Dead Clown Barbecue Read online

  "I hope it takes your mouth off."

  "Pick it up."

  "I will."

  "Time's a-wastin'."

  "Why don't you go home? You've served your purpose."

  "No way. I want to see this."

  "Well, be quiet."

  "Pick it up."

  "I am."

  "No, you're not. You're being motionless and cowardly."

  The tarantula moved toward my hand. I let out a shameful cry and yanked my hand out of the aquarium so fast that I bashed it against the corner. Dave found this to be extremely amusing. I did not.

  "Grow up," I told him.

  "Oh, God, I wish I'd been taping that! I'd give anything to have been taping that! You looked like such a chickenshit jackass!"

  "You suck."

  "Reach in there again. It might growl at you this time."

  I opened one of the drawers and took out a long wooden spoon. I poked the spoon into the aquarium and tried to scoop up the tarantula, but it kept scurrying away. "Dammit!"

  "It probably doesn't like that flavor of cake. You should have bought chocolate."

  "I'm just gonna dump it out." I very, very, very quickly reached into the aquarium and removed the plastic log. Then I picked up the aquarium, turned it over, and shook it over the batter. The tarantula didn't fall out.

  "He's got some seriously sticky feet," Dave noted.

  "Smack the plastic."

  Dave knocked on the aquarium. The spider still didn't fall out.

  "Shake harder."

  I shook harder.

  "Maybe you should just pour the cake mix into the aquarium and cook it that way."

  "C'mon, keep smacking the plastic. It's just a spider. It can't hang on forever."

  "You actually have to admire its resilience."

  "I don't have to admire shit! Keep smacking!"

  Dave hit the plastic over and over while I kept shaking the aquarium.

  "Do you have a squirt gun? We could squirt it off."

  "No."

  "There was a toy store next to the pet store."

  "Keep smacking!"

  Finally, the spider dropped out of the aquarium and into the batter.

  "Thank God," I said. "Open the oven."

  Dave opened the oven. I picked up the pan as the tarantula waded through the batter, moving right toward me. I hurriedly slid the pan into the oven and slammed the door shut. We breathed a sigh of relief.

  Dave flipped on the oven light. "I want to watch it burn."

  "That's messed up."

  "How often do you get to watch a tarantula die in an oven? Never. I'm not going to let this opportunity slip by. Oh, crap . . ."

  "What?"

  "It crawled out of the pan."

  I opened the oven. The batter-covered tarantula was on the bottom. "Give me the spoon! Hurry!"

  Dave handed me the spoon. I frantically scraped the tarantula off the bottom of the oven and onto the open door. It scurried across the door and onto my kitchenette floor.

  "Stomp it! Stomp it!" Dave cried.

  "Don't stomp it!"

  Dave quickly backed away. "Where is it? Where did it go? Is it on me? Get it off me!"

  "It's not on you. It's crawling on the cabinet door."

  "Did it get cooked?"

  "Not too much. It's still moving. Let's just kill it. I can't have a tarantula running around my apartment."

  I swung the wooden spoon but missed the spider. It dropped onto the floor next to my foot. I backed into the oven door, lost my balance, and fell. I threw out my arms to break my fall, and my hands came down on the hot metal door. I cried out in pain as I landed on my butt.

  The tarantula crawled onto my leg. I yelped and tried to shake it off.

  "It's eating me!" I shouted. It wasn't actually eating me, but I can be forgiven for exaggerating my situation in my cloud of panic.

  Dave crouched over me. "I don't see it!"

  "Kill it!"

  "But I don't see it!"

  "Kill it!"

  "There it is!" Dave slammed his foot down, missing the spider but hitting my shin.

  "You dick!" I shouted.

  "It's too fast!"

  "Get something to murder it with!"

  Dave glanced around the kitchenette for an effective weapon, and then slid a butcher knife out of the wooden holder. I mentally acknowledged that this was not a wise selection, but then the tarantula scurried up my leg and I batted at it in frenzy.

  "Don't move!" said Dave, crouching down. "I'll poke it!"

  "Don't poke it!"

  "Don't move!"

  "If you stab me I'll fuckin' kill you!"

  "I'm not gonna stab you! I'm gonna stab the spider!"

  "Put the knife down!"

  "Trust me!"

  "I don't trust you! You're not trustworthy! No knife!"

  Dave held the tip of the knife above the tarantula. "I'm gonna poke it! Don't move!"

  I froze.

  Dave winced and clutched at his eye with his free hand. "Ow! The eggshell is still there!"

  The tarantula crawled out from beneath the knife and underneath my shirt. I flinched so violently that my upper leg slammed up onto the knife tip. I reacted poorly.

  "It wasn't my fault!" Dave insisted, still clutching his eye. "I didn't do anything!"

  I slapped my palm against my shirt, squishing Eight-Legged Vengeance onto my belly button. Dave pulled the knife out of my leg and stood up.

  "Did you get it?" he asked.

  I pressed harder until I was positive that my navel was covered with tarantula guts. I yanked my shirt up and wiped the goo off.

  "Sorry about the knife," Dave said.

  I kicked him in the shin.

  He dropped the knife.

  It hit my other leg, burying itself about an inch into my flesh. It hurt like hell and I kicked the son of a bitch again, as hard as I could.

  He stumbled backwards, slipped, spun around in a failed attempt to regain his balance, and struck the corner of the counter with his face. His eyeball burst upon impact. I wasn't immediately sure if it was the one with the eggshell or not.

  Dave silently dropped to the floor, blood and slime oozing from his ruined orb.

  "Oh, jeez, I'm so sorry!" I said. "I didn't mean to!"

  "That . . . that was . . . that was . . . ow . . ."

  I yanked the knife out of my leg. "You'll be fine," I promised. "We'll get you to the hospital."

  Dave let out what I'm pretty sure was supposed to be a battle cry and dove at me. I instinctively held the knife out in front of me to protect myself (although, in retrospect, my hands would have worked just as well) and an instant later my buddy was skewered through the throat.

  He said something. The gargling made it difficult to determine exactly what it was, but the tone was not complimentary.

  I pulled the knife out. The huge gout of blood that came out of his neck made it clear that an ambulance would probably not do him a whole lot of good.

  So I didn't call one. I held him, crying softly, until he was done bleeding and living.

  The apartment manager called and asked if I would please turn my damn television down because it was disturbing my neighbors. I said that I would.

  In the middle of the night, I dragged Dave out to my car, drove eighty miles out of town, and buried him in a shallow grave. I drank a bottle of beer to honor his memory. I drove back home, climbed into bed, remembered that I'd left my fingerprints on the beer bottle, drove the eighty miles back to the grave, retrieved the bottle, and drove back home.

  Since Dave had given his life for revenge on Erica, I vowed to complete my plan so that his passing would not be in vain. The next day, I bought a rubber spider from a toy store, baked it into a cake, and decorated it nicely with a "Happy Labor Day" message, even though Labor Day was two weeks away.

  That night, the news reported that she had choked to death on a rubber spider leg.

  Dave would've thought that was kind of funny. So I la
ughed.

  I laughed and laughed and laughed and even kept laughing when the very polite men loaded me into the white van.

  Hell, I'm laughing as I type this.

  Hee hee hee.

  Revenge is fun.

  THE DROP

  Whoops. Parachute didn't open. That's not good.

  Okay, no need to panic. There's a backup chute somewhere. Is it this thing? No. This one? Uh-uh. Wish I'd paid more attention during the training. Damn cleavage.

  Ground sure looks far away. Hope I hit a spongy part.

  Guess I'm going to die. Think I'm taking it rather well. Would've expected to find myself shouting "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die!" Almost at peace.

  No, wait, peace is gone. Scared now.

  So many things I wanted to do with my life. Like skydive. Pretty stupid way to deal with my mid-life crisis. Should've just stayed on the couch.

  Hope it doesn't hurt. Probably won't. Predicting instant darkness on impact. Gotta be optimistic.

  Heard that a fall from this height kills you before you even hit the ground. Always thought that was dumb. Think they meant that you die of a heart attack on the way down. My heart seems to be holding up rather well.

  One nice thing about this situation is that I'll get to choose my last thought. My final thoughts won't be "Gosh, my butt itches" or something like that.

  Really hope it doesn't hurt.

  Better than getting mauled by a pit bull. Or dying of cancer. Certainly one of the top ten ways I'd want to go, if I had to choose.

  Would rather die in my sleep, though.

  Unlikely that I'll be able to fall asleep before I hit.

  Ground's getting closer.

  Closed casket funeral for sure.

  At least my financial affairs are in order. No burden on the kids.

  Won't get to see Greg graduate. But also won't have to yell at him if he flunks out. Sort of a mixed blessing.

  Y'know, if I'm doomed anyway, I might as well try to enjoy this skydiving experience. Get my money's worth. Enjoy the adrenaline rush.

  Woo-hoo!

  Nope, not working. Too scared.

  Wonder how far I have left to fall? Never been a good judge of distance. Not much longer until the end.

  Should I hit feet-first, head-first, or try for a belly flop? Not certain it makes any difference. Head-first might be more impressive if somebody's down there with a camera.

  Hope I don't hit anybody. Would hate to take an innocent life. Will just have to be careful.

  This is definitely going to mess up my hair.

  Heh heh. That was kind of funny. Must try to re-think it right before impact.

  Ground is coming up fast.

  Heart attack might be nice. Shouldn't have changed my diet.

  Gonna die.

  Gonna die gonna die gonnadiegonnadiegonnadie.

  This is definitely going to —

  Ow.

  Darkness.

  I can't open my eyes. There's something on them.

  Ahhh, nice cool breeze. Blew the dust off my eyeball. I can see now.

  Am I still alive?

  Can't be. I'm looking at my splattered body. I guess an eyeball popped out. Surprised it still works.

  Looks like the chute finally opened. That's nice.

  I'm hungry.

  I had a bowl of pasta before the drop. That must be it next to my open stomach.

  I think hungry for human flesh.

  Aw, crap. I must be a zombie.

  I don't even have a jaw left. It's in five . . . six . . . at least seven different pieces. Maybe eight. I can't be sure what that one chunk is.

  Go away, bird. Shoo. I mean it.

  Being eaten.

  Darkness.

  Dammit.

  HERE'S WHAT HAPPENED . . .

  So I'm sitting in Harvey's Diner, okay? It's me and Joey, and it's about eleven-thirty at night, and there are . . . I dunno, maybe ten other people in the restaurant. The waitress is hot, but she's pretty much incompetent, and we've been waiting for almost fifteen minutes just to get a cup of coffee.

  You know Joey, he's all like "Let's just go!" but that's stupid. Even if it takes her another fifteen minutes to bring us our coffee, that's still less time than it would take to find another place that's open this late. And you know Harvey's; their food is borderline poison, but they make great coffee. None of that $3.95-for-a-small-cup-with-fifteen-words-in-the-name nonsense. It's hot, black, and they'll refill it all night without complaining. Good stuff.

  Anyway, we're sitting there waiting, and I forget what else we were talking about. Movies, I think. Some romantic comedy his girlfriend made him see. No, it wasn't that one. He didn't see it in the theater — I think it just came out on DVD. No, it had that one chick from that sitcom, the one where they're at work. The redhead. She was in that other movie that won the Academy Award. No, it wasn't that. Ah, it doesn't matter.

  We're sitting there talking, and then the chef pushes through the swinging door from the kitchen. He's wearing this apron that's got streaks of red on it, and he's holding — I swear — a meat cleaver. Not a bloody meat cleaver, but it's a frickin' meat cleaver, and he's holding it up like he's ready to whack it into somebody's head! And he walks down the aisle, stomping his feet, and he goes "Who sent back the goddamn turkey sandwich?"

  No, it definitely wasn't Julia Roberts in that movie. She was never in a sitcom. I'm trying to tell you about the chef with the meat cleaver, okay? Yeah, I know she was in that one episode of Friends, but that's not who I'm talking about. No, it wasn't Sandra Bullock. You're missing the point of my story.

  So the chef is holding this meat cleaver, and he wants to know who sent back the turkey sandwich. And Joey is all tensed up and looking like he wants to bolt, but at this point I figure we're okay, since neither one of us ordered a turkey sandwich. And the chef starts walking past the tables. He's this bald guy with a really big gut, but he looks strong, y'know? Like, you have to assume that if he did bring the meat cleaver down on your skull, it would crack through a couple of inches of bone, easy.

  And we see this one guy looking really nervous, and there's no question at all that he's the poor schmuck who sent back the sandwich. Have you ever had a sandwich there? I've never had the turkey, but the roast beef was rubbery and the tomatoes were all slimy and the bread was stale. So I don't blame the guy one bit for sending his back. He just picked a really bad night to do it.

  Jesus, I'm sorry I brought up the romantic comedy! Just forget that I said anything about it and try to focus on — yes, that was it! No, I didn't see it, but Joey said it sucked.

  The chef walks right up to the guy's table. This lady is sitting across from him — maybe his wife, I'm not sure — and she's staring at the chef with bugged-out eyes and her jaw hanging open and a milk mustache. And here's the part that's gonna mess with your mind. The chef screams "How do you like this turkey sandwich?" and then — thwack! — he slams the meat cleaver right into the guy's face!

  I'm not lying, I swear! He whacked it into his nose! Joey and I, we're all like "Holy cow, the chef's gone berserk!" and the guy's wife or girlfriend or whatever is screaming and crying and people start jumping up from their tables and freaking out. The guy with the cleaver in his face, he's not dead. He's hollering "My nose! My nose!" but it sounds all funny because he's got a cleaver in his nose, y'know? You can't really blame the guy for being upset.

  Then the chef yanks out the meat cleaver and . . . you wanna hear something gross? This is really nasty. The guy must've had a bad cold. There's this big string of snot on the blade along with all the blood, and it stretches out like cheese on a pizza. Oh, man, I thought I was gonna puke!

  So now I'm thinking, what do I do? Should I call the cops? Should I run? Should I try to save the poor bastard?

  What? I don't know why he didn't put up his hand to block the cleaver. Yeah, I guess it should have been instinctive, but he didn't do it. I didn't get a chance to ask him! It wasn't the kind of situation
where I'm going to stroll over there and say "Excuse me, kind sir, but if I might borrow a moment of your time, I'd like to know why you didn't elect to use your hand to deflect the meat cleaver." I don't care if it doesn't make any sense — I'm just telling you what I saw, okay? He was dead in the next few seconds anyway.

  Damn it, now you're making me get ahead of the story.

  So the chef swings his arm back, and then whack! Slashes the cleaver right across the guy's throat! Joey and I are both like, no way did that just happen! And then I start to think that maybe the whole thing is a publicity stunt, y'know? Like maybe Harvey's is trying to cater to edgier clientele, so they're faking homicides. But then I realize that there's just no way. The guy is spraying blood everywhere, his wife or girlfriend is shrieking, and most of the other people in the restaurant are running for the exit.

  Joey looks me right in the eye and he says, totally calmly, "Dude, this is really messed up."

  What do you mean, how could I hear him over the other noise? Are you trying to be a jerk? I've got this great story, and you want to just sit there and poke holes in it. Well, screw you. I've got better things to do than talk to you if you're going to act this way.

  Oh, that's real mature. What a class act you are. I don't care if you ever hear the end of the story or not, so that doesn't bother me a bit.

  Okay, look, could you at least let me tell you the next part without interrupting me? You're not gonna believe what happened.

  People have made it to the door, and they're trying to push it open, and this lady screams, "It's locked! It's locked! Oh my God, they've locked us in!"

  Can you believe that? A chef storming out of the kitchen and attacking a restaurant patron I can maybe understand, but they locked us in! How demented is that?

  The turkey sandwich guy is all flopped back in his seat, gurgling and clutching at his throat. The chef grabs the guy's wife/girlfriend by the hair, bashes her down on the table, and slams the meat cleaver into the back of her neck. I don't think she even ordered a turkey sandwich! Now the chef is a big guy, but he couldn't get all the way through her head in one blow, so he does it again and again and again.

  Finally I turn away, because there are only so many times you can watch somebody try to chop somebody's head off, y'know? And people are trying to grab chairs and tables to break through the windows, but the chairs and tables are all bolted to the floor at Harvey's, so people are just shouting "Oh no! The chairs and tables are all bolted to the floor!" I think at this point Joey and I are the only ones left in our seats, if you don't count the guy and girl that the chef already killed.