

“Cheers to turning The Pit upside down,” I said, grabbing a switchblade caked in dried blood off the coffee table and running it across my right forearm. The blade bit into my flesh and I gritted my teeth as I pulled it across, adding another mark to the slashed-up canvas. It went deeper than the usual cuts, but the guitar demanded more and more each time. Blood dripped from the wound and my instrument lapped it up like a dog on a hot summer day. It was time to go. I wrapped my arm in gauze, slipped on my leather jacket, pocketed the knife, and made for the door.

It was a cool fall evening, and I could feel the kiss of a gentle breeze as I walked to The Pit. The sky showed the deep red of sunset, a similar color to the strings of my instrument. My mind raced as I walked, wrestling with the dilemma at hand. I felt a bit woozy—I had given the thing so much blood, and its appetite had grown. My arms were in a perpetual state of pains both dull and sharp that no amount of booze or Advil lessened. I needed to hang up the guitar. God only knows what would happen to me if this continued. I also pondered what my final song of the night would be, and a block before the bar it hit me.

The thoughts dissipated when I arrived at my destination. Word must have gotten out about last week. I had never seen The Pit this packed in over a year of Open Mic Saturdays. All of the stools and tables were filled, and a mass of bodies conglomerated in the middle of the floor. Some of the regulars leaned against the bar, visibly pissed about their stools being hijacked. Vince was running around like a chicken with its head cut off slinging drinks and collecting cash, a much-needed cigarette hanging out of his mouth. It was hotter than hell in there, the stale-beer-and-cigarette reek was almost overpowering, and the chatter was the loudest it had ever been.

I scanned the place, looking for any familiar faces. The hippie chick was at her usual table, Vince was in a frenzy, some of the regulars milled around. From afar, I observed two very out-of-place individuals in the throng. One figure stood out like a sore thumb, being at least a foot taller and several shades paler than everyone else in the bar. His raven-colored hair fell to his shoulders, and I couldn’t help but notice his eyes boring holes into me and the ghastly smile on his face. I snapped my gaze away from him when I saw someone else in the crowd. “Mom,” I sighed. She hadn’t noticed me yet. Only two people did, both men with a part in putting this into motion.

Vince’s voice boomed from behind the bar, quickly shutting down the conversations and merriment. “The man of the hour has arrived! Johnny fuckin’ Styx! Get ya ass over here, son.” I parted the crowd like the Red Sea and sidled up to the bar, where Vince had two shots of Jack at the ready. He winked at me, rasped “Break a leg,” and we downed them. “Packed house tonight as ya can see. People were talkin’ after last week, kid,” Vince said, flicking his cigarette butt on the ground and immediately fishing for another. He gestured to the end of the bar, where a man even more out of place than my mother sat.

His short hair must’ve had an entire tube of gel slicking it back, and his blazer, dress shirt and slacks clashed with the band tees and tank tops everyone else had on. I studied him, noticing a gold watch and dark, expensive-looking shoes that were no doubt being compromised by the establishment he sat in. The guy was probably boiling alive. Vince’s voice was low: “Told ya I know people. He’s a pal o’ mine, and he’s in the biz. Play like ya did again and we can hook ya up. Now get the fuck up there.”

The little stage was just beyond the throng of people, and I slowly made my way through. The tall man continued to leer at me, smile plastered on his face. I could see the hippie chick staring at me with a smile, and I made eye contact with Mom. She looked uncomfortable, squished in the crowd, but forced a smile. I set the guitar down, battled through the mass, and wrapped her in a hug.

“You made it,” I said, slightly out of breath.

She chuckled, pulling me deeper into the hug. “You couldn’t have picked a better place to bring me?” We both laughed, and her smile softened to something more genuine. “Hey, at least you’re spending your birthday with your old mom.” She sniffled a bit and stepped back.

“Yeah,” I said under my breath. “I thought you’d like to see me play, I’ve gotten pretty damn good.” My eyes were a bit misty, but I shrugged the emotions off and flashed a wicked smile. She nodded at me and gestured toward the mic. Showtime.

I shouldered my way back to the stage and began my setup, slinging the guitar over my shoulder, plugging it into the amp, putting on my best rock god façade, and grabbing the microphone. “Holy shit, you really turned out tonight.” Every eye in the building snapped toward me, and I could already feel the rush coming. “My name is Johnny Styx, and I have a couple for you tonight.” I gave the guitar a strum, and put my hand up in a salute. “This first one’s for you, Ozzy. All aboard!” With my best impression of the famous laugh, I broke into “Crazy Train.”

Within a few notes, The Pit was moving. Some people danced, others tapped their feet. Vince even got a quick moment of respite, but was back to it a moment later. I shredded, fingers flying up and down the fretboard with inhuman dexterity and the sounds coming from the amp clear as a bell. I don’t know how, but even my singing voice was affected—I belted out notes my vocal range had no business hitting. The hippie chick was up and dancing, in perfect tune with the music. My mom bobbed her head, a grin on her face. Vince’s slick buddy eyed me with curiosity. The only unmoving figure was Mr. Tall, Grim, and Pale, still as a corpse, staring intently at me and smiling. The guy gave me the creeps, but that feeling was nothing next to the high I felt playing Randy Rhoads’s famous riffs.

I was hot, sweaty, and slightly woozy, but it didn’t matter—I was locked in, and everyone in The Pit loved me. I breezed through the solo, hands seemingly moving on their own. The rush consumed me, the feeling intensifying with each note. Drunk on the moment, I finished the song, outro laced with flair. “Thank you,” I said, in a sarcastically monotone voice.

The room erupted. Whistles, hoots, claps, applause of all forms. A pair of women lifted their shirts and blew kisses toward me. It was pure chaos, the perfect energy of a rowdy, sold-out venue. I blew a kiss back and held up the horns. “Now, where were we? All of you better know this one.” I hit the first soaring note of Skynyrd’s iconic song and let it ring. The mayhem died down. “Buckle in,” I said, slowly making my way through the intro.

“Free Bird” was a completely different animal than “Crazy Train,” but I picked and crooned my way through it with the same finesse. The slow and soulful sound had the crowd engaged, but less rowdy. Some people still danced and moved, but others just stood and took in the music. It truly was a beautiful song, made all the more beautiful by the axe and its wielder. Things were about to get rowdy again, though. I had never been able to get this solo down on the Ibanez even with years of practice. But I trusted the black coffin in my hands to get the job done.

The pace of the song was starting to quicken, and room quickened with it. I belted out the vibrato of the final “change,” and ripped into the four-and-a-half minute solo that had been the bane of my existence. And I was smoking through it. I was on overdrive, fast and precise. At least for the first two-ish minutes.

I could feel my hands begin to cramp up, the wooziness crept back in, and the rush I was riding gave way to a sluggish feeling. A couple notes sounded off. The power and flourish of the solo started to wane. Fuck. I soldiered on, doing my best to keep the song on track but I was flagging, not quite in freefall but nearing it. Luckily, the crowd was still rocking, not noticing my flubs. I made an executive decision then, segueing the solo into a simple scale and landing the bird before it crashed. My brain was nearing panic mode, but looking out at the cheering crowd, I masked it with my best fake smile and another “Thank you.”

What the fuck was I going to do? My mind raced. The crowd was going wild. I couldn’t call it a night yet, I’d just gotten started. The guitar was thirsty. It needed more nourishment and fast. Hell, I did too. “Whew, I’m getting thirsty. I think we should take a quick breather. Grab a drink, give ol’ Vince some love,” I gestured toward the bar, composure slowly returning, “I got another one for you in just a few.”

That seemed to satiate them. Now it was time to satiate myself and my instrument. After giving the room a moment to settle, I braved the crowd. To my appreciation, a couple of people leaning against the bar moved to offer up their spots to the night’s talent. Vince, per usual, had a shot ready for me. “Hell of a set again,” he said, grinning ear to ear. “Johnny Styx Night needs to be its own thing, I’d be making cash hand over fist.” I downed the shot and the grimace on my face caught his eye. “You alright, kid?”

“Yeah, just need a drink and some fresh air. Coors, bottle please.” I held out a twenty. Vince pushed my hand away.

“You should see my tip jar.” He twisted the cap and placed it in front of me.

I took a sip and looked him in the eye. “I’m going to have a quick smoke, retune the guitar a bit,” I nodded in the direction of the side door, “Don’t let anyone follow me. I just need a bit to clear my head and then I’ll be back.” Vince nodded. I didn’t think I’d have to worry about it anyway—Vince was one of the few owners who still allowed smoking in his bar, and with the turnout and drink sales, he’d probably fight God himself for me if I asked him to. I forced a smile. “Just you wait for my next one.”

Beer in hand, I collected the guitar and made for the door, nodding at Mom and winking at the hippie chick en route. The temperature had dropped from earlier, a welcome feeling on my sweaty brow. I sipped the beer and took a seat against the dumpster, guitar on my lap. I lit a cigarette and shrugged off my jacket. Both the cold and the sight of my torn-up arms and bloody gauze made me shiver. This whole business was fucked up, but I had to do it. They loved me in there so I had to give them more. Vince’s friend was going to hook me up. There was no way I could walk away from this now.

I produced the switchblade from my pocket and quickly pressed the button. With a deep sigh, I stuck the blade into my arm, ready to give my instrument its fix. Then a voice broke my concentration: “Could I get a buck or a smoke?” Fucking Bud. I had completely forgotten about him. The mangy bastard seemed to materialize from the alley’s darkness with a slow approach.

When he saw me closer, though, he recoiled. I don’t blame him—I must have been a hell of a sight, knife in my arm, blood trickling onto my guitar, a feral look in my eyes. “Wh-what the…” he started. I don’t know what possessed me, but I knew what I had to do then. I was going to ascend to rock godhood. Bud was going to continue heckling people for cigarettes and beer money. No one would miss him, and my guitar was thirsty. I pulled the switchblade out of my arm.

He shakily took a step back, but I was on him before he could turn tail. With all my strength, I swung the guitar hard at the side of his head, catching him near the jaw with the body. He crumpled like a sack of bricks. I put the guitar on the ground and grabbed Bud by the hair, positioning his head over it. In one movement, I drew the knife across his throat, opening it wide. Blood spurted from the gash and the guitar didn’t let a single drop go to waste. After a few agonizingly long moments, the bleeding stopped and Bud breathed his last. And the guitar had never looked more radiant.

In the heat of the moment, I hadn’t considered what to do now. Someone was going to find him. Can’t attribute a slit throat and massive blood loss to alcohol poisoning or exposure. I decided the dumpster was the safest bet. I flipped it open and grabbed Bud’s body by the shoulders, ready to hoist it up, when I heard the sound of clapping behind me. My fight-or-flight went off and I dropped the body to the ground.

I whirled around to see the tall gentleman, the man who traded me the guitar and motionlessly smiled through its playing. He brought his hands together slowly, an amused look on his face. He was laughing. I had no idea what the fuck his deal was, but he didn’t seem fazed. I decided to take a gamble—I highly doubted he was going to spread any gossip or go to the police.

“You just going to stand there and laugh, or you going to help me?” I pointed at Bud, lifeless against the dumpster. That only made the man laugh harder. “Fuck,” I grunted under my breath before returning to my grim task. Believe it or not, he actually did step in. For a homeless dude who lived on cheap beer and cigarettes, Bud was surprisingly heavy. We got him off the ground and unceremoniously pushed him into the dumpster.

For a second, I actually felt something for the guy, thinking of all the cigarettes and dollars I’d given him since first coming to The Pit. And his sacrifice was what was going to give me my break. I poured out the rest of my Coors to his memory—not the best tribute, I’ll admit, it should have been a Bud Light.

I slumped against the dumpster again, panting. The pale gentleman stared down at me, the amused look not leaving his face. He offered me a hand. “She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” He gestured to the guitar. “Get up, Mr. Styx. The show must go on.” He relit my cigarette with a lighter somehow whiter than he was. I took one more moment to breathe deep, calm myself from what had just happened. Then I picked up the guitar and didn’t look back. The man held the door open and whispered, “Break a leg,” as I stepped back into the hot, sticky bar that was going to be the birthplace of my legend.

It felt like I was outside for hours, but in reality, only about fifteen or twenty minutes had passed. The Pit was how it was when I left—people drinking and shooting the shit, eagerly awaiting the next song. Mom was chatting with a couple people near her. The hippie chick was on her phone again. Vince was lighting yet another cigarette. And I was back, and it was showtime again. The guitar had a glow to it, and I could feel the rush coming back.

“Hope you didn’t drink too much without me,” I said, taking my place in front of the mic. Everyone stopped what they were doing and shifted their attention. “Intermission’s over. I got one more for you…” I scanned the crowd, catching a few eyes, “…but treat me good enough and I may have a few more.” That warranted applause. Vince whispered something into his biz pal’s ear. I had their attention, commanded the room. I felt like a real rock star.

I had thought long and hard about what to follow “Free Bird” with. The week leading up saw me trying out several different songs, but nothing seemed to mesh how I wanted it. But the perfect song came to me moments before I entered The Pit, before this life-changing night began. “Any of you fine people hear of a fella named Charlie Daniels?” I could feel a surge of energy in the room. “Well, what I’m about to play’s pretty fitting, cause my name’s Johnny. Johnny fuckin’ Styx.” I gave the guitar a strum, ready to break the tension and make my fans go wild. Then I broke into the song and The Pit was thrown once more into glorious mayhem, my guitar sounding sweeter than the Devil’s golden fiddle.

My name is Johnny Styx. I’m 27 years young, and about to take the first steps to stardom. Me and my trusty axe are going to take over the world. I just have to quench its thirst every so often.

We didn’t think too much about the claw marks when we first arrived at the cabin. They marked the door leading into the lower-level entrance, about chest height. Four deep gashes in the door, gnarling the wood around them. Likely some kind of animal—we were in the Northwoods after all, bear country. We had come from Wausau, Wisconsin, about a two-and-a-half-hour drive, so not too unfamiliar of territory.

Our rental for the next four days was luxurious, to say the least. A three-story cabin in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a little bit outside of Wakefield, booked via Airbnb. Spacious enough for a large group, with the lower level acting as a lounge of sorts, the middle and upper floors consisting of small kitchenettes, living rooms, one bedroom on the second floor, two on the third, and each floor having its own balcony and stairs leading up to the second. Outside, we had a limited yard with a fire pit, picnic table, and the woods right there. Our group consisted of me, my girlfriend Erin, our friends Sam and Tina, my brother Lewis, and a few others dropping in for a day or two. It was Labor Day weekend, with all of us taking one extra day of vacation—one last hurrah before fall semester started back up.

Giving the claw marks no mind, I opened the door to the lower level, suitcase, case of beer, and one of Erin’s bags in my hands. The lower level didn’t have too much overall—a couch, television, pool table, and high-top table with a few stools around it. There was a door at the top of the stairs leading to the middle level, a pain in the ass to open with everything I was carrying. Hashing things out pre-trip, it was decided that Erin and I would take one bedroom on the top floor, with Sam and Tina taking the other. The middle floor’s bedrooms were first come first serve for the others showing up, with the last person to arrive getting one of the couches.

I continued up the stairs to the third floor, and lo and behold, another door met me at the top. After juggling my stuff once more and swearing in frustration, I entered. Surveying the floor, I decided that Erin and I would take the bedroom directly at the end of the hall. There were two doors on the side: the bathroom and what I guessed was the other bedroom. I stashed the beer in the kitchenette’s fridge, taking and cracking one for myself, dropped mine and Erin’s bags in the bedroom, and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a crisp, beautiful afternoon, the kind of day that borders the end of summer and beginning of fall, sunny and clear, not too hot but not too cool. I sipped my beer and observed everyone below, some unloading cars, others shooting the shit and throwing sticks and paper into the fire pit. Looking at the cars, I noticed one hadn’t arrived yet—I guess Lewis was the lucky winner of a couch.

I threw a few beers in a string bag and made the descent to meet everyone outside, lamenting how much of a leg workout this trip was going to end up being. Sam and our friend Jake had managed to get a fire going, and Erin and Tina were at the picnic table chatting with Sadie, a friend they made and invited on the trip about a week ago. I handed out beers and took a seat next to Erin at the table—I didn’t have the slightest clue what they were talking about, but nodded along, exchanging glances with Sam. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky a canvas of orange and crimson, and the temperature was going down with it. It was a beautiful scene, but the ambience was broken by the sound of a running motor—my prodigal brother had finally arrived, pulling up to the last open parking spot.

That first night was one of the greatest I’d had in a long time. Sitting around the fire with my favorite people, beer after beer going down, telling jokes and stories, and enjoying that last bit of freedom before classes, extracurriculars, and all that jazz took over our lives once more. A bit later, we migrated inside—there were other cabins within earshot, after all. Going inside, in hindsight I do remember something I brushed off at the time, a yellow gleam coming from the edge of the woods that wasn’t our fire. Two small, yellow lights, like the glow of eyes reflecting the waning fire. The rest of the night consisted of cards, board games, and similar activities, with Erin and I deciding to check out around 2AM. We didn’t think anything of the noises coming from the lower level at the time, simply chalked them up to the cabin settling. Like I said, that first night was one of the greatest I’d had in a long time—it was also the only normal night we had the whole trip.

I woke up the next morning, Erin draped over me and my head pounding. Instinctively reaching for the Gatorade on the nightstand, I dragged myself out of bed to face the upcoming day. Tina and Sam stood in the kitchenette, bidding me good morning with eggs in a skillet and a spread of toast and fresh fruit on the counter. I took a glance out the glass doors at the balcony—another beautiful morning. And another beautiful aesthetic interrupted by Lewis, who burst upstairs to us, face pale and panting. He was sputtering, obviously shaken, and talking about claw marks. We told him about the ones outside, which just made him paler. I felt my own face go pale when he said he there were no claw marks on the outside door, just the ones in the door leading to the second floor. I guess he went outside for an early cigarette, and was greeted by them headed back to his couch.

Sam, Tina, and I followed him, opening the door. To my discomfort, he was right. That same door I struggled with full-handed, at least the first one, had the same claw marks as the one outside. Chest-height, deep gashes in the wood. We continued outside, which confused us further—the door into the bottom level, the one initially marred with the gashes, looked good as new. Smooth wood, hardly a scratch in it. There was no rational explanation, but that didn’t stop us from trying to come up with one. After some deliberation, we decided to try to put it out of our minds and continue enjoying the trip. That didn’t quell Lewis, though; poor guy spent the whole day looking over his shoulders and had evident worry in his eyes.

A few of us decided to go to Ironwood for the day, about fifteen minutes down the road. Tina, Sam, Erin, Lewis and I took Sam’s car down there—Jake and Sadie left, bound back to Wisconsin. Ironwood was nice enough; not overly huge, with a few interesting places. As we entered one of the local pubs, I jumped as the door almost decked me. A pale-faced girl around our age rushed out, obviously in a hurry. She muttered a quick “sorry” and speedwalked away, heading down the street. Erin looked over her shoulder at the girl, who was entering the shop next door. I glanced at her, shrugged, and opened the door.

The pub was nice—not too crowded, friendly bartender, locally made craft beer, sampler boards in the shape of the UP itself. Lewis seemed calmer than earlier, likely courtesy of nicotine, beer, and company. I sipped my beer and lost myself in my thoughts as Tina regaled Erin and Lewis with details about her upcoming courseload. Sam noticed my pensiveness and turned to me, asking if I was alright.

I was fine, but couldn’t get the hurried girl’s expression out of my head. She looked worried… no, more than just worried. Fearful. I wondered what could have happened to freak her out that badly. When the bartender came back around us, I stopped her and asked about the guest in question. She let out a sigh, her cheery expression giving way to a slight frown, and then ran shivers down my spine.

According to the bartender’s words, the girl came up this way from the Chicago area with her brother, on a road trip to a family gathering further into the UP. They left Illinois with time to spare, intending to hike in the Porcupines, check out local hangouts, and stay in a cabin near the park for a couple days before making the event. The pub was one of said local hangouts—they came in two days prior. Her visit today was for information rather than beer, though. She’d been all over Ironwood asking questions. Her brother disappeared sometime in the night, no trace or indication of his leaving. The bartender sighed again and said she unfortunately didn’t know anything.

The spiel caught the attention of the others, with Lewis’s face draining of color. I asked if there were any more details, to which the bartender shook her head before returning to work. We finished our drinks in silence, contemplating everything we’d just heard. As we got up to leave, the bartender stopped us, saying there was one more odd thing. The girl, she said, mentioned something weird about their cabin during their first visit. Something about the door being torn up. And she mentioned it again just before we walked in. Those last words turned my blood to ice.

We didn’t see the girl again for the rest of our time in Ironwood. I hoped that she would find her brother, that everything would be okay for them. The whole thing unnerved me, though, and unnerved Lewis even more. He was jittery the rest of the day, chain-smoking and hardly talking to anyone. As we approached Sam’s car, I couldn’t help but notice a flyer on a nearby telephone pole.

MISSING, in big, bold letters, was printed across the top. A woman with a flannel shirt and beanie smiled out at me. Jamie Stephens, age 43, brown hair, 5’4, 130 pounds. Last seen Saturday, August 16, 2025 near Wakefield, Michigan. If you have any information, please contact the Gogebic County Sheriff’s Office. The phone number was below. Erin’s voice broke my trance. I shook my head quickly and jogged over to the car. It was time to head back. I didn’t mention the poster to anyone—Lewis was already freaked out enough.

The claw marks greeted us where we’d last seen them, on the door to the second floor. The good news, though, is that the door to the third floor was unmarred. We did our best not to let them bother us for the rest of the night, which was similar to the last except for a hint of somberness. Erin and I checked out much earlier, retiring around 10PM. I tossed and turned most of the night, with creaks and thumps from downstairs keeping me awake. Lewis must not be sleeping well either, I thought. The little sleep I got was fitful, with thoughts of Jamie Stephens, the missing boy, and wood gnarled by deep gashes invading my dreams.

I was awoken by a crash of thunder and the patter of rain. The next morning started out like the previous; Tina and Sam up and at it making breakfast, Erin in the living room chatting with them. Lewis was nowhere to be found—the others mentioned not having seen him yet this morning. I started to head down to check on him, but stopped in my tracks when I opened the door. There were claw marks on the inside of the door leading to the second floor. The “what the fuck” about to come out of my mouth was interrupted by the sound of an engine.

I rushed over to the window to see Lewis’s car back out of its parking space, turn onto the road, and peel off. The words I meant to say a moment ago came out. Erin and Sam joined me by the window, confusion and worry on their faces. I pulled my phone out, ready to call Lewis, when Tina let out a shrill scream. Snapping my head over, I saw her standing by the gashed-up door, her hand over her mouth. The realization shook us all to the core—they weren’t there when we got back the previous evening. My sense of unease heightened thinking of Lewis sleeping down there last night. Did he see what did this?

Descending to the second floor, we made two more unsettling discoveries. One, the claw marks in the door leading to the first floor were gone. Two, there were claw marks on the bedroom door—the room Lewis claimed after Jake and Sadie left. What the hell was going on? Looking outside, the storm had picked up. Rain was coming down in sheets, the sky was an ugly dark gray, with the only light coming from the occasional lighting flash. We were stuck inside for the day, which was bad enough for a normal cabin trip, worse for ours.

Erin, Sam, Tina, and I sat around the third-floor living room table for most of the day, trying to keep our minds occupied with card games and trash TV. The storm showed no signs of slowing down. Getting the hell out of dodge was on all of our minds, but Mother Nature seemed to have other plans. We were leaving the next morning no matter what—ironically enough that was our designated check out. Tina joked about giving the Airbnb a bad review when we got back, but that didn’t lighten the mood too much.

After what felt like the longest day of my life, night finally came, and we all adjourned to rest up before the return journey. Again, my sleep was interrupted, imagining what kind of abomination left those claw marks, and all of the horrible fates those missing folk could have suffered. Jamie Stephens’s smile was burned into my mind, as was the look of worry and fear on that pub girl’s face. I grumbled and got out of bed. I needed a snack and a drink, anything to get my mind off what was going on.

The storm had died down and moonlight shone through the window, bathing the third floor in a ghostly white. I groggily lumbered over to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water and bag of beef jerky. The sounds of the rain and creaks from the floor below filled the silence while I munched. It was almost relaxing even with everything going on. But then it hit me—the only ones left here were all up here. Why did it sound like someone was walking around downstairs?

I froze, the feeling of unease coming over me again. Thump. Thump. Thump. There was someone—or something—downstairs. Thump. Thump. Thump. I got up from my seat and slowly began to back toward the bedroom, eyes on the door to the stairwell. Thump. Thump. Thump. The footsteps were getting closer. They were coming up the stairs. I continued to back down the hall, arm outstretched behind me feeling for the door. Thump. Thump. The noises stopped. My hand brushed the wood of our bedroom door and I fumbled for the knob. I twisted it slowly and opened the door, ducking in. The last thing I saw before I shut the door was the stairwell door slowly give, opening with a creak. Something was in here with us, and it was feet from our bedroom.

I looked over at Erin, still asleep on the bed, then pressed an eye to the keyhole. The stairwell door was all the way open, but I couldn’t see anything yet. Sounds were coming from the living room, more footsteps and a guttural growling noise. Then it came into view. A silhouette, something tall but hunched over, gangly with limbs so long they looked unnatural. Two glowing yellow dots. And what looked like four long, terrible claws on each hand. I couldn’t see it in detail, but those talons were certainly visible. I put a hand over my mouth, trying to breathe slowly. The thing skulked around, somehow not damaging anything. I was frozen and couldn’t look away.

Erin stirred behind me, letting out a yawn. I cringed at the noise, turning my head to see her sitting up. She opened her mouth to speak but I gave her as quiet of a shush as I could and gestured at the door. I turned back around, put my eye back to the keyhole, and my stomach dropped. The thing was frozen in its hunched-over pose, glowing yellow eyes seemingly trained on our door. It growled, low but rising in volume, and began to stalk down the hall. I lost my composure and leapt onto the bed, holding Erin tight, hand over her mouth. I was sweating, my mind completely taken over by adrenaline.

The sound was horrible. I could hear it raking those claws down our door, the wood splitting from the sharpness. The commotion must’ve woken the others up as well—I could hear what sounded like Sam’s groggy voice in between bouts of clawing. The scratching subsided for a second, but then I could hear it again, a bit further away. The thing was tearing into Sam and Tina’s bedroom door. I held onto Erin for dear life, shaking, tears streaming down my face as I tried to keep quiet. The sound of Tina’s scream joined the clawing cacophony. It was a truly hellish mix of sounds, but abruptly stopped after a few more moments. Tina’s whimpers were the only sounds left. I peeked out the keyhole once more to an empty hallway and empty living room. It was gone.

We didn’t sleep the rest of the night. The minute the sun peeked over the horizon, we were scrambling. Both of our doors were marked, the same gaping wounds we’d seen throughout the weekend. I understood why Lewis had split so quickly now. None of us mentioned what happened the previous night—we packed our shit in silence, and ran to our cars without looking back. None of the doors down had any claw marks in them. We didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if we spent one more night there.

Erin and I hardly spoke on the drive back. At my behest, she tried calling Lewis a few times as I drove, but each one went straight to voicemail. After a couple of agonizing hours, I dropped Erin off and slowly returned to my apartment. I had never been more grateful to be home, especially in one piece. I couldn’t relax, though, as the images of the previous night flashed through my head. That thing was still out there. I just knew it was behind the other disappearances. And Lewis still wouldn’t pick up his goddamn phone.

Weariness overtook me soon after getting back, and I collapsed onto my couch, some brainless show on my TV. Briefly glancing out the window, I felt relief wash over me seeing a paved street and apartment buildings instead of woods. I spent the rest of the day curled into a ball on my couch, occasionally trying to call Lewis and trying to get my mind off the weekend. After a while, I lurched from the couch to my bed and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

I awoke to my phone buzzing on my nightstand, sunlight coming through my blinds. Fumbling a bit, I grabbed the phone to see an unknown number on the screen. Picking it up, I was startled when the man on the line said he was from the Wausau Police Department. He asked me if I was Lewis’s brother, and said he had some questions for me at the station. He refused to elaborate further. Stomach in a knot and heart pounding, I told him I’d be there soon. I threw some clothes on and headed out, but stopped and stifled back a cry when I saw them. There were claw marks in my apartment door.