Dead Clown Barbecue Read online

  "What happened?" I asked, as Abigail and I hurried into her bedroom.

  She held up her bleeding arm. "Tipsy bit me!"

  "Wow, he sure did. I'll be right back," I said, going to get some peroxide as Abigail consoled our daughter. It was a deep bite, and Becky winced as I put the peroxide on the wound, but my brave little girl didn't cry.

  "He just bit you for no reason?" Abigail asked.

  Becky nodded. "I was asleep."

  "Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense."

  "Of course it makes sense," I said. "He's a double-zombie cat. Aggressive behavior is only natural."

  "We can't have a cat that's going to attack the children," said Abigail.

  "Well, that's what we've got. I'm not taking him back to the vet. He'll ask too many questions."

  "You could take him to a different vet."

  I shook my head. "This is clearly a reanimated cat. Any vet could tell that. If you want to take him in, you're more than welcome, but I'm not doing it."

  Tipsy crawled out from under Becky's bed, growling.

  "Maybe he's just hungry," said Becky.

  "Hungry for human flesh, maybe," I said. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive. I shouldn't have said that. But, come on, this shit always has consequences."

  "Don't swear in front of the kids!"

  "This stuff always has consequences. You're acting all surprised, like you didn't think anything would happen."

  "I didn't think he'd bite Becky!"

  "That cat bit people when he was normal!"

  "Not unprovoked!"

  "I'm not trying to start an argument. All I'm saying is that when you bring a cat back from the dead, it's kind of foolish to get all bent out of shape when he bites somebody. That's all."

  Even though I was sort of taking his side, Tipsy took that moment to jump at my leg, hissing and scratching. I cursed ("damn" was okay in front of the children) and tried to kick him off, but the cat's zombie claws remained stuck in my pajama leg.

  Abigail grabbed him by the tail and flung him across the room. The cat struck the wall, dropped to the floor, and stopped moving.

  My wife, daughter, and son all simultaneously burst into tears.

  "I can't believe I did that!" Abigail wailed, rushing over to where the dead cat lay. "I'm a monster!"

  "He was trying to kill me," I said, which was an obvious exaggeration but which I hoped would make her feel better.

  Abigail picked up the cat, whose backbone was now extremely flexible even by feline standards, and sobbed.

  "We can't leave him like this," she said.

  "We sure as hell can."

  Abigail shook her head. "I can't be the one to have murdered him. I can't let him be dead with that on my conscience."

  "Oh, so, it's okay for me to have killed him?"

  "You took him to be euthanized! You didn't throw him against a wall!"

  She did have a point. "I'm not burying him in the pet cemetery again," I said. "Let's just leave the poor cat in peace."

  Abigail held his floppy body out toward me. "You call this peace?"

  "More peaceful than being one of the living dead, yeah!"

  "Fine. Whatever. I'll do it." She stormed out of the bedroom with the dead cat.

  I followed. "Honey, no, let's just bury him in the backyard and be done with it."

  "I want my Tipsy back!"

  So, yeah, I buried the cat again. I almost considered not doing it, and just burying the cat someplace else, but I figured I'd probably get busted.

  Tipsy did not return in the morning.

  "Tipsy!" Abigail called, standing on our front porch. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" She looked back at me. "Where is he?"

  "He's broken. Maybe it's taking longer."

  "What if he can't get out of the hole?"

  I almost tried to reassure her that Tipsy could get out of the hole, but I knew that no matter what I said, this scenario was going to play out with me driving to the pet cemetery and digging up that damn cat. I finished my cup of coffee, put on my jacket and boots, and headed off.

  Tipsy's grave was just as I'd left it. When I dug him up, I saw why.

  I handed my iPhone to Abigail and showed her the picture I'd taken. "He's pretty much just ooze now."

  "Was the ooze moving?"

  "Well, yes, but —"

  "Then you have to bring him back here! You can't just leave him in a grave like that! What a horrible fate!"

  "Honey, you can barely even tell he's a cat anymore."

  "Would you want to be left like that? Just lying in a cold grave and . . . jiggling?"

  "This is the last time. I mean it. I'm never going back to that place after this. I don't care if our next pet is frickin' Lassie; I'm done with the pet cemetery."

  Abigail nodded. "I'll respect that."

  "I need a bowl."

  Thankfully, because it was so cold out, Tipsy didn't squish between my fingers, and came out of the grave in one solid chunk. I placed him in a plastic bowl that would never again hold chocolate chip cookie dough and brought him home.

  "He's not moving," said Abigail.

  "Just watch. His ear will twitch."

  After a moment, his ear twitched. Abigail gasped.

  "What do we do with him?" she asked.

  "I don't know. You're the one who wanted me to bring him home."

  "We have to put him out of his misery."

  "How?"

  "I don't know!"

  "I guess if we thaw him out first, we could flush him."

  "No!"

  "Hear me out, hear me out! What else do you want to do? You don't want to just stomp on him, do you? Put him in the garbage disposal? Flushing him down the toilet isn't giving him a dignified death, but it would be pain-free, and he wouldn't come back."

  Abigail wiped a tear from her eye. "I'll have to think about it."

  "We've got time."

  As Tispy thawed, Abigail sat there at the dining room table, staring into the bowl. I took the kids to a movie.

  When I got back, Tipsy was unrecognizable as anything that had ever been a cat. You wouldn't confuse him with something Abigail might be mixing up to serve for dinner, but there was very little left of his solid state.

  "Okay," she said. "I'll flush him."

  "I can do it," I told her.

  "No. This is all my fault. I'll do it."

  She got up, taking the bowl with her. I listened as she walked up the steps, softly weeping. We did have a downstairs bathroom, but I wasn't going to tell a woman in mourning that she was using the less convenient toilet.

  There was a thump.

  "Everything okay?" I asked.

  "I dropped him!"

  As I walked into the living room, I saw Abigail slip on the Tipsy-ooze. Her arms pinwheeled above her head, and I cried out in horror as she tumbled down the stairs. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, crack.

  Sometimes, you know something is wrong. You know that, no matter how great the loss, no matter how devastating and heart-wrenching a tragedy may be, dead is better. You gaze into the lifeless eyes of your beloved wife, and a voice inside your head tells you don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery . . .

  I listened to the voice. Only a complete freaking moron would do otherwise, having seen how poorly it worked out for the cat. Abigail's body was cremated, and I assured Reed and Becky that she'd get to see Tipsy in heaven, where he'd gone after he was flushed.

  I'm not saying that my story has a happy ending, but all things considered, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  COMEUPPANCE

  I loathed Tom Booth from the moment I saw him beating the crap out of my best friend Donald. I waited impatiently for the beating to conclude, helped Donald up after Tom vacated the premises, and vowed revenge.

  It took three more Donald-beatings for me to actually seek that vengeance. Lunchtime. Our high school cafeteria. Tom Booth walking in my direction wi
th his tray. Spaghetti. Chocolate milk. Lime Jell-O.

  I waited for the optimal moment to strike. Too soon, and he might see the trap and successfully evade it. Too late, and I might never get a perfect opportunity like this again. Like a sniper I watched, silent, motionless, daring not even to drink from my juice box lest it distract me from this prime opportunity.

  I stuck out my foot. The target of my scorn tripped, stumbled, and . . .

  . . . regained his balance.

  Tom Booth favored me with a "You are so dead" look. I must have blurted out six different apologies at once. I offered him my juice box but he didn't accept.

  After school, Tom Booth twisted my arm behind my back and made me swallow a piece of gum he'd been chewing. Shortly thereafter, I was added to his biweekly schedule of beatings. My hatred grew with every punch to the stomach.

  The physical violence stopped after graduation, but I was horrified to discover that Tom Booth and I were not only attending the same college, but his room was directly above mine in the dormitory. So when he stole my girlfriend Maggie away from me, I had to listen to him make vigorous love to her.

  I also listened to him cheat on her. I happily told Maggie about it and invited her over to listen to the evidence, and felt a warm happy glow inside as she stormed upstairs to confront them. I sneered as I listened to the sounds of an argument above, but these were followed by the sounds of laughter, and then the sounds of him making vigorous love to both of them at once.

  Oh, how I despised Tom Booth!

  We graduated college. I went to work at an entry-level position at a heartless corporation, while Tom Booth vacationed around the world on money from his parents. Two years later, I was promoted out of the copy center into an administrative assistant position, which primarily involved making copies. A week after that, to my unimaginable horror, my boss left the company and was replaced by the man I abhorred most in the entire world.

  As you might expect, Tom Booth was an abusive boss, demanding and condescending and almost always unsatisfied with the quality of my work. I wanted revenge so badly that I could taste it. I'd be eating a bowl of Apple Jacks, and the taste of revenge would sour the milk. Even my beloved gummi bears tasted like revenge. I was miserable.

  I desperately tried to get even with him, but every attempt was a humiliating failure, particularly my plan to season his coffee with a generous portion of my own saliva. It was clear that my efforts at revenge were cursed.

  And so I turned to the supernatural realm.

  Strange Playthings was a four-hour drive away, but I didn't mind, even when I ran out of gas and had to accept a ride from a sweaty bearded man who complimented my kidneys. I returned home with a 350% increase in my credit card debt and a Tom Booth voodoo doll.

  I couldn't wait to go back to work on Monday. I giggled during the entire drive, ignoring the strange looks from my fellow motorists. Oh, Tom Booth, this would be your day of suffering! I wouldn't kill him. Not today. I'd stretch his misery out for weeks. Months. Years. Perhaps a lifetime of vengeance!

  Monday morning, I sat in my cubicle, waiting for him to arrive. At the very first sight of his phony grin, I very slowly inserted a needle into the right arm of the voodoo doll.

  He didn't react. Even when the tip of the needle protruded from the other side he didn't react. I switched to the other arm. Nothing. Legs, chest, face . . . my voodoo doll didn't do a thing. I took a pair of scissors out of my desk drawer and began cutting, desperately hoping to see a hand or ear fall to the office floor, but even when I was left with a handful of doll pieces, the tyrant sat happily behind his desk, completely unharmed.

  I spent the rest of the week alternating my thoughts of hatred between Tom Booth and the bitch who'd sold me the defective voodoo doll.

  That Saturday I returned to Strange Playthings and angrily sprinkled the doll parts on the front counter. The elderly shopkeeper invited me into the back room, where she read my palms and analyzed my aura.

  "Your vengeance is indeed cursed," she informed me. "A mere voodoo doll will not suffice."

  "So what should I do? Bash him over the head with a shovel? Shoot him?"

  The shopkeeper shook her head. "The shovel would slip from your grasp and strike you upon the nose, staining your face with blood of shame. And a bullet would not penetrate the skull of your enemy, but rather find its way into your own toe."

  "Dammit!"

  "Do not worry, vengeful one. All is not lost. For the price of a few coins more charged to your Visa, I can give you the revenge you seek." She smiled. "That is, if you are willing to endure some pain . . ."

  I was. And it hurt like hell. But I drove home with a two-inch-tall tattoo of Tom Booth upon my upper left arm, and I knew that finally my nemesis would suffer.

  I spent much of the next day just staring at the tattoo, admiring it in the mirror from all angles. It looked exactly like him, head to toe. It itched and stung, but my own pain was nothing compared to the itching and stinging that Tom Booth would feel.

  Once again, I giggled during my entire drive to work. No fellow motorists saw my glee, because I was so anxious to get there that I left three hours early.

  Tom Booth walked past my desk and gave me an odd look; almost as if he knew what excruciating agony lay in store. Then he entered his office and sat behind his desk.

  I pulled up my sleeve, and slowly, ever so slowly, I inserted a needle into my arm, right into the tattooed image of his arm.

  He did not react.

  I slid it in deeper. A tiny trickle of blood ran down my arm, but Tom Booth did nothing. Gritting my teeth in pain, I pushed the needle into my arm as far as I could stand.

  He reached for his own arm.

  And scratched it.

  I pulled out the needle and jabbed it into the image of his leg.

  He shifted slightly.

  I withstood the urge to cry out in frustration, and slammed the needle into my arm over and over again, puncturing his chest, face, and groin. Blood ran down my arm, staining my dress shirt, and I wanted nothing more than to burst into his office and plunge the needle right into his eye.

  Tom Booth scratched his forehead and let out a soft laugh, as if something tickled.

  I had defaced my own flesh to tickle him.

  I hurried into the restroom, locked myself in my favorite stall, and wept.

  I didn't wait until the next weekend to drive back to the shop. I called in sick and drove there the next morning. When I returned late that night, my Visa card was filled to capacity, my Discover card was halfway there, and the tattooed image of Tom Booth covered my entire chest.

  This time, I didn't waste time with a needle. I brought a knife.

  Tom Booth, this was your day of reckoning!

  The bastard was in offsite meetings all day, so I never saw him. He'd left me plenty of work. I did it poorly.

  But the next morning, oh yes, he arrived and sat behind his desk as usual. I unbuttoned my shirt. It felt as erotic as undressing before a lover. And I sliced a thin red line across my stomach and his wrist.

  He winced.

  Yes!

  I cut his other wrist. Another wince.

  Tom Booth was mine.

  At least every fifteen minutes or so, I cut my skin. Oh, you can't imagine the pleasure I felt each time he reacted. He looked concerned, perhaps frightened that there was something medically wrong with him. As I soaked up my blood with paper towels, I had to bite down hard on the sides of my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

  I drew the blade across his neck.

  He swallowed hard, as if a piece of hard candy had prematurely slid down his throat.

  It was a bad day for Tom Booth. When he met with some important clients, I repeatedly jabbed the tip of my knife into the center of his forehead. He tried to make it through the meeting without the embarrassment of stopping to take some aspirin, and was unsuccessful.

  Rinsing my chest with antiseptic that evening was almost unspeakably painful, yet co
mpletely worth it. And later, I lay in my warm pink bathwater and knew that all was right in the universe.

  Tom Booth did not show up for work the next day. He had a doctor's appointment. I gleefully imagined him trying to explain his symptoms to a physician who insisted that there was nothing wrong with him.

  I kept this up for weeks. By the end, even the slightest brush of my shirt against my chest caused me to flinch with pain, but I didn't care.

  I did care when Tom Booth stopped reacting, as if he'd grown accustomed to the phantom pains and learned to live with them.

  I took my entire two weeks of vacation time. Upon my return, I waited for the foul cretin to walk past my desk. He glanced at me, frowned, and stopped.

  "What happened to your face?"

  "Don't you recognize it?" I asked.

  "Seriously, what happened to it?"

  "It's like looking in a mirror, isn't it?"

  "Is that makeup? What did you do?"

  I held up the hatchet I'd bought the previous evening, placed my left arm on my desk, and slammed the hatchet blade upon my wrist. It took a second blow to sever my hand completely, but I cackled with glee as Tom Booth's left wrist split open. He staggered back against the wall, screaming as blood sprayed.

  I turned the hatchet around and smashed the blunt end into my mouth, shattering several of my front teeth. One of Tom Booth's teeth dropped onto the floor and the pitch of his screams increased by at least two octaves.

  He turned and tried to run, until I smacked the hatchet blade deep into my leg. He fell to the floor. I tried to wrench the blade back out, but it wouldn't pop free.

  I stood up, immediately lost my balance, and dropped back into my chair. I couldn't see him anymore and I was starting to feel extremely dizzy from blood loss, but that was okay. This was my moment of ecstasy.

  Since I couldn't get the hatchet out, I picked up the hammer I'd brought from home and dragged the claw end across my chest, over and over. I screamed with laughter as I ripped out generous chunks of flesh.

  Tom Booth howled.

  Yes, Tom Booth, that reprehensible creature, had finally received his comeuppance.

  THE APOCALYPSE AIN'T SO BAD