buzzstoryarchive

The walls of the dungeon were made of stone with years of mildew and fungus growing between each crack and crevasse. An opening in the ceiling blocked by a mesh of bars revealed the lonely moon in a dark sea of vast emptiness. No stars were out that night, only the bright moon showing through a light cover of clouds. The room was circular, twenty feet around and fifty feet up. Long chain shackles hung down from high at five-foot intervals. There were five in all. It had rained earlier that night so droplets of water fell from above, wetting the floor and walls and emptying into a small drain in the middle of the room. A large rusty iron door with a small plate covering a peephole was the only exit. Opposite the door, hanging listlessly two feet above the floor was the super hero known as The Jack Hammer. Hammer was a Huge man with gigantic fore arms and strong, muscular legs. His large shackled wrists bled from the cuffs boring into his skin. His uniform was all skin-tight black spandex with a picture of a war hammer on his chest. It now hung off his body torn and wasted. His exposed right arm showcased an elaborate tattoo of a nude woman stretching out her arms over her head. Her beautiful face gleamed in the moonlight. Her hands started at the base of his shoulder, her bare feet now bled under his shackle wrist. The way she was positioned made her look like she was bending over when he bent his elbow. The jackhammer hung there semi-conscious, waiting for his archenemy The Black Wasp to return. Wasp was a small, thin man with a large misshapen head that shook uncontrollably from years of substance abuse. He wore sweat pants, a muscle shirt that draped over his scrawny mid section, a long trench coat and a thin black mask over his eyes. A long scar ran from the center of his thin lips all the way to the lobe of his left ear. He got that memento from the last time the two of them had crossed paths.
The rusted iron door squawked open and slammed againsed the wall with a thud. Black Wasp crept across the room and looked up at The Jack Hammer with a contemptuous and gleeful look in his eyes. He had finally got him right where he wanted him. After ten long years of planning and scheming, botched attempts and foiled planes, he had him. He began to laugh in a high pitched cackle that echoed in the round room. He ran his fingers along the broad chin of his rival. He had to really stretch his arms to do so.
�Wake up Hammer.� He whispered. �Wake up�� He bunched up his fingers into a fist and wholoped him right in the nuts. Jackhammer�s eyes bugged out in sudden realization. Pain screamed out from his crotch, begging to be held for comfort. Unable to move his arms, he just stared teary eyed at his assailant.
�There you are sunshine! Boy, this has been quite an eventful day for both of us, hasn�t it?� He bellowed, cackling and clapping his hands.
�You�ll never get away with this Wasp,� Hammer said. His voice was gritty and shaky.
�Oh, but I have. I already have. I know who you really are now Hammer�or should I say Clarence Jones. Clarence�Clarence. What kind of pussy name is that for a
super hero, I wonder? I would have thought that it would be Butch or something like that. What ever it is or would be is of no consequence. Your name is mud now.� He reached up to Hammer�s face and slapped it playfully. Hammer jerked his head back with every strike, bumping his head on the wall. �Much has happened since that anvil dropped on your head this afternoon. Very much indeed.�
�Wha�what have you done Wasp?� He stuttered a little, the pain in his head (and crotch) was excruciating.
�Well�� He looked off into space for a moment, �For starters�I met your wife and child. We had an awfully good time together. She had this perfume that-�
�What did you do to them!� He screamed, head ach be damned.
�After your wife let me into your house with your child upstairs I-� dididi dididi dididi �Excuse me for a moment.� His hand disappeared into his trench coat pocket and produced a cell phone that rang in threes. Didididi didididi didididi.
�Hello�Yes it is�� Wasp turned around and began to walk around the room, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone. Hammer saw this as his opportunity to try to break loose. He shifted his (No� I already have a subscription to Gene Simmons Tongue Magazine�) wrists in circles, trying to pry the shackles open. He felt blood beginning to flow free from his head wound (Yes�thanks anyway, but like I said, I already have a subscription) from all the straining. The Black Wasp turned back to The Jackhammer and walked toward him. The phone was put back blindly into his coat pocket. Hammer stopped moving again. Fresh blood ran down his forehead and pooled at the tip of his nose, dripping slowly to the floor.
�Where was I�OH YES!� Wasp said when the lightning strike of memory hit him. �After she let me in I-� didididi didididi didididi. He let out a sigh and put up a finger to Hammer. �Just a moment please.� He said putting the other hand back into his coat and bringing the phone back out. Didididi didididi. �Hello�Yes�� Wasp turned his back and paced around the room in tight circles. Hammer clenched his hands into fists again, trying to break free. The chains clanged loudly high above them. Black Wasp didn�t seem to notice it at all. The skin on his wrists (No, I�m sorry�I don�t want to change my long distance server�) sliced open with every flex and turn. (This is the fourth time in two days you people have called me�I want my name taken off your list) The phone shut off with a bleep. Hammer stopped fighting again.
�Now,� Black Wasp continued, �Your wife is certainly a beauty. I�ve noticed that your tattooed her on your arm. She died well, I want you too know that. So did your��didididi didididi didididi. �Shit!� he barked under his breath. His phone bursted out from his coat. In one move he raised his hand to his mouth turned on the phone and answered.
�WHAT! Oh, sorry ma�no ma�maaaaa.� He said the last word like a spoiled eight year old, raising his pitch a little at the end. Hammer once again clenched and turned his fists when the Black Wasp turned to (Yes ma�I�LL BRING SOME MILK WITH ME WHEN I COME HOME TONIGHT�) pace. Hammer felt the steel cuff
holding his right arm give immediately this time. The empty shackle clanged againsed the wall, empty. Wasp was too busy arguing with his mother to notice. He hung there by one arm for only (No ma�I�m not seeing any secret woman�no I�m not going to put you in a home ma�MAAAAAA�) a moment, gathering the strength to reach up and free his other arm. He took a deep breath and raised his tattooed arm up struggling to keep from groaning with pain. His fingers jammed under the cuff and snapped it open with some effort. The Jack Hammer fell to the floor with a thud. Black Wasp was yelling so loud at the phone that he didn�t see or hear him. Hammer took the opportunity of not being noticed to rest up a little before he (Look ma, I�m real busy right now, I�ll talk to you when I get home tonight�m...m�ma) tried to overtake him. What did he do to my wife, he thought. Black Wasp had just admitted to killing my wife and daughter. What had this psycho done? Jackhammer had planned to get the city to send him away to some maximum-security prison for the rest of his life. That�s where guys like that deserve to be. Locked up for life, taking it up the ass by some huge prison queen. And with the tiny frame this guy had, he would always be someone�s bitch.
�But he attacked me personally.� He muttered to himself. �He went for my wife and daughter. Two fragile human beings who (I got to go ma�yes ma�buh-by) did nothing to him, except maybe love his enemy.�
As the Black Wasp turned, he was thrusted againsed the wall of the dungeon. Hammer managed regained enough strength to lung at him. His breastbone cracked open under the pressure of Hammer�s shoulder. Wasp clung to the wet stony wall and panted with his eyes clenched tightly. The pain was all consuming. Both super hero and super villain laid askew on the drenched, gritty floor. Jackhammer crawled closer to his nemesis, the muscles in his large arms contorting and twisting. The gorgeous woman on
his arm bending over and standing up with every movement. He grappled the Black Wasp�s neck, tightly clawing his flesh.
�What did you do to her,� He grunted between coughs.
�Hehehe, I did her like she wanted me to. Like you never could.� The grip on his neck tightened. The blood flow to his brain stopped under the Hammer�s meat hooks. Wasp couldn�t even let out a groan.
�Why did you have to kill them BOTH! What did Jenny to deserve death? What kind of psycho kills a four-year-old girl?�
�She�saw�me.� Black Wasp croaked. He gasped for air with no luck. The world that the Black Wasp was living in began to grow dark around him. �I�couldn�t�have�any�witnesses.� His eyes bugged out like the way a wasp�s does. Red-hot anger in the Hammer�s head, no, in his entire being raged out in a hard forced twist of his bloody wrist. The Black Wasp�s neck broke in a loud SNAP that bounced off the walls for what seemed like an eternity.
�Now whose name is mud, asshole?� He muttered. He laid on the floor next to the dead corps of his archenemy for only a few minutes, enough time to compose himself before he attempted to get to a phone and call the police to check on his family. He laid
there letting the cool droplets of water hit his hot face. Laid there watching the moon hover in space over the world. Laid there praying that his wife would be at home right now reading �Pinocchio� or �Cinderella� to his young daughter and not laying in a pool of blood and semen. The super hero known as The Jackhammer, after the fight of his life, finally got up of the cold, wet floor in a clumsy stagger. He turned toward the door and began to walk when�didididi didididi didididi. He turned back around and looked at the endless stare in the Black Wasp�s eyes.
�You gonna get that?� He asked. �Naw, s�pose not.� He bent down and rummaged through his coat pockets until (didididi didididi didididi) he found the phone that rings in threes. He pushed the pick-up button.
�Hello?�
�Hello, Mr. Stacey?� The voice on the other end asked. (Stacey�What kind of Pussy name is that for a super villain?)
�Yes.�
�Hi, Mr. Stacey, this is Gary with AT&T, how are you today sir?�
�I�m Fine, and you?�
�I�m wonderful sir. The reason I�m calling today is because we at AT&T feel that we can better serve your long distance needs better than your current provider. Are you interested in changing over to us sir?�
�You want my business, huh?
�Yes sir�is that a yes, sir?�
�No, that�s a fuck off.� He pushed the power button, cutting off the salesman with a BLEEP. He pressed the button again and waited for a dial tone. Click, click, buzzzzzzzz. He dialed 911 and reported a possible double homicide at 55 Winter Street. He then limped out of his prison and waited to see if his prayers had been answered.

The End

Please keep in mind that in the process of paisting and cutting the stories from its original text to what is below, all indents and new paragraphs are gone. With that in mind, please enjoy!

      The bright yellow ball glowed under the lamps of the display case. It was a hilarious sight to see. A small face with a maniacal smile and sharp eyes with a mad man�s glare stared at the bottom of an old cheap cash register from his neatly wrapped packaging. Its pupil raged a deep red color of hate and hinted a consuming glee at me as I pointed and snorted a little laugh. I ran my hand through my hair and looked back to Joe who seemed to share my enthusiasm.
     �Yea, I just got those in yesterday.� he said, �Ordered the damn thing two months ago. Bastards over there always take forever. One time I ordered some action figures,� He continued, now waving a finger at the catalogue marked Marshall Toys, �Bastards took ten weeks to deliver!� I took one more look at it and began to laugh again.
    �I have never seen anything like this before! How much do you want for that? I gotta have it!� I wiped the tears rolling down my cheek with one slow motion.
     �It�s going for $5.49, but for you kev�. three bucks.�
I instantly opened my wallet and thumbed two singles, licked my thumb and grabbed the third. �May is gonna love this.� I handed over my money and closed my wallet, shoving it quickly into my back left pocket. Joe pushed a few buttons on the cash register. The door opened with a loud JANGGGG! He stuffed the money in and slammed the drawer closed. Joe took out a key from the breast pocket of his shirt and used it to unlock the display case in front of him.
     �What kindda warranty do I get with this?� I asked him, knowing what his answer would be.
     �Warranty?� Here it comes. �I got your friggin� warranty right here!� I knew it. He slid the red and blue box out from the top shelf and placed it into my hand. I took a closer look at the face I had seen in the display without the hard light beating down on it.
     �Thanks a lot Joe.� I said. �I�ll see you in a couple of weeks. When can I expect the next Spider-man to be in? The third?
     �You know when it�ll be in, dick!� He replied. I laughed and waved as I opened the door and left Zimmies Comics.
It had been a hot and very humid day in Lewiston that day. Sweat quickly formed on my forehead and on the edge of my upper lip. Passersby looked at me with bewilderment as I walked up the street to my car with a smile and bouts of laughter. Screw�em, I know why.

�What the hell did that cost you, Kevin?� May asked with a smile on her face when I put the car in park. She often didn�t share my enthusiasm about some of the crap I tend to bring home, but I could tell on her face that she thought this was kind of Amusing.
     �Joe sold it to me for only $3.00. I got a pretty good deal! It was priced at five.� I told her.
     �FIVE DOLLARS FOR AN ANTENNA HEAD?� She bellowed. I wiped some of the sweat off of my face and chuckled at her with glee.
     �The label on the box said his name is Alfi, but I decided to call him Icabod, like the character in the Legend of sleepy hollow. We both stood there in our driveway looking at the yellow ball of Styrofoam that sat on the tip of my stereo antenna, which was looking back at us with his hateful stare.
     �Well,� She began, �At least we know where �ol Mr. Crane�s head went to.� I burst out with mad laughter, snorting and all.
     �Ayah! It was neatly packaged and licensed by Marshall Toys!�
I had to go to Portland later that afternoon for some business. May wanted to come with me but I just had too much to do afterward, so I went alone. Besides, I enjoy my trips to Portland alone. Gives me a chance to go to the Maine Mall and window shop at some of the stores that I like to go to, not some stupid health store with herbal remedies or shampoo made from kelp or cat shit or what ever the hell they use in that stuff.
      I pulled out on to the Maine turnpike and set the cruise control at 70 MPH. One car drove up along side me to give me a thumb up with a large smile, pointing to the rear of the car. I acknowledged him and felt another smile of my own popping up. Bruce Dickinson was screaming about the number of the beast on �Megatrends in Brutality�, a radio show at WRBC, the Bates College station. I sang along with my raspy tone-deaf voice. �6-66, the number of the beeeaast. Sacrifice, It�s going��Kevin. I stopped singing. The song went on, but I thought I heard my name.
     �Nice going Psycho, you left the mic on!� I squawked and began to sing along with Iron Maiden again. �This can�t go on, I must inform the law. Can this��Kevin. The music stopped and this time I did hear my name. Loud and clear.
      Exit 12 into Auburn passed by my window in a haze as my car continued down I 95 at 70 MPH. I wasn�t looking at that though. My eyes shifted from road to radio and back again. My heart pumped a little harder in my chest. I don�t know why. I couldn�t have heard my name. Or could I?
    �KEVIN! KEVIN!� I heard screaming at me from my speakers. The sweat that had always been there was now streaming in droplets around the curves of my steering wheel.
     �What� I whispered, not expecting any answer. But I got one. The voice was as raspy as mine was when I tried to belt out that Iron Maiden tune. There was something in it that sounded mad. Crazy.
     �Kevin, I�m going to kill you, Kevin!� the voice grunted. This made my fear triple in size. My heart was now slamming in my chest cavity like an ape in a cage.
     �I must be losing it.� I muttered. �Who the hell is that?� I asked, still not expecting to hear a reply. I looked around to see if anyone was driving past me as I sat there yelling at my stereo.
     �Look behind you, Kevin.� The radio voice said. I raised my brow and looked out the rearview mirror. All I saw was the centerline trailing behind me in
wavy, uneven strips. I wiped my sweaty palms on my pant leg and looked back at the stereo.
     �What the hell am I looking for?� I asked. There was a short pause before there was any answer.
     �Don�t look out your mirror asshole. You can�t see me out your mirror.� There was a fit of laughter that nearly made me wet myself. It was a laugh like I�ve never heard before, if it could be called a laugh. Sounded more like an outboard motor running out of gas.
     �Turn around and look out your window.� It instructed, no�demanded. I slowly shifted in my seat and turned my head to look out my rear window. My eyes, blurry with sweat slowly focused to see that Icabod, who had previously been facing the back of my car, was now staring in at me.
     �There you are little piggy.� It said. There was another fit of laughter from the radio. �You see me don�t you. YOU�RE NOT LAUGHING AT ME NOW, ARE YOU!!� It roared. Startled, I quickly shot my face forward as the car swerved into the rumble strip. My lap soaked in sweat.
     �That�s right, your not smiling now, are you? You bought me as a joke. You showed me off as some kind of trophy to your
wife. A symbol of your sense of humor. You look in my eyes and see a party favor! LOOK AT ME, KEVIN! LETS SEE HOW FUNNY I AM NOW!�
I couldn�t do it. I had never been so scared� or pissed. I felt my face growing red with anger. Maybe it was because of my fright. Maybe it was because of the unruly heat, which was beating upon my sweat-drenched body.
     �I�m going to fucking kill you and your wife for laughing at me! I�m going to bite a hole in her neck and relish every drop of her blood that runs down my chin! How does she taste, Kevin? You would know, wouldn�t you?� Icabod said with every other word accented with the sound of him trying not to burst out with laughter at me. I felt my anger run over the edges of my sanity as I began to scream at the stereo at the top of my lungs.      �How the hell do you expect to kill me or my wife, huh? You�re a painted Styrofoam ball with a radio antenna shoved up your ass! Tell me. I�d really like to know!� I got no answer from him. I shifted in my seat and turned back to him again and yelled, �TELL ME MOTHER FUCKER!� Still no answer. I stared into those deep red eyes with the same contempt that it glared back at me. I wanted to know what was going on in that brain of his. Does he even have a brain? I wondered. I didn�t take my eyes of his. �Why don�t you tell me?� I asked
     �Why don�t you pay attention to where you�re driving.� He said calmly. Before I even got my head fully turned around I felt the rumble strip under my tires like a cheese grater, shredding at my Good Years. I turned just in time to see the
edge of a guardrail ripping off my front bumper and sending my �93 Oldsmobile flipping into the air. Everything thing went black.

I opened my eyes to the sight of May leaning over me in a rage of tears. I tried to move my legs, with no luck.
    �Oh my god, Kevin!� she screeched as she noticed that my eyes were open.
     �What happened?� I asked. My mouth moved, but no words came out. My throat felt like it was filled with steel wool. But May seemed to know what I wanted to say. She usually does.
     �You were in an accident, honey. They told me that you should be all right, but your legs are pretty bad off.� She told me. I thought about it for a moment, but for only a moment, I was far too tired to concentrate on much of anything but the dryness of my mouth.
      �Water.� I mouthed. She understood. May got up and made her way out of my room and into the bathroom to get me some water.

      I blacked out for a time. How long I don�t know. No May. No water. I must have been out for a while. I strained to look up at my feet. A fresh stream of urine let loose from me as I looked at the sheet just above my toes. Icabod sat there with his menacing smile, jetting out his sharp rows of meat cleavers. He no longer looked
like a painted ball of Styrofoam. I saw hell in his eyes and a face plastered in dry blood.
     �You never told me how she tasted, Kev. But I know now, don�t I?� He crooned. I looked over to where I had seen May go for my water. A pool of blood ran in streams from under the door. I looked back to Icabod and began to cry soundlessly.
     �Your not laughing anymore, are you?� he asked as he began to roll forward. A slosh of blood had congealed in the hole where my radio antenna had once been.

                                                                 The End

Balls to the Wall

Death was in the air�quite literally. The last of the Saturday night concert attendees ambled out of the Civic Center parking lot like a slow drip. The Halloween show�s headliner was none other than the dark and ominous, Satanist-driven death metal band, Lusifer�s Lust, who, along with their opening bands, Lascivious, and Kradle of Kontempt, sent the sold-out crowd home with smiles on their faces and a ringing in their ears that would stay with them for the next four days.
     One by one the cars emptied out into the street like blood cells from a tapped vein till only a few lingering vestiges remained scattered here and there in the dirt-choked lot. In the vehicles that remained, the tired occupants polished off dented cans of Budweiser and smoked the last of their three-dollar hocus-pocus skunkweed joints, all tuned to the same radio program�Megatrends in Brutality with The Neiborhood Psycho on the Bates College radio station, WRBC. What else better to finish off the sacred holiday with?
    The Neiborhood Psycho sat on a cheap, decade-old swivel chair that squeaked incessantly when put in motion. He stood about 6 foot 5 in the small studio and frequently had to stoop down in order not to bang his head into a bothersome sprinkler spigot. Long black hair tied into a loose ponytail fell listlessly down the back of his shirt, which read �FUCK THE PMRC�. His face had strong features; heavy brows, dark eyes of indistinguishable color, square chin and the mouth of a mackerel.
      The song ended and The Neiborhood Psycho flipped up the �ON AIR� switch and began his commentary with his patented deep, gruff voice that made him sound like he hadn�t slept in a week.
He briefly cleared his watery, phlegm-clogged throat, then�
     �From their latest album, Killing For A Living, that was the extremely vicious band �The Insolent� with �Molotov Mouthwash� right here on 91.5 F.M. WRBC in Lewiston. As always, it�s the Psycho here with every thing that makes your ears bleed, makes your dog howl and drives the unabashed, the uninhibited, the unrefined and the undesirable to perform vile acts of perversity and deviant behavior, it�s Megatrends in Brutality.� He spoke fast and furious as if he thought that if he didn�t say it all at that moment he may never.
�It�s rip your face open and lick the crimson, shredded flesh death music for the masses and it�s only right here on the west end of your radio dial.� He paused for a moment to stab his throat with a quick gulp of orange slushy from a black squirt bottle.
     �Before �The Insolent� we had, �Never Get Out Alive� from local boys, �Smoke Box�; and starting us off this beautifully creepy hour of the witch was the classic track, �I�ve Got A Fist Full Of Dollars (You�ve Got A Mouth Full Of Cock)� from �Hate Runner�. I always enjoy beginning our weekly trip into the depths of Hell with the cryptic classics.� He said with a feeling of nostalgia.
�It�s now fifteen past midnight and I just got word from our pals, The Temple Street Cult of Aggression, that the long awaited �Lusifer�s Lust� show just ended with a bang. And by bang I mean enough pyro to take down a small country. Singer, Dirk Gravedigger, I hear, hit himself in the face so hard with his bass when he did the ol� twirl the instrument around the neck maneuver, that he pulled out two of his teeth right there on stage! My friends, that is B-R-U-T-A-L! That is I-N-S-A-N-E! Above all�that is M-E-T-A-L�Mmmmetallllll!� Psycho said the last with a deep, guttural growl.
     �I am whole-heartedly disappointed for not being able to attend that show.   I�m sure that it was a show�nay, event�that we few children of the night in this depressingly cheery community will not soon forget. Well, actually, it�s a Saturday night, so if our party mantra is correct and in full effect, if they remember it in the morning, than they weren�t trying hard enough!
     �But, I feel vindicated tonight, ladies and genital-men. I feel that there is a force in the cosmos working for us tonight�for once.� He smiled broadly.
     �If you are up on your �Lusifer�s Lust� lore than you would know that the original singer, the very great, the very dead, Leshi Pan, who, as we all know, was an admitted and very loyal Satanist, had supposedly recorded one final song�his final statement to the world and to his fellow believers, before his suicide eighteen years ago. The infamous �lost� recording, as it�s come to be known in certain circles. We�ve all heard the rumor. He recorded his suicide note in music. The lyrics were his �Good bye cruel existence� statement to the fans, and to the world he despised so much. Then, like the master of lust that we all know he was, he surrendered himself to be held by the only lover he knew, to the arms of a 13th century Iron Maiden that he had purchased back in �80 while touring for the album, Parcel Of Doom. But, to those of us who are in the know, it�s also the very song that is supposed to have the legendary �Hell Chant� imbedded in it and accessible if played backward.
     �Rumor has it that one of the engineers who was in on the recording session died a most delightfully malignant death when he spun the vinyl in reverse. Why would he do that? As I told you, it�s merely a myth�or is it?� He barked a laugh of glee at the beauty of the whole story. The smile reached from ear to ear. It was a moment just like this that he had been waiting for for a long time. It was a moment like this that made being a Dj and a metal fan all worth it.
     �Well, I announce to you tonight, my fellow macabre driven, horror-seekers; the �lost� recording has been found. And, I, your Neighborhood Psycho, your humble anti-host of hosts, am the sole owner of the sole copy. I am the lone possessor. How did I come upon such a delightfully GORE-jus find? As we all know, WRBC�s very own Razor Ray is a master at getting things. I don�t know how he found this shrapnel of delectable evil�I don�t care�It�s here now and I�ve got it. But MEGA-props are definitely due to the Razor man!
     �But don�t you fear.� He frowned and banged his clenched fist against the console to accent his passion. �Don�t you fret. I intend to share my newly acquired treasure of hate with the true believers�those who can truly understand, truly respect and truly venerate such an important find. You know who you are.
     �Tonight, for the first time in history, I will broadcast, in its entirety, Leshi Pan�s fare-thee-well song for you to indulge in�you, the Megatrends in Brutality listeners, lovers, livers. And yes� dare I say, when it�s finished I will play the entire song in reverse. Tonight, on this most gratifyingly dismal All Hallows Eve, I ask you to accompany me into the realm of death. Tonight, we will either dispel the myths or go down in flames trying.� He was beginning to sweat a little along the brow. He was busting at the seams with anticipation.
He continued, �How is it possible, you may ask? How can I spin a record in reverse for seven straight minutes without stopping? I said that I had the sole copy�what I should have said was that I have the only two copies. Both are in the studio, I assure you. The original is on vinyl. The other is on cassette tape. I recorded the song onto tape, then opened the cassette and flipped the tape spools so that when I push play, the track will be backward. Just like you, tonight will be my first time listening, so I don�t know what to expect either.
     �So, with the vinyl set, the tape ready to go on as soon as it�s done, we are ready to embark on a most deliciously malevolent journey into the last testament from the Deacon of Darkness, the Prince of Subversion, Leshi Pan, right here�and only here�on Megatrends in Brutality�91.5 F.M. WRBC�Lewiston. I�ll meet you on the other side.�
     CRACKLE-PSSSHHHH-CRACKLE-PSSSHHHH
     The bruised record coughed as it began spinning. A low, bass-heavy, drone sound faded in slowly, oscillating from the left speaker to the right and back again, sounding like a cross between a faint heartbeat and the humming of power lines. A lonely, distant voice echoed from what seemed like a hundred miles away. It epitomized the very embodiment of grief, sorrow and isolation.

I�ll not prolong my end�to life--I forfeit reprisal�Hell fire shall rain below�
A Driving force--A trumpet call�To announce my coming arrival
I relinquish my seat�At the right hand of my brother�
the end of the road�my goal�My prize�The left hand of my father

     The music kicked in. A barbaric 4/4 drumbeat booms the tempo like cannon balls. Guitars�1, 2, 3, 4 of them, all playing in harmony, a melody of gut wrenching heartache. F-minor, A-minor, B-flat-major-7, E-minor. The bass, tuned down a whole step, chugging along with them. Feedback screaming like unholy banshees. Underneath the sound, under the music, under the melody, like a filthy stain on white cotton is a rag-tag assortment of sound effects and hissing and weird, sludge like, alien voices.
Leshi�s next verse is shouted in a high velocity attack�

Producer of pain�Prince of my purpose�Take me away from this stain
Passing through Limbo�Under the grave�Under the grave�Unto your reign

     The song continued in the same manor�sad melody, booming drums, crying guitars, until the final verse is sung in a blanket of ululating, shrieking guitar notes�

To the arms of my lover�to the warmth of her breath�I retire
Goodbye to you who cared�I shall see you soon�in the end�in the end

     The song fades out with Leshi screaming the words In the End. But, underneath it, as if folded within the words like the crust of a calzone folded over cheese and sauce, there seemed to be a garbled, unintelligible phrase being shouted out over and over and over again�NAH-TEE-EZZ! NAH-TEE-EZZ! NAH-TEE-EZZ!
An O-mouthed Neighborhood Psycho chimes in, �Brutal! Intense! Abso-fricken-lutley wild! That was the lost, last song by the late Leshi Pan of �Lusifer�s Lust�, and you heard it right here, and only here on Megatrends in Brutality, WRBC! Listening to that, the pleasingly depressing melody, took me right into his thoughts, right into his psyche, right into his Hell!
      �Now, here comes the moment of truth. The moment where the men and the boys are separated. Where the myths are proved or disproved. I will begin the reversed copy of the lost song�now.�
Psycho pressed the PLAY button. Immediately upon starting, fading in, amidst a steady stream of tape hiss, the gibberish words that ended the song became understandable.

SSAA-TAA-NNN! SSAA-TAA-NNN! SSAA-TAA-NNN! Here me! Asmodeus! Beelzebub! Lucifer! Mephistopheles! Eloi Eloi Eloi!

     The chanting turned into a crash course in Latin. The strange, mystical words sounded rich in wisdom and opulent in meaning, but as indecipherable as ancient hieroglyphics. It was wrapped in a feedback type noise and oscillating THRUMP! THRUMP! THRUMP! sounds that seemed to dominate the brain, making it completely impossible not to listen, even if you didn�t want to. The Neighborhood Psycho clamped his eyes shut and clapped his hands over his ears, which proved to be useless. He was no longer listening with his ears. The angry voice seeped into his head like a cancerous tumor snaking its way through the all too fragile flesh. The demonic shaman�s chanting continued, filling his head with strange voices while ugly visions passed behind his closed eyes.
     A young man with long, dark hair, dressed in all black, sat on a rotted, ant-infested log by the shore of a wide, calm river, just beside a small Bridge. Fat little red ants scampered over his arms and legs, making it indistinguishable as to where the log ended and the young man began. They bit him hard and although he could feel the pain burning his skin, he was disconnected somehow. Looking up at the sky he noticed a flock of strange, scrawny birds flying overhead. He looked with mild fascination at the slick, red and black markings of their feathers. They dipped and glided above him as gracefully as ballet dancers, weaving in and around each other. Their outstretched wings carrying them to some distant point, Lisbon maybe. There was something dripping off of them. He squinted to take a closer look. What he had mistaken as beautiful red markings, the young man then realized that these birds actually hadn�t any feathers. Their bodies were a forest of stubble, feathers ripped out from their roots. Their blood dripped down into the blue, clear water with light CLOP! sounds. He watched each droplet swirl down into the river, leaving a trail of crimson that dissolved slowly into the river.
Hundreds of blood droplets were falling like raindrops into the river in time with the beating of drums and alien sounds that pressed around him. Some of these death birds were also dripping rotted, green flesh from their bare bellies. Slipping sickly from their bodies like melted wax from a candle and falling in chunks, making a deeper CLIP! CLOP! Noise as they hit the surface of the water. And at that moment, watching that grotesque sight, watching all the red lumps falling unceremoniously into the clear water, that�s what came into his mind. It made the young man think of wax dripping from a red stick candle. It made him think about how he used to watch the fire burn the wax down to nothing on those lonely nights while his mother cried over lost lovers and he, always her little boy, always her little Johnny, sat beside her, comforting her. His face contorted with rage and pain with emergence of that lost memory. A memory that had been blessedly removed from his consciousness for nearly twenty years.
     They would sit in the darkened room, holding each other by candlelight�always by candlelight because the coke-induced glaze in her eyes made it impossible to bare the 60-watt bulbs in the overhead lamps. He would sit in her arms and look into the dull, orange flame and wish that he could become a part of its brilliance. Its warmth. And as he stared into that burning void, his eyes would move down and he would look at the hot wax, brimming over the sides from under the flame and dripping down in tiny rivulets and wonder if he too would have to lose a part of himself to be a part of it. Would he have to give himself up to give himself over?
     As the young man contemplated this he looked down at his reflection in the water. He felt his heart being pierced with a sharpened double-edged sword of horror.
It was the Neighborhood Psycho. His face, like the death birds above, took on the look of a melting candle. His nose sagged down to below his chin, cutting the thin line of his mouth in half. He watched his right eye slowly slip down under his ear while the other seemed to melt away from under itself. He tried to open his mouth to let out a scream�let out any sound�and, with horror, realized that it was sealed shut; his lips were melted together. He tried to blink, but when did he only managed to seal his eyelids shut. Everything went black around him. His arms were slowly becoming lighter and lighter with every passing minute. In his brain, he could still hear the sound of that demented voice crooning at him.

CORPUS LUCIFERI! STEAL THE LIVES OF THE INNOCENT FOR YOUR PLEASURE! I INVOKE YOU! I INVOKE YOUR WRATH! I INVOKE YOUR LUST! I INVOKE YOUR HATERED FOR MANKIND! MAMMON! LEVIATHAN! BELPHEGOR! LEGION! AZAZEL! BALAAM!

     A light slowly filled the darkness into which he had been thrown. His vision had returned to him. He looked down. The red ants that had been there were replaced with a flame so brilliant that it dazzled his eyes. A river of melted flesh flowed steadily into the calm river. The log that he had been sitting on was ablaze, the fire consuming him. He looked into the water once again and saw that he had melted down to just scorched bone and hanging flesh, and soon, he realized with fright, that too would be gone. He looked deeply into his own empty, black sockets. Pain, as disconnected as it was, completely left him. He now knew what it was like to be a part of the flame. And he had to give himself up to give himself over. And he did. All the while the alien music pressed down like a spatula on seared meat over a hot grill until�silence.
     The Cassette tape hissed quietly in the tape player until it came to the end of its line, then clicked to a stop. The studio buzzed with that strange hum from the absence of sound. The dead body of Psycho slumped face down over the broadcast console, blinking red and green lights around his head. Cooling sweat dripped down in tiny rivulets onto the soundboard like melting wax.
In the end, the Neighborhood Psycho flowed away into the running river of his head. All that remained of him was an algae like clot floating down stream, then, like the blood drops from the death birds flying above, eventually dissolving away completely, becoming just another molecule in a mass collective. The world that he had been plunged into dissolved into a black void as his soul drifted away.
In reality, his official cause of death was declared �death from heart attack.� His lifeless body sat alone overnight until a maintenance person discovered it slumped over the soundboard some seven hours later. In addition, over 332 young men and women between the ages of 15 and 33 in the greater central Maine region died from one reason or another that grave Halloween night. Sudden heart attacks were most common, but there were also 13 reports of strokes, 10 suicides, 5 murders and 1 case where a 24-year-old man from Lewiston had spontaneously combusted. Like in the book of Exodus, an angel of death had visited Maine that night. From Lewiston/Auburn to Greene, to Gray, to Falmouth, to Sabattus, to Lisbon, to Danville, to Moxieville�a circular area that, if discovered (however unlikely), would be roughly the circumference of the WRBC broadcast range.
     A copy of a rare recording of a popular death metal band was found in the studio�s old, black cassette player by his good friend, Razor Ray. Ray returned the vinyl record to its original owner and then sent the tape (its label simply read, �Leshi Tune�) to a friend of his who hosted a nationally syndicated metal radio program based in Hartford, Connecticut, heard from coast to coast. Neither he nor his friend listened to it first prior to show time.

The End