Manager's a former bookie I did a bid with a couple lifetimes ago named Weasel. We call him that because he looks like one of those slick weasels from the cartoons: short, beady eyes, little hands, even the dumb brightly coloured suits. Today it's bright blue. "Jesus Christ, Weasel, you look like the sky took a shit."
"Up yours, Dumptruck." He grins and I can't help but hug the guy. Like a brother to me, the weird little bastard. "Good to see you, man! How you been?"
"Same 'ol. Just passin' through. Lookin' for a coffee, a nap and a happy ending. Is my room ready?"
Weasel hesitates, and his beady eyes bore a hole in the floor. He's hiding something. "Yeah, see -- Truck, here's the thing. Somebody was in that room last night, and we haven't cleaned up in there. It's a goddamn mess, man."
"Weez, my fuckin' car is cleaner than this dump. I'm bagged, man. Just gimme the key and deal with the mess after some shuteye."
He steps in front of me. He's afraid. "Truck, listen to me, man. I don't want any trouble. I am an honest businessman, and--"
"Cut the shit, Weasel." Here I go, all pleasant again. "I have had a really fucked up twenty-four hours. I need a shower, a nap and a coffee. One way or another, I'm going to my room. You can be my little spoon, or you can move your loony ass out of my way."
He swallows hard. "Truck, please..."
"I hate repeating myself, Weez." He moves. "Good deal." I grab the key and head to my room, tired of everything. Tired of the darkness, tired of the stink of sex and death and blood, and the relentless pulpy, chewing noise in my ears, those baby bird mouths opening and closing, bursting from my flesh like newborn hatchlings, desperate for sustenance.
The door's been broken into, and I can smell more death. There's a body in there, the darkness whispers. If it's already dead, we can feast.
'No,' I whisper, slowly pushing the door open with one hand, and pulling a knife from my jacket with the other. 'Nobody's feasting on a damn thing. I'm going to take a look at what the hell's in there, and then I'm gonna shower and nap, dead guy or not."
I walk into the room and it's a bloodbath. Some poor bastard's been stripped down, tied to the bed, and vivisected. I can see exposed organs and tissues, and even his heartbeat, though it's slow and faint. "Holy God," I barely notice whispering, "this guy's still alive."
I don't notice right away, but there's a message scrawled in blood above his head. His blood (they smell the same), but he didn't write it:
I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE HUNGRY, SO I LEFT YOU SOME TAKEOUT.
It takes me a minute to put it all together, but once I recognize the guy, I exhale in relief. "Hello, Sphincter."
She's playing with me. Forcing me to feed, making me want to. Making me crave the taste of terror and tendon and bone. Presenting me with a reward for chasing her -- one I can't resist, because the fucker was rude to me.
He's barely alive, but the baby birds under my flesh don't care. Stripping down to my boxers, I lie in the mess and let the darkness and its insane slurping, crunching and lapping take care of it. My mind connects Weasel's light blue suit with robin's egg blue (like baby fuckin' birds) and I lean over and puke on the floor.
'Thank you, my Goddess,', I whisper after finishing Sphincter off, showering and collapsing on the cleaner part of the bed.
"I am coming for you."
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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.
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