How about a bit of “happy” before we dive off into the literary much? Yes, this is a happy song. Life is good, and life goes on.
And now…
Stop me if you’ve heard this one:
I was fired by Six Flags Over Texas because a guest had a problem with one of my books. No bullshit; I’ll spare you the details. I’m sure if you ask hard enough, someone can tell you. I refuse to STFU about it two years later and YOU wouldn’t either. Six in one; half a dozen in the other. Here’s the link if you’d like to buy a copy of what someone called, “the most ****** up love story ever written”. The book that put me in the day-job unemployment line.
The cool thing about being a writer is that you get to take your bad experiences and turn them into horrific stories of torture and revenge.
Ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy “Full Circle”. This story, and many of similar fashion, can be found in my collection “Haunted Spaghetti”.
***Disclaimer***
This is Splatterpunk aka EXTREME horror: extreme gore, sexuality, and vulgarity. This isn’t meant for the faint of heart or anyone seeking a literary masterpiece. You won’t find that here. Also, I believe the file I stumbled across to share it was a second draft. It could use a bit of editing. Just ignore it. You do it all day long on the internet.
In other words, if you’re unsure, don’t read it. Skip past it. We can still do that as a society, you know.
Seriously. My 71 year old mother read this book the other day and we had to “talk” about it.
You’ve been warned.
And here we go…
Full Circle
No turning back now. The decision was not my fault, I was driven to it by the suits, the money-minded grubbers who cared more for the numerical rather than the human side of things. Paper jockeys who wouldn’t know empathy if it swam between their legs and started wiggling in all the right places. A man’s heart was of no interest to the bean counters, but I had every intention of supplying those beans. Those bloody, mangled, newsworthy beans who would cease to be upon this day, but live forever in infamy. Who doesn’t want to die a legend? No need to thank me, my dearest passengers. Our oblivion awaits.
I glanced back over my shoulder one last time for a sort of mental souvenir snapshot of smiling faces and bouncing babies. All the other rides in the theme park offered those, didn’t they? Why was it something only the bravest of the brave got to enjoy during the final run of the rollercoasters? Think of all the cowards who missed out on such memories just because they didn’t want to share this morning’s breakfast burrito with whomever was unlucky enough to be sitting behind them? I truly care about the wellbeing of my guests, and it’s high time I showed them all. Crossed arm, silver eyed examples of how not to react to sensitive situations. I’m a dreamer, you see. I can’t help it that lately I’ve dreamt of nothing but red.
There’s a special place in Hell for men like me and, fortunately, I won’t have to dwell there alone. Statistically, many of these souls will dive for the dirt nap and spend the biblical definition of tormented eternity holding hands among the flames. I’m sure it only hurts for the first few seconds. A human body’s nerve endings would all be severed by then leaving only the fresh scent of scorched flesh to fill the noses of the condemned. I’d bestow that same gift to the first responders who’d eventually wish they’d arrived last, or not at all. Paychecks would surely be earned upon this day.
The vaporizing fuel feeding the boiler’s fire almost choked me as I inhaled deeply, praying to the gods I’ve never met to guide my twisted mind. If it were up to me, I would make this journey as painless as possible for myself, those within my care, and the guests out of reach of my wrath who would look upon the carnage with unbridled fear. Pain, however, is the most efficient teacher upon the face of the Earth. Think about it. Do you remember every time you were shoved into a ‘time out’ during childhood? Of course, you don’t. Now, do you remember every time you had your ass handed to you by an irate father’s belt or a furious mother’s open hand? Yes, you do. We remember pain, whether it be inflicted upon our own bodies or felt empathically for others. Pain is what drove my vengeance and pain, in return, would be an overwhelming normalcy for what remains of this place from now until the end of time. Famous for all the wrong reasons is still famous.
I could feel my own smile cross my face as I placed the Johnson Bar in the forward position. A slight bend in the right direction brought the couplers to maximum allowance so I nudged the throttle a bit and released the automatic brake. Surely those settings would be enough to deliver the train full circle back to this exact spot at Smithwick Station for the finale of my grotesque masterpiece. That same smile stretched further bringing slight discomfort to my cheeks. I didn’t smile much in my day-to-day life which is why such muscular initiation was normally avoided on my part. An illusion delivered by whiny nerve endings, pain. To Hell with it all, and to Hell with this train.
The unfamiliar whistle cord graced the curl of my fingers and I pulled hard for all it was worth. The bray of excess steam through the tiny opening pinged ears from the front car to the rear where my conductor’s perch awaited. I’d never blasted the train’s whistle because it was something I had yet to earn. My conductor’s exam was easy as pie and my fireman’s training was nearing its end. Still, only the engineer got to blow the whistle, and that glorious graduation would never commence if I managed to fulfill today’s plan without a hitch. Indeed, there was no time like the present, and I yanked that ancient rope one last time for good measure. I had no engineer or fireman on this train, after all. This would be an autopilot trek straight into the salivating jaws of forever.
Stepping out of the engine and onto the raised platform, I glared curiously as my souls blurred by demonstrating glimpses of happiness and finality. Scalding water, flesh peeling steam, and devil’s fire never delivered quick endings which is why it took everything I had within myself not to abandon my destiny, or theirs, for that matter. It was the children’s giggles that drew me down redemption’s road, but I tried to ‘about face’ that shit as quickly as possible. No, these lovely folks were going to get their money’s worth on a fine, Wolf’s Hollow theme park Saturday. I hopped aboard the last car, pressed the transmit button on the microphone, and began the last great spiel of my career.
“Well, howdy y’all!” I bellowed to little response. No sir. Not quite good enough for the likes of me.
“Oh, come on now,” I added. “It’s still early in the day and I know you all can’t be that tired. Let’s try it again. We’ll howdy y’all!”
“Howdy,” the crowd responded with enthusiasm, knowing damn well I wouldn’t stop my typical introduction until I was satisfied with their cooperation. Some of them had ridden this ride before.
“Well, that’s more like it!” I laughed with satisfaction. “My name is Joe and I’ll be your conductor for this trip. Welcome aboard the Wolf’s Hollow Railroad! Much like many of the folks who work for it, or at least those who used to, the Wolf’s Hollow Railroad is the oldest operating attraction inside the park!”
My brain paused momentarily. Sure, some of the passengers laughed at the joke I made regarding the average age of the people who operated this train, but none of them picked up on the two key words giving a hint of things to come. “Used to” triggered the great mystery too cryptic to crack. I knew, though, and that was enough satisfaction to keep myself entertained for the next fifteen minutes. The final fifteen minutes. I continued.
“As a matter of fact, that is a one hundred percent real steam locomotive up there in front of us. Fair warning: there will be smoke, there will be steam, and a short guy in overalls living the dream back here in the very back telling you Dad jokes all the way to Dead Man’s Depot, because that’s how I get paid! Your forced laughter will be much appreciated…”
As usual, a handful of the guests giggled at a barely audible level, but I always responded as though one particular person believed it was the funniest thing they’d heard in their entire life. That being the case, with my meticulous plan already in motion and it being way too late to turn back the hands of time, they were spot on considering their remaining life could be measured in mere minutes. No need for sadness, though. I was certain my own life would cease simultaneously.
“Thank you very much, ma’am!” I replied while pointing at one of the women I knew found my last joke to be humorous. They always loved it when I called them out. Especially women and children. Men were too stuck on themselves to give a damn half the time and thought they were so much better than a simple train ride. Contrary to the popular beliefs in fictional works, not every man can jump inside the cab of a steam train and make it bend to their will. Even experienced operators like me have difficulty controlling a beast such as this. “You just inadvertently bought me a cheeseburger and I shall live to see the light of another day!”
I suddenly switched the microphone off because there was no way I’d be able to control the laughter bubbling up from inside me. I fought with all my might, but a few stray chuckles slipped through. Nobody was getting a heads up about the coming freak show. That would take all the fun out of it. Not that I made a habit of slaughtering a hundred or so people every day to use as a basis of comparison, but I imagined the surprise of it all would play into the eventual joy of the scenario. Everyone liked surprises, didn’t they? Well, in hindsight, I guess not. I didn’t much care for the one they had sprung on me late yesterday evening inside the human resources pavilion.
For the last dozen years, I’ve moonlighted as a strip club DJ. Granted, neither of those designations, whether it be ‘strip club’ or ‘DJ’ were illegal, but it wasn’t quite the product the Wolf’s Hollow corporation chose to ‘sell’ to families. I argued every logical standpoint at my disposal, but the high school cheerleader turned human resources director – probably at the hands of her wealthy father or at least a few fingers from one of her superiors – wasn’t hearing any of it.
I guess the human resources director gig didn’t quite pay the bills and an audition at the club was the next best thing her ditzy brain pondered. I recognized her long before she realized who I was. I could’ve said something, but, if she were truly going to entertain my customers, I would have to see the goods. She managed to expose it all, top to bottom, by the time the cogs in her nudie clock turned enough to match a name with the face. I guess she didn’t want me spilling the beans regarding how the carpet didn’t match the drapes. Kudos were indeed due since it appeared to be freshly laid linoleum downstairs. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my type of basement. The kind you can shed your socks and play a damn nice game of floor hockey! As expected, she turned on me, and my day job – a true joy in my life – was hanging by a thread. Even without all the blood destined to be painted atop these ancient rails, this would be my last shift employed by Wolf’s Hollow. If there’s anything worth doing, then it’s worth doing right.
Shaking the image of my unemployment out of my mind, I continued my spiel to the masses. I hadn’t even gotten to the rules of the ride yet. Safety first, boys and girls, at least until it’s not.
“Let’s go over a few rules as we get underway here,” I commanded to my rarely rambunctious railroad flock. “First of all, you must remain seated at all times. We stop suddenly for squirrels, skunks, turtles, and the occasional fellow in a New York Yankees ballcap.”
With that, a few rows of southern baseball enthusiasts chuckled heartily as though being a Yankee’s fan was the most nonsensical decision of anyone’s being. From my conductor’s perch, I noticed a few of the wives curling up their lips at their mate’s laughter. Obviously, these men were overly obsessed with the sport, and possibly much less enthusiastic regarding the wants and needs of the woman. On any other day, I would slip the unhappy hookers a business card as they detrained and receive a smile in return almost guaranteeing the eventual ‘get to know you’ texts. Those always became tit pics and, if they were truly bold enough to derail their marriage for the sake of a romp in the sheets with a heritage railroad conductor in striped overalls. There’s nothing quite like the feel of something new. Trent Reznor was onto something all the way back in 1989. I had no choice but to agree with him.
“If you’re standing up when we hit those brakes, you’re going to fall down, you’re going to go ‘BOOM’, and you’re going to make the news. Let’s face it, folks. The news is scary enough without y’all putting your own little personal twist on it.”
That line always hooked the political enthusiasts on my train. Sometimes, I would sit and observe their mannerisms for the rest of the ride to see if I could determine whether they were a Republican or Democrat. Not that it mattered, even if I didn’t plan on suffocating their sparks with calibrated butchery, I was just a big fan of statistics. I could then compare that information to the nightly news to see if their political data was accurate. If you based their numbers against the values of random strangers aboard a theme park train, it wasn’t.
“Rule number two,” I carried on. “Keep your head, hands, arms, feet, and legs inside the train at all times.”
This rule always went unheard in the ears of pretty much everyone under the age of twenty. Sometimes thirty, if they had a girlfriend to impress or if they were a few strokes shy of a hand job. Mental, I mean. I continued my warning, but always wanted to see one of them stick a finger or head outside the train at the precise moment an unnoticed structure reared its face. Up until now, I’d never been that lucky.
“There’s a lot of theming and bushes out there, folks, and some of them don’t ‘give’,” I explained, leaving it up to their imaginations. No one was worried about smacking bushes with their free hand or that bush whacking them back. Some of the coaster supports and theming were made of metal, though. Jamming an appendage between a slow-moving train and a steel support beam would make a sane person wish for a hack saw. Flesh and bone had little chance against friction and fate. They always jerked their hand back at the last second, staring daggers at me as though I didn’t give them a fair warning. Silly, silly, sacks of Sasquatches, they were. The cost of admission to the park did not grant instant immortality.
“Last but not least,” I finalized. “Let’s talk about rule number three. No smoking, no vaping, no dipping, and no chewing tobacco…if that’s even a thing anymore. I’d ask someone, but it’s not polite to talk with your mouth full.”
A few people giggled at that last joke, but most were done with my voice blasting through the worn-out speakers. All they wanted to do was get to the next station, get off the train, and sweat their testicles off in yet another roller coaster cue line. I guess it could be worse. It could be one of those water rides where everyone stands on some type of bridge structure to let the summer soup blast them in their faces. That same exact water washes through everyone’s crotch and ass crack if you think about it. All those chuckling little children are getting a refreshing drink of last night’s semen residue and poop flakes from unwashed asses. Then, they want to act clueless when dad gets a strange bump on his lip in the weeks to come. Mom will think it’s a sick case of herpes he got from his secretary and leave him. On the bright side, the kids will get two trips to the theme park every season as the parents attempt to outdo one another. Fresh herpes all around. The true gift that keeps on giving.
“What’s that roller coaster right there called?” asked a nearby child who was too anxious to see the giant sign advertisement overshadowing the structure in the unforgiving sunlight.
“Good call,” I faked it. “That wooden monstrosity to your left is what’s known as Satan’s Splinters! It was the world’s tallest and fastest wooden roller coaster in the world at one time. It’s recently gone through some safety upgrades since this fat chick fell out and damn near hit every support beam on her way back to Earth…”
The gentle clickety-clack of the wheels upon the rails was all I heard as my guests mentally backtracked. Following up “funny” with a giant “fuck you” was one of my favorite past times. I lulled them all into a false sense of security and then let them have it. The horrible part was that it wasn’t just me trying to be dark. That shit happened. It never made the news, same as most other terrifying safety situations within the park, and the family was paid a hefty sum to keep their mouths shut. It didn’t matter that the poor woman was almost completely sawed in half by the time she came to rest upon the hard ground in a puddle of her own fluids. Money made it all better.
“Oh, you think that’s bad?” my voice intensified to feed their full attention. “This structure coming up on your right-hand side is known as the Critter Cave. The animatronics within this dark ride aren’t the only surprises waiting for you…”
“You’re scaring my kids!” barked a dad in the back row of the third coach after being elbowed in the ribs by his resting bitch-faced wife.
“And they should be scared,” I replied. “That means they’re smart, or at least smarter than their parents. When the price of admission goes down, so does the number of nuts and bolts which hold all this death-defying shit together!”
I could tell the moment when the children’s father went from anger to concern, but none of it mattered. No one would get off this train if I had anything to do with it. At least not with ease.
“There’s been just as many illegitimate children conceived inside that place as there have been unfortunate snake bites over the years. It slips my mind which outnumbers what, just know that the squishy wad of whatever on your daughter’s restraint probably didn’t come from a sneeze.”
“I plan on talking to your supervisor when this trains stops at the next station!” threatened a middle-aged soccer mom all hopped up on a sweet, sugary substance mistaken for popular, name brand coffee. “What’s his name and what’s your name?”
I smiled until it hurt from the increasing numbers of simultaneous interactions and threats aimed in my direction. They had zero ideas of where this train was headed regardless of how many times they’d ridden it in their past. No sir, ladies and gentlemen, this ride is an upgrade. A remix if you will. The same old same old no longer lives here and all chances of reconciliation are null and void. Everyone gets treated equally on this here locomotive if I have anything to do with it. I ignored the half-hearted taunts and continued my speech. It was the least I could do. They paid for it.
“Next up on your left, your right, up above, and down below you are the tracks of the Great Sugar Mountain Mine,” I delivered like a circus master but no one in the last coach was paying attention. “Now, the powers that be in this here theme park would never tell you this, and it may have slipped past the radar of the nightly news, but this rickety, old thing decapitated a man two summers ago. Yep, damn thing derailed, shot skyward on the track, and flipped upside down causing the lift chain to act like a giant saw blade. That man’s fleshy throat had zero chance. Kind of like a chainsaw through a bologna log at the corner deli.”
“Why are you telling us all this?” bellowed a distraught woman three rows away from my perch. She was doing her best to cover the ears of three young children with only two hands. She was basically smashing their ears against each other with her two flat palms working as noise cancelling mom hands. That shit never worked when I was a kid, but I was awarding her efforts with a patented Wolf’s Hollow Railroad smile.
“Ma’am,” came my attempt at respect. “I’m telling you this because no one else will. In turn, I’m pretty damn sure that all of you will be keeping my secrets as well…”
The fractured look upon her face seemed to match a few more of the guests around her who were savvy enough to see where I was going with all of this. Surely they believed I was about to pull some type of traditional American style mass shooting with a gun that was nowhere in sight. In times of high distress, I’m sure logic falls right out the window. The only problem was that most of my patrons entered the park today with only a limited amount of that aforementioned logic. They more than likely used it all up while they were attempting to locate a parking spot. I could relate, at least until I came to work here myself. Speaking of which, this was my last day at Wolf’s Hollow thanks to a Human Resources director who didn’t want anyone else on the staff to know she was showing off her rather odd-shaped titties at a tiny strip club near the airport named Joe Mama’s. “Come take a chance on the silly name, and we’ll name your silly chance to cum.” Okay, so the motto was being worked on. I wasn’t a fucking writer; I was a DJ. A ‘real’ artist. Seriously, though. Those titties looked like upside-down lightbulbs once they were free of the bra restrictions. It was like her head had two simultaneous, flipped bright ideas in a childhood cartoon strip. Wait, did I mention that before or was it the other guy? Sometimes I have a tendency to get us confused. It didn’t matter in the end. On with the show.
I took a moment to reflect on this beautiful, sunny day at the park. It was running at about half capacity which meant the lines for all the coasters and flat rides weren’t too terribly long. I could hear the early summer birds singing happily between the whoosh of a launch coaster and the delightful music and children’s laughter on the carousel. It was a great day to be alive, for sure. Too bad that me and my current load of increasingly worried passengers would soon be having much less of a great day. Then again, greatness is in the eye of the beholder. Nightmares have a certain greatness to them depending on who endures the tragedies. I, for that matter, was one of those sick bastards who planned this potential slaughter fest months ago when first employed just in case. A sick mind is a terrible thing to waste. I promised myself that I’d never even come close to delivering such decimation against fine, upstanding people, but promises were made to be broken. Besides, who knew my after-work antics would come to light under such questionable circumstances? Who indeed. Surely not me, otherwise this metaphorical axe I had to grind would never strike its target. No, I didn’t have an axe either. If I couldn’t sneak a gun into this place, then how in the fresh hell did I plan on bringing in a huge axe? Stay with me, folks. You’re losing sight of what’s important here.
“Wait,” I whispered. “Am I really having a two-way conversation with other people or am I talking to myself?”
My nearest guests had stopped playing along with my psychotic episode moments ago and were looking forward to the station platform on the other side of the park which should be coming up any minute now. I asked the loose mother and her three separate strands of walking DNA if I was actually talking to myself, but she seemed entirely too scared to answer. I almost asked another man and woman sitting next to her, but I didn’t see the need to bother them during their useless bid to cling to one another. It wasn’t hard to see that the train had picked up an unusual amount of speed on a downhill slope near the coming depot. To the regulars, those brakes should be applying any second now. In return, I would say to them that nobody likes a fucking know it all. This was my goddamn train today and I planned on stopping it when I was good and ready. I shook off the delusions to the best of my abilities and flipped the microphone to the ‘on’ position once more.
“Alright, folks, we are approaching the Dead Man’s Depot, the most ironically named structure in the damn place on the opposite side of the park. Normally, you would have a choice at this point to stay on board or get off to enjoy some of the attractions on this side of the park…but not today. I’ve worked too damn hard at this to allow you a say so in our fates.”
That was when the typical flash occurred before my eyes, and Anthony took over. I remember nothing after that because Anthony prefers his privacy. I will say he’s the most emboldened between the two of us, so the possibilities are endless.
***
It was within that very goddamn moment when I pulled a reprogrammed keyring from a 2002 Convertible Mustang out of my right front pocket and pressed the button. At first, nothing happened because I’d managed to pull Joe’s actual car keys out instead because that whiny bastard always keeps entirely too much shit in his pockets. With any luck, I was scaring the hell out of some repurposed parking lot security guard who was too overweight to be of service to anyone else. I swear. That hack had so many trains ran on her it made the four squares on the Monopoly board jealous. Not that I’m being specific or anything. It could be anyone who fits that bill. Anyway, I fumbled for a second and hit the correct button. That’s when the screaming began.
I’m not the smartest person in the world, but I had entirely too much time on my hands while planning this potential scenario. I had a lot of spare money laying around for someone who originally intended to die during this ordeal. Who needs money in Hell? Actually, I don’t know. You might. That would suck, wouldn’t it? Wasting all your money in the last moments only to find out you were supposed to take it with you. That would be my damn luck! How would I be able to buy candy and shit on Commissary in Hell if I don’t have any money? It’s too late now though. What’s done is done.
To those of you who absolutely need to know, I spent the last of my savings on a ton of automatic reptile misters and placed them on timers. I’d managed to store them all at the railroad roundhouse by bringing them in one piece at a time in my lunchbox. I mean, I had to do what I had to do just in case they ever came for my buddy Joe and his weakened fortitude. Then, I had some video game streamer from the library build a little device that turned on and off when I pushed the old keychain. I know, this is the boring shit. Let’s move on.
The automatic misters sprayed the gasoline I found in the storage sheds for the leaf blowers and weed eaters all over a crowd of unsuspecting park goers and the cigarette lighter for a random guy sneaking a smoke in the most obvious hiding spot ever. The resulting explosion showered the train riders in a gush of burned flesh and clothing. A large woman’s flaming girdle encircled two children, engulfing them in a mother’s hug of flame. A portion of skull bulls-eyed a bald man in the eye, and he jumped blindly from the train into the burning structure of the depot. The smell was gut wrenching, but I managed bravely.
To boot, the guests flocked in terror toward the park entrance. Unaware of the approaching danger, they froze in awe as the steam locomotive tackled and crushed them to pieces. Joe said from the beginning that there wasn’t an engineer, and it was usually that dude’s job to hit the switch before the train departed the station. Timing is everything, folks, and today was a prime example. There’s no way that anyone in the media will ever be able to fully appreciate the sheer numbers involved in today’s sacrifice. I guess they’ll all figure it out eventually when they compare DNA to a list of credit card numbers from the attendance records, but only by someone who truly cared for accuracy. Probably some blogger or podcast poon who always feels the need to be bugging the shit out of someone for facts and figures. He’ll create a mini-series and make the news media look like clueless court jesters. Just like any other day.
The drive wheels of the engine started slipping when it ran through the slimy gut piles relieving a large portion of the boiler’s steam power. Any second now, the engine would glow blue while hitting eighty-eight miles per hour and me and everyone else in this fucker was going to shoot forward into the future twenty years. Nah, I was totally kidding. Eventually the friction between wheel and rail would connect once more, jerking the train forward and taking the guests completely by surprise. The anticipation of the finale was killing me!
The next stop on Hell’s Choo Choo took us through the designated kiddie area of the theme park. A burning portion of canvas atop the coaches licked the leaves as they went by, creating orgasms of flame upon the overhanging trees. In an attempt to be countrified in the name of all that is southern and holy, the park maintenance supervisor advised the money men to make the trees part of the children’s equipment. At the time, I thought they looked mundanely beautiful. Now? They were spectacular. Bright orange fire covered the playground against the smoke black sky of my creation. The creosote they ignorantly used as a means of preserving the bases of the trees sped up the process quite a bit. Children’s screams as they roasted between the prison-like cells of the monkey bars filled my ears like a symphony. In most times like this, I would reach down and pretend to be scratching my cock through my overalls, but the mothers’ cries of terror were giving me a stiffie worthy of worship. Oh, to only be a spectator on this day. To feel the fear of a mouse trapped in a maze of death. No book, no movie, and no video game could ever quite capture the true essence of the feelings which stood between yourself and the will to live.
I could hear the emergency sirens of the vehicles in town come to life above the wimpy squeals of the half assed “professionals” who work within the theme park itself. Wash out, second class thunder chunks who probably had some kind of criminal record or pending accusation and chose to do the work for half the price of what they were worth in the professional market. They’d be scared stiff and helpless now that a real emergency welcomed them forward into battle. They were crowd control at best and getting the full-on workout of their adult lives. It didn’t matter now. I had the numbers I needed to go down in infamy aboard this fiery missile on parade.
The clouded light from the sun was suffocated as the train entered a tunnel before its climb uphill. Normally, this was the point in my daily spiel when I would tell all the little kids to have a screaming contest. I could always tell within that moment how the parents hated me for asking their goddamn mouth breathing kids to scream in their ears. Poor bastards. They were all going to end the day with a headache anyway. Might as well allow them to put a face to that headache. Hell, maybe they’d even remember who I was and avoid my train next time they visited the park. Or maybe they could even leave those little shits with Grandma so Mom and Dad can go have some fun for a change. Maybe put a little blood back into the man’s tiny dick so something could diddle in their mother’s pooter other than a battery-operated boyfriend.
With the rush of the train through the tunnel and the fire feeding in all directions for whatever oxygen was left behind, the remaining guests who still lived coughed and gasped for air between the walls of the manmade structure. I could hear the echoes of some of their heads between the tunnel’s support beams from wandering sightless in search of an exit. With a crack, they were torn from their shoulders and popped like watermelons beneath the sudden impact of a sledgehammer. I smiled through the crimson mist like a little boy who’d finally done good in the eyes of his judging family. Not only were they proud of him, he, in turn, was proud of himself. It had been forever since he could say that about himself, but it was every bit as welcoming of a feeling as winners claimed. He was winning. It was Joe’s and Anthony’s turn to win.
The now struggling iron horse climbed the grade leading to the final curve in the park’s layout, swallowing what little steam pressure she had left through the chests on either side of her guide wheels. The fire above the coaches extinguished while inside the previous tunnel and what life remained between the guests wallowed in the filth of bubbling arm fat and formerly envious eyeballs. I noticed the smoke behind me had intensified, meaning the fire department was attempting to put it out. In my mind, this meant they were all occupied and not thinking the train was the cause of the blaze. That was good. That was really good. That meant they wouldn’t be able to stop me from killing myself during the big finish. I’d be bent out of shape if I was forced to spend the rest of my life being probed in mental institutions or as someone’s prison bitch.
Cresting the hill, the nose of the steam locomotive dipped downward toward the stretch of track to Smithwick Station. Now, this part gets a little tricky because you must know quite a bit about old trains to even think along these lines. Since there was no fireman up front to inject water into the boiler from where it was stored back in the tender, the crown sheet was nice and hot from the lack of what is the most precious substance inside this engine. Guess what’s going to happen when the boiler tilts in the opposite direction and that little pool of remaining, cool water is reintroduced to volcanic hot metal? The Polar Express lied to all of us as children, folks! That movie would be listed in the horror section on a shopping site if it were realistic. Let’s just say there’s about to be a boom big enough to make the one that happened at the depot seem like someone passed gas after eating at the Rooster’s Fried Chicken Shack over by the Cub’s Cradle kiddie coaster.
I could hear the boiler creaking for all it was worth like a portly man’s belt at a Tuesday night all you can eat buffet. The ancient bolts holding it all together would give at any moment firing in all directions like a World War II machine gunner on speed balls. The flues passing through the iron hell would begin to swell like human intestines after a vegan Thanksgiving Day. Scientifically, I guess, all that pressure and heat will have to be released somewhere and the most logical orifice would be the watch hole in the cab. In turn, that demonic ball of finality will engulf me in a moment of anguish like none I’d ever imagined. It would indeed be glorious, but probably sobbed about at my funeral service. Believe not the preacher’s bullshit, my friends and family I’m leaving behind. I wanted every second of this. I longed for it, and I made it happen.
A sudden, strong wind blows a peep hole in the smoke revealing the army of badges looking upon my masterpiece like an art viewing. The wheels of the locomotive screeched to a stop between the newly painted roundhouse and the cops who now scrambled in all directions. There, hung upon the outside wall of the train’s nighty-night spot, were my scheduled engineer and fireman for my final work shift. I’d managed to take them both by surprise when they entered first thing this morning and stabbed them dead in the throat. Then, because it would just sound better and more gruesome in the numerous shitty books written about my escapades over the coming years, I nailed those goody goody bastards to the wall with railroad spikes for all the unfortunate first responders to see when they entered through the employee paths of the park. Trust me, this scene will be carefully studied from photographs to make sure they get it exactly right in the movie adaptation. It was the least I could do for my good friend Joe. He deserves to be remembered after all this, doesn’t he?
At this point, I basically owned the amusement park. When they mop up the ghastly bits of brain and repaint the blood stains on the rides, no one will be able to talk about this fun park ever again without thinking about me and my pal. We will live forever in the minds of frightened children and a trickling of copycat killers between now and the end of the next decade before we fade into obscurity behind another government riot or reality television star turned politician. Flavor of the week at best? That freaky overrated painting son of a bitch from New York in the sixties said that everyone would be famous for fifteen seconds or something like that. Minutes, maybe. Days? I don’t know. Anyway, no one is ever going to forget about this shit. Andy Warhol was his name, I think. Overrated quack of a man who convinced a bunch of freaks that he was the next big deal. If anything, he was the first sensational drain on some rich idiots’ bank accounts. The old-time version of modern internet influencers. A waste of space on the servers of life. They’ll have a field day with me and my buddy Joe after all of this. Guaranteed.
I raised my hands to accept the death soon to be bestowed upon me via a genius historical engineering nightmare, making all the police officers in attendance believe I was giving up without a fight. Those silly bastards. I signaled not my surrender, but my entrance to oblivion.
Then…the sky opened.
That was right about the time when the most unlikely of summer weather erupted above our heads bringing a much needed quench to the planet and the train boiler’s catastrophic thirst. A torrential surprise party of a rainstorm formed directly above the park and unloaded upon my parade at the last second imaginable. The fires were going out quicker than any firefighter could manage, and nature threw down the gauntlet of challenge at my feet. Every gun barrel from the place wherever cops come from in bulk was pointed at my head and making that clickety click sound they all make in movies even when they’ve already been locked and loaded.
This sucks in the worst way imaginable. Almost everyone else on my train had the pleasure of going full circle, but now I must delay my game through the legal process and incarceration. Add a few more years to that before they’ll administer the needle and I’m pretty pissed off at this whole scenario. Fuck you in your ass, mother nature. You win again. I’m sorry, Joe. I tried my best.
***
“I said I don’t remember anything! That wasn’t me, it was Anthony! Why won’t you believe me? Why won’t any of you believe me?”
Another flash of light appeared before my eyes leading me back into the here and now. Looking around at the mess my friend Anthony made in my absence was impressive, but ultimately not of my doing. I hated the way he always got me in trouble, but I can credit him for saving my life several times as well. Because of that, I just can’t seem to be mad at the fellow. He takes care of me when I need it the most like the older brother or best buddy I never had during childhood. I hope he chooses to stay with me while I’m stuck in jail because I don’t know if I’m going to be able to face all this chaos alone.
The two of us planned all of this together but he did most of the dirty stuff. I truly hate having blood on my hands, even when it’s my own. All they seem to care about is stuffing me in the back of a police car while Anthony just stands there smiling at the still unfolding masterpiece of pain and suffering. He looks happy, though, and when he’s happy, I’m happy.
The officer who drew the shortest straw pauses his push toward the car to unlock and open the door for my arrest from forever’s freedom. That’s when Anthony reaches out his caring hand, placing it upon my shoulders in a show of love.
“We did good, kid,” he says with a smile. “You’ll never have to lay eyes on that Human Resources director’s odd-shaped titties ever again.”
I smile back knowing he’s correct in his sudden revelation. Anthony always knew the best thing to say when I needed to hear it most. He was right. He was always right.
If you managed to survive that story, here’s this morning’s Dead Cells run lol
Also…
The Gonzo Wolf 
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