Note from the editors. We’re putting this one out with a lil warning. There is a fine line between what the narrator says and what the writer (or us) think. Some of these words may be offense. If so, we apologize in advance. If you are angry–okay, maybe take that anger and donate to a charity. With that said…we hope you enjoy the ‘Halloween bonus’ story.
The hillside was covered in smoke and bodies; blood-stained grey uniforms lay tattered and torn next to the blues. A cannon exploded in the distance and more soldiers fell to the earth, scattered among the dead. The brave struggled onward, but we know that’s just shit. The field stunk of it. Shit. Shit, piss and blood. Shit, piss and blood on the Union side; shit piss and blood for the Confederates. The only things that like war are maggots. Piss, shit, and blood are more their element.
No maggots yet to squirm. Not yet. That will come later. Now is the time for screams, battle cries and death wails—one and the same. Some knew this and that’s what kept them alive thus far. Another charge by the North—this time to reclaim land they held earlier in the day. One man cried out from under a pile of bodies; he was using them for camouflage but was trampled on by the rushing soldiers. A boot to the gut is better than a knife. He got up after the rest had passed him only to see more bodies added to his hiding spot.
One next to him, newly crimson, cried out. He couldn’t tell if it was for water or just out of pain. He didn’t dare move closer to find out. This was his plan—let the darkness come over them all and then crawl away. He wanted to rip his uniform off and just crawl away. North—South—it didn’t matter who found him if his uniform was off. Or so he thought.
The new body, a kid, as far as he could make out, no older than his own boy at home, cried out again. This time he was closer and a few words could be made out. It sounded like ‘I’m sorry, Momma’. Over and over again, the words came out—half moan and half sob. The man wanted to ease the kid’s pain, but there was a part of him that just wished he would die. Maybe choke on his own blood and leave him in silence. Silent piles of the dead don’t get a second thought, but one dying kid squirming and crying for his mother would cause an investigation; an investigation that would bring more pain and blood. The man stayed still and the kid’s cries became louder. They were for water this time. The man was thirsty too, but he stole a water skin off one of the torsos he used for cover.
The decision was hard, or at least it should have been. He had to quiet the kid. He could toss over the skin, but that might draw attention of others. Even if he gave the kid water, he would still be a bloody pile of gunk crying for his mother. The hysteria would not stop even with the water. An alternative would just let him die slowly.
The man turned his head and shoved the water down under a body. He crawled on his belly; a knife rattled in his teeth. There was another way to quiet that kid. There is no safety in war. Just piss, shit and blood.
The battle raged—all but one fell, and he had his head shoved deep up a horse’s ass.
‘Horse’s ass? Louey! Cut!’ Big Wayne yelled. Midgets in various stages of feigned death, some with their faces stuck in ghastly poses while others, the ones to die early, fast asleep, started to roll down the hill towards the food cart. Louey, dressed as Abraham Lincoln, not only trotted out early into frame, but was firmly stuck up a horse’s ass; again. I could explain this part—why a group of little people were re-enacting a Civil War battle—I could even explain why it had to be little people and even why Big Wayne cut his hair the way he does, but this isn’t a story about Deano betting Block that a midget couldn’t fit up a horse’s ass, or even the elaborate cleaning procedures needed to actually remove the head from the ass, nor the logistics of breathing once the head is fully inserted, but rather a story of deception and a jail break. A jail break and a little Frenchman named Gene.
‘38, 39, 40…four still missing, well three if you don’t include Louey sitting the night out.’
‘So, which three are missing?’
‘Hector, Gene and 3C3.’
‘God have mercy on us all.’
The nearest town to the Midget Ranch was Boulder City, Nevada—population 301—and on this Halloween the town grew by three. Hector, the luchador midget, wandered down the road, his red and gold lucha libre mask securely tied to his head. He looked over at Gene and sighed. ‘Tu culo francés, ¿Por qué estás tan cerca de mí, mis cojones todavía huelen a tus labios.’
Gene, pencil thin moustache and all, looked over at Hector and shrugged, ‘Suce moi.’
‘Jub jub.’ 3C3 said. 3C3, often poetic, was the midget with the most acting experience. By the age of seven he appeared in all three Star Wars movies as an Ewok. Fame is a harsh mistress, and being a child actor is a huge burden for most, but to be a midget child actor, known only when wearing that squinty eyed, fury, gorilla scrotum smelling outfit, then life is damn near the 13th circle of hell. Before Big Wayne found him, 3C3 was on the street turning tricks trying to pay for his boob job; just how Big Wayne found him in that condition, or why Wayne was cruising 53 and 3rd at 3:21 am, is for another story.
The house, a replica of a 17th century bordello done in an off-white, stood out as the lone house with the light still on. Orange, red, and green flashing bulbs, covered with spider webs, flashed out morose code into the lonely night, beckoning trick or treaters to pay homage similar to the effect of a lighthouse to a half-drunken sailor. Mini-pumpkins, painted in fluorescent colours, decorated the driveway and came up to Gene’s knees; they guided the trio to the front porch. Hector, the brave, rang the doorbell. An elderly woman, adorned in black lace with a pointy hat to the front, came to the door. A small red-headed girl, feet covered in a puppy-dog footie pyjama complete with a tail and hood with dog ears, clung to the woman’s leg. A black cat poked out from her other leg and ran out the door.
Hector held out the bag with the help of Gene.
‘Awww, how cute! And you must be one of them Spanish wrasslers I see on TV! You look mighty fierce! Here is a handful for you! Oh, and your friend! You must be John Waters! My, yes, I can tell just by the moustache!’
‘Tite Fille! Combien pour la petite fille! Ta Fille! Ta femme, je veux acheter ta femme!’ said Gene.
‘Oh, the little devil speaking that voodoo tongue! Isn’t he cute, Emilie? To think a little lady like me having such visitors like you tonight! Now, where is your yeti friend?’
Hector looked over at 3C3 and smashed his own forehead with the back of his palm, ‘Que esta tratando de joder tu gato.’
‘Oh, that’s nice, dear! You have such a lovely accent! If you do find him soon, maybe you can give him this handful for me?’ Betty dished out another scoop of Sweet Tarts, half dissolved after years of mistakenly being used as a Polident substitute. With a wave, Betty fixed her witches hat and went back behind her screen door.
‘Je veux acheter ta femme!’ Gene shouted after Betty.
‘That boy is yakking up a storm! Must think you have a pretty costume the way he keeps pointing at you. Wave goodbye, Emilie!’ The granddaughter does and follows Betty back into the house. ‘Mr Figgles! Where are you kitty kitty? Mummy has a nice surprise for you!’
Hector and Gene went after 3C3. By the time they caught up with him, the Ewok was covered in cat scratches and appeared to be talking to a lawn gnome that was sitting on a mushroom in a look of contemplation.
‘Jub jub cawala jub!’ said 3C3.
The gnome was silent.
3C3 didn’t take kindly to being snubbed by the statue and started to poke it with a stick, ‘jub jub.’ The statue rocked back, almost falling, and then snapped towards 3C3, falling in his direction. Gene saw the statue headed for his friend and tried to save him, but a pesky over-coat, a left over from yesterday’s laundry, enveloped him and put the would-be hero into utter darkness. Hector, within a nanosecond, had to decide which friend to save first—3C3 about to be crushed by a statue, or Gene being suffocated by old laundry. He did the only thing a true hero could do in his situation; he sat and ate the candy.
Hector, on the bottom, walked steadily through the bar door while 3C3, in the middle, pushed the door wider with his arms, Gene, the top, ducked his head in order to avoid hitting a low hanging beer special sign which declared ‘All Drafts 99 cents.’ The monstrosity in the long brown over-coat shambled through the bar. To the casual observer it looked like a man, with a pencil thin moustache, tiny hands and feet, with breasts.
The bar was empty save the bartender, a slim girl wearing a nylon top barely legal in most states, and a guy in the back wearing what appeared to be a pair of white gloves, no shirt, and rainbow suspenders attached to a thong; his shoes were military issue and black. The guy winked at head of the monstrosity and Gene, as matter of reflex, winked back.
Dave, the suspender wearer, came over to the bar as the 3 midgets tried to coordinate their efforts enough to sit down on the stool, but with the legs arguing with the middle, sitting was out of the question. The monstrosity stood there, swaying like a belly dancer, all parts moving independently, to no music at all.
‘So, what will it be?’ asked the blonde bartender.
‘Why don’t you serve them up a house special, Krissy? Put it on my tab.’ Dave said while brushing his hand across 3C3’s head. The hair felt a bit bristly; maybe a bad wig or some cheap Halloween mask Dave saw in the candy Store as a kid. ‘That is, if it is okay with you, Sweetie!’
Gene nodded his head while, under the coat, he smacked 3C3 before the midget could bite the man’s hand. The three of them stacked on top of each other reminded me of an old comedy. I would have told the boys it wouldn’t turn out well for them, but who am I but an old narrator. Nobody listens to me anymore.
‘My, with that trench coat on, you must be dressed as the midnight flasher! Do you really have nothing under that coat?’ Something in Dave’s voice betrayed a childhood trauma bubbling beneath his mascara.
Gene nodded and smiled at Dave again. The bartender put the drink down and 3C3’s hands picked it up, placing it somewhere near Gene’s face. Gene, forced to use the straw, began to suck the liquid slowly with some awkward pauses while looking at Dave.
‘Oh, the strong silent, type! I like that in a man! Still a few hours left of Halloween, do you want to come back to my place for a little trick?’ The word trick rolled off the tongue; a bit too practised—a wink from the mirror.
Hector peeked out from under the coat and spotted the restroom. The monstrosity’s feet started to move while the middle shoved another piece of candy into its own mouth. Gene started to answer Dave when he found himself being moved across the room. The look on Gene’s face was that of shock mixed with an urgent need to pee. The trio made their way into the bathroom; 3C3’s inability to push the door open the first time seemed to be a signal for Dave to follow them in.
The bathroom was a series of three urinals, two stalls, four sinks and one empty dispenser of soap. No towels or other methods of drying the hands were in sight. Graffiti covered the walls, most of it having to do with sporting scores and numbers to call in case of emergency. The monstrosity stopped near a urinal; Hector climbed up 3C3 as Gene held on the adjacent stall in order not to fall. With a fury of unzipping, both Hector and Gene started to pee. Double streams, one coming from the middle of the monster and one from where the chest should be, came flowing towards the urinal; it was at this moment that Dave worked up enough courage to enter.
‘I couldn’t wait either! We won’t be bothered in here…wait, am I seeing double or is that two penises I see!’
Gene looked over at Dave, ‘Qu’est-ce que cinq doigts disent à une face?’
Hector’s stream subsided.
Dave looked at Gene, ‘Oooh, a French man! Oooo la la!’ French men had soft hands and softer lips.
‘Qu’est-ce que cinq doigts disent à une face?’ repeated Gene.
‘I don’t know what you are saying, but it sure sounds hot!’
‘Slap!’ Yelled Gene as he stomped on Hector’s shoulder. Hector turned his body around and swung his hand at Dave’s face. The slap missed and the momentum spun the mid-section and head around. 3C3, off balance, fell to the ground. The other midgets followed. Sensing something was wrong, Dave tried to back out of the bathroom, but tripped on the bent over 3C3; the midget was hunched over throwing up sick from all the spinning and the candy in his stomach. Gene landed indignantly on his butt while Hector, on a complete sugar high, rushed Dave. Poor Dave was knocked to the ground, but Hector wasn’t done with him yet. The midget straddled Dave’s chest, and while one hand pulled the front of Dave’s hair, bucked and rode the man like a bull screaming, ‘Aye Papi! Arriba! Papi chulo!’
By the time the cops came in, there was one, very traumatized Dave; one broken sink; two smashed urinal cakes; and the place smelled like sugary piss. The smell lingered on Hector and 3C3 for days. The only one to escape semi-piss free was Gene, but not even Big Wayne knows what happened to him. For that, is another story.