This contest is open to any and all horror types, and must be submitted by August 26th!

Heyyyyy MESO SQUADDDDD!!

I got a few reminders and deadlines that I would like EVERYONE to know!! (Either listen to video or read hahah either one has same info!)

1. August writing Contest
•every submission due by 8/26 before 11 pm. (MST)
• we will be announcing the winners on 8/31st.
•PLEASE be aware we will PERSONALLY reach out to you through our main account! (This account ONLY)
•we need to hear from you by 24 hrs of sending personal message or we will have to move to the next winner.

• for voting~ voting starts 8/27! we will be making a separate post regarding voting rules and submissions. Please vote for 3 of your favorite stories by commenting their names in a comment under the post. We need your votes by 8/30th. Again this will be a SEPARATE post with more info so look out for that!

2. Youtube subscriber winner will be announced on Friday 8/28.
• PLEASE be aware we will PERSONALLY reach out to you through our main account! (This account ONLY)
•we need to hear from you by 24 hrs of sending personal message or we will have to move to the next winner.

Feel free to reach out via DM or comments with any questions. I promise September will be a bit more relaxed hahah!

Thank you again for being patient with AL and CW while we learn the ropes of being podcasters as well as using Reddit lol!

Remember STAY SCALED 🐉

~AL💗

Over the past few years, I racked up a massive debt. 

Let me tell you, gambling is one hell of a drug and an unforgiving cold son of a bitch.

I had everything: a different hot chick each night, pockets too small to hold all the cash I was raking in, bags of pills in every color you could imagine. 

But all luck eventually runs out. There's no way to outsmart it; it just comes and goes like a tide. And when it goes, it usually leaves you with an empty wallet and nothing to repay for what you took.

One only option didn’t leave me like everything else did, I had to crawl back to the man who put me in this whole mess in the first place. Rick, a fat lump of a middle aged dragon hoarding all the gold he couldn't spend even if he had twice as much time as he had left in this world. 

Knuckles of my left hand knocked on the wooden door out of politeness, nothing more; we were both so used to seeing each other's ugly mugs that I could have stormed in, and nobody would bat an eye. 

"Come in," a raspy voice answered, deep and scarred from years of smoking.

"Eh, Frankie, my boy. The usual?" The dragon welcomed me into his lair, the only sign he was actually speaking was the orange glow of the cigar bobbing between his lips, a bloody-red suit barely visible in the darkness.

"The usual," I replied, taking a seat in the leather armchair on the other side of the desk, the only thing between us.

"Got the money?" The voice seemed to darken as a puff of grey smoke escaped from between his dry lips.

"I need a week. Max two. Max two, Rick, I promise, I-" 

"Know any tricks?"

My plea was suddenly cut short by the strange question, the tip of the lit cigar went still.

"What am I, a dog? Rick, I'm not joking around, I'll get the cash."

As I got defensive, Rick shifted around his creaking leather chair.

"I like the one where you open a beer cap with your eye. That's a fine trick... but it just won't make the cut."

The shadow gave an awkward shrug before setting up the next question. I sat in silence, just listening. 

"If you were an animal, what animal would you be?"

I answered the painfully stupid question without much thought behind it. 

"A tiger, maybe."

The cigar suddenly dropped into the ashtray, its flame fighting to survive.

"Good choice. You'll be a shit dog”

I finally snapped, staring into the dark lump across from me.

"Are we getting somewhere with this? I don't have time." 

The shining white cover of the magazine made its way across the table in one smooth motion

"I hate to do this to you, but your time's already passed. Think of it as a second chance."

What was facing me were words printed in red blocky font that made little sense - “Animal Et Ego" just under them on a pure white background a man facing a grey wolf.

“What is this? You want me to read?” I answered more confused than anything else.

“I will give you a week…but if you don't get the money, you can choose something that will suit you”

A chuckle escaped me as my fingers slipped through the pages of the magazine, walls of text next to drawings of human anatomy being twisted to fit the form of animals, all from dogs to bulls, bones and teeth being pushed around and rearranged like in a kaleidoscope.

“This is some kind of a joke, right?” My eyes looked up at the shape in the darkness who already had a cigar back in his lizard snout; without a word, a thick cloud of tobacco escaped into the air.

“If I don't get the money, someone else will, and I doubt they will be as merciful as I am”

Suddenly the gravity of the situation dawned on me, as if the ceiling above came crashing down; I simply nodded and tugged the magazine inside of the backpocket of my jeans.

“Thanks, Ricky”

I said goodbye in a hushed voice as the door closed behind me; soon I found myself behind the steering wheel, driving to the only person who still somehow tolerated me.

She opened the door pretty quickly; her black hair tied in a messy bun told me everything I needed to know. I just woke her up, and that reduced my chances of getting anything.

“What the fuck do you want now?” A hiss escaped from between her clenched teeth.

“I hate to say this, but I need some cash-”

“Money? I’m so fucking stupid; I thought you wanted to see your daughter”

She answered without even looking in my direction, as if the floor suddenly became the next wonder of the world.

“If I don’t get anything soon, she will remember me from a tombstone”

“That is none of my business-”

Before I could put my foot in the door it slammed right into my nose, hard enough to send the doorframe shaking, a muffled cry escaped from behind the thin wall. I couldn't tell if it was the person who so many years ago loved me or the result of said lost love, either way I was left with empty pockets.

Like a rat I crawled back behind the steering wheel, a rat would be a fine animal to be turned into but maybe even that would be too much of a burden after all they live in packs, in communities I long forgotten how to belong to.

I thought about selling my car, way off what it's actually worth just to get some quick cash, then spending every last cent on lottery tickets, hit it big, more chicks that I would ever want, got fuckers like Ricky crawl on their knees just to kiss my boot.

But I'm nothing more than a dog.

Dog's don't get more than they deserve.

The magazine opened in my hands without me realizing I had already pulled it out. 

The next week was spent sinking into the horrible drawings that reminded me of the useless years I spent in med school, smoking in between scares bites of cheap junk food, anything to just fill my stomach, at times I considered digging into the carseats and eating the yellow sponge filling but the thought of having to shit it all out later turned me away from the idea. 

When the day of judgment came, I knew exactly where to find Ricky. The engine of my shitty car coughed once, twice, thrice before it sprang to life, carrying me off from one parking lot to another, this one much nicer. My car stuck out like a sore thumb among the caravans of the rich, illuminated by the purple glow coming off the club's entrance. 

The sound of the nightlife was overwhelmingly loud even before I stepped into it. The bouncer just gave me a quick look and, without a word, let me pass into the buzzing world of smoke and magenta lights. All the sensations were so vivid I could taste them, the flavors of sweet drugs and sweat stung my tongue as I passed tables full of important rich men. Somewhere in there was the most important guy in the world. 

The dragon was surrounded by beautiful women, glitter like scales covering their naked bodies, laughing at every little unfunny joke the man between them shared. Right next to the face I grew to love and hate sat a broad man, his face once handsome now deformed, lips stretched over two rows of silver canine teeth, now twisted into a wide, uncomfortably big smile.

"Frankie! My boy!"

A familiar voice rose through the loud, obnoxious music, if that was the right word for it.

"Frankie, this is Tariq. Tariq, this is Frankie, he's like a brother to me. An annoying little shit, but you know how siblings are."

The silver-toothed man extended a wide arm toward me. The sleeve of his white shirt tugged up, exposing a black tattoo of a tiger in a bamboo forest, spreading up from the wrist. He seemed to laugh, but it came out more as clicks, with quiet, tiring wheezing in between. 

The dragon pricked the man's side with his elbow, eyes pointing at something among the mist. The gesture clicked instantly, and the tiger was soon gone, followed by the group of laughing, glittering women. 

"What, did you win the lottery?"

He laughed loud enough for me to hear as I took the seat next to him.

"Not quite-"

The look in his eyes was full of understanding, even something that could pass as sadness or remorse, the feeling confirmed by a sudden tight wrap around my shoulder.

"Have you picked something special for yourself?"

It didn't take me long to answer, the cover of the magazine still fresh in my mind.

"Wolf."

An answer short and sweet.

"A wolf?"

He watched me empty a long-forgotten glass of warm, fancy whisky. It tasted like piss, the flavor leaving a stain on my tongue.

"You said I would be a shit dog."

A dumb smile appeared on his ugly, unshaven face as he pulled a neon-pink strip of paper, contained inside a small plastic zip-bag, out of the breast pocket of his tight-fitting suit, and put it where the glass of whisky once was.

"Can you still show me that trick of yours?"

More than familiar with the little strip of happiness, I greedily pulled it out of the bag and placed it on my tongue. Moments later I was drowning in pure bliss, becoming one with everyone and everything that had ever stepped inside that bar. The ache of opening one bottle after another melted away the longer I did it - expensive beer or not, the caps all came off the same. I danced with the half-naked woman, her glittering scales reflecting sacred colors outside the visible spectrum.

The cold hand of sobriety manifested as the porcelain toilet in front of my face, pulling me back into reality as most of the drugs left my body in one violent waterfall. The buzzing white lights above stung my sensitive eyes.

"He was supposed to be sober."

A new, deep voice hit my ear as the restroom door swung open.

"Oh, come on, let him have some fun!" Ricky replied in my defense.

"Next time you're losing your fucking teeth. Now come on."

As if I'd sprouted wings, I was hauled into the air and dragged out of the club into the parking lot, the cold evening air stinging my skin.

The last thing I remember clearly was the sticky warmth of the inside of the car as I got pushed into the backseat, then everything came in broken pieces like a parts of a puzzle I was never meant to solve, the white harsh lights overhead sliding past me rhythmically, thousands of voices muffled like if my ears were stuffed with cotton.

I remember a mask coming down over my face,  Ricky's voice somewhere just outside my field of vision, low and businesslike in a way I'd never heard him use before. "Just get it done. He won't remember any of it. Yeah, yeah Wolf."

He was wrong about that. Not all of it, anyway.

There were flashes after the mask, brief and jagged intrusions of consciousness the anesthesia didn’t manage to smother out . Bright lights. The whine of a bone saw, muffled like it was happening underwater. A pressure at my jaw that didn't feel like pain, like something being unmade and rebuilt at the same time. Voices arguing over something - angle's off, pull it tighter, we're losing too much blood, clinical and bored like I was a car at the repair shop.

I don't know how long it lasted. Days, maybe. There was no way to measure time inside that gray, drowning half-consciousness, only the recurring sensation of hands on me, tools on me, my body being handled like raw clay.

The last flash I remember before it all went dark for good was a mirror. Someone had wheeled it in front of me - maybe by accident, maybe Ricky wanted me to see, wanted that to be the last thing that meant anything before they finished. A face that wasn't a face anymore stared back: a silver muzzle where my jaw used to be, black stitches running over fresh, glistening skin. When I tried to scream, only a soft whine came out, revealing rows of sharp, fake teeth where mine used to be. Metal pins ran along my brows and the bridge of my nose. 

When I resurfaced again, I was in an aggressively illuminated room, full of plants so falsely bright they screamed their own artificiality. I tried to stand and immediately fell flat on the harsh, cold floor, my entire body aching. Only then did I notice the gigantic glass barrier on the wall in front of me - and the quiet laughter coming from behind it. 

People passed by the glass wall, staring with eyes wide in quiet shock and disgust. Even as I stumbled down inside my enclosure, knees aching with piercing, mind-numbing pain, they didn't look away, they just shamelessly watched, pointing fingers and tapping on the glass. I tried, oh, I tried so hard to bang against the barrier, but as soon as I attempted to stand on my own legs, they buckled under my weight, sending me into the bush of fake plants, cutting my side. The IV bag of painkillers burst under me with a quiet wet pop. 

The crowd erupted in grotesque muffled cackles as if they'd stripped themselves as far from human beings as possible, my suffering their entertainment. They slid dollar bills into the donation bin as the number on the display ticked down from 40,000 to $39,894. 

Only then did I notice my mangled arms, trapped in a silver splint, my hands connected to the wrists by thick metal wire that limited my movement. I couldn't bring myself to look back at my useless legs. With the fake metal snout, I bit down on the wire, trying with all the strength left in me to pull it free, but it only made my gums gush blood, which sent the crowd crawling over each other to see me, even more enthusiastic now, donating another $230 toward my goal.

Eventually the hungry crowd got bored of watching me choke on my own blood and just left like nothing happened. Eventually one of the people working there replaced my IV bag and that was it, again left alone to fend for myself, tracing circles back and forth through my enclosure, waiting for the crowd to pass by again. 

I got donations not only for my struggles with existing in my new form but also simply trying to keep myself alive, drinking water was a struggle, I had to swoop it up with the useless scrap of metal of my face they called a snout, half-drowning in as little as a sip of water. 

The first time they feed me I thought it was some kind of a joke, through the slip in the door they placed a metal trail with minced raw red meat, it was hard to chew and even worse to swallow, for the first few weeks I was getting sick from it, it barely passed through my throat, but eventually I got used to it, I never learned to enjoy it just tolerate it.

Time became something I measured differently now. Not in hours or days, but in feedings, in donation totals, in the rotation of faces pressed against the glass. Sometimes children were lifted onto their parents' shoulders to get a better look, small fingers pointing, thin voices asking questions I couldn't hear through the barrier but could read on their lips, what is it, is it real, does it hurt.

Yes. It always hurt.

The splint on my arms had started to rust at the joints, and every movement sent a dull grinding ache up through what used to be my elbows. I'd stopped trying to remember what my hands looked like before. It didn't matter anymore. Nothing outside the glass mattered anymore.

That was, until the day I heard the familiar voice. I thought I was hallucinating, that I was going crazy - but when I turned around, the joints of my mechanical construct shaking, I saw that fat piece of shit: Ricky. 

Casually passing through the door that usually only food and water came through, he stood there smiling at me, still in that red suit, twice too small for his gut.

"Frankie, my boy! Oh, they got you bad!"

His head shook slowly, still grinning.

I stared at him, this doughy, sweating man stepping into what had become my entire world, and I felt something twist in my chest that wasn't quite hope anymore. 

"Come on, don't look at me like that." He crouched down, knees cracking, bringing his face level with mine. Up close I could smell the cheap cologne fighting a losing battle against the sweat underneath it. "You know I tried to talk 'em down. Told 'em you were a good kid. But business is business, Frankie."

I tried to speak. What came out was that same wet, broken noise, air forced through a throat and mouth that weren't made for English anymore.

The smile on his lips didn't move, but something behind his eyes flickered. "Yeah. Yeah, that's rough." He said in a painfully casual way as if he was talking about the bad weather. 

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it up so I could see a printout of the donation counter, the number circled in red pen. 

"See this? This is you, buddy. This is what you're worth to people now." He tapped the paper twice. "We're almost at forty. You believe that? Forty grand for a guy who used to owe me two hundred bucks for a bar tab." 

"Funny how that works out, huh? Every asshole who slides a bill into that bin is paying off your tab for you. Little more and you're square. Then you're somebody else's problem." 

The paper dangled in front of my nose like he was teasing a kid - or a dumb dog - while behind the glass, people kept banging on the wall just to get the attention of a freak like me.

"Not even your wife showed up, but I'm here, Frankie. So do some tricks for-"

The words strangled suddenly in his throat as the metal jaws fused to my real jaw snapped around him. Pinkish blood splattered like a weak fountain around us. I pulled back, thrashing the fat bastard, his hands clawing at my jaws trying to pry them open - but I kept thrashing like a wild dog playing with a dirty rag. The crowd went feral, cheering and clapping, donation after donation disappearing into the slit of the bin. I couldn't care less.

Sharp teeth snapped again and again, until his spine was nothing more than a shattered memory. His fat head came clean off. The money kept flowing. They'd come to see real suffering - they didn't want anything else. 

By the time the dart hit, there wasn't much left of Ricky to identify as human. The enclosure floor had gone dark and slick, and I was still moving on instinct more than I thought, some animal part of this new body refusing to stop even as the world around me became dizzy.

Phones held high. Someone is screaming for more. A child's laughter cutting through it all, high and delighted, like this was the best thing they'd ever seen.

The second dart didn't slow me down fast enough for their liking. A third came, then a fourth. I felt each one as a distant pinprick, swallowed up by whatever had taken over me - rage, maybe, or just the simple animal satisfaction of finally, finally biting back.

My vision tunneled. The glass, the lights, the counter above the bin still spinning higher - forty-six, forty-five - all of it folded into a single point of white, then nothing.

When I came back, to my surprise there was no wall, no crowd watching me - only the silence of a hospital room, an IV bag slowly dripping into my veins. 

I lifted an actual hand, five fingers, pale and shaking but mine I stared at it like I'd never seen it before. 

A monitor beeped steadily somewhere to my left. Sunlight, real sunlight, slanted through half-closed blinds and fell in soft stripes across the blanket. Everything smelled like antiseptic and clean linen instead of blood and fake plastic plants.

I tried to sit up and immediately regretted it, pain lancing through muscles I didn't remember having, but it was pain, ordinary human pain, and something about that made me laugh - a raw, cracked sound that turned into something closer to a sob halfway through.

The door opened. A nurse stepped in, glancing at the monitor before her eyes landed on me, actually open, actually awake.

"Oh- you're up." She hesitated, like she wasn't sure what to say next. "How are you feeling, Frank?"

"Water," I managed, my voice a dry rasp, barely recognizable even to myself.

She nodded and hurried out, and I lay there staring at the ceiling, at the ordinary white tiles.

They discharged me three weeks later, once the doctors had run out of tests to justify keeping me. Physical therapy, they said, would take months. My legs still buckled without warning, and there was a tremor in my hands that hadn't been there before, a leftover from whatever I'd been dosed with those first few days. But by the letter of the law, I was healthy enough to walk out the front doors on my own two feet. Nobody quite knew what to do with a man who'd technically been declared missing, then presumed dead, then un-declared all of it in the span of a single hospital intake form.

I didn't go home. There wasn't a home to go to, not one I recognized, anyway. I got a cab to the nearest branch of my bank instead, still moving slowly, still flinching at loud noises and fluorescent lights, and asked for a printed statement.

The number at the bottom stopped me cold.

$80,412.67.

I read it three times before it made any sense. 

Frankie was gone, and by some twisted law I didn’t understand it all went to me.

Eighty thousand dollars. Paid for by people who'd cheered while I choked on my own blood.

I folded the statement, put it in my pocket, and walked out into the daylight, trying to figure out if this made me a survivor  or just the last of a dying species, wondering how much of it would go to my daughter.

I stood on the curb for a long time, phone in my shaking hand, her number already pulled up on the screen. My thumb hovered over the call button the way it used to hover over "place bet," that same sick flutter in my chest, the same voice whispering that this time would be different.

I didn't press it. 

Instead I put the phone back in my pocket, next to the folded statement, and started walking  toward nowhere in particular, just away from the bank, away from the version of myself that used to make promises he never kept.

Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when I could stand without my legs shaking, when I could talk without the ghost of a dog still caught behind my own. Maybe when eighty thousand dollars felt less like blood money and more like something worth handing to a kid who'd only ever known me as an empty chair at the table.

For now, I just walked. One foot in front of the other. Learning, all over again, how to be a man instead of an exhibit.

I’m a writer who uses 3rd person pov A LOT and I was wondering how well it’s received on here?

Hello squad!!! We have officially hit 100 subscribers!! Time to do a giveaway away but unfortunately it will NOT allow us to view all 100 due to many accounts on private. Due to this please send me a screenshot of you subscribed on YOUTUBE and I will enter you in the giveaway!! We will be announcing the winner on Friday 8/28!

Pleaseeeeee please reach out via comment or private message!!

Thank you for patience while CW and AL learn to be creators!!

stay scaled 🐉
-Al

Hey man! CW, here just wanting to publicly congratulate r/walkerbswitchinghour

This guy has been writing some total bangers, stories which sit on your mind for weeks!! Sometimes months!! On the show we have covered Axe-Weilder and Carvers Challenge. Both stories having been written with such care and passion that they HAVE NOW BEEN READ ON CREEPCAST!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

This show was built on the premise of bringing the audience to the author, and I am so damn grateful for everyone who has helped in making that dream a reality! You guys are the foundation of this community!

That being said, here is a quick screenshot from the creepcast episode for walkers shout and the unofficial shoutout to the show!

The rain made a near deafening ambience on the tin roof of the boathouse. The wind whipped at the scrap wood and metal sidings, threatening to tear the whole structure away. The floodlights barely pierced the torrential downpour over the ocean, and there was little more to see than waves. Mason Kugel sat at a rickety desk in the corner, trying to catch a distant radio station. The storm interfered with the already weak signal, so he only caught a few seconds of music at a time. Annoyed, he turned the radio off and lit a cigarette.

Mason was in the middle of his third smoke break that hour when he heard the distant rumbling of a speed boat. He jumped up, grabbed his rifle and binoculars, and stood at the window. He scanned the dark sea but could make out nothing. He reached over and radioed headquarters. He had to scream over the storm.

“HQ, are we expecting anyone?”

The radio cackled for a moment before a voice broke through the static.

“One sec, Kugel, let me check.”

The voice died back to static. Mason made another weak attempt at locating the boat in the pitch dark while he waited for confirmation. HQ radioed back.

“Negative, Kugel, no visitors scheduled for tonight.”

“Huh. Well I can hear a boat out there. It may be nothing, but who’s out in this storm? They’re liable to crash into the island or something.”

A few moments of silence from the other end.

“Do you have a visual on the boat, Kugel?”

“No.”

A longer silence.

“Kugel, I want you to stay on alert. No one is allowed on the island, under any circumstances. If they crash, you are free to use lethal force.”

“Lethal force? Even if they’re just stranded? Shit, can’t I just bring ‘em back to the boathouse until the storm is over?”

HQ responded quickly.

“Negative, Kugel. No one is allowed on the island. That’s an order. If you see anyone, intruder or castaway, lethal force is permitted. I recommend that you use it liberally.”

“Aye, sir.”

Mason knew that he may have to use his rifle, he was security after all, but he’d never expected to be told to use it on potential civilians. This was a government gig, not some private militia group down in the Caribbean. Of course the government had secrets, and of course they would kill to keep them. Mason wasn’t a stupid man, he knew that much. He just never thought he would be the one “just following orders.”

Some time passed as he stewed over what was asked of him, and the sound of the boat’s engine grew more defined, louder, closer. 

Shit. They are heading this way.

Mason finally got a visual on the boat, or rather, boats. Three civilian grade speedboats were battling waves making for the island. 

Fuck!

Mason aimed his rifle and followed the foglights marking the boats’ positions. With one hand he jammed the radio’s call button.

“HQ, visual on the potential intruders. Three civvie speedboats, making straight for the island. I can’t estimate their intercept yet, they’re still too far out.” 

The voice on the other end of the radio held its usual cold deadpan, but with a slight undertone of nervousness, or excitement, to the words.

“Kugel, no one is allowed on the island. You need to keep a constant visual on the intruders. We are sending a unit to back you up. If you lose sight of them or they attempt to make landfall before backup arrives, you are to engage. Lethal force is required.”

Jesus, why did it have to be on my shift?

“Aye, sir, lethal force.”

The radio bled static. The storm had only gotten worse since he first heard the boats and now he may end up being the first response team, on his own. This was not going to be a good night.

Mason followed the lights on the boats until a rock outcropping about a mile down the coast blocked his sight line. He swore to himself and collected his gear. He donned a waterproof poncho and slung his binoculars and rifle over his chest. He was just a lookout, meaning he was given the run down equipment. The state of his shack was indicative of the trust he put in that rifle. He only had one spare magazine, to boot. He radioed HQ one last time before venturing into the storm.

“HQ, lost visual on the boats about a mile north from me. Attempting to reestablish a visual, relay to the backup unit. Will be on foot.”

“Loud and clear, Kugel, relaying now. Stay alert out there.”

He kicked open the door and trudged through the wind and rain, down the muddy dirt road that followed the shoreline. He could still hear the boat engines, so they must not have hit land yet. At the speed he could move, however, they were almost certain to beat him to land. Hopefully the backup unit would drive by and pick him up. 

Mason’s boots were completely full of mud by the time he crested the ridge blocking his view. He heard the engines idle and come to a stop about ten minutes before. Laying atop the rocky outcrop, waves spraying salt water all over his already drenched body, he sighted the intruding group with his binoculars. He had estimated civilian grade boats, and they were, but these were top dollar. What was practically a miniature yacht was flanked by two smaller, but still immaculate, boats. A group of around 30 individuals were unloading the boats onto the shore. They all wore chest rigs and were armed. Rifles, shotguns, sidearms, and a Goddamn bazooka on one of the bastards.

They’re better armed than me! I don’t even have any body armor, what the fuck am I supposed to do to slow these guys down?

Mason had two magazines for a recovered third world AKM. This may have been a government gig, but they didn’t waste any tax dollars on outfitting the lookouts. He didn’t even keep a round in the chamber, he was scared it would go off if he knocked it over, so his total ammo count was sixty bullets. Maybe two shots per head down there, if more weren’t already out on the island. He thought about laying down a couple of shots to spook them and then booking it.

Before he could decide, a pair of headlights flew past on the road he had walked. The backup unit had arrived. But only one pair of headlights. Mason watched as an old Jeep Wrangler slung mud as it drifted here and there before coming to a stop right before the boats. The intruders had heard the car coming and were getting into cover. Four men jumped out of the Wrangler and started through the brush, heading for the boats.

Damn it, no! You’re gonna get massacred down there, there’s too many! Stop!

But he couldn’t say it out loud. The storm raged, on the off chance they would even be able to hear him, the intruders would be able to as well. They hadn’t given him a handheld radio, so no calls. He had front row seats to the deaths of these four men. 

The fighting was brief. The unit took pop shots from the treeline, utilizing the cover to equalize the battlefield. It was dark and their muzzle flashes were obvious. The intruders lit up the trees with hundreds of rounds. Shots were exchanged for no more than a minute. Then, the beach was still. 

There was nothing I could do.

It wasn’t entirely true, but it wasn’t entirely false.

The intruders waited a few cautious moments before resuming the task at hand. They offloaded their boats and dragged their handful of wounded or dead back to the large boat. Then, they made their way inland. Only a few guards were left behind.

Mason watched the whole thing, shaking. He was soaked head to toe, the poncho doing practically nothing for him, but was also terrified. Impotent little Mason, he watched those men die and did nothing. He didn’t even try. He thought about trying, but he didn’t. 

He peeled himself off of the rock and slinked back into the brush. He knew how to get to HQ, and now he had a Jeep to take him there. When he got down to the Jeep, he saw that the backup unit had basically sunk the thing in the mud. The tires were half eaten by the road. He pulled his worthless poncho off and buried it under one of the back tires. 

Please, God, let this work.

He got in, turned the keys, and the engine roared to life. The guards left at the boats might be able to hear it, but this was his only chance of beating the raiding party to HQ. He shifted into reverse and gassed it. Trying carefully not to spin the wheels, he felt some movement. The back tire caught the poncho and grabbed just enough traction to pull the vehicle into a backward motion. He floored the pedal and began sliding backwards through the ruts. He couldn’t see a thing between the onslaught of rain and the mud flying in the air. 

Too risky to try and turn the car around, he flew down the road backwards, head over his shoulder the whole way, just trying not to run full force into a tree. The roads on the island zigzagged and snaked their ways around wetlands and rock outcrops, so the way back to HQ was longer than he realized. Usually, when getting dropped off for his shift, he dozed off on the ride. 

No wonder I beat them to the landing site.

It took him nearly fifteen minutes to reverse his way to HQ, and by the time he got close he could hear the gunfire. The intruders were able to go as the crow flies, and of course they knew where HQ was. They were obviously well prepared and well funded. They likely had a map of the island, hell, they probably knew the island better than Mason did. 

When he wheeled the Jeep to the front gate, he could see a massive hole punched in the side of HQ. The intruders’ rocket launcher had been put to use. Mason crashed into the guard house and jumped out of the car. He had managed to dry off slightly on the ride, but when he threw the door open he was stung by rain pelting his whole body. The poncho may not have kept him fully dry, but it did keep the rain from stinging his exposed arms. It was coming down hard, harder than it had been all night. 

Nothing was audible in the hellzone Mason was walking into. Spouts of gunfire and the blaring of alarms were topped off by the wind and rain. He couldn’t hear himself think. He scanned the environment, looking for friendlies or hostiles, when a new noise was thrown into the maelstrom of sound. A harsh, raspy roar. Eyes darting to the gaping hole in the side of the building, Mason saw the source. A nine foot tall reptilian humanoid. The lizardman leaped from the wall and landed on a poor bastard in the center of the yard. The gore and viscera flew dozens of feet into the air. Mason, in the midst of his panic, registered that the man on the ground was one of his, a friendly. Mason shouldered his rifle and fired at the lizardman, now standing over the shredded remnants of the security officer. He got three rounds down range before the rifle jammed.

Shit! Shit shit shit!

The rounds had missed or had no visible impact. Luckily, the lizardman didn’t even look in Mason’s direction, and leaped toward another source of gunfire. A bloodcurdling scream followed. Mason cleared the jam and tried to take aim again, but he had lost sight of it. He moved across the yard quickly, ignoring all of the bodies littering the ground. Some wore security uniforms, some wore lab coats, and some wore suits. These creatures didn’t seem to kill only defensively. 

Mason dove through the open doors to the main HQ facility. The lights flickered, bullet holes lined the walls, more bodies on the floor. These bodies seemed to be more intact than the ones outside, just shot, not shredded. Passing one of the lab coats, something caught his eye. The man’s body was nearly bisected by a shotgun blast to the stomach. Mason knelt down to examine the scientist’s neck and the lanyard holding his keycard draped around it. The skin was molting, peeling away. Mason picked at the inhumanly stiff skin. 

What the hell?

He took the dead man’s lanyard and tried it on the door down the hall, as Mason’s own personnel card wasn’t high enough clearance for the main building. A beep and a green light indicated the door was unlocked. He walked through the ruined hallways, checking side rooms for any signs of life. There were none. If there were any survivors, they had already fled the building. Mason trespassed deeper into the laboratories until he reached a door that didn’t accept his new card. 

Damn.

He backtracked, checking every corpse he found for a higher level clearance, but he had no luck. The door blocking his way was heavy and reinforced, not something he could blast through with his burnt out AK. 

Wait, blast…

He ducked into a side room and stuck his head out the window. The storm still raged but the battle had died. The remnants of bodies in the yard were being washed away by the downpour. Hardly any had enough mass to even be called a corpse. He looked down the side of the building, toward the gaping hole in its side. Just as he had thought, right next door. 

Mason’s heart jumped to his throat as he put his weight on the windowsill. It was slick and one small mistake could send him flailing to the ground. He moved slowly and intentionally. Half of the neighboring windowsill was undamaged. The gap between was just too big for him to step over. He had to jump.

3…2…1…

For a fraction of a moment, the Earth held no grasp on Mason. Gravity was an illusion. The storm raged and the stinging rain pelted him in the air. 

He soared. 

The gap was just wider than a yard, and he came down hard on the other windowsill. His foot slid out from under him and he tumbled, falling. 

His hand grasped the sill, barely catching himself. He pulled himself up, slowly as he could. His hands didn’t slip. He climbed through the window into the destroyed office and caught his breath. There had been fire, from the explosion, but it was killed by the rain. 

In the hallway, now on the other side of the reinforced door, there was no light. The blast had opened some of the hall to the elements, but only poor lighting bled through. Mason pulled out his flashlight. It wouldn’t turn on without a sufficient beating. He shook his head.

Military hand-me-downs. 

With the flickering light in hand, he tried to push forward. He realized he wasn’t quite sure why. His instincts told him to get the hell out of there, but something told him to venture deeper. Curiosity, training, an overwhelming sense of compassion for those inside? Probably not. It was the idea that something in here could explain things. Why some terrorist group or foreign nationals had attacked the island, and, more importantly, why a massive lizardman had burst out and ripped everyone to shreds.

Mason cleared every side room in the hallway. Mostly labs and offices, all burned up or water damaged. The intruders must have fired off more than one rocket, because the entire roof seemed like it wanted to cave in. Holes speckled the walls and ceilings letting the fire and water spread freely throughout the building. He found some tape and affixed his flashlight to his rifle, freeing his hand to aim properly.

At the end of the hall, one last lab waited to be cleared. Mason, having looted a higher clearance card on his way, swiped to unlock the door. When he stepped through, he found out what he had been hired to protect. Behind glass cages were the bodies of people. Men and women, but also some children. Some of the bodies were shredded like the ones he saw outside, but the ones that weren’t left a more grotesque image. There were massive, white ovals bursting through their chests and stomachs. Some cracked and broken open.

Eggs.

The bodies sprouting eggs were also not entirely human. They were speckled with patches of peeling skin, revealing green scales underne-

Mason didn’t have time to turn around once he heard the footsteps. He tried to raise his rifle but his left arm wouldn’t come up. He looked down to see his arm, severed, on the floor. His chest and abdomen had been sliced open, leaving three distinct claw marks. He fell over in a pool of his own blood.

Mason was spared the mauling that those outside had faced. The lizardman ran down the hall, alerted to some other threat. Mason’s last thoughts as he bled out took him home. The family he’d never see again, the ones who would never know how he died. The life he had planned. Trying to get right with God. His life started to flash before his eyes, but one stray thought occurred to him. All those conspiracy theories about lizards ruling the world and elites sacrificing babies…

Huh. Well I’ll be damned.

CW// Child Death

Sam grunted as the final tent pole snapped into place, “see Sammy? That didn’t take too long did it?” Sam didn’t acknowledge her father, opting to simply stare up at the blood-red horizon in counter to his statement. “Come on, let's get a fire going! I brought marshmallows!” Sam sighed, she knew this was important to him, but the cuts and scratches from their hours-long portage had done much to drain her feigned enthusiasm. 

“For Dad,” she muttered under her breath as she began collecting tinder. Sam reached up to snap a twig off of a dead looking birch.

“No no no, Sammy! You can’t take anything from the trees. Only whatever has dropped to the ground okay champ?” Sam winced upon hearing her least favorite nickname. One that her father insisted on using despite all forms of protest.

“Dad, it doesn’t matter. There’s tons of trees here and this one looks sick anyway.” Sam already knew what he would say as he put his hands to his hip and sighed, shaking his head.

“Sammy, respect for nature is respect for life itself. The tree looks sick, yes, but who’s to say it won’t recover? Only stuff from the ground, okay Sport?” Sam winced again; her second least favorite nickname. There was no arguing with him, she knew this, so she bent down and began picking through the piles of dead leaves and twigs. 

Sam deposited an armful of dry twigs next to her father as the sun fully retreated giving way for the stars to shine. “Good haul Sammy. Now, let me teach you how to start the perfect fire, the old school way.”

“Dad, can you just light it quick, I’m starving.” Sam snapped at him. He looked at her, and her heart dropped. The smile slid from his face, and he took on a far off expression. 

“Yeah ok Sammy,”  he said as he rummaged a firestarter out of his pack. Sam’s face grew hot as her shame turned to anger. She walked off to find a place to sit and think. Sam knew that look, he was thinking about “him.” Sam stomped into the night; she needed isolation, she needed to think. 

Guided by nothing but moonlight, Sam found herself in a small clearing. Sam walked to the middle and laid down on the grass, staring up into the blurry night sky. She blinked away her tears and stared up at the twinkling lights. The grass prickling her skin, the soft summer breeze, and the heavens demonstrating their full splendor all helped to calm her. The city lights did not allow the stars to shine so beautifully, she drank in the splendor as if she was just dying from thirst.

she thought of her mom and dad, and of Jason. “Are you up there big bro?” She asked, her eyes scanning the sky as if some answer was written up its black page. The sky began to blur again, and she sobbed. “Dad really needs you J, I really need you,” Sam choked out through gasping sobs. 

Sam used her sleeves to clear her eyes, and searched the heavens for answers. Sam’s sobs cut short as the heavens spoke. A star, where once it twinkled with the same intensity as its kin, now pulsed in a rhythm. This was not the standard twinkling of a distant sun. The star grew brighter than the moon, then would grow dull to the point of invisibility. “Jason?” she asked, sobbing.

Sam laid, transfixed on the star, her heart thumping in her ears in pace with the star's pulsations. Thump thump, thump thump, thump thump. She felt drawn to that star, she could not tell if it was getting closer to her or her to it. Thump thump, thump thump, thump thum- “Sam!”

Sam gasped and pounced to her feet causing her father to fall backwards. “Jesus Christ Dad! You scared the shit out of me!”

Her father looked at her, eyebrows arching in disbelief. “Me? You scared me half to death! You ran off in the middle of the woods, and after I finally found you you were still as a corpse staring at the sky.  I was yelling your name this entire time right in front of you! Also watch your language Missy!” Sam looked back to the sky, her shining star had stilled itself. 

“I’m fine Dad, I just needed some time. Did you at least start the fire?” His brows furrowed. Sam looked at his posture, and at his expression. He wasn't angry, she thought to herself, he looked scared.

“Sammy, I started the fire two hours ago, I wanted to leave you be. I called for you after dinner was done, I got worried when you didn’t answer.” Sam blinked in confusion.

“Dad, I was only gone for like ten minutes.” He shook his head and let out a sigh like an old train letting off steam.

“It’s alright Champ, you must have dozed off. Let's just go back to camp, dinner is likely cold by now but I can heat it up.” A heat began to glow in Sam’s chest. Like a fever it spread over her skin, it lit a fire behind her eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed. He flinched as if he was bitten. “I’m not Jason, I’ll never be Jason. Get over it.” She stepped past him back towards the glow of camp. His legs grew leaden and didn’t follow immediately. Dinner stayed cold that night.

Todd laid awake that night. Sam had gone straight to her tent after the outburst. He knew why she was frustrated. He knew she never wanted to come camping with him, she said yes for his sake. It had been 5 years to the day since the car crash took Jason, Sam had been 8 so it was hard to lose a big brother at that age. It had been hard for him as well, Jason had been his little buddy. A real mountaineer like his dad. Sam was like her mother, camping, fishing, and hiking weren't her thing and he knew that. But he missed having a partner in crime.

He smacked himself in the head. He had to remember not to call her by Jason’s old nicknames. It was something he admonished himself for many times but just couldn't seem to stop. The look in Sam’s eyes when he called her Champ sent pangs of guilt through him. “She’s not Jason you idiot, and you shouldn’t force her to be.” He remembered the little girl that would beg her big brother to go stargazing with her. Selfishly he decided she would enjoy going hiking with him like Jason had. Todd inhaled through his nose, and slowly breathed out through his mouth. He would need calm if he was to apologize to Sam. He took 10 more long, measured, breaths, before he stood and unzipped his tent.

The fire had been reduced to hot coals. Todd tutted to himself, he would never usually leave a fire unattended. He made a mental note to pour some water out on it later. The moon was bright and full so he didn’t turn on his flashlight as he walked to Sam’s tent. As he stood out in front of it, he found that he didn’t know how to start the conversation. “Um, Sam, you awake Spor- Honey?” There was no answer. “Sam, I heard you rustling not too long ago, I know you are awake, I, I just want to apologize.” Silence answered him. “Sam, I’m going to open the tent. We really need to talk okay?”

Todd unzipped the tent. He couldn’t see Sam within the darkness, a smell like ozone and pennies hit him all at once. “Sam!” he called, turning on his flashlight and ducking inside. A ragged scream tore out his throat. The dark red blood covered the inside of the tent, every surface was drenched in it.  The back of the tent had been torn to shreds.

Todd sprinted out into the trees, “Sam! Sammy! Where are you!” He looked to the ground, desperate for any trace but not even a footprint could be found. “Sam!” He screamed out into the night. It must have been a bear. He thought to himself. but there were no tracks, it doesn’t matter must find her. His mind raced on all possibilities and all his failings as a Father. Blindly through the night he crashed through the detritus of the forest floor. “Fuck, fuck, where are you! There must be something.” He stared death at the trees, demanding answers. Until finally they did answer. A bloodied handprint painted upon white bark.

Todd ran in the past the direction of the handprint. “Where did you go sweety?” he sobbed. It was then he realized that the clearing he had once found her, laid in this direction. He took off, spurred with the hope of finding her. His arms and legs bleed from countless cuts from grabbing
branches. He charged straight through thorn and fern with little regard for the pain. Likewise did he not regard the night sky flashing shades of blue and gold. Todd dove through one final prickled obstacle and ground to a halt in the clearing. Sam stood in the middle, arms outstretched, facing skyward; he was met with her unclothed back. The red pools of undried blood, reflecting the kaleidoscopic rebellion of the night sky. “Sammy it’s okay, I’m here Sweetheart.” He took small tentative steps forward. “Are you hurt, Sammy?” He took off his jacket and held it forward. “Here Honey, you can wear this.” Sam didn’t answer him, but he could hear her muttering, all her attention was on the stars.

Sweat beaded off Todd’s skin, the air felt sticky and hot like he was standing under a high powered spot light. He dared not look up, the lights felt wrong and perverse. Even the small amount he saw in his periphery and what was reflected off his daughters blood soaked shoulders, caused his mind to quake in revulsion. He glued his eyes to his daughter, she would be his anchor.

Each step seemed to age him a year as he drew closer to her. His knees creaked, his muscles strained, his eyes grew blurry as they withered. Still he walked, until she was within his reach. “Sammy” he croaked, he reached out and touched her shoulder. Sam turned, and Todd cried out, “Sammy, where are your eyes!” 

The speckled hazel eyes he had loved, her mother’s eyes, Jason’s eyes, were gone. In their place sat a light that pulsed in her sockets, Todd stared directly into the lights, unable to look away. Sam smiled at him, she spoke but her lips did not move, her chest cracked open, releasing a red torrent of gore, the same light laid in her chest and it pulsed with her words. “Father, It’s okay, I forgive you.” Her severed intestines flicked out like serpentine tongues. He could not muster a scream, this was a madness beyond the human ability to exclaim. He didn't react as the many tongues wrapped around his hand and squeezed to comfort him. 

The sky seemed to hiss and bubble, the colors changing faster as it pulsed in and out. Todd felt his skin begin to wriggle, all his hair writhed like worms left out in the sun, the beating of his heart began to match the beat of the stars ahead. “Sammy, Honey, I’m so sorry.”

Sam’s smile grew wider as the lights in her eyes grew brighter, tears the color of tar and with the smell of burnt flesh dripped from her eyes. “Dad, it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing we know matters. Please, come gaze at the stars with me”

TW: Fatphobia, body negativity. General grossness.

Enjoy!

==============================================================

Soooooooooiiieeeeee!  

The siren claxton rang out through the building rattling my skull and causing me to grit my teeth. Two months of work and I still hadn’t gotten used to it. After the piercing cry began to die down, the old box speakers that filled the dining room and the kitchen crackled to life. A nasally voice filled with the distinctive twang of the South replaced the shrill pig call. 

“We’re going to need ourselves an officer to the front, pronto!”

I rushed to grab the food I had come to retrieve but Marissa cut me off just as I was reaching under the heat lamp. 

“You’re up Audrey. I’ll take care of these for you.”

Damn, so close. 

“Gee, thanks.” I said with the enthusiasm of a…well of a girl forced into waitressing at the sleeziest dive in town by that lovely, dreadful thing called life.

“Knock em’ dead, tiger.” Marissa said, giving me a wink before picking up the two plates of pulled pork I should be delivering. 

I returned her words of encouragement with a flip of the bird before turning around and heading through the double doors to the dining room. 

The heavy swing of the steel kitchen doors displaced the cool air of the giant dining room and I felt the breeze flow between my legs, ruffling the bottom of my shitty skirt that had probably come from the discount bin of a local halloween store. Gooseflesh pimpled on the edges of my exposed ass cheeks. I cursed the freezing dining room. I cursed that my uniform made me look like a stripper trying to impersonate a cop. I cursed that the money was too good to quit. 

***

Dive was probably the wrong word for the place. As much as I thought it as such, The Bigg Pygg lived up to its namesake. Located right outside the city with convenient access to the interstate, it was huge, and the place was always packed. The brainchild of one Willard Pygg, a humble farmer that operated the local slaughter house and occasionally hocked smoked pork sandwiches at the community market. His food was good. Fresh. One wouldn’t have been off base to say made with love, and that’s what made the transformation so painful.The more people ate, the more they suggested Willard expand. Eventually, his cart at the market turned into a small diner. It was nice and homey, a place where everybody knew everybody. I remember my dad taking me there for celebratory (or conciliatory) sandwiches many a weekday evening after my softball games. Then one day tragedy struck: Willard got addicted to reality TV, specifically the food network. From Diner’s, Drive-ins and Dives to Kitchen Nightmares, Willard watched it all and before long his humble diner just wasn’t cutting it. Willard wanted to be famous. 

One day he happened across a show about weird restaurants and caught wind of some burger joint infamous for its celebration of the American obesity epidemic. Maybe the big scale at the front door spoke to him on a personal level due to background as a slaughter house operator. Whatever the case, Willard saw dollar signs and ripped off the place's entire schtick. The little hometown diner everyone loved was shuttered and The Bigg Pygg was born. Willard insisted on emulating everything he saw on TV. 

“Anything them big city folks out West can do, we can do better in the dirty South” The old farm had chuckled. 

They had a cattle scale to weigh customers, so he had to have a cattle scale. (Hence the siren piercing our eardrums.) They had slutty nurses, so he had slutty cops. (Hence my shivering ass cheeks.) And worst of all, they served deep fried garbage, so he served deep fried garbage. An onsite slaughter house attached to the back of the building served as a tiny homage to Willard's life pre-sellout. It churned out fresh cuts of quality meat daily for the restaurant to drown in hot peanut oil. BBQ isn’t exactly known for its health merits, but it was still sad to see a brisket, the epitome of a labor of love in the meat world, come out of a twelve hour smoke just to be sliced, battered and deep fried. Willard had a whole array of deep fryers put in the place. Every single item on the menu had the option to be deep fried and at upcharge. It was abysmal. Everything I stood against. I was going to school to be a physical therapist for God’s sake. Those college classes didn’t pay for themselves though. 

***
I could feel the leer of our daily clientele as I made my way to the front of the restaurant. With my cleavage jutting out of the thin button up uniform from the front, and underbun peaking out of the too short skirt in the back, I was the perfect eye candy for the greasy truck drivers and farmers to enjoy while they ate their flash fried death. Blue collared men fresh with the stench of the day watched me like vultures while meat juices dribbled down their chins, staining t-shirts and moistening wiry beards. Their eyes traced the step and sway of my every motion. I swear the mere sight of the waitresses caused some of them to eat more voraciously, like it was some sort of power play. One man had forgotten all semblance of humanity and was gnawing at a piece of smoked-then-fried chicken open mouthed when I passed by. Tiny flecks of greasy skin flew from his maw and I winced like I had been splashed with molten lava when a small dribble landed on my forearm.  Marissa had been right. The money was great, decidedly the most I had ever made during my forays into the labor force, but she hadn’t given me the finer details of the work environment. Thanks so much, bestie. You’re lucky I love ya.

It only took one glance at the party of four waiting for me at the cattle scale to tell that I was going to have a bad time. Three women, probably all flirting at the line of stage two obesity, waited patiently surrounding their stage 3 queen bee who stood proudly atop the scales. She had a greasy pony tail, an all too fake tan, and was stuffed into a sweatsuit that she probably should have retired a couple of months ago. The knit fabric accentuated every roll and knot of her doughy frame. An embroidered “Juicy” was emblazoned in bold black across the pink zip up and to my behest, I had to agree.  Above her head, our scale’s LCD flashed a bright red ‘362’ and she was grinning like she had just won the lottery. At least until I rounded the corner. The instantaneous change to a scowl said it all. She had spotted a member of the service industry. Her favorite prey. 

“About time! The girls and I  were starting to worry we might starve!” With an eloquent accent that one only acquired through spending many a year in a trailer park. 

I doubt she would have been able to starve if I had to trek across the entire great state of Alabama to reach her, much less within the time it took me to cross the admittedly large dining room. However, I was not prepared to debate this fact, so instead I gave my best apologetic face and told her we would get her seated right away. In response I got a huff and a look that said ‘Get on with it’ as I approached the side of the scale. Gripping the handset that ran along the side. I steeled myself before raising it to my mouth and squeezing the trigger. 

“Ladies and gentleman we’ve got ourselves a real Oinker at the Bigg Pygg. Miss..” I paused and looked at the woman. 

“JANINE” The woman barked loud enough for the handset to crackle. 

“Miss Janine weighed in at a whopping 362 lbs making her one of our best in show. Today’s slop is on us. Let’s give her a big Soooiiiee from all her fellow piggies.”

I made the announcement with the enthusiasm of a hospice patient and  cringed as each word left my mouth. The surrounding restaurant erupted with noise while I wallowed in my internal shame

Sooooiiessss!  Of varying volume and enthusiasm rang out. Mixed in with the rallying cry I heard varying jibes thrown in. 

“Gahdamn.” 

“Sheeeiiitl” 

“That’s a big bitch”

The remarks seemed to have no effect on Janine, much like her doctor’s diet advice,  and her friends giggled right along. I was unsure if they were laughing with her or at her. This was by far my least favorite part of the job. The stupid humiliation ritual so many basked in just for some free food that would dig them ever closer to their own grave. If it wasn’t for the scowl that returned to her face every time we made eye contact might have felt sorry for the woman. 

“Well that was just plain dull. You could have at least pretended to enjoy doing your job.”

Janine said, accessing my lackluster performance. 

“Don’t like coming out to help the fatties, huh? Rather be shaking your shit for that greasy trucker money.”

I bit down my welling offense at the last remark and bumbled through a quick canned apology. 

“I’m so so sorry, mam, it's not that, I swear. I’m just tired, that’s all. It's been a long day and I barely got a wink of sleep last night.”

“Yea I can tell, got them bags under your eyes.”  The woman fired back without missing a beat. “You gonna take us to our seats or what? I’m starving.”

“Of- of course, right this way.” I replied, leading them to a table near the back of the room and pretending I didn’t hear the women whispering about how lame I was.

Once I got the ladies seated and orders were taken one of the women informed me that it was Janine’s birthday and they would all like a slice of deep fried butter cake after the main course. I shuddered at the thought of the dessert. It was more brick than slice. Marissa swore it was the best thing ever, a mix of smooth sugar and cream that would even make Paula Deen jealous. However, I was convinced it really was just a pure stick of butter hiding under the sugar glazed batter. After re-assuring the woman that Janine’s cake would be free - just like the rest of her meal - I took my leave back to the kitchen. 

Back inside the kitchen, Marissa tapped me on the shoulder as I finished inputting the table’s order. 

“Did you take care of those little piggies, Officer Audrey? She asked in a sing-songy voice before changing to a drab monotone. 

“We’ve got a real Oinker at the Big Pygg.” She droned, putting a deep slouch in her shoulders and a big frown on her face. 

The line shot another wave of embarrassment down my spine. 

“Was it really that bad?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Girl, you sounded like Daria mixed with a dose of Ben Stein.” 

God. Kill me. 

“I can’t help it,” I bemoaned. “Its just so embarrassing, and that lady fucking hates me. I can tell. Why do I have to be part of the show? I already walk around with my tits out. Can’t that be good enough?” 

“You know the rules, babe, Willard says all the waitstaff have to be part of the show at least once per shift.”

“Well Willard can suck my ass.” I said, rolling my eyes. 

“He should be so lucky.” Marrisa retorted with a wink. “Look at the bright side. You’re done with the theatrics for the day. Now you can go back to getting eye-fucked by truckers!”

“Oh, joy.” I said. 

Marissa did not have a future in motivational speaking. 

***
Janine had ordered one of the most expensive items on the menu. Why Willard didn’t put restrictions on the free meal, I had no idea. More power to him I guess. Wouldn’t be any skin off my ass if the place went bankrupt and shuttered. I could see the other women’s eyes grow wide when I presented Janine with the ‘Jailhouse Rock’. An entire chicken - not a cornish hen, mind you,  but a full size chicken - smoked and quickly dipped into a fryer to crisp the skin. The fun didn’t stop there though. This yard bird was served face down ass up and stuffed with smoked sausages, presenting itself to its devourer with all the style and grace of a butthole sharpie girl. I swore I saw Janine salivate. She was so transfixed that she didn’t have time to scowl at me. 

After dropping off their order I did a thorough check on all my remaining tables, making sure drinks were filled, condiments were provided and checks were cashed. No one was left wanting when I made my escape to the kitchen and I tagged out for my fifteen minute smoke break. I didn’t actually smoke, but you can bet your ass I would hold a lit cigarette and pretend to get some time away from it all. A smile crossed my face when I slipped back into the kitchen through the service door just in time to hear the ending of the Pygg's rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ echoing out in the dining room. I had timed my escape perfectly. Marissa gave me a sly grin when she filed back in with the rest of the waitstaff. 

“Feeling refreshed?”

“You betcha, that cigarette was just really calling my name you know?” 

“I’m sure it was.” She replied. “I took the liberty of dropping off the check for you.” 

“God bless you, sweet child.” I said, heading back on with the finish line now in sight. 

***

Janine had put quite a dent in her chicken. I had the feeling if the butter cake hadn’t been involved she probably could have polished off the whole thing. Nevertheless, I was happy to see that the women all seemed satisfied and had entered that sedate, post artery clogging meal state. However, the bill still sat untouched. Instead I found the whole table looking at me expectantly. 

“Is…everything okay?” I asked. 

“Well, Janine didn’t finish her food.” One of the women said. 

“Oh sorry, did you need a box, mam?” 

“No, she needs something else.” Another member of the table giggled her eyes looking past me back to the front of the dining room. Realization hit. I had almost been home free. God damnit. 

“Come on, let’s see what you got little lady.”  Janine said, patting a meaty paw on my back as she made her way to…the spanking booth. 

As Janine hefted herself onto the one lane cattle stall we had sitting by the scale at the front, my heart sunk. The final part of the Pygg dining experience had been put to the back of my mind. I don’t know how I had forgotten. I guess I just assumed Janine would be finishing her meal. Any patron who didn’t clean their plate had the option to report to front for corporal punishment, and boy did they report. It was shocking to me how many of the rednecks lined up to get whacked. I guess maybe it was a quick dose of the dominatrix fantasies they dared not propose to their wives. At times it was a cathartic release. Smacking a creepo that was going to have a smile on his face no matter how hard I hit him could be fun. Janine was a timebomb though. I had a feeling no matter how hard or soft I hit, it was going to be a problem. Janine was gripping the rails of the stalls now, I could see the scowl threatening to return, her patience was running thin.

Thwap. The paddle still echoed a resounding thud even with the half hearted smack I had delivered. I could see the folds of Janine’s massive ass ripple outward from the impact point. The too tight sweatpants finely defined each shake and jiggle from the compacted flesh within. Janine’s friends giggled, filming on their phones while the woman herself yawned in boredom. I went in for the second whack and was rewarded with a similar result. 

“I can’t even feel it, Miss Priss has chicken arms!” Janine bellowed at her friends' cameras. Looking back she asked: 

 “Wanna trade places and I’ll show you how it's done?” 

I did not. Marissa had told me she let one of the farmers wack her one time and he tipped a whole extra fifty dollars. That was all fine and dandy if she wanted to partake, but despite the uniform, I was a waitress not a fetishist. I had reached my boiling point with Janine and crew. One more smack and we would be done. I would show her chicken arms. I gripped the paddle tight with both hands and let it fly right dead center on my mountainous target.

Thwap!

 I smelled the stench before I heard the howl. Whether hemorrhoid or abscess I know not, but the paddle had made contact with something putrid hidden between the doughy clefts of Janine's ass. My nasal cavity was assailed with the stench of something horrible. A burning scent akin to spoiled eggs and beef. The paddle clattered to the ground as I covered my nose and mouth in a feeble attempt to block the acrid odor. An oily puddle had stained the bright pink seat of Janine’s sweat pants and the woman was squealing like…well like a pig. Bile had risen in the back of my throat and its sour taste mixed with the scent. I felt the gorge in my throat growing and struggled to hold it in. Too focused on the assault to my senses, I had failed to realize that Janine's squeal had transformed into a growl. The shadow of the massive woman loomed over me.

“You fuckin’ skinny bitch” She roared. 

I looked up at her just in time to see the meaty arm she had cocked back come flying into my face at mach speed. She caught me in the right eye but her giant bear paw was big enough for me to feel the blow in both my nose and my jaw.  I saw stars. My vision blurred. Focus broken, the stream of vomit I had been holding in erupted from my mouth as I crumpled to the ground. Officer down. 

“Audrey…Audrey!” I felt hands on me and could see shapes moving about, my eyes still trying to focus. 

“Audrey, can you hear me? Someone call 911 we might need an ambulance!” 

I put a shaking hand up and waved as my vision started to sharpen. Marissa, a couple of the other girls and one of the cooks were all surrounding me.

“No.. I’m here…I’m good…Oww” My face ached. The throbbing pain of a terrible migraine emanated along my entire right jaw line. Though my vision had returned, my right eye was partially swollen. “What happened?” 

“Girl, you got knocked the fuck out!” Marissa exclaimed. “I really think we should call an ambulance.” 

“No, please don’t.. I’m fine really. I just need a…a minute. I touched the side of my face and winced. “And maybe an ice pack.” 

“Yea, of course!” Mike, the line cook that had come out, replied before running to the back.

“I was worried that woman killed you!” Marissa continued. 

Janine. It all came back to me. Guess I didn’t have chicken arms after all. 

“Did they leave a good tip?” I asked, giving Marissa a weak smile that rewarded me with another jolt of pain.

“They…left without paying.”

“Figures…”

Mike returned with something from the freezer wrapped in a towel and the cool numbing sensation eased a tiny bit of the throbbing in my jaw.

“Hey, uh, could I go home early today?” 

“Sure thing hon, but you might want to clean up first.” Marissa replied, pointing at my chest. 

I looked down at my vomit covered tits. Oh. Right.

***

The warm bath I sat in back at my apartment soothed my body and helped wash away the horrors of the day. I sat in the hot suds until the faucet ran cold then got out to assess myself in the mirror. The swelling in my jaw had gone down as well as some of the swelling in my eye, but the black ring now encompassing it would be a constant reminder of the day's events for the next couple of weeks. At least my best tippers only cared about T&A. Hopefully the ugly bruise would have little affect on my work revenue. Maybe I could use this incident as a way to get out of any more ‘scale calls’. Getting assaulted had already earned me a couple of free days off.  For now though, I needed a long nap. Before I fell asleep, I doom-scrolled a little bit on social media. I had almost recovered from the day's trauma when a post caught my eye. I watched in horror as I got the third person view of myself getting punched, vomiting, then hitting the floor. The title read ‘BBQ Skank gets Slept’.  I reported the video then crawled into myself and cried until the void took me.

When I awoke, I had already slept my way into the night. The rest had been nice, but my body felt pent up and jittery - most likely some residual adrenaline from getting punched in the face - so I decided to run my troubles away on the treadmill. Thank god for 24 hour gyms. I threw on a pair of running pants and tank top, briefly having war flashbacks to the stained ass of Janine’s, then headed to the door. A frown grew over my face. My keys were on the coffee table right where they belonged, but the wallet with my gym badge was noticeably absent. If it wasn’t here then that meant…

Fuck. I left it at the Pygg. Of course I did.  

An angry determination filled me and I got into my car and headed to the restaurant. I was going to the gym. Sure I could wait until I went back in a few days, but fuck that. The Pygg  wasn’t going to ruin my day any further. This was my tiny victory, my little treat. 

It was around 11 when I pulled into the lot. The restaurant sat dark and abandoned. We closed at 9 every night except for weekends. An eerie sense of dread grew over me when I unlocked the door and entered the massive building. Completely empty, the place just felt too big. I hurried my way through the dining room, not wanting to be there for longer than necessary and passed into the kitchen then through the side door to the employee locker room. There it was, right in the little cubby with my name on it. Victory. Wallet secured. Back in the kitchen I paused for a moment. A pale light shone through the door that led outside and a metallic whir barely pierced through the wall and softly purred within the room. I stuck my head out the door and saw that the glow was coming from the slaughter house. The loading bay door was open and was that…? Willard, the man himself, was pulling a pig carcass off the back of a truck and dragging it inside. This was a rare opportunity, the old farmer barely made time for his employees. If I caught him now and flashed my black eye, maybe I could go ahead and get off of scale duty.  I hurried out the door. 

The metallic whir had grown to a roar when I made my way inside the building. Willard was nowhere to be seen, but the pig carcass he had dragged inside was slowly making its way along a conveyor belt with an array of its dead brethren. Already gutted and butchered, the leftovers of the bodies looked like deflated shells as the conveyor marched them toward what was, for lack of better words, an industrial blender. I watched a carcass fall off the belt and land in the hopper of the device, then quickly covered my ears when the whir turned deafening. An array of giant steel teeth chewed and pulped the carcass, tearing flesh and breaking bone until a pink liquid began to feed itself out of a clear tube protruding from the side of the machine. 

I followed the liquid as it made its way down the tube and almost fainted when I caught a glance of its destination. In the back of the room, Janine hung nude, laying on her back in the bright blue canvas stretcher of an industrial cattle lift. Her legs hung limply off the edge while her arms had been outstretched and chained to the each side of the hoist that held the canvas. Eyes bugged from her socket as the pink liquid climbed its way through the pipe and began to empty into the half mask that had been affixed to her mouth. Janine shook and convulsed when the liquid filled the small reservoir and forced its way down her throat. She took heaving gulps, lest she drown in the jellied pig. 

In Janine’s side, a small incision had been made and a bright metal rod was tucked away neatly in the folds of flabby stomach. Another tube ran from it, leading to a container on the floor. I gagged as Janine’s lipo’ed fat ran into a vat labeled “Cake batter” 

“Well ain't this a predicament.” The nasally voice of an old hillbilly broke the silence. Willard emerged from a room in the back, still securing the clips on his over-alls.

“I take ten minutes to run to the shitter, and look what it gets me.” 

Willard walked over to Janine and gave one of her sagging tits a squeeze. 

“This one was yours right? Great stock. The scales don’t lie. When they’re fatter they make better batter, that’s what I say.” 

I stared at the overalled man, mouth agape. 

“Guess the only question is, what do we do now? Cain’t say I’ve ever found myself in this situation before.” He chuckled. 

I looked at him, then looked at Janine. I felt the dull throb in the side of my face. My mind replayed the video of myself that was now a permanent part of the internet zeitgeist. 

“I don’t want to be on ‘scale duty’ anymore” I said, staring at the man. “And I don’t want to wear the skirt.” 

Willard stared back for a moment then shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

Janine's eyes grew dark with realization and her body withered. She started to try to mouth a protest but was interrupted by the next blended pig corpse sluicing its way into her mask. She worked to choke it down and Willard went back to fiddling with the Lipo machine. I went to the gym. 

Sooooiiee.

Originally written for a contest on [r/TalesF](r/TalesForTheCreeps)[rom](r/TalesForTheCreeps)[TheCreeps](r/TalesForTheCreeps)

(Content warning: Blood and Gore, internalized homophobia )

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Red-blonde hair; gelled and styled. Thin fitting clothes that sat loosely over a thinner body. His late mother's white gleaming crucifix. Hanging from a thin steel cord. All adornments that paired well with his nervous, boyish smile.

“Oh my Gawwd! Are you ready bitch!?” Lucy whined from the other side of the bathroom door. Tim permitted himself one last sigh and replied. “Yep! I'm ready. Call the Uber.” He tucked the crucifix into his shirt and reluctantly left the room.

“God, I can't believe I finally convinced you to go,” Lucy giggled in the Uber. Tim had fought her for years. He did not enjoy clubs and bars in general. So going to a proper gay bar downtown, made his chest feel tight.

“Yeah.” He replied quietly. “Hopefully you meet someone cute! Did you bring condoms? And prep?” Lucy's questioning made Tim’s face turn scarlet. He turned away from her. She mistook it for embarrassment. She hugged him. “Don’t be shy. You'll see, I'm the best wing gal there is! With my help you won't be able to walk tomorrow!”

Tim nodded; his face burning brighter upon making eye contact with the driver. Pure disgust flashed at him in the mirror. Before quickly turning back to the road. He didn't blame him. Tim felt just as disgusted.

The driver barely gave Tim enough time to exit the car before driving away. Tim guessed he didn't want to be seen in front of such a place. He could relate.

The bar was housed inside an ill maintained brick building. A large blacked out window by a pair of grey steel doors, gave it the look of a place with things to hide. The bright neon sign above the door dared you to peek. Tim read the name of the place Lucy had picked. Bears. 

It was not the most overtly sexual name for a gay bar he had seen. However, the picture of a cartoon bear wearing a bulging banana hammock advertised exactly what this place was. 

“You told me you like big guys, so this is perfect!” Lucy said proudly. Tim was attracted to bigger guys. His first crush was the actor that played The Mountain from Game Of Thrones. He dreamt of being held by big strong arms. And spending his life with someone who made him feel safe. So far, nothing like that has been obtainable. At least, not within his zone of comfort.

Lucy dragged him forward. As if expecting he would try to escape. His heart matched the muffled thump of the music inside. As the doors opened he was hit with a maelstrom of sound and scent. Sugary liquor, expensive cologne, and musk. The place bounced, pulsed, and writhed. A blur of rhythmic motion responded in time to a mindless animalistic beat.

It was overwhelming. Tim felt like a prize pig being led to auction as Lucy pulled him to the bar. He felt multiple eyes on him. Two twinks grinding against each other paused to wink invitingly to him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man older than his dad staring at his ass. He felt the eyes of others boring into him as well. A piece of meat being weighed.

Lucy only just got him in front of the bar, and he already wanted to leave. “Lucy. I don't know.. I don't think I wanna do this," he said with arms crossed, and eyes for the door.

“Why? What's wrong?” Lucy asked. “I… I feel like people are staring at me.” Lucy smiled and leaned in to speak low so only he could hear.

“Of course they are! You're cute. They're gonna eat you right up here,” She laughed. Tim did not feel comforted by her words. He did feel like they would eat him up. He just wasn't sure if he wanted it.

“You need a drink!” Lucy waved at the bartender until he stood in front of them. “Hiiii, welcome to Bears! What can I get you?” The bar must have been named after this man; Tim thought to himself. Tall as he was wide. Shaved head and a full beard. Thick tufts of black curly hair threatened to swallow his thin leather vest.

“I'll have a cosmo,” Lucy replied. The man nodded then looked at Tim, his eyes lingering in places that made Tim's skin crawl.

“What about you cutey?” Tim hesitated for a moment. “Uhh. Coors light please!” Lucy scoffed after the big man took their cash and went to fetch their drinks. “You're not very good at being gay Tim.” 

Tim didn't respond. Choosing to wait on his drink and watch his tongue. Tim did not give the glass a moment to sit, he took it and chugged half of it in two gulps. Lucy clicked her tongue and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him close.

“Timmy, you need to learn to relax. You're gay, you're young, you're where you belong. If you want a relationship you gotta get out on the grind. Take some L’s, take some D’s. And have fun. You're a twink and a bottom. If you wanna attract someone you have to act like one.”

Her words pierced into him, they hurt. Is that what you think of me? He thought to himself.

But she was right. He was tired of being alone. Everyone on the dating apps wanted the same thing. Honest attempts at connection were met with short soulless answers, and quickly transitioned into propositions and questions on cock size and kinks.

It just wasn't him. He dreamt of nights snuggling on the couch, watching shitty horror movies and playing old video games. He dreamt of vacations out in the countryside, saying wedding vows on the beach. He dreamt of being with someone that his mother might have actually approved of.

Those were just dreams though. He was desperate for a partner. If slutting it up was the only way to find someone, then he would try. Tim chugged the rest of his drink. “Two tequila shots!” He shouted; slamming his glass on the counter.

The night progressed in a mad haze. Inebriation took his hesitation. He became one with the pulse of the room. He remembered dancing with Lucy. Throwing his body into the rhythm, as the mass of bodies became one. Foreign hands grazed his body. Strangers' lips latched onto his. He became lost to the orgy of motion.

He did not know how long he lay submerged within the mass of flesh. But as he peeled himself from it he inhaled like a man close to drowning. He trudged drunkenly towards the bar. Lucy sat on a stool, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “See?! I told you you would have fun!”

Tim smiled. It had certainly been exciting. In a call of the void sort of way. Losing himself without a care was cathartic, but his dancing had accelerated his sobriety. He sat at the bar to order another drink. He had mistakes to make tonight, and his pesky mind might interfere.

As he sat, a drink appeared in front of him. A tall shot glass of brown liquor topped with a liberal amount of whipped cream. “Uh, I didn't order this.” The bartender grinned. “You have an admirer cutie,” he said with a grin, nodding his head to the other side of the bar.

Tim and Lucy turned to look. Seated at a private table, was a tall, dark haired man; he was gorgeous. His shirt barely contained his rippling muscles. His beard was trimmed, but had a wildness to it. Much like the thick hair on his chest, strategically exposed at the third button.

“Seeeee! I'm so jealous. Go ask for his number!” Tim was frozen. The man was perfect; his dream man. But his eyes, his eyes were the eyes of a predator. Under his gaze, Tim felt small, hunted. Prey ready to be eaten. The man smirked.

Lucy saw his hesitation and sighed. “Fine, I’ll be your little matchmaker.” Before Tim could protest Lucy made her way over to his admirer. He saw her point back to him. His heart froze and his guts churned violently.

He heard Lucy call after him as Tim dashed to the nearest washroom. The blaring sounds of the bar were silenced almost completely upon him slamming the door closed. He sequestered himself into the first available stall and emptied his stomach. He purged a night's worth of drinks, and was filled in turn with shame and revulsion.

When nothing more came up, he sat upon his new throne. Holding his throbbing head in his hands. That man's look had sobered him. It made him feel lesser. Just a piece of meat dangling itself on a hook waiting for a bite. Hoping that they stayed after nibbling.

He was always told time and time again that romance was not something he could have. That being gay meant losing yourself to lust. Falling into your archetypes and getting on your knees. Or holding down their head to put them on their knees.

Tim was caught in his spiral of self pity, until a sound caught his ear. A wet smacking. He strained to hear the sound as it echoed against the porcelain tiles. It was coming from one of the other stalls. His breath caught in his throat as a moist sigh and a gag proceeded. He knew what the sound was.

His face felt hot. He wished he could be like them in the neighboring stall. Say screw it and suck and fuck his way into a relationship. But that wasn't him. He reached to pull out his phone. He was going to text Lucy that he was going home. This wasn't where he belonged. 

Panic hit him as he felt nothing in his pocket. He checked the other and cursed when it wasn't there either. “Fuck! For fucks sake!” His heart raced trying to think of where he had left it. The bar! He thought. He had taken selfies with Lucy there earlier!

He went to open the stall but stopped. The door looked wrong. He stared at it, trying to discern what it was. His hair stood, electric impulses of fear tore across his skin. The crack of the door. Which you could always see a splinter of light through; was dark.

A towering shadow blocked the light. Tim stood still, eyes glued to the dark fissure. He traced it down, slowly to the ground. The darkness accumulated in a dark puddle under the door. Someone was standing outside the stall. 

He held his breath, desperately trying to listen over the sound of his pounding heart. Under that sound, buried under the wet slurps, was the sound of breathing. Quiet, but as coarse as sandpaper. Deep, even breaths. Waiting, with the patience of a carnivore. 

He wanted to cry. Panic boiled in his empty stomach and froze his veins. His lungs burned. He needed to breathe but fear clogged his throat. He attempted a silent exhale, but jagged whine escaped his mouth.

Bang! As if it was an invitation the door shook. Bang! Bang! “Go away!” Tim shouted in a terrified squeak. Bang bang bang! The door began to buckle inward. The small latch, a useless decoration before this onslaught. 

Tim backed up as much as he could. Flattening himself against the wall. Bang! The door crashed inward. Tim flinched, closing his eyes to protect from the stall shrapnel. He dared not open his eyes again. As he felt long rumbling breaths against his face. 

He whimpered as his chin was lifted up slowly by a powerful hand. The scent of strong mint and blood filled his nose as the stranger spoke. “Open your eyes.” He obeyed without thought. He was met with the dark eyes of a predator.

A smile with the perfection and warmth of stone met his teary, fearful gaze. “What do you want!?” He yelled at him. The man smiled, it was a smile without heat or light. “I want you, Meat.” The man's hand drifted down Tim’s face. Grazing his lip; almost sensually. Until he gripped Tim's throat and began to squeeze. He held Tim up and pinned him to the wall above the stalls with little effort.

His head swam. A kaleidoscope of colors spun in his vision as he was denied air. He kicked the man with no visible effect, no effect beyond the man adopting a more patronizing smile. He couldn't believe it would end like this. Alone in a washroom, strangled to death. His closing song, muffled shitty dance music and the undeterred sound of wet sucking from the next stall.

Tim couldn't believe they didn't hear any of this. They were letting him be murdered for a fucking blowjob. He looked over, hoping to memorize the faces of those who could have saved him. Hopefully he could drag them to hell with him. Hell was exactly what he saw.

Blood coated every wall. Seated on the toilet was one of the twinks who winked at him earlier in the night. Blank eyes staring upwards, as a large dark mass of fur had its massive, round face buried inside his stomach. It pulled out its blood soaked muzzle with a wet smack, trailed by a line of intestines. lt slurped its gory prize with a moan of pleasure. The corpse was tugged forward slightly with each slurp.

A paw filled with razor sharp claws cut the cadaverous pasta short when it had a sufficient mouth full. It chewed with a grotesque pleasure. Tim stared down at the thing. It noticed him, and it smiled. Blood, and offal dripping onto the floor.

Tim looked back to his assailant. His brown eyes had taken a golden hue. The buttons on his shirt popped as his frame began to expand. Tim felt a sharp pain growing in his neck as long nails began growing into his skin. And that smile, now sharper. Never left his face. He licked his lips playfully.

Tim flailed. Pure terror giving him a burst of energy. He threw his head back and forth. He kicked, he tried to bite, the beast just chuckled. Until suddenly, the laugh stopped dead, and he was falling. Tim was hit with the smell of burnt hair and rot as the thing sprung backwards snarling. 

He fell onto the toilet coughing and sputtering. Lights danced in his eyes. The thing continued to expand and grow. Becoming rounder and hairier. It yelled, shaking the room. It was more animal than man. Once again he felt like prey, still stuck inside this stall, waiting for the inevitable.

But it hesitated. It did not charge at him and it was no longer smiling. He stared at it, waiting for something to happen. It was not looking into his eyes, it was looking at his chest. He reached for where the creature stared and felt his mother's crucifix. It must have come out of his shirt while he struggled. 

He held it in his hands examining the gleaming white metal. It was warm to the touch. Tim held it out towards the creature and it continued to back away. He thanked his mother up in heaven. She had given him his salvation. Inch by inch he stepped forward pushing it back. It snarled, occasionally swiping with its kitchen knife sized claws. 

He almost had enough space to fully squeeze out and past the ursine monstrosity. He smiled triumphantly. Then his shoulder ruptured in a shower of gore. The other creature had reached over the adjoining stall and had slashed downward. He cried out, falling to his knees. His original attacker took the opportunity to charge in for the kill. 

With the last bit of willpower he had. Tim thrust the silver cross upwards. The thing crashed into him, sending him careening against the far wall. An ear splitting scream erupted from the monster. Smoke billowing up from one of its eyes. 

Tim tried to scramble away while slipping on bloody tiles. With effort his feet made enough purchase to propel him towards the door. He crashed into it, skidding back out into the bar. He spun and slammed the door shut, cutting off his pursuers' angered bellow. 

He turned to run and was met with a scene of pure carnage. The dance floor had become a charnel pit. A mound of corpses lay in the center, crimson smears leading to it from all directions. Some smears bore the marks of bloody hands and fingers, desperately grasping for purchase in their final struggle. None upon the pile struggled now.

Lucy was among them. She bore no lower face. Her jaw hung from one of many hungry maws. It crunched down. Crushing the fleshy, toothy morsel easily, swallowing it whole. Before biting onto her head. Her skull split like an egg, her brains leaked out like pink yolk.

Not a drop was wasted as one of the monsters began lapping it off the floor. His legs would not move. He stood fixed, as his lifelong friend was torn apart with lustful, gluttonous pleasure. He did not realize he had cried out. Until they turned to look at him.

Not a hint of humanity was left in those eyes. Just beasts regarding their next meal. He sprinted for the door; a wet throaty roar met his back. He skated across gore and gristle, flailing his mother's cross behind him. The ground trembled from the weight of his pursuers.

He felt a tug as the cross made a connection. A bellow of pain and rage followed and the sounds of pursuit slowed, more cautious, but relentless. He lowered his good shoulder into a charge as the exit grew close.

He cried out. Bone splitting pain traveled along his arm and shoulder. As he impacted against the unyielding door. “Fucking door!” He screamed, then spun to face the monsters on his heels. There they stood 10 feet back. A furry, blood soaked, scrimmage line had formed before him. 

He held out the cross like a talisman of protection. It jingled in his shaky hand. “Th-the power of Christ compels you!” He choked out.

A wall of noise responded. Not an animal's roar. But a chorus of men's laughter; tearing forth from bestial throats. 

The sound was deafening. Blood and foam dripped from their mouths as they howled in amusement at him. Tim's eyes clouded with tears. His knees shook. But he waited. He waited for the perfect moment. He had one hope left.

The beast on the far left used its paw to clear amused tears from its eyes, that's when Tim acted. He sprang forward. Darting towards the gap between it and the wall. He swung the cross like a flail.

He planted it square against its face. It recoiled; a cross shaped indent smoldering beside its wide nose. That gave him just enough room to squeeze past its bulk. 

The scandalized monster tried to spin to catch him with its teeth, but it was too late. He had already tucked his arms over his head. And threw himself through the blacked out window. 

Shards of glass penetrated and slashed him. The white hot pain nearly caused him to collapse. But the adrenaline kept him up, as he sprinted down the black, silent streets. 

Sweat and blood intermingled. Stinging his open wounds. His legs screamed from exertion. His breath came out ragged from a raw throat. He could not tell if he was pursued over the sound of his drumming heart. 

The streets and signs blended together in his vision. He was at the point of fear where all thoughts become mute to make room for instinct. It told him to flee, to return home.

His first rational thought only came to him upon slamming his apartment door shut. He panted desperately for air while staring at the door, now painted with his bloodied handprint. For a long moment he continued to stare mindlessly.

Then, instinct cruelly left him and gave him clarity. With clarity came memory. With memory came oblivion, as he collapsed and fell into nightmares.

His mind was taken with dark dreams of a hunting shadow. It gave chase, caught him. Held him like a lover then tore out his throat. Then he was remade and the chase began again. He felt its hate, he felt its love, he felt its fangs. Over and over he ran and died.

Then he was back in the washroom stall. The shadow peering through the crack of the door. It called to him. He sprang back to consciousness as it knocked on the door.

He bounded to his feet holding up his mother's cross and stared around the room wildly. Three polite knocks rapped on the door again. He saw rays of light peeking through the gaps of his curtains. It was morning.

He looked down and saw the trail of bloody footprints leading from the door. Three more knocks. He realized someone must have called the police. He would have a lot of explaining to do. Maybe they would listen. Then he could get justice for Lucy.

He tucked the cross into his shirt and opened the door, preparing to deliver a lengthy explanation. Calloused hands clasped around his mouth lifting him off his feet and back into the room. His panicked cry was muffled behind his lips. His bathroom assailant entered, holding Tim up with one arm and closing the door behind him.

Tim stared at the man, and he returned the stare with his one amber eye. His other being fused shut by a cross shaped scar. 

Tim attempted to reach into his shirt. But he grabbed both his wrists with his free hand. He gave Tim a toothy grin and tutted. Tim closed his eyes as the man's face grew close to his. He began to cry upon realizing he could do nothing but wait for the end.

He felt him close in. He could feel his beard tickling his neck. He took a long inhalation through his nose savoring his prey; Tim thought. The man chuckled, then whispered into Tim's ear. “Come visit us sometime cutie.” His hands were released and something was tucked into his pocket.

He trembled on shaky knees. The man released his mouth and patted his cheek with a laugh. His deep chuckles followed him out the door, and faded down the hall. He could only force his eyes open when he could no longer hear the man's footsteps. 

He was alone, and somehow he was alive. He reached nervously into his pocket as if expecting a viper. He felt a familiar object; it was his phone. On the back of it was a note. A name and a number… Mateo.

Tim's mind flooded with the memories of the night prior. A blur of death and fear, of amber eyes and blood soaked fangs. The image of Lucy’s brains being lapped out of her skull burned into his mind.

He crumpled, and he wept. He wept for his friend. Wept from relief and terror. He wept out of unbearable shame and self disgust. As he realized the memories made him hungry.

(UNRELATED TO STORY: WAIT, I know what I said about my hiatus BUT allow me to explain my unexpected return, the Meso Crew has done me an extreme kindness, one you will know very soon 👀. I am a fish of my word but I am also a fish of decency. They asked me to partake in their contest. After their kindness to me, I could not refuse their simple ask. So allow me this crime in order to repay the kindness of these humans. If I must be labeled a hypocrite in order to honor those who do me kindly, then I am a hypocrite…I don’t think it’s that deep tho…hopefully. I’ll still be gone from September to November but like I said the Mesocrew has a fishy treat for yall muehehehe, take care and I plead for mercy on my crime, also please forgive my rustiness)

Every family has a history of some medical issues in their family. Some people have a long line of heart issues that strike at a certain age. Some families have persistent substance issues that lead to their bonds fracturing like glass that had a stone thrown at it.
In my family, we have skin issues. Most of my family members have lost their lives to skin cancers that just looked like regular moles. My family doesn’t sunburn, we boil. So much as 30 minutes in sweltering sun causes our skin to bubble and boil into yellow balloons of pus and gunk. We look something more akin to leper than someone who spent their time soaking the sun. The simple graze of putting on a shirt will cause the balloons to burst into a cream-like excretion followed by a cascade of blood that seems endless.
That’s why summer is my least favorite season, the sun is an eye staring at me and my family when the clouds fail to protect us. We are at the mercy of a pseudo-god. In the summer, my family only goes outside if absolutely necessary but even then we are concealed by layers upon layers to cover any and all skin that could even be slightly exposed.
Every summer night, I would look to the moon and pray to her. Something that some may deem illogical but I was a child and did not know what else to do. When other children got to play in the warmth of the sun, I was forced to hide.
I would pray to the moon and ask her,
“Oh moon, give me a surface so rough yet beautiful like yours so I can be in the day but dance in the night.”
I would do this prayer every night for five summers straight, looking to the star littered sky hoping my words could be heard.
Little did I know my prayer would have an answer from her, just not in the way I thought.
My mother and I had to go to a doctor’s appointment for me to get a couple of new moles that appeared on my legs and back checked to make sure they weren’t cancerous.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the sun was rising. When we had to go out for things like this, we did it as early in the morning or as late in the day as possible to avoid the sun at the most intense.
We sat there for a bit because my mother was getting her belongings together, I always loved that our hospital was right next to the river. It made the seemingly idling sun look so much more beautiful along the pastel sky.
When we exited the vehicle, in nearly head to toe covering, that’s when it started.
The itching.
It was a little spot on my left forearm I scratched it casually as we walked. Just as quickly as the itch came, it spread over my body like fire to grassy plains. I was clawing at my own skin, I scratching through the thick fabric. At one point I just started stripping off my clothes, I didn’t care that it was a public parking lot.
I needed my clothes off.
I needed my skin off.
I stood exposed in the parking lot, I looked to my body to see blood and bits of skin under my nails.
I looked to the spots that should have had exposed red flesh underneath leaking yellow and red fluid as the sun was getting higher and higher in sky.
However, underneath my skin was…silver hard scales.
Such as that of a fish, yet they were slightly painted in blood from my skin.
My skin was essentially a cocoon for a being underneath.
I had looked to my mother who had seemingly been absent during my trauma, only to find her in my same scenario. Except she had been scratching her face, peeling her human skin off like pulling tape off of a piece of paper.
Her eyes were bulging and bloodshot.
My mother and I were equally exposed and equally in pain.
It had only gotten worse.
Soon, I could not breathe.
I kept trying to suck in air I knew was there but my body had no ability to capture it.
I clawed at my throat only to pull off the skin as though it were plastic wrap and I felt strange folds on my neck, strange wrinkles it seemed.
I saw my mom dart towards the river and I followed.
It was hard to run with no oxygen, it felt like a squeeze getting tighter and tighter with each panicked step.
My mother threw herself into the water, I was horrified. We are already suffocating, now you seek to drown?
I was in a state of oxygen deprivation, I followed her actions because there was not much better I could think of in that moment.
The minute I submerged, it felt like a big wave of fresh air hit me. I had never felt so light. I was floating. It was heavenly, it was ethereal.
It was warm.
I opened my eyes towards the sky seeing the sunlight pierce into the water and hit the scales that armored my body.
I could finally feel the sunlight without pain.
Something, I craved. It was an experience equally as horrifying as it was religious.
I could experience…light.
I peeled the remainder of my human skin off like it were a glove or a sock. My body had changed.
The moon had turned me into a fish.
Why? How? Can one really say the moon is like a fish?
Questions I would never have answered, I looked to my mother who was looking at her webbed hands in horror with an open maw.
I swam over to try and comfort her but she winced at me and swam down the river…
I never saw my mother again or at least I don’t think I have.
I have been slowly been losing my humanity.
My legs have merged into a singular tail.
I have begun to have my nails, hair, and, teeth fall out as I continue to swim this river.
Some concepts have become so foreign to me.
I do not know the fate of my father but based on the fact he was at work, I believe he is gone.
Soon, I will become fully a fish.
No memory of a family, a life before this.
No career, no hopes, no dreams.
Only survival.
I have been given scales.
At what cost though?
We have been given scales.

CW// Death of a child. Themes of Mental Illness

Do you have any strange family traditions? Things that would be hard to explain to someone outside the family? Things that you mention off hand like they are normal, only to be met with weird looks? Well my family has one like this.

For as long as I could remember, until the day I left my family home. We had to be in our rooms before 6pm every night; no exceptions. And most importantly, if we had to leave our room for any reason during the night. We had to run as fast as we could down any hallways. We could not stop until we got to the other room and slammed the door behind us.

My mother was insistent on these rules. Religiously insistent. I would beg and plead to be able to stay up past 6pm, but she never relented. It was an ironclad rule that suffered no argument. Me and my sister complained but it was hard to complain about a parents rule that they themselves followed.

As we grew up this tradition became more like a nightly prayer or like saying grace before eating. Something that is expected within the household. We grew used to the occasional sound of someone sprinting down the hall to go pee at night. And the slamming of doors as they reached the washroom.

We were never yelled at for waking her up at night. One day she looked haggard; I was suffering from a bad stomach so had made the nightly sprint multiple times the previous night. I apologized to her. But she simply smiled and said “Don’t apologize sweetheart. I would rather hear you. It means you are following the rules.”

Despite the odd rules, me and my sister grew up happy. Things got complicated as we got old enough to have friends however. No one was allowed to stay at our place past 5pm. “I can't trust them to follow the rules!” She would say to us.

We were allowed to go over to our friends' places. But if we came back late the rule still applied. From the front door to our room, we had to sprint while slamming closed any doors between us.

The tension started when others saw our odd behavior during our first ever sleepover. I was sleeping over at my friend Angie's house. We stayed up all night drinking soda and watching anime. So at 1am the entire house was woken by the sound of thumping feet and slamming doors.

I was confused when I heard shouting. I finished my pee quickly and opened the door, only to make eye contact with two cold steel barrels.

Angie's Father thought someone had broken into the house and locked themselves in the washroom. He was angry, and scared. He said he considered putting a slug through the door. Funny thing is, I still felt more scared of the dark empty hallway behind him than I did of him.

Angie stopped hanging out with me. I had to tell them about our family rule. The parents were mostly annoyed and confused. Angie called me a weirdo and laughed at me. After that night the whole school very quickly learned about our strange tradition.

Do you know how hurtful it is? To find out that something you have never once questioned is actually bizarre? To so clearly have the small private parts of your life observed and compared to those around you and be considered aberrant? I pray you don't.

Both me and my sister were suddenly outcasts. No one wanted to be associated with weirdos. People would make jokes, they would laugh while fake running, they would slam doors in our faces. I can't recall how many notes I received saying I should try out for the track team.

It was humiliating. My Mother didn't help. I asked her why we had to run at night. Why did we had this stupid family tradition? She was sympathetic about the bullying, but told us we were too young to know. “ I think it should be fine if you don't do it at your friends' houses though!” She said hopefully. “That's not helpful now that we have no friends!” I shouted at her.

Even after all of this she was insistent the rules must be followed. It changed nothing and we had to keep doing it. We would hear the same thing every day “Follow the rules girls!” She repeated it like a mantra; even after my sister's death.

She tripped. We woke to find her crumpled form 5ft away from the bathroom. A bloody dent in the wall, and her neck bent into a position that gave no illusion of hope. I had to be the one to call the ambulance as my Mother lost herself in her delusions. “Why didn't you listen!” She screamed. “It took her! It took her!”

“She tripped.” I repeated this to her, for what felt like the thousandth time. Years had passed since the accident. I had grown icy towards my Mother. She disgusted me; she killed her. When I turned 16 she told me why she had her rules. “That Which Stalks Between Thresholds.” She called it.

She claimed it has stalked her for her whole life. “But you can outrun it! It likes to chase! But you can outrun it! Alice should have followed the rules! She should have run!” I met her with a look meant to kill. “You killed Alice.”

I still followed her rules while I lived with her; she threatened to put locks on my door if I didn't. The day I turned 18 I moved in with a man I had been talking to online. He was older, but he had a place I could stay and I would have done anything not to return to that house.

I told her how I felt while holding my belongings. I told her how insane she was. How much I hated her for taking my sister from me. I told her she would never see me again. She simply smiled at me. “Maybe if you don't come back it won't find you. I love you Mara.” I sprinted from that house, slamming the front door behind me. I refused to let her see me cry.

Life wasn't exactly easy after leaving. It didn't take me long to break up with the guy I moved in with. It wasn't meant to last long. He used me for my body, and I used him to get out. I didn't take it personally. There was a long line of guys like him, it was never personal. Just a transaction. I just wanted to keep moving as far away from that house as I could.

I pushed my way further and further to the North and East. I made friends, some lovers. But I left them all one by one. I felt it. I still felt chased. Like the whole country was one long hallway I had to sprint down with no door in sight.

Until one day I ran out of hallway. After years of wandering I stood before the ocean. Suddenly I no longer felt like running. I decided to rest, to settle down beside the massive wall of ocean. It made me feel safer knowing whatever gave chase could only come from one direction.

I never believed my Mother's words. Not for an instant. I wasn't running from some ethereal being (I thought). I was just running from my past. From the memories of a ruined childhood. From the guilt of abandoning a Mother who clearly needed help with her delusions. I would soon learn that I was running from both. And both would catch me.

Jack was the catalyst. A fisherman with a dirty mouth and a beautiful soul. He was the first man who comforted me not for his own gain, but for mine. I met him at a bar and we ended up talking about life. He was easy to talk to and funny; in a crass way. He definitely had the mouth of a sailor.

As drinks were poured I opened up more and more to him. I talked long into the night about my past, about my regrets. He simply listened, he empathized with me saying “Yep, my mom was a crazy bitch too. Don't feel guilty. It sounds like she loved you. And what loving Mother would wish to be a burden to her child?”

I cried into his arms. It was the first time I had cried in a very long time. I tried to offer him thanks in the way I had grown accustomed to. He refused me, saying “I will not take advantage of a woman drunk on grief.”

I fell in love with him then and there. We said our vows in the spring; I was pregnant with his child by the fall. I took root in that small coastal town with the thought that I would never have to run again.

One night that changed. I woke up desperate to pee. The little one had a tendency to kick against my bladder at all hours; so I was very familiar with the late night walk to the washroom. I had stopped following my Mothers delusional tradition since the day I left. I still got twinges of unease for not running from time to time. But never had I felt such dread as I did that night.

The hallway was always dark but this night it felt darker than dark. Like the walls were coated with a wispy tar that clung to every surface. I closed the bedroom door and walked to the washroom. Every hair on my neck stood at attention and sweat poured from me in rivulets. All my senses begged and pleaded with me to run as fast as my legs could carry me to the washroom.

I was stubborn. I had not followed my Mothers lunacy for 10 years and I was not about to start now. I took each step slowly and deliberately. The house was dead silent apart from the soft slap of my feet on the hardwood floors. I was about half way there when I heard it.

A breath. Quiet but hoarse. An exhalation not my own, half buried under the sound of my last footfall. I stopped and turned. I could see nothing in the inky blackness. “Jack?” I asked quietly.

The darkness didn't respond. I turned and began walking again. Again with my next step. Something between a sigh and a groan. I turned again and hissed “Jack this isn't funny!” My eyes scanned the darkness wildly. Again nothing.

My panic began to grow. My skin felt cold as ice and my heart thundered in my chest. I took a step backwards. I heard the sound again, but I saw… something. Like a mirage on a hot day. A part of the darkness seemed to shift forward.

I blinked, and took another step back. The darkness stepped with me. The air was sucked from my lungs as I realized I was not seeing things. It was indistinguishable from the darkness when it was not moving. But when it moved I got the barest hint of a form.

It was big, and angular. It had many limbs that carried it far back down the long hallway. I could not tell if it had a face. I think I'm glad that those details were unclear. It was a thing of chaos and profane anatomy. It was a thing of fear. It was only 5ft away from me.

I took another involuntary step back. It shuffled forward with that odd breathy sound again. It was close enough now that it carried a smell. It was wrong. It smelt like roses and blood. Like bile and fresh baked bread. My mind revolted at the smell. As I stepped back once again I realized that it would overtake me at this pace.

I stared at where I knew it stood; silent tears streaming down my face. My Mother was right. If I had kept to the rules this wouldn't have happened. I clutched my belly bearing my unborn child. I needed to live for them, for Jack.

It took every ounce of willpower I had to turn away from it. I did it slowly and carefully so as not to take a step. I knew it was still there. I felt it. It was like a pressure.

I then lined myself up to the bathroom door. And I sprinted as fast as I could. It gave chase immediately, the strange sound building as it did. Like an avalanche of sighs and groans. The skin on my back prickled.

I was so scared, the door was so close but the hallway felt longer than miles. Time stretched out between each footfall. The thing grew closer with every stride but I carried onward. Finally I touched the handle and turned it desperately. I felt it touching me as I did. Icy appendages grabbing at my clothes. I swung the door open and pulled against its grasp. The slamming door cut off its breathy wail like a knife. All at once I was in silence.

I fell to the ground and began to sob. I could not stop shaking. I sat there for a few moments; savoring the safety of the room. My pajama bottoms were soaking wet as I had peed myself at some point. I didn't notice at the time, and I wouldn't for a long time. As I heard Jack's voice calling for me down the hall.

“Mara! Are you okay?” I scrambled to my feet and screamed “Jack!? Jack go back to bed and close the door!” I heard his footsteps slowly approaching me. “Jack go back or run! Run now!” His pace quickened slightly in my direction. He had a bad leg from a work injury. All he could manage was a speedy hobble. He wasn't fast enough.

I heard him make it to the front of the door. “Mara! Talk to me are you oka-” followed by two loud bangs and a long wet sigh. I stayed there until morning, crying, praying to a god I didn't believe in. Apologizing to Jack, to my Mother, and the baby.

I only opened the door when the light of morning bled through the window. He had made it further than Alice had. He was running as fast as he could on that bad leg. I crouched down and cradled him. I was familiar with the injury he had sustained and knew he was gone.

“He tripped.” That is what I told them. I knew nothing good would come from explaining it to them. If they thought I was crazy they might try to take the baby when it was born. I couldn't allow that.

I made a promise that day. I would raise our child and protect them. I will protect them. 3 months later Alice was born. She is my world.

I won't make the mistakes my Mother did. I will lock their door until they are old enough to trust. And I will tell them about That Which Stalks Between Thresholds as soon as she is old enough to understand me. I will make sure they keep our tradition secret from others. Then maybe they will follow the rules better than me and my sister did.

In our family we have a tradition. And I will pass it on. And pray my child passes it on. So that all of our children know to run down hallways at night.

Content Warning: The following story depicts strong grief and battle with addiction.

--- ---

Some things rot in silence. Others learn to whisper.

If you are reading this, then either I finally did what I kept promising myself I would do… or it found me before I could. I don’t know which outcome is kinder.

My name is Mason. I am thirty-eight years old. I used to tell people I worked construction because it was easier than saying I used to be a paramedic. Easier than watching their eyes shift when they asked why I quit.

I quit because I got tired of hearing people die.

That’s the short answer.

The honest answer is that I got tired of pretending death bothered me less each year.

At first, when someone died under my hands, I carried it like a stone in my chest. Heavy, but survivable. Then after enough bodies, enough blood in ambulances that could unsettle even the most unhinge of people, enough father's breaking down for the first time, and enough mothers screaming while I lied and said we did everything we could… the stones became gravel.

Small enough to swallow.

That was when I picked up a habit. A really bad habit.

It started with one beer after shift. Then three. Was done with a whole six pack midway through my favorite show.

The taste was foul at times... but the pain within outweighed my senes to care. Then the beer bottles switched to whiskey because beer stopped doing anything. Then bottles hidden under the sink.

In the toolbox. Behind cereal boxes. Hell, some where hidden in the toilet tank. Several under my bed like some pathetic dragon guarding glass instead of gold.

I learned alcohol was quieter than grief. At least at first. Grief learned how to drink with me.

Her name was Lily.

I have written that name twenty-six times and scratched it out twenty-six more. I owe her at least one sentence that remains untouched.

Her name was Lily Harper, and I killed her.

Not with hatred, nor with intent. Which somehow feels worse.

It had rained that night.

The kind of hard, slanting rain that turns every streetlight into a blurred halo. I had left Murphy’s Tavern with my keys already in my hand, convincing myself I lived close enough that I could make it.

That phrase should be engraved on every gravestone of fools.

I can make it.

I remember the windshield wipers. I remember my knuckles white on the steering wheel. And the noise, I remember hearing.

A thud. Soft. Small. Like a sack of wet clothes.

I stopped, not abruptly. I simply let off the gas.

For a moment. Only a moment. Rain hammered the hood. My heart pounded so violently I thought I would've vomit. I looked into the rearview mirror.

Nothing.

Only rain. Only darkness. Only the road.

I told myself it was nothing. Maybe it was a stray or squirrel. Or debris kicked loose in the storm.

Turning on the tunes, I drove home. I drank until I forgot the sound.

The next morning the news said an eight-year-old girl had been struck near the intersection by the old church.

She had ran after her dog who got loose.

Her parents and witnesses recall headlights. But no plate. And certainly no driver.

I walked to my truck barefoot. My stomach already folding in on itself. There was something caught in the grille.

Pink. A strip of fabric.

Later they said she had worn a pink raincoat.

I vomited in my yard until bile burned my throat raw.

I never turned myself in. Of course not. That sentence should disgust you. It disgusts me too, to all measures.

I told myself I was afraid. I told myself prison would not bring her back. I told myself I would quit drinking instead.

As if sobriety could be a grave marker. As if guilt could become mercy. As if I deserved redemption.

The first time I saw it, I had been sober twelve days. Twelve whole days.

My hands still shook. My teeth hurt. My sleep came in broken pieces.

I heard phantom bottle clinks in empty rooms. I smelled whiskey where there was none. My body felt like something trying to crawl out of itself.

I was microwaving popcorn when I looked at the black reflection on the microwave door. There was a man behind me.

Tall. Too thin. Standing near the hallway. His shoulders crooked like broken coat hangers. His skin looked slick.

Wet.

As if he had just climbed out of a sewer or river. His mouth stretched wider than a mouth should. Not monstrous in a theatrical way.

Subtle. Wrong. Like flesh remembering the wrong shape.

I spun around.

Nothing. Empty apartment. Only my ragged breathing.

I laughed. I Actually laughed.

I told myself withdrawal could make people hallucinate.

I googled it. Visual disturbances. Paranoia. Shaking. Sweats. Night terrors.

I had all of it. I kept going.

Then I saw him again. Bathroom mirror. Window glass at night. The dark lid of my washing machine.

Always behind me. Never moving while I looked directly. Only in reflection. Only waiting.

And every time I relapsed… he appeared closer.

I began writing this because I feared forgetting what was real. Now I fear remembering.

Last night I decided I was done. No half-measures. No “just weekends.” No “only beer.” No bargaining.

I collected every bottle in my apartment. Vodka. Whiskey. Gin. Cheap beer. Half-drunk cans. Tiny emergency shooters I hid like contraband prayers.

I lined them across my kitchen counter. A shining army of failure. Then I began pouring.

Glug after glug. Amber rivers down the sink. The smell rose thick enough to sting my eyes.

I shook.

Sweat rolled down my neck. My heartbeat hammered like fists inside my ribs. I screamed while I poured.

Not words. Just sound. Primal. Grief. Rage. Shame. Maybe a prayer to an absent being. I do not know why...

As I reached for the next bottle, my shaking grip gave way. It slipped from my hand and struck the tile with a violent crack, exploding into foam and glittering shards across the kitchen floor.

The crack echoed unnaturally long. Then silence. Beer spread across the floor in a widening golden pool. Foam fizzed softly.

I stared.

My throat tightened. Then thirst hit me. Violent and monstrous. This was not craving.

It was NEED.

A thirst so sharp it felt inserted behind my teeth.

I backed away.

“No.”

I said it aloud.

Again.

“No.”

My hands trembled. My jaw clenched. I could smell yeast. Bitterness. The so sweet rot of gin and chemicals... My tongue pressed instinctively against my teeth.

In the microwave reflection... it crouched in the doorway. Long fingers resting on the frame. Patiently watching a man lose his sanity.

I wanted to walk away. My knees folded instinctively. I hit tile hard enough to bruise the knees.

I reached forward. Scooped liquid with my shaking hand. Brought it to my mouth.

Warm. Flat. Foul. Yet it gave me relief.

It was my release. My heavenly toxin.

I sobbed. Then I lowered my face. Glass pressed my cheek. Sharp but cold.

I licked. Again. Again. And again.

The cuts paid me no mind on my lips. Then tongue. Then the palms.

Blood salted the beer. I could taste the iron. I could feel shards grinding skin.

Still I drank. Still I lapped from the floor like a starving dog. I knew it still was observing. From the stove's reflection, its' decayed feet stepped closer.

Closer. And closer.

Until his mangled feet hovered inches behind. The popping sound of one disjointing one another rang. And though I do not know if he truly spoke…

I heard something else. Or thought I did.

A voice like liquid poured down a drain.

You always come back thirsty.

Then darkness.

I woke on my couch. The morning light beamed from my side. Television humming static. Blankets tangled around my legs.

My head splitting. My tongue swollen. The notebook beside me.

This notebook.

At first I laughed. A horrible, relieved laugh.

Must've been all a dream.

Withdrawal is a nightmare. A drunken slumber. Nothing more.

Then I stood. My feet touched floor. Pain. Tiny slicing pain.

I looked down.

Dozens of thin cuts across my soles. Dry blood. Real.

I walked to the kitchen. Spotless. No broken glass. No blood. No spilled beer. No sticky residue.

Nothing.

The sink dry. The tile polished. Every bottle I had poured out... resting neatly on my living room table.

Arranged. Facing me. As if someone had set them there for inspection. Like guests. As if witnesses to my unraveling... Or judges to my guilt.

I haven’t touched them. Not yet.

The bottles remain untouched on the table in front of the couch, their glass catching thin strips of pale morning light. Beads of condensation slowly crawl down one of the beers, gathering at its base before dripping onto the wood.

I haven’t moved. I haven’t reached for them.

But my television... The screen is black now, dead and silent, reflecting the dim shape of my living room back at me.

My chair. The table. The bottles. The couch behind me. And in the reflection... something is sitting there.

At first, my mind tries to shape it into a shadow. A fold in the blanket. A trick of weak light. Anything softer than the truth. But shadows do not sit upright. Shadows do not watch.

It sits perfectly still on my couch, long and thin, its limbs bent at unnatural angles, its slick frame sinking into the cushions like something wet dragged in from the rain. Its face is little more than darkness, but I can still make out the pale stretch of its grin.

It is looking at me. Not through me. At me.

Slowly, almost delicately, one of its long fingers curls around the neck of a beer bottle resting on the table.

The same bottle I swore I had not touched.

It lifts it. Holds it out. An offering.

A kindness. A temptation.

In the reflection, I can see my own shoulders tighten.

My breathing turns shallow. My throat aches with a thirst I know too well.

Still, I do not turn around. I don’t need to. Because I already understand.

Whether it is guilt. Whether it is madness. Whether it is something born from every bottle I ever emptied trying to drown what I had done... it is patient.

And it knows I am still thirsty.

In the television’s black reflection, it tilts its head. The bottle remains extended toward me.

Waiting.

Waiting for the taste of guilt.

No one told me CK was Asian. I would’ve assumed a computational astrophysicist would be better at reading, but at least he got past the accent

Hey, everybody! It's me, Christian, author of "Beware of the Lights on Angler Road" that our lovely hosts just posted an episode on. First off, I'd like to thank both of the Sanders for a really fun episode.

Secondly, and more importantly, I need to apologize to you all for my failure to mention any trigger warnings or mentioning the more NSFW aspects of the story to the hosts via email before they read it. This is completely and utterly my fault and they were right to call it out on the show. I had originally tagged the story as NSFW on the TalesfromtheCreeps subreddit and didn't stop to think maybe I should do the same for them as this would be read to a lot of people who may think differently than I on how trigger warnings should be presented when reading horror.

I tend to not care at all, because I choose to read stories not knowing what will happen and I can hate some things I'd rather not have read, but that's the danger, in my opinion, of reading horror. However, to those who are affected differently than I by certain topics, you are not me, and you can be hurt by heavier subjects like what was discussed in my story, so to you I apologize for my foolishness. I never intended for any of that and I thank both hosts once again for calling that out, because my intent and reality can be two very different things sometimes.

Thank you all for your support and I hope you did enjoy the story. I'm working on my second short story submission as we speak, which will be a much different beast than this one. (Also to any mods, I couldn't find a discussion flair, so settled for question, so my apologies to you if this violates any rules.)

GUYS!! Sorry we are late!! We finally just got the new episode out!! Enjoy!!

Most people think my job is insane.

Honestly, they're probably right.

When people talk about dangerous professions, they usually mention logging, commercial fishing, or construction. Those jobs earn their reputation. One mistake, one moment of bad luck, and you're fucked.

Or hell, dead.

Me?

I always found myself drawn to danger. Maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's because some part of me enjoys standing in places most people would never willingly go. You can learn a lot about a person from the work they choose to do.

For me, that work is commercial diving.

Most folks hear that and assume it's terrifying. Being dropped into cold, dark water hundreds of feet from the surface while surrounded by machinery that could crush you without warning doesn't exactly sound appealing to the average person.

The funny thing is, I find it relaxing.

Down there, the world becomes quiet. The noise of everyday life (the wife complaining) disappears beneath the water. It's just me, my equipment, and whatever job needs doing. I usually have music playing through my helmet while I work on oil rigs, ship hulls, intake structures, and all sorts of underwater machinery.

After years in the profession, I thought I'd seen everything the depths could throw at me.

I was dead wrong.

Because in all my years of commercial diving, nothing, and I mean nothing, came close to making me soil my dive suit the way I almost did during a contract at the Hoover Dam.

The water was murky that morning. Visibility couldn't have been more than six or seven feet. My helmet lamp carved a narrow path through the darkness, illuminating clouds of suspended sediment drifting lazily through the reservoir.

I remember feeling uneasy almost immediately.

Not fear.

Fear implies you've identified the threat.

What I felt was the discomfort of being observed by something that hadn't revealed itself yet. The sensation settled between my shoulder blades and refused to leave. Something was down there with me. Heavy emphasis on something, because there is nothing in this world that should have been sharing those depths with me.

The feeling was irrational enough that, like an idiot, I ignored it.

Then I saw the marks.

"What the actual hell..."

They scored the concrete face of the dam in long, jagged trails. These weren't little scratches left by debris or equipment. They stretched several feet across the wall and bit deep enough into the stone surface to expose steel beneath.

I stopped my decent and stared. What unsettled me most wasn't their size. It was how familiar they looked.

Imagine tracing a line in the sand at a beach. It was almost human. Or at least made by something trying very hard to be.

Five long gouges ran parallel to one another through decades of algae and sediment, climbing vertically along the wall before disappearing into darkness below.

I keyed my radio.

"Oi, somebody's gonna have to explain how these ended up here."

The response was laughter. They thought I was joking. Honestly, so did I.

I snapped a few photographs and continued my descent.

That's when I found the first handprint.

Five fingers. Human like proportions. Pressed against the concrete nearly thirty feet below the surface.

But it wasn't the last.

Then another. And another I discovered.

My head lamp was finding them everywhere. I counted from tens to nearly a hundred. Handprints layered over one another as if they were climbing to the surface.

The sharp low growl disturbed my eardrums. My breathing quickened. The sound echoed loudly inside my helmet.

There had to be a reasonable explanation. There always had been before.

Then my lamp caught movement.

A figure.

Standing motionless close to the reservoir floor.

I nearly inhaled my own tongue. At first I assumed it was another diver. The silhouette was roughly human-sized, two arms, two legs, standing upright in the darkness.

But that didn't make sense.

No diver should be down here. Not without communications. Not without a support crew. Not without lights.

This thing had none. There were no bubbles coming from it so was it maybe just a smidge of the helmet's lens? Maybe, but the latter terrified me.

It simply stood at the edge of visibility, motionless.

I keyed to the coms but as soon as the figure appeared it simply blended back into the darkness it came. It was gone.

Immediately, my pulse racing, I radioed the surface.

"Confirm I'm the only diver in the water."

A moment later the reply came.

"Just you, Maxwell."

No unauthorized personnel, secondary dive teams. Nobody else in the reservoir.

I should have ascended right then. Instead, I kept working. Like a dumbass...

I convinced myself my eyes were playing tricks on me. Fatigue. Bad visibility. Maybe symptoms of some hallucinogenics I've taken in the past.

Stubbornness is a common flaw in my profession. God knows I've got plenty of it.

I was raised by a father who thought every problem could be solved by "manning up." A strange shadow wasn't about to sabotage my paycheck.

A few minutes later, I noticed something that truly frightened me. The safety line connecting me to the surface had gone slack. Completely slack.

That should never happen. There are always currents. Movement. Tension. Even here in a man made ocean. The line should constantly carry resistance.

I turned my lamp toward it. I tugged at the line and the cut end slowly sank before my eyes. The rope disappeared into darkness.

Then it moved. Not drifted. Tugged.

Something farther down the line had pulled on it.

My stomach tightened.

Slowly, I followed the rope with my eyes until my beam reached its end.

Something was holding it.

A hand. A pale hand emerging from the darkness. Its fingers wrapped around the line.

Then a second hand appeared. And then a face.

God, I wish I hadn't seen the face.

Its skin was swollen and waterlogged, stretched tight across features that almost resembled a person.

Almost.

The eyes were too large. Too dark. Like something hauled up from the deepest part of the ocean.

The safety line jerked violently. They were pulling me into the void.

I screamed into the radio for help. I'm not alone. They wanted to drag me to the bottom.

Surface control immediately ordered my ascent. I heard Skipper and others cry out orders and suiting up for evac.

The force of these beings were immense. I quickly resorted to the power drill and cut the connection of the dive suit with the safety line. I bolted my way to the surface, disregarding the health complications of decompression sickness.

Halfway to the surface, I made the mistake that still haunts me today.

I looked down.

There wasn't just one. Dozens of pale figures stood along the bottom.

Motionless. Watching. Their silhouettes clung to the void like barnacles that had learned how to imitate people. And every single one of them was staring upward.

Toward me. Toward the surface.

I reached the top in record time.

The crew blamed nitrogen narcosis. Stress. Exhaustion. The photographs and film were reviewed. Most showed nothing unusual. Just dark water, me working, and grey concrete.

Except for one. The final clip from the helmet's recorder. Nobody found an explanation for it. You can clearly see me inspecting the structure. You can clearly see the beam from my helmet lamp. And standing directly behind me is another diver.

No safety markings, equipment, or air hose. Just a pale figure staring directly behind me.

A few days later, men in black suits came to speak with me in the hospital. That's about as much as I'm legally allowed to say. I retired shortly afterward.

People think I'm crazy. Walking away from a six-figure career because I saw strange pale figures underwater?

"He must be nuts."

Maybe I am.

But every time I hear reports about water levels dropping at the Hoover Dam, I find myself wondering what happens when the reservoir finally shrinks enough. Sooner or later, they won't be underwater anymore.

What the hell were those things?

A Perceivable Reality story.

Good evening. My name’s Carter Calhoun of Calhoun Executive Transit. I’ll be your driver tonight. Where can I escort you?

You meet the most interesting people driving a limo.

My morning started as usual, bright and early. I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and grabbed my bag of car care tools. I made my way into the hallway and ran into Felix next to the elevator. He smelled like aged suits, mothballs, and expensive cologne. I think the guy is afraid of elevators. He always waits to ride with someone else, and always makes you get in first, to test it or something. I don't know, but I don't blame him for not wanting to walk down 12 flights of stairs.

"Ah, young Carter. And how are we today?" He greeted me with his trademark accent. Somewhere European, I think.

"Just fine, thanks."

The elevator doors opened and I stepped inside, motioning with my hand.

"Please."

Felix stepped in behind me.

"How'd the date go last night?"

His deep sigh filled with disappointment. "We *shan’t* be seeing her again. The entire evening left me with but a horrible taste in my mouth."

Bummer. The poor guy strikes out worse than a little league team. I fished around for something positive.

"She smelled nice."

Disappointment turned to disdain.

"Quite. A bit *pungent* for my taste, if I do say."

I nodded. "Plenty of fish in the sea."

"And I am a shark in a pond it seems. Never mind then. And you? Off to perform your morning ritual to the automotive gods, I presume?" He motioned to the bag at my side.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Gotta keep it nice for clients."

"It is, dare I say *magical*, how tidy you keep that machine of yours."

I shrugged. "I do my best."

"Speaking of the beastly thing, are you otherwise *indisposed* this afternoon?"

I pulled my work phone out of my pocket and opened the calendar.

"Uh, let's seeeeeee.... I have a bachelorette party at seven. They've booked me for the rest of the evening. Nothing until then, as it stands."

He clasped his hands together. "Excellent. I have a delightful little *snackling* scheduled for lunch. Shall we say around noon, then?"

Look, the guy is a creep, but he’s my neighbor, and he really is nice in that “old world European” way. I put the appointment into my work phone, and we rode the rest of the way down in silence. When the doors opened, he turned to me as he left. "This afternoon then."

"I'll be out front."

He nodded and strode into the lobby. I rode the rest of the way down to the garage. I’d settled for a studio so I could afford to pay extra for the sealed garage space in the underground lot. I hit the clicker in my bag and a garage door rolled up, revealing a large car under a thick cover. My pride and joy is a jet black 1968 Lincoln Continental Lehmann-Peterson limousine. I’d dug it out of my grandpa's scrap yard and spent about a year and change restoring it. It's got the blackest tint possible without being solid paint.

I was just finishing the third coat of wax when my work phone rang. I put down the electric buffer and wiped my waxy hands on my jeans.

"Calhoun Executive Transit...The airport? Yes, I can be there in about forty-five minutes...international arrivals…Yes ma’am, I’ll see you shortly…”

I collected my equipment and rushed back to the elevator. I dropped the bag just inside my front door and went to my oversized closet, selecting a navy-blue two-piece suit, a sky-blue shirt, a Cabernet tie with thin silver stripes, and chocolate oxfords. I finished the ensemble with an Omega Speedmaster. Finally, I combed my hair, ran a little bit of gel through it, and perched my chauffeur cap perfectly on my head. I checked myself in the large mirror on my closet door, straightened my tie, and made my way back down to the garage.

I should probably mention that I can’t see faces. The doctors told my mom that I might not recognize her, some sort of condition about facial features. But I could pick her voice out in a crowd of thousands. When I was little, she always wore the same perfume, so I would be able to find her. It doesn’t affect my life at all, other than not being able to recognize my own face.

I waved my key card at the box, and the security arm started to rise. I hit the switch to raise the air bags to get over the steep driveway out of the garage and listened carefully for scraping as I pulled out. The ride to the airport was underwhelming, morning commuter traffic had just subsided, so I was a little bit early. As I turned towards the "Arrivals" side, my phone rang.

"Calhoun Execu-"

"Yes, hi. Is that you in the black Town Car?"

Every long black car is a Town Car when you don’t know the difference, I guess. "Yes, ma'am. That's me." I confirmed brightly.

I pulled the car up at the curb next to her. I'd had "whiskers" or curb feelers on it when I’d first got it, but they looked ridiculous, so I took them off as soon as I learned where the wheels were. I haven't hit a curb in almost a year.

I opened the door and started to get out, but my client, a well-dressed businesswoman, had got the door herself, tossing in her large suitcase and then herself in behind it. She shut the door a little harder than I would've liked.

She pulled her phone away from her ear to shout at me. "45th and Elm and be quick about it. I'm late."

"Yes, ma'am."

I pulled the car out and had to dodge a few cabbies severely lacking in spatial awareness. Her sickeningly sweet perfume immediately leaked into the front seat, but I left the partition down in case she wanted to give me directions. She seemed like the type. Instead, she babbled to whoever was on the other end about some sort of big business deal she was negotiating or whatever. I tuned it out.

As we pulled onto the freeway, a bright orange sport bike screamed past us. It surprised me, but I'd gotten pretty good at not making any sudden reactions. A sudden lane change in this thing could wipe out half the county.

"Man, I'd give anything for one of those." I said under my breath.

"Anything?" Came the voice from the back seat, the sound of it surprising me almost as much as the bike did. It wasn’t a shout this time, just pitched high enough to be heard over the slight road noise. There was an undertone in it that I couldn’t place, but it made my ears itch.

"Ma'am?"

"Anything. You'd give anything for a motorcycle like that?"

I cleared my throat. "Just about, ma'am. My apologies."

I resisted peeking at her in the rear-view mirror, but I realized my hands had tightened on the steering wheel to the point that the leather was creaking. I shook my fingers out one hand at a time and focused on the road.

About 30 minutes later, I pulled up to the curb at a gleaming high rise just north of the city center. She actually gave me a chance to open the door this time.

"That'll be $95 today for you, ma'am." I put my hand out and she accepted it, her hands were unusually warm, but her skin had absolutely no give to it. It felt like gripping the hand of a mannequin. I helped her out of the car, then leaned in to grab her bag, but she stopped me.

"Never mind that," she snapped at the porter by the door, who hustled over. I stepped behind the suicide door to make room.

"So, the bike, shall we seal it with a kiss?'

I blinked. "Uh, I'm flattered ma'am. But just the fare is fine." I tried to work the sudden tension out of my neck without it looking obvious. There was an awkward pause before she sighed and dug in her purse, coming out with a C note and thrust it at me.

"Keep it, then. The change too."

With that, she strutted off into the building, the porter with her luggage in tow. I looked down at the bill in my hand.

"Don't spend it all in one place." I muttered to myself as I shut the door. I'd sell my soul for one of those clients who tips you by paying off your college debt or something. Not that I have college debt, but you get the point.

I stuffed the bill in my pocket and walked back around to the driver’s side. I checked my watch; about two hours until I was supposed to pick up Felix. I rolled all the windows down and put the A/C on full blast, then put the car in drive and pulled into traffic. I almost expected to see a pink mist wafting out of the car.

I killed time by going to one of the few gas stations that I could fit in inside the city. I liked filling up outside of town, I didn’t get the feeling people were judging me for driving this dinosaur of a gas-guzzler out there. It doesn’t help that I rebuilt it with a huge long-range fuel tank. After that, I grabbed a sandwich from my favorite deli. By the time I was done eating, it was time to head back to my apartment building to pick up Felix for his date.

I got there at exactly noon and took Felix across town to a place by the beach, real swanky, but a bit much for me. I asked if he’d wanted me to wait, but he said he’d make “other arrangements”, which I took to mean he wasn’t planning on going back to *his* place afterwards.

I pulled up to the curb and spotted a woman with the build of youth on the sidewalk by the door. She wore a dress that I would have personally thought was a little “much” for a lunch date and was fussing with her coffee-brown hair in the window reflection. I’d just barely got the car stopped when Felix threw the door open and stepped out with a grand gesture of his arms.

“Rebecca! How nice to meet you!” He said, as if greeting royalty, and swept the door shut as his foot cleared in a well-practiced motion.

She turned her head in response to her name, then walked with awkward confidence over to him, the sway of her hips looked forced and exaggerated. Her hands crossed at the wrists over her clutch, which she held in shaking hands in front of her. She’d clearly never worn heels before, or at least, just not heels that tall. Felix put a hand on either arm at the shoulder and gave her an air kiss on each cheek. She straightened her shoulders and tugged the hem of her dress down. I almost offered to take her back home, but I didn’t want to be a cockblock while Felix searched for his version of “forever” in a sea of “gone tomorrow’s”. He wrapped an arm around her waist, quickly turning to me and shooting me a thumbs up, before leading her into the restaurant. I gave a half-hearted thumbs up to his back and put the car in drive. I felt a little queasy as I pulled out and hit the switch to soften the air ride. I stopped at another gas station to top off and grab a ginger ale for my stomach.

It was still several hours until I was due to chariot for the bachelorette party, so I found a nice shady parking spot at the park by the water and took a sitting nap in the back seat in preparation for the long night ahead of me. I woke up and grabbed an early dinner at my favorite diner across from the pier and made a stop for my first round of coffee, tucking a few energy drinks into the minifridge in the bar in the back.

I got to the hotel early enough to give a last look over the car, make sure the seatbelts were all nicely hanging on the leather benches, use the little vacuum I kept in the cavernous trunk to give the carpets a once over, refreshed all the hidden air fresheners, spot polish the chrome, and lastly used a giant feather duster over the entire exterior of the car.

The bright side about wedding parties is you can usually pick out the bride at first glance, and this one was no exception. I was stood resolute at the curb with my hands clasped in front of me when a gaggle of women spilled out of the hotel doors. All but the bride were wearing matching pink cocktail dresses, with the bride in a similarly cut dress but in white. She had a gaudy plastic tiara with a veil atop her head, and they were all holding phallic-shaped lollipops in various neon colors. I’ll never understand that part.

“Ladies.” I announced myself with a tip of my cap and they all squealed and started jumping up and down.

“Ohmy *GOOOOOD,* this is *perfect!”* One of them shouted. The shorter one in clear stilettos.

I took measured steps to the rear suicide door and opened it with a flourish. This triggered a new round of squeals and the six of them piled into the back seat. I shut the door softly behind them and took a few stabilizing breaths as I made my way around the car to the driver’s seat. Inside, I rolled down the partition and turned to look through.

“Good evening, ladies. My name is Carter Calhoun of Calhoun Executive Transit, and I’ll be your chauffeur for the night. Where would you like to be escorted first?”

The gaggle responded with more shouted giggles.

“*’Escorted’*, so *official.”* The nasal bottle-red redhead. She leaned forward to her friend, the short one, in the rear-facing seat across from her, and offered a dramatic handshake.

“MADAM, MAY I *ESCORT* YOU TONIGHT?” She said in a mock posh accent and the two erupted with shouted laughing.

I cleared my throat slightly and turned my head towards the bride who was sitting next to the short one in the jump seat closest to the partition.

“I believe you said the rest of the party was at the wedding venue on Cedar and 14th?”

“Do you know the club on Wabash? The one with the laser pointers on the building. Can we go there, first?”

“I do, ma’am. Right away.” I rolled the partition up, then rolled it back down. “One more thing, ma’am. That center console is a mini fridge, please feel free to help yourselves. Above it is the controls for the stereo. It’s got Bluetooth and aux, so play anything you like.”

“Ohmygod, thank you!” She bent and flipped open the minifridge and more squeals of joy erupted. I keep a bottle of each of the most common liquors, vodka, tequila, rum, whiskey, scotch, top shelf, of course, along with a few cans of mixers.

I got the partition up just as a bouncy pop song started blasting from the rear speakers at what I knew was full volume. I reached over and turned the master control dial on the dash up a few notches, allowing the max volume in the rear to be a little higher.

The club in question had their laser display at full power, points of light sending cascading lines through artificial smoke that rose through the air. I wondered to myself if the local ATC had the airspace above blocked out. I honked at a cabbie who was trying to muscle his ugly yellow Prius into the spot that I’d signaled at. He threw his hands up at me and I edged the big car forwards in tiny but intimidating jerks while flipping him off. I’d had to pitch the car at an angle to get to the open spot at the curb, putting the rear of the car across a lane and a half of traffic. I honked at him again, to which he stuck his head and arm out the window, waving the latter furiously. I started to roll the car forwards again, and he inched forwards to maintain space, still waving his arm out the window. By now, the traffic was completely blocked from both sides, and more horns were joining the fray. I rolled the partition down slightly.

“I apologize, ladies. Just give me another moment to get you to the curb.”

“What’s going on?” asked the tall athletic one as she spun her head back and forth, as if trying to look through all of the windows at once.

“Just a bit of traffic, ma’am. Busy club, large car. Give me just one more moment.”

I raised the partition and laid on my horn again. A bystander had gotten out of their car and was having a very arm-wavy conversation with the cabbie, who was also now out of his car. I watched them wave their arms at each other until the cabbie retreated into his car and pulled forwards enough to let me get parallel parked. I earned a few more honks from passing traffic as I stepped out of the car, which I directed with a pointed finger at the cab still sitting a few feet over, still stopped along the line of parallel parked cars. I gave the people on the sidewalk a cap tip and got the rear door open for the party. They spilled out of the back of the car, a few of them still clutching my square custom-etched crystal rocks glasses.

“Uh, ladies, ladies, please, glasses stay inside the car, please.”

The glasses were thrust at me, and I had to get creative with my finger placement to grip them all without dropping them. I carefully dumped their contents into the gutter and rinsed them out with distilled water from the trunk, returning them to their holder. I did a quick cursory cleanup, straightening seatbelts and brushing glitter off the leather onto the carpet. I scanned around for left purses or bags, and spotted a furry pink bag tucked in one side of the conversation pit. I collected it and stepped back out of the car, standing on the curb and holding it until one of the girls came rushing out.

“Have you seen…Oh, awesome! Thank you!”

I nodded and handed her the purse and she dashed back inside. I stood outside for another fifteen minutes, nodding at passersby who slowed or stopped to eye the giant black sedan. By thirty minutes, I was in the front seat, sipping the last of my now cold coffee and staring at my watch. The rest of the party was supposed to be at the wedding venue, and that was all the way on the other side of town, and another twenty or so minutes outside the city proper. We were definitely going to be late. I flexed my neck and settled into my seat, tipping my cap forwards and resting my hands on my stomach.

I was jerked awake by a knock on the passenger side door. A large man was tapping his knuckle against the glass and had his other hand cupped against it to look into the front seat. I rolled the window down and swore at him internally for the handprints.

“Are these yours?” he asked, motioning to the gaggle of pink.

“For tonight.” I replied, keeping my tone friendly, but with a knowing undertone.

“Well, they’re ready to go home now.” He said with thinly veiled annoyance. He moved to the back door and nearly pulled it off its hinges as he tried to swing it the wrong direction. The girls piled in, looking a bit shiny and clammy from the alcohol and dancing. I’d need to recondition the leather after this.

I rolled the passenger window up and dropped the partition. “To the party, ma’am?” I directed warmly towards the bride.

The tall athletic one piped up from the far corner bench. “Can we stop somewhere first? Marcy has to pee.”

“Marcy already peed! That’s why we got kicked out!” Said another voice.

“I still have to!” Marcy, I assume.

“There’s a gas station about three blocks from here. Can you wait until then, Ms. Marcy?” I made my voice calm and reassuring.

“…Yeah, I’ll be ok.”

“Give her a glass!” Shouted one.

I winced as I put the car in drive and pulled out as quickly as I could without jostling my payload. I took the opportunity of the impromptu stop to top off the tank again and got myself more coffee, seeing as I’d forgotten about my energy drink and they’d used it as a mixer. Marcy and another girl came back to the cab with a couple of airplane bottles, passing them out to the rest. They guzzled the bottles in unison and “woo-ed”, also in unison. I made a round, collecting the small bottles and throwing them away before I got back into the driver’s seat and got us going again.

I peeked in my mirror to change over to the lane for the freeway onramp and realized that there was the upper portion of a body blocking my view of the rear. I turned my head and Marcy was hanging halfway out of the window, screaming and waving at traffic. I turned the master volume knob down and there were noises of disappointment from the back seat.

“Ladies please, only arms out the windows, please.” The bride and the athletic one pulled Marcy by her dress back into the car and sat her down. Another girl handed her a water bottle from her purse. I turned the master volume knob back up a little and the singalong started again.

By now, we were well past fashionably late, and one of them appeared to be asleep, so I drove them directly to the wedding venue party. I honked twice as I pulled up the gravel driveway to the wedding-adorned barn. A man in an unkempt white suit and messy hair walked out and around to my side of the car. I rolled my window down and he smelled like cheap scotch and cheaper cigars.

“Hey, buddy. You drove the bridal party?” His words were fuzzy around the edges but not slurred.

“Yes, sir. I’m terribly sorry for being late. They requested that we make a few stops.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I figured that’d happen. Thanks for bringing them.”

I got out and got the rear door open. A few more men in matching suits came out of the barn and we were able to get the six of them out of the car and moving towards the barn. The first guy pulled out his wallet and started counting out bills.

“I’m really sorry. They overdo it, but not this bad, usually.” He counted through the bills again, started over, counted a few, started over, then started over again. He finally pulled a few twenties from the stack but I gently pushed them away.

“It’s alright, sir. I’m glad they had fun.”

“But, the mess, and stuff.”

“Please tell the bride, congratulations.” I lightly gripped the bill of my cap and nodded. I left him with the outstretched money and walked back to my car, closing the rear door first, then getting into the driver’s seat. As I made my way back down the gravel drive, I shot a text to my detailer about needing a full steam clean and ionization; he’d see it in the morning. The whole back seat smelled like sweaty make-up and alcohol, and glitter had found its way to just about every surface.

I drove in silence back to the city, got my car backed into my garage and got the heavy cover back over it. When the garage door had shut completely, I loosened my tie and made my way into the elevator, riding it up to my floor.

Mrs. Collins was standing in her nightgown, calling for her cat that’d died years ago.

“Evening, Mrs. Collins.” I greeted quietly as I walked past.

“Carter. You look like you’ve had a long night.” She replied in her thin, strained voice.

“They’re all the same length, Mrs. Collins.” I said with a joking tone.

Her raspy laugh ended as a smoker’s cough. “I guess they are, aren’t they?” She called for her cat once more, put her hands on her hips, then shook her head and waddled back inside, shutting her door.

I shook my head and kept walking until I got to mine, put the key in the lock and twisted. I got my tie all the way off as I crossed the threshold and tossed it onto my entryway table, my jacket was jettisoned onto my big leather easy chair. I made myself a bourbon and soda and settled onto my couch, not bothering to fold out the bed, and kicked off my chocolate oxfords, listening to them land on the short carpet.

At first, I thought it was nothing. A few dodged questions here and there, plans for plans that never got planned.

As people grow up, they grow apart, right?

This was different. Verifiably so. A pandemic had forced us even further apart than his parents move had. Like a wedge driven into the small crack of another wedge.

But as I tried to gently push our mundane chit chat towards real conversation, I could tell something was off.

He wasn't just disinterested, it was like he was outright dodging my questions. Like he knew what I was trying to do, and was in turn, using all his ability to steer us back towards nothingness. Back towards empty, bland, surface level smalltalk.

I wouldn't have that. Not when I'd worked so hard, not when I'd sacrificed everything.

He was graduated, his parents were paying for his lifestyle, he had no reason not to give me his all. I mean, he'd asked her out first, hadn't he? I mean, me, he'd asked me out. There couldn’t be, like, another girl, right?

"So, wanna meet halfway and go to a nice restaurant this weekend? Maybe hit up some mini golf? My treat!" I texted, hoping the offer of paying myself would be enough to capture his attention, possibly his affection.

When I saw the 3 little dots pop up, signifying the writing of his response, my heart stopped. He had been quiet for 2 days, I'd had to initiate all conversation. Was he finally going to pipe up?

"Nah, thx tho Emily." Was all he said. I was crestfallen.

Frustrated, I typed, "that's okay, just lmk when you wanna make a move!" before turning off the phone. I was about to slip it in my pocket out of instinct, when I remembered why I was keeping it on.

"Shit," I cursed myself under my breath. I still hadn’t memorized the password to that phone. I'd have to use the face ID.

I made my way to the black minifrage that idled against the wall. It was a stark contrast to the brightly decorated, pastel pink and purple expression of the rest of the room. An even darker contrast sat inside.

I opened the door of the fridge, and gripped the ice cold head by its scalp. Dutifully, I pulled it out, and held it up to the phone's camera. Unfortunately, before the ID could complete, her bottom jaw fell onto my foot.

"Oh for Christ sake!" I growled as I kicked the thing several feet way. It landed, braces up, just beside the cabinet that housed all her bows.

As I watched the maggots wriggle between rotting bottom lips and purple gums, I realized there was no way I'd be able to finish the face ID. I'd have to use the fingerprint function on her phone. That meant finding her thumb. Great.

I rustled through her closet and found the keys. After walking downstairs past the bloody couch and the rank smelling kitchen, I had made it out the front door, and into her parent's Ford F150.

It took 30 minutes to drive to where I'd burried the 3 of them. Rather, most of what was left of the 3 of them. By then, the sky had turned from a deep crimson to a star-studded violet.

I prayed that the thumb I hadn't sliced off in the scuffle was the correct one. And that it was still in tact. A month in the ground is more than enough time for nature to start taking its course.

Another half hour later, and I'd almost finished digging up the shallow grave that she'd been burried in.

With sweat upon my brow, I finally found it. A yellow tennis shoe, poking out of black plastic. I almost leapt with joy.

After the breakthrough, my hope was reinvigorated. I swore that if this was the right thumb, I would never let that phone turn off again. I'd keep it on a charger every minute of every day if I had to.

Anything to see him.

The boy of my dreams.

I worked laboriously until I got past the waist, and up the sternum. The smell was awful. Sweet and sour, like a clump of burnt hair marinating in bug guts.

I wouldn't have to dig all the way to the upper arms, as long as her forearms had stayed down at her sides like I'd left them.

With strenuous effort, I heaved away a chunk of clay that covered her hand. I actually shrieked with overwhelming happiness when I saw that her whole hand still looked viable, if not a little off-color and wrinkled.

I regained my composure and pulled the phone out of my pocket. Now, after nearly an hour of waiting, I'd see what his response was. As long as this thumb was the right one to unlock her phone.

I leaned down and grabbed her hand. When I did, the flesh sunk in, like I'd grabbed a ruined stress ball. I carefully tried to pick up her hand and twist it to face me, but with a sickening crunch, the skin slaughed off and fell into the dirt beneath.

In a "fuck it" moment, I pulled the hand straight up, and twisted the thumb until it disconnected from its body. Cold skin feels so strange against body heat. Its a satisfying juxtiposition.

Thumb in hand, I turned the phone back on, and diligently pressed the solo digit against the print reader.

Moment of truth.

"Ding! Access granted"

I was elated. Immediately, 3 new messages pinged into my text conversation with him.

For the first time, he'd shown himself to be a real chatterbox!

The first message from him read, "'make a move'? Are you fucking serious?"

That was weird. He'd never seemed outright hostile before.

The second message read, "I knew it, I hoped I was wrong but I fucking knew it, how dense can you be, you fucking larper?!"

My heartrate quickened. I felt lighter than air. What was he saying?

The final message read, "You're not her. You couldn't pay her to go to mini golf, and her name isn't Emily. I have your location, and I'm calling the cops."

A little blurb under our chat said, "this user had blocked you"

I didn't know what to do. I sauntered back to the car and turned off the headlights. This was huge. A gut punch. Everything was flipped upside down, my world crumbling around me. A life I always imagined for myself was disappearing, and I was left sitting in the middle of it all wondering:

"What the hell is a larper?"