Splatterpunk's Not Dead Page 2

  He tapped the screen in effort to revive it, but it remained dead.

  A third and fourth ping quickly resonated.

  The police had brought guns, and now he was forward blind. He accelerated, pushing through the jungle of stalled cars. On the other screens he could see bodies fleeing their vehicles in a mad dash for the safety beyond the barrier, scrambling over and falling with relief into the detritus and brambles. They can go, he thought, with the knowing will of a kind god.

  He approached the bridge, slowing before he reached it. He thumbed more switches, checked the connections and then turned an unmarked dial implemented for his own design.

  A breath of flame burst up from a skyward facing nozzle on the roof, licking the railing with all the ferocity of a dragon’s tongue. He couldn’t see the results of his actions, but he heard the screams.

  Strangely, and for first time in a long while, he found himself hard. Not by way of arousal, but because of the coursing life in his veins finding its way into every thin corner of his being. He gripped it, half proud, half ashamed. It shouldn’t be. But it was.

  He let go of himself and opened a small front hatch, enabling him to see the way ahead, and pressed the accelerator.

  The road was clear enough for vehicles to manage U-turns without catastrophic incident. The traffic had all but vanished in the next mile, aside from a Volvo, with all four doors open, the interior devoid of life apart from a caged Alsatian spinning circles in a cage in the rear of the car.

  Being a compassionate man, he let the dog be and trundled onwards.

  Again, blue lights blazed ahead. He narrowed his gaze as a police car screamed down towards him. It stuck close to the hard shoulder as it approached, so he edged closer to intervene. In the last thirty feet, it diverted, pulling hard in the opposite direction and missing the ramp by less than a foot. He heard the tyres squeal as it braked hard behind him. He watched on the screen as it jolted to a stop.

  Without hesitation he grasped hold of the breaker control and reached the arm out toward the police car as he backed up towards it. The breaker pushed through the top edge of the bonnet and under the dash. The windscreen imploded. He raised the arm high and then swung over to the other side, stopping the rotation with a jolt. The car slipped off the end of the breaker and landed on the central barrier, bending and forming around the concrete.

  On the screen, a blurry body fell out from the passenger side, stumbling over the barrier and towards him. He jabbed down with the breaker, indenting the tarmac. The black-clad figure dodged the arm, rolled and ended up behind him. He watched as the hero climbed up to the main body.

  ‘It’s over fella, they’re blocking off the exits, come on out, okay? No more, yeah? Give it up.’ The cop was inches away.

  Inside, he turned a different nozzle. Flames jetted out from the base of the cab, creating a ring of fire. He heard the hero scream, cursing over the rising hiss. He pushed the accelerator, watching the rear video for the hero to fall onto the road.

  He remained unseen.

  He turned the valve again, letting the fire breathe out in hot, twisting plumes that trailed behind like broken fingers.

  He turned the wheel to and fro in an effort to dislodge his stowaway, to no avail. He straightened up and turned the valve off, braking sharp and throwing it into reverse. He braked again.

  Still the cop remained hidden.

  He pushed forward again. Aside from getting out and confronting his passenger, there wasn’t much he could do.

  He pushed on. Towards to the line of blue lights. Determined to break through them and carry on his crusade.

  He had a point to prove and he intended to make it known that he was pissed off. Life hadn’t been kind, so why should he show any kindness in return? After all he’d been through; wreaking revenge against strangers was the only compensation he could see as true justice, as if causing pain somehow detracted from suffering his own despair and anguish. He was blind to everything else.

  So far, it seemed that the therapy was working. He felt no guilt, no fear and zero regret at what he had done. He felt lighter, brighter, relieved even.

  They were meat, nothing more. Just things he was using to feel better. It wasn’t like he’d have to suffer guilt. If he had to answer to a god on the other side, he’d give him what for.

  On the rear camera, a dark figure flashed by, scuttling away and to the side of the road. He didn’t chase the shambling figure.

  Aside from his breath, silence filled the cab. His ears adjusted to the wave of sirens increasing. He looked out the front hatch, locking it a second later as the cars rushed towards him in a tsunami of twirling blue. They stopped, and bodies started to mill about.

  It was over. They had him. He could go back, but what was the point? This had to end at some point. He’d imagined an ending like this; traditional Hollywood with the supposed bad guy facing down against the police. Even though HE KNEW that he was the good guy and the victim, society, the law and the media wouldn’t see it like that. They’d understand he was a broken man, twisted by the loss of his family until he sought revenge against random strangers. That’s exactly what it was, but until they’d experienced what he felt, the agony of loss, there wasn’t any way that they’d understand. They’d remember him, he was sure of that.

  He reached down into his bag and screwed the top off the bottle of Merlot. It was a cheap brand, but he and his wife had enjoyed it as a personal favourite during their marriage. He hadn’t brought a glass, he didn’t feel a need for decorum during his last minutes. He hadn’t any witnesses to this. He was here to enjoy himself. He didn’t care if he dribbled.

  He looked at the photo on the console in front of him, smiling at his sun bathed family. He remembered that day, it had been a good one. The best.

  He revved the engine and started up a gear, towards the line of defence that was in place to stop him.

  Good Luck. I hope you win, because I’m on the last rung and my fingers are slipping. I wasn’t meant to win. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here, to stop me losing anymore, and the only way I could possibly win would probably destroy the universe it’s so damned unnatural. I can’t take any more so I need you to take this away from me before I do anymore damage. You need to take the controls away because I’ll carry on until I’m grinding metal. Now I think I’ve done enough and I could go on, but I’m tired. I’ve proved my point and I’m sick of it all. I’ve had my fun.

  He opened the hatch. Ahead, he saw expectant tense faces peer from behind police cars. They’d assembled a steep ramp, meant to halt his progress. It didn’t matter. He leant down and twisted the nozzle of the gas canister, unclipping the hose so it filled the cab. Beneath the seat he’d cannibalised several boxes of fireworks, emptying their contents into cardboard boxes filled with nails and screws. It was crude, but he hoped it would do the trick. The three petrol canisters should help it along as well.

  Lifting the bottle, he took a hearty glug, crimson dribbling down from the corner of his wet smile as a perverse delirium took over. He was crying as he picked up the picture of his family, wondering if he’d made the wrong choice, but knowing full well that it was too late. How could he come back from this? How could anyone?

  He was sliding, yet his foot was pushed down on the accelerator with a self-destructive vehemence.

  The stern faces behind the roadblock got closer and the rapid ting ting of bullets on the armour played sweet music to his ears.

  He dropped the bottle of merlot and kissed the picture as he hit the faux incline. The gas brought nausea and churned the wine in his food free stomach making him feel sicker than he already was.

  It was over. Here it comes.

  He’d haunt this road, he was sure of it.

  They’d remember him.

  He’d be more than just another bunch of flowers by the road.

  High Fashion

  Robert Essig

  Jordan rubbed his eyes like he was trying to push th
em into his skull.

  Tension headache.

  No, stress headache.

  Samantha Waite—fashion guru, founder of Waite Fashion—rolled her eyes. “Look, Jordy, I know you don’t like hearing this, but I don’t mince words. Your designs are promising, but they’re just not up to snuff. Fashion is as changing as an ocean tide. You have to keep up with it or it’ll wash you away. I really don’t want to see you lose, Jordy. You have potential, but....”

  “I know, I know, there’s always a big but.” Jordan sighed, irritated with the lashing she was handing him.

  Samantha cringed. “You need to clean yourself up. You reek like a distillery, you know that?”

  “Long night.”

  “It’s always something, isn’t it?”

  “Look, Sam, you know my designs are good. I’ve won awards. My outfits have graced the catwalk and the red carpet.”

  “Yeah, that was two years ago. Waite Fashion did good by you back then. Made me proud to be your mentor, but lately you’re on a downward spiral. I’m beginning to wonder if you still have it. These designs—” she grabbed a small stack of papers with dresses sketched in colored pencil. “They’re uninspired shit.”

  Jordan took a deep breath.

  “Don’t you sigh again,” Samantha said. “You sound like a fucking hydraulic press.”

  He rolled his eyes instead.

  “Look,” Samantha said, “I’m giving you a month.”

  “What?”

  “You work better under pressure. Maybe you should think about how you came up with those explosive designs that graced my line two years ago. I understand that artistic creativity can strike at different times for different reasons, but you have to know how to harness it. If you want to be a success in this business, then you had better learn how to produce.”

  Another young woman, whose father was the head of some film company or another, came up and asked Samantha a question. The girl was maybe twenty years old and because of her father’s connections she would likely become something by default. Made Jordan sick.

  Samantha was finished with him, at least for now. He liked her no nonsense approach to life in general, but being on the receiving end of her wrath was a drag. She was well respected. That she had taken him in when he was a stupid teenager with a dream had been a blessing, and perhaps he’d taken it too far. Maybe he had been leeching off of her all this time, thinking he was something when he was actually nothing.

  Jordan slinked out of the building with the sick feeling that all eyes were on him and that everybody knew he’d been given an ultimatum. He stepped outside and wondered which bars were open at eight in the morning. He was in no mood for going home and sulking over his sketchbooks. He liked a human canvas, not a mannequin, and he certainly did not like to sketch as so many other designers do.

  After hailing a taxi, Jordan headed across town where he could maybe score some coke or even meth if it came to that. He’d found drugs to be the solution to just about everything, and when he thought about where his life had been a few years ago when he dreamed up those, how did Samantha say it, “explosive” designs, he knew one thing: he’d been knee deep in nose candy and clubbing like an eighteen year old American in Tijuana.

  After dropping in on a reliable dealer who hooked him up with a dope bag for a blowjob, Jordan pulled a couple rails into his nostrils and headed back to his place where he spent the rest of the day trying to make the coke last into the night. He came up with another series of uninspired sketches, even used a mannequin, but felt more like stabbing his eyes with pins than using them to pin back material.

  Night fell just as he finished his dope. Had he any money he would have bought more. He was sweaty, his eyes burned, and he experienced hot flashes followed by cool sensations. The apartment was getting stuffy.

  After a shower and shave, Jordan headed to a club he used to frequent. Hadn’t been there since he’d been trying to clean his act up, and that had subsequently led to a great bout of depression. He would rather sit at home with a gallon of vodka and some cranberry juice than show his face in public. He had this crazy notion that people would recognize him as the has-been who had a wonderful clothing line once upon a time.

  Samantha’s words had haunted him all day. He tended to ignore her when she chewed him out about his lifestyle or his drinking, but there was one thing she said that stuck with him. She’d mentioned something about him going back to where he’d been when he came up with his greatest designs. He’d racked his mind and found that the months had all blended together in an intoxicating soup of pharmaceuticals, booze, and loose men. Back then he was a man about town, cavorting around the clubs and taking names. He was confident, self-assured, and he believed in what he was doing. Nowadays he tried to believe, tried to convince himself that he had what it took to be a fashion mogul, but truth is he felt he lost whatever it was that he’d had. It must have been luck.

  Samantha once told him that luck was a fallacy. She said you either have it or you don’t and Jordan believed that.

  The coke gave him confidence. Once he finagled his way into the club, he managed to talk his way into a few pills and some drinks. He knew all the regulars, and most of them liked him, were glad to see him after his lengthy absence.

  Especially Kyle Knotts.

  At first glance, Jordan wanted nothing to do with Kyle. They’d had a fling some time ago. About as serious a relationship as Jordan had ever been in. It ended badly and he was still bitter, but pills coursed through his veins and some guy offered him some special K and damn that stuff was special all right. Went right to Jordan’s brain. He saw trails like oil slicks dancing before him. People exuded bright auras like glimmering fairies. This place—in his mind, not physically—was one he’d not been to in quite some time, and it felt good. It felt damn good.

  For an instant, like an old-fashioned bulb-flash camera, he was stunned into sobriety. Kyle had a smile on his face like he was the most important guy in the room, like he had been asked to be there for the sake of his fans, if ever he had fans. More importantly, he looked absolutely fabulous. Not the clothes, not even the kooky hairdo, but his body.

  A thumping dance beat replaced the temporary brilliance of heavenly trumpets that cascaded over Jordan’s mind. Poison coursed through his veins and for a moment he felt like a zombie. It was as if his depression and self-loathing had culminated with the drugs into some kind of negative aura.

  Kyle looked up and their eyes met. Kyle’s smile didn’t falter, and though Jordan would have liked to say the same, he knew the look on his face was either that of the stoned idiot who didn’t know how to ride the high, or the depressed fool he felt deep within.

  Or maybe not.

  Kyle waded through the crowd of sweaty, eager dancing bodies, eyes looking up at Jordan’s as if claiming his prize, making sure it didn’t get away. Jordan didn’t move. He just stared at this man he once loved. Was it true love? Was it from deep within? He wasn’t sure, but Kyle always had an air of self-assuredness to him. Something, even when his spring line was hot, Jordan found difficult to achieve.

  “Haven’t seen you here in a while,” Kyle said.

  Jordan felt silly, like a schoolboy faced with his first crush. His mouth was dry (probably from the dope), and his senses dulled to the point of your average inbred hillbilly.

  “I’ve been working,” Jordan said.

  “Oh, really. Your latest line?”

  Did Jordan detect a morsel of condescension?

  What came out of his mouth next was something that must have been fueled by everything he’d been going through matched with all of the mind-altering substances he’d been gorging himself on. In Kyle’s aura he saw a mirror, and he talked as if he were making up conversation, saying the things he wanted to say without abandon.

  “I am working on my new line, as a matter of fact.” He smiled big and bright. Like a reflection. “Samantha Waite wants some designs for her fall collection. Thing is, I’ve been trying t
o dip into the pool of inspiration I had been wading in when I came up with those astonishing trends a few years back. You remember, right?”

  Kyle, body grooving to the beat, nodded. “Yeah, I remember. But I haven’t seen your name on anything since.”

  Jordan rolled his tongue across his lips like Cher and said, “Well you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Thing is, I need that inspiration again. You know what that inspiration is?”

  “Crystal meth, a bathtub of Jell-o, and two tranny hookers?”

  Jordan laughed like he’d heard the best joke in the world and then cut to the chase in all the seriousness of a doctor reporting the untimely death of a loved one. “Funny, but no, the inspiration I’m talking about is you.”

  This took Kyle aback. For the first time in this conversation, the first they’d shared since breaking up almost two years ago, Kyle looked like he was lost for words.

  “Come to my place?” Jordan asked.

  #

  Kyle had the body of a model. He was tall and lanky, so thin you assumed that whenever he went to the bathroom he was purging his last meal. He’d come to Jordan’s apartment with the obvious desire for sex, considering the bulge showing in his underwear, however Jordan’s lust at this moment was for fashion.

  “Come on, Jordy, I don’t want to wear that.”

  An overwhelming feeling of rejection smacked Jordan in the face. He stood there holding the very bra Kyle had cavorted around in back when they were an item—black with white polka dots—the one that gave him the appearance of a small bust, which was the precise touch needed to fill out Jordan’s frantic designs, the ones that appeared in Samantha’s fall line and earned him an article in Cosmo.

  “Jeez, don’t take it so hard,” Kyle said. “I’m just not into that anymore. I guess you didn’t hear, but I decided not to take the estrogen and I obviously haven’t gone through with the operation.”

  “But...” Jordan was lost for words. His mind was whipping around like a candy wrapper caught in a dust storm. He shook, trembled, fought to keep his emotions in check. “Just once. Just for tonight. You know my motto: Live fast, die young, leave an exquisite corpse.”