mirror of https://github.com/nealey/Horrors2
137 lines
4.5 KiB
TeX
137 lines
4.5 KiB
TeX
\chapauth{Akbar}
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\chapter{Wicked Workout}
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Luke Bavarious was on the prowl. Earlier that night, the detective
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had received notice from the chief that some unidentified killer
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was stalking the Upper East Side. Already five had been found dead.
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Each was murdered in the same gruesome fashion: arms hyperextended,
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hair ripped out to the follicle, legs bowed at the knees as if the
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ligaments were carefully torn, and finally, a smile carved across
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the face wide enough to completely cover the corpse in its own
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liquid lifeforce.
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{\em What kind of goddamn maniac are we dealing with here? The
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Joker?} Bavarious thinks to himself as he carefully primes his
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trusty Baretta, referencing the recent Batman film. He tenderly
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fingers the safety. He steps out of his Ford Pinto into the cool
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New York night.
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He stalks the sidewalks seeing nothing but the steam rising out of
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the sewers onto the dim streets. His eyes are optic daggers,
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piercing into the darkness. His muscles are taut, ready to unleash
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the leaden payload of his sidearm into villainous flesh. He sees
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the telltale trail of fresh blood on the pavement.
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{\em It's on.}
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As he follows the sanguine highway into the alley behind a 24-Hour
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Fitness, he begins to hear a slow pounding in the night air. Slowly
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but surely, it grows louder and louder as he approaches the
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wellspring of the molten vein-magma. Before, it was just a
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thumping. Now, however, it is more recognizable: a beat. A melody.
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A hot sensation rushes through Bavarious' body.
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``Dance music!'' he ejaculates softly as he creeps to the
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source: a partially-open doorway flooding the shadowy alleyway with
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light. He nudges the door with his foot and peers into the hell
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below. Bodies! Dozens of them. Strung up by the arms on chains
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attached to huge meathooks, their feet barely reaching the ground.
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The bodies were jerked hardily up and down to the cadence of the
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music. Their arms strained against the tension. Their legs slapped
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against the concrete floor over and over, as if horrifically
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tapping along to the beat. The battered limbs heaved droplets of
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blood and pulverized bone into the air. In front of them all was a
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horrid taskmaster.
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``Up and kick and down and step and up and kick
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and{\ldots} {\bf remember to smile!}''
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Bavarious could only see the back of the man, but he was already
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repulsed to the point of vomiting. Dressed only in a red jersey,
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dolphin shorts, and running shoes, the short man runs to and fro in
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front of his victims, only a handful of which that were still
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conscious or alive. The tormentor's bouffant hair bounces as
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he taunts the wounded. The killer then takes out a wicked curve
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blade out of his shorts and carves open a pleading woman's
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face, laughing as he watches her throw up her fluid
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existence.
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{\em What the hell is this?} Bavarious thinks as he makes sure
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that his Baretta is locked and loaded, regurgitated chicken dinner
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still spewing out of his mouth. Jumping up, he yells out:
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``{\bf Freeze! This is detective Bavarious of the NYPD! I have a
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Baretta locked onto your head and I will fire if you do not
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comply}!''
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The demon in front of him does not. Instead, he leaps otherwordly
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to the right, launching his disgusting body as approximately
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fifty-five miles per hour. Bavarious reacts with equal speed,
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letting loose with half a score of death slugs. All of them hit as
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the swiss-cheesed body hits the floor with a thud. Bavarious races
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up to confirm his kill, wiping away the now-crusty sick on his
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chin.
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Rather than a cadaver, however, he sees only the man, still facing
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away from him. Still on his feet. Still alive. Filled with dread,
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Bavarious unloads another barrage of rounds from his only true
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friend, the Baretta he keeps on his hip. The bullets zip through
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the gym teacher from hell as if nothing was there. In their wake,
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they leave gaping holes that eject a clear liquid. The vitreous
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material tumbles out of the entry wounds like a rain. A shower of
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translucent gymnasts somersaulting through the air. The gashes
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slowly close and leave no trace of their former existence, even in
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the man's clothing.
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``{\bf What the hell are you}?!'' the detective screams as he
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discharges the rest of his lethal cargo, again to no avail. The man
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finally slowly begins to turn around, revealing his bloated
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face.
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``Richard{\ldots}Simmons{\ldots}?'' Bavarious murmurs
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into the air, putrid with aerosolized human body parts.
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``No,'' the man says as he fully presents himself, and
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then rips off his face revealing another underneath. It is an oddly
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familiar visage. ``I'm you.''
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Both Luke Bavariouses vomit. Tears.
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