the creature.

the creature.

A Story by Boyd Johnson
"

a nasty habit.

"

The bottle never emptied, but the glass kept filling. He never felt drunk, but he kept on drinking. He couldn't remember anything, aside from sitting at this table. A fold out card table with rust on the hinges and condensation rings put on in the factory. A table that in another life, could have housed countless back room poker games for $20 buy in, and ashtrays full of camels. Sadly, all this table housed was a bottle, and a glass.

 

He sat there at his table, watching, starung, minding the chair on the other side of the room. A nasty chair, cut from gnarled wood. Burned. Charred. Fitting it's resident. It. Not He.

 

He couldn't remember anything before this.

 

He couldn't imagine anything after this.

 

The leather straps held the resident in place, something of a gimp suit, covered his body. It held the shape of a man, but he was not so foolish to believe the  thrashing figure a man.

 

"Shut up cocksucker," he poured another drink into his cup from his endless bottle. "it's almost over now."

 

He sipped the drink, and pulled a small folding blade out of his back pocket, placing the glass back onto the folding table. Standing up, he began towards the bound form in the gnarled chair. Thrashing. Boiling. Angry blood. It wanted out. That's all it ever wanted. Out. Hissing. Chomping at the bit. He was put here to mind it. Simply. Now, he knew what had to be done, and it was nothing close to simple minding. He quietly slipped the blade beneath the leather binds, and waited a moment, inhaled and whisperd " Here goes nothin' ", and cut the right wrist free. Then the left, and his feet. The resident remained still, he was getting out. No stuggle.

 

It was breathing heavily, though it did not seem labored, it seemed just right for it. Coarse. Hard. Unforgiving to whatever it was pulling that air through the mask, and into. The minder did not make the assumption that it had lungs.

 

He was done. If for nothing else, by letting the resident loose, he was spiting whoever, or whatever, it was, that had placed him here. This job. This task. He did not know who, or what, he was keeping safe by keeping this thin trapped and, relatively quiet. He only knew that he hated them for it.

 

The whiskey was wearing off, and he was drunk with purpose.

 

The resident's hood in tact, he knew it was staring at him. He could feel it, his stare, and it only aggravated him further.

 

"Knock it off, or I'll put em back on." The residents face snapped back, about face foward.

 

He could feel a very human feeling of discomfort, and nervousness coming from the thing, which until now, for as long as he could know, only knew hatred and rage. This strentghened his resolve. He was doing necesarry work.

 

He had power over the resident.

 

That is why he was charged with this task.

 

He had a connection with this s**t stained soul. A black spot, on his own soul, that made him some form of kin, to the resident.

 

He smirked, and looked at it.

 

"Stand." Authoritive and direct.

 

The resident's back straightened, bones snapped. It was an awful sound, and it made him wince through his smirk.

 

" I said, stand, you unreconstructed piece of s**t."

 

It shot out of the chair, snapping, shattering sounds again. Wasn't so bad this time.

 

The resident was mad.

 

Very mad, but standing at attention nonetheless.

 

He was suddenly very thristy again. He walked over and grabbed the bottle by the neck, making a good solid sloshing noise, and tipped it back. A good jigger.

 

" Alright, guy, I'm gonna take that mask off, and get a look at you, " Another jigger straight to the mouth, " then we're off to bigger and better things, you an' me."

 

He stepped up to the resident, knife out, and slowly undid the clasps on the back of the mask. It peeled like skin off of a burned chicken breast. This thing, looked like a severe burn victim. Fresh blood, and fresh scab.

Never Healing.

 

It finally, had been fully removed.

 

No eyes.

 

No nose.

 

No lips.

 

Teeth.

 

           Nasty, broken, jagged, bleeding...

           ...teeth.

 

" Ugly m**********r, "

 

It lunged and snapped at his nose, and his blade sunk into it's side. Around where a kidney should have been.

 

"Don't ever talk back, " and he snapped his own, only misshapen to an irish standard, teeth back at the resident. "Ever." He pulled out a Camel, and placed it in his teeth, snapped his silver zippo, and breathed in smoke. He let it out slow, " From this moment on, you'll do as I say. You do what I tell you, when I tell you. Got it punk?"

 

It grunted, and some fresh blood poured from betwix it's broken teeth.

 

"Good." another drag, " That wall? I want it gone. Now."

 

The resident seemed to be fighting to command, jerkily, painfully, moving foward. It reached the wall and placed it's hands on the stone. Seeming almost to bow it's head in prayer. Then it looked over at him, stopped, and stared through no eyes.

 

" What?"

 

It looked down at the rest of it's suit, wantingly almost.

 

" The wall first big guy."

 

He grunted again. Then took a deep, bubbling breath, then slammed fist to wall.


Another.

 

Another.

 

Over and over into the cement wall. Pounding gnarled flesh to stone, til daylight poured through the gaping hole.

 

He grabbed the whiskey on their way out, to bigger and better things, thinking, he was sure, he'd known what he'd just unleashed.

© 2009 Boyd Johnson


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Added on February 6, 2009
Last Updated on February 6, 2009

Author

Boyd Johnson
Boyd Johnson

the great and oft forgotten north of nyc. poughkeepsie., NY



About
a freak. an outlaw. a hot piece. -j.m. a hometown boy who loves the hudson, his drink, and his hat. hiding under the train tracks, with a bottle of irish moonshine, toasting to it slipping thro.. more..

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