The House Always Wins

The glass doors parted, and at once the smoky air greeted the grinning thief. His tattered suit loose and untucked, his face red, a silver brief case hanging from his gloved fingers. The flashing red/yellow strobes and whooping sirens welcomed him. He took a sniff to clear the mucus from his nostrils, and in doing so he took in a sample of casino air. Metallic, sweet. Blood. A savage impulse burned in his stomach and he danced over the nearest machine. He looked around. The facility reached to the stars with a dome of glass exposing the night sky. An interesting choice for a casino, but with the lights the glass became a pond of gold and crimson. He looked for a place to exchange cash for tokens, but to his suspicion no counter existed for such a purpose. In Fact, he saw no people. The only movement came from cobwebs hanging from machines. Enough electricity burned that he could see the alluring fountain of light around the casino from five miles away, yet it only attracted this sole runaway.

The thief named Dallas took a risk when he hit the brakes before the flaming gomorrah. He had been on the road for three days, only stopped to fill up his own gas canister, and for the occasional bathroom breaks. Even then he made sure his vehicle hid in an alley or on a country road. He wore sunglasses and a cap to hide his features from nosy strangers when he went someplace to eat. By the time he made it to the desert, sores bit into his ass and sweat burned a rash into his thigh as the fabric of his jeans chaffed the sweating flesh the entire way through Nevada. The car smelled of alcohol and vomit. He spilled Coors on himself and the cab reeked of the putrid beer. Dallas loved the taste of coors, but the sterile smell of alcohol turned his stomach. When his stomach became upset due to the gas station food he acquired, he fought it back, determined not to make another stop, and so he threw up on himself. The putrid odor persisted even as he rolled down both windows, and the sun glaring through the windshield did him no favors. Once he saw the halo of light, he wanted to reward himself. Take a break. Just one night in a bed, boozed up, and why not gamble a little. He took the case out from the trunk because he knew if he parted from it, then things would fall apart. Perhaps the car gets towed, he imagined.

 The money belonged to one of his bosses back east. He escorted the money with one other made man with the intent of giving it to a crip that lorded over south central. Dallas kept his mouth shut and eyes off the money, but his mind toiled. Give 50,000 dollars to one of those hoods? I’d rather burn it. He ignored his ego, but When the two were alone, Dallas could no longer fight his impulses. He shot the other guard twice in the right lung, took the money, and drove off. The inclination to do so came from the same subconscious place that lassoed him towards the casino. Dallas planned nothing with the money but to get away with it. All he knew was what his heart told him. It raced when he wrenched the case from his companions dieing grasp. The made man choked up blood and in his last gargles he warned, “You ain’t goin get far…” before losing power and laying limp as a gutted fish. Dallas took the silver watch from his the dead body, got into his car, and sped off.

Dallas planted himself in front of a slot machine. A coat of dust gloomed over the reels. He wiped it off, ingraining brown and gray filth into the cracks and wrinkles in his palm. He saw no insertion slot, only an empty discharge plate and the lever. He took hold of the knob, but first scanned the symbols within. “How risqué... ” he remarked  with disapproval at the barely concealed nudity of the French whores in red dresses, decrepit hags on mortician tables, full dress geishas sharpening swords . Each one illustrated with faded ink, their skin pale, and eyes blank and weeping. Even through the thick material padding his gloves Dallas could feel each notch the crank tapped across as he pulled the lever. The glassy dead eyes rolled away as the reels tumbled and blurred into formless spots. Lights and alarms celebrated his initiation. The illuminations stopped when the reels slowed. One by one they halted. French whore. French whore. French whore. Silver coins flooded the dispenser.

Dallas hollered in triumph, the echo reaching to the ceiling. He pulled the lever again. French whore. French whore. French whore. Another bucket of silver coins. He howled again, his spine straightening and his cheeks burning as his grin stretched to open mouth delight. He pulled the lever again, and the French whores morphed into into mono colored blurs. One by one they stopped. Decrepit hag. Decrepit hag. Decrepit hag. He screamed like a rock star, reaching into the overflowing dispenser and taking out the coins. He let them slip through his fingers. He reached back in, and took a coin out to evaluate the silver. He reached into his pocket and produced a quarter. Holding them close to his ear, he tapped them to together, and they made the faintest bell ring. Real silver. He reached again for the lever with drooling eyes, but stopped when he saw that the hag no longer laid on the mortician table in the same position like when he first sat down. She instead lay on her side, and the sheet covering her lay at her waist instead of her collar. Dallas leaned in, and saw that no blank spaces composed her eyes. Coins covered them. He looked down the carousel of slots. Each symbol shared this qualities. He compared one of the coins, and squirmed with he saw the same stamp illustrated on the coins. He stood up from the machine and looked around for a way to carry his winnings. A stack of buckets sat between each machine. He took one and filled it to the brim. Bored of the slots, and uncomfortable with the way the dead hag lingered with an artificial gaze, he moved on to search for a different game.

Leaving the slots he came to the main floor. All the tables sat unattended, covered in pyramids of dust and dormant cockroaches. He moved on until he found a game. A wheel divided into thirteen sections. No numbers, but phases. At the peak, a king with a jeweled crown, a golden scepter in one hand and a gleaming sword in the other. Purple gown, and a throne of splendor. Section by section as the wheel curved downward the phases illustrated the king falling, and in each one he lost more of his royal attire until he reached the nadir where a dirt covered peasant in rags pouted. Up the curve towards the peak, the peasant gained the luxuries section by section. He took hold of the wheel, and hurled it. The nail in the middle whistled as the needle ticked along pins on the wheel. The wheel stopped where it started, with the needle on the king. Dallas received another bucket of silver coins.  He examined them and whistled, mindless with ecstasy, yet worn down by his own vibrance. He underestimated his fatigue upon entering. He sat at an empty table, and wished for a kickback. Before he knew it, a can of steaming coors tapped against the table before him, and he took it without noticing the croupier sitting behind his shoulder. A red tie, red vest. Firm cheeks, squinting eyelids pressing over sunken eyes, an immaculately hairless scalp. The divots and ridges of his skull exposed and highlighted in pools of light reflecting from the lights overhead. He came around, and took the dealer’s seat in front of Dallas.

“Thanks, croupier. How much do I owe you?”

“For you, sir, there is no charge. Nobody pays here. They only gain.”

“Sounds like a damn good idea to me.” he sipped the coors. Freezing, and foamy. The way he liked his beer. “But you know, winning all the time? It gets boring. There needs to be…”

“A risk?”

“Yo. That’s it. A risk.”

“There is one game here you might enjoy. Its one of my own design.”

“Oh, really? How is it?”

“It’s simple, really. You tell me three things. Two are lies, one is true. If I can guess correctly, it's my turn. If you can’t guess my truth, then I win. Do we have a game?”

“Sure, game on.” Dallas swished the beer in his mouth as he wrangled thoughts. “I dropped out of Stanford. I’ve been to prison, serving an eight year sentence. My father was a gunsmith.”

“And your wager?”

Dallas dumped the buckets of silver onto the table.

“That confident in yourself?” The croupier asked.

“I can always win more.”

“Very well,” the croupier said, slipping into deep thought. “You dropped out of Stanford. That’s your truth.”

“Wrong.”

“No, sir, I am correct. I should warn you that my bosses don’t like cheaters in their casino.”

“The truth is that I served eight years for self defense.”

“Don’t deceive me. You can’t convince me that you’re sloppy enough to get caught.”

“Fine. You’re damn right. No one” Dallas pointed his finger at the croupier. “Puts Dallas Sinclair behind bars. I’m too good at what I do. Get caught? Ha! Like to see a pig try.”

“I believe it’s my turn, sir. One: The penalty for cheating at this casino is immolation. Two: Immolation is cruelty. Three: Cheating is cruelty.”

“One of them is true?” Dallas took a drink, and took his time pondering while acting like savored the beer. “The third one.”

“Final answer?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Wrong.” The croupier smiled as Dallas frowned. With long crooked arms, the Croupier swept the silver into his own bucket.

“You bastard.”

“Don’t feel sore, sir. There is much-much more to win. Perhaps you’d be interesting in playing the slots once more.”

“No. There’s got to be something else. One more game.” He showed the croupier the contents of the suitcase. “I wager this. One more game.’

“Very well. There is one more game. One of my own design, but I warn you, this one is different.”

“How so?”

“It is dangerous.”

“That’s what I want to hear! Danger is my middle name. I’ve been driving, bored out of my gourd, been too long. I need some real fun.”

“As you wish. Please, come.”

The croupier led Dallas across the main floor to a heavy door in the back. There they entered a cold room that reeked of lubricants and oil. A confused grin came over Dallas as he walked ahead of the croupier. Picks, files, hammers, drill bits, wrenches, wedges all hung on a pegboard along the wall. Defeated safes, dented, their doors cast aside and contents robbed. In the center of the room, an untouched safe sat on a table. Dallas walked around it, curious as to what kind of safe had two doors on opposite ends. He looked under the table to see it bolted to the surface. He rubbed his hands together, and licked the corners of his mouth.

“Take a seat.” The croupier said, and they sat opposite of each other. “If I win, I get your suitcase. If you win, you receive your winnings back, and then some.”

“I accept.”

The croupier drew a .32 from his coat, opened the safe, and placed it inside.

“The game is simple. Whoever unlocks the safe, and shoots his opponent wins.”

“You’re done, I’m afraid.” Dallas laughed, taking off his gloves. “My dad was a locksmith. There’s no lock I can’t break. No safe I can’t crack. Been doing this for years. I’m the best.”

“We’ll see. Begin.”

Dallas made quick work of the safe. Fifty notches ringed the dial. He took hold of it with one hand, and pressed his fingertips on the sweating steel face. He felt every grain, every imperfection, every edge. A planet of steel pressed against each fingertip, and he soaked up the information searching for a change. He pressed his ear against the safe. The cylinder whined as he spun around like a pinwheel. He felt around all fifty digit, looking for the specific place a notch would align with the wheel behind it. On 48 he felt a touch of resistance, and began to roll the dial backwards. He felt the weight of the two wheels against the cylinder. The fence wanted to pop for him. He felt the third wheel along, and he started to spin the dial back until the fence snapped down. Dallas whipped open the door, took out the weapon and pulled the trigger. The hammer pulled back and clasped forward but the cylinder spun then to no thunderous explosion. The croupier dropped six bullets onto floor.

“You knew the combination..” Dallas protested.

“So did you. Still, I outmatched you. I could have a third party change the combination again, but I would still win, sir. Now, there is the issue of what to do with you. I have no personal vendetta against you, sir, but my boss, he doesn't approve of your like. Do you know what we do to frauds such as yourself?”

“I’d rather not.”

“We seal them in one of these safes, and we bury the safe in the desert. It’s a delightful way to die.”

The latch on the door behind them clicked. Dallas turned around, bouncing from his chair to pound on the reinforced steel. His palms slammed against the bullet holes that merely dented the steel. He hit so hard that one of his fingernails pried away and stuck inside of a deep scratch. With each strike another bruise colored in his flesh.

“It’s no use, sir.”

“We can talk about this,” Dallas breathed as if the air had been sucked from his lungs.

“I could talk to my boss. Perhaps he will have more mercy. Hell knows why.”

The croupier went to the corner of the room where a phone hung on a receiver. He dialed a number, and gasped.

“If you suggest, master.” He hung up. “Good news, worm. You will receive your winnings, any property wagered, and you will be pardoned for you transgression- if you can win at one last game.”

“Name it.”

The croupier gestured for him to follow. He opened a hatch on the floor, and gestured down a ladder. Dallas covered his mouth at the scent. The same savory iron as when he walked in, but strong enough to drive up his nostrils like a nail. He held his breath, and lowered himself. Rung by rung he slipped, each one humming a low tone as the heel of his loafers found the hallow steps. Once he found solid ground a relief came across him, but not a sensation of safety. His heart sank as he looked at the machine before him. Two fans fixed with two two blades that curved along the edge to a vicious point. Behind them a fence of piano wires. Dark red stained the steel, the floor tiles, and the walls around the machine. Even the ceiling.

The croupier came down

“The rules are simple.” He placed a stopwatch one wire behind the blades, right in the middle between them. “You have five seconds once the blades reach full speed. You reach in, stop the timer, and you win. If you can’t stop the timer in five seconds, you lose.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, sir. I’ll go first.”

He flipped a switch, and a rusty screech filled the chamber. The blades struggled forward, gently pushing until the screeching ended and a soulless buzz resonated becoming louder and more aggressive as the blades gained speed. They spun around and around until the red stains blurred into waves of red and steel blue. The timer started. Dallas couldn’t see the numbers, but he heard the ticking of the gears throb between his ears. His neck burned red, and the veins pushes out like tremors.

One second. Dallas’s eyes widened as the croupier reached up to the blades, and paused.

Two. Dallas ran his tongue to his right molar from the left. He realized that he might not leave. The croupier watched the spinning blades, focused on their revolutions.

Three. Dallas bit on his tongue, his anxiety charging up and spine his spine. Sickness filled his stomach between freezing periods of paralysis. His desire for r&r went away, he didn’t know when but sure as hell, he didn’t have it now. He wished he would’ve stayed with the easy games, and left once had made those wins. The croupier closer his fingers together like a duck’s bill, but parted his fingertips so they pointed upwards.

Four. Dallas thougth he could still get away. He took a step backwards, unable to remove his sight, but his heart jumped towards the exit. Sweat trickled down his face. He didn’t want money anymore. He didn’t want thrills anymore. Its no joke, its no game. This shit is lethal. That croupier shot his hand in and like a liquid whip it retracted to his side with his fingers apart and free. He stopped the machine.

“The hatch is sealed. There is no way out until you win.” He took the watch and showed Dallas. 4.9998. “It’s your turn.”

Dallas approached the dark mahogany stains distinguished, the fluorescent bulb’s reflection stabbing him like indictable glares. He tried to adjust his balance, but the red stains below him gripped his feet. Little fibers like strings of raw hamburger crowned across his shoes until a moss of bleeding flesh cuffed his loafers to the floor.

The machine started to screech. The timer hung where it had been last time Dallas lifted his dominant hand, and at once fear and dehydration struck him with a cramp between his thumb and index finger. The blades went faster. He could still see them, but the cyclone of air ran gentle fingers down his short and through his hair, lifting the locks and dropping them in unstyled positions. The red stains blurred together as the blades spun into a pale flower.

“Start.”

One second. Dallas lifted his left hand. His fingers felt slimy and smooth. His lips peeled apart, and he took a quick breath as focused on what he needed to hit. His wrist looked so thin held out from his body. The hairs couldn't hide the dual knots of bone before his flat, white hand.

Two. The moment one blade dropped away, the adjacent blade would sweep into its place. Impossible, he muttered

Three. Impossible, impossible, impossible, impossible

Four. Impossible, impossible im-

Like a dart he fired forward. And no one would have believed that he had touched the watch, but it was the rolex he stole that caught the blade, and pulled his body into the merry-go-round of razors. A shower splattered the room. A mess spilled so thick that the meat and vessels jammed the spindles and the machine came to a screeching halt. The croupier wiped the sprinkles of Dallas from from his face and bald scalp with a cloth. He stepped around the butchered mess to take back his watch. 4.8997.

What Lurks in the Marsh

Herman sat up. The mist of early dawn glittering in the light of the sun rise. The marsh reflecting the bleeding purple and red of the early morning skyline. Venus shined as the sliver of moon began to sink to the west. He thought he heard one in the reeds. He lifted the shotgun to his shoulder as his hound began to fight back its tendency to bark. Herman licked his lips. He hadn’t seen a duck all morning. Hadn’t seen any the last few times he’d gone out. A particular occurrence. He had been hunting and fishing in this marsh for thirty two years, and he always accumulated a handsome kill count by this time in hunting season. He found empty nests, and found duck bones, so he thought as the reeds began to part that his efforts had paid off.

He blew on the whistle, mocking a faint duck call. His eyes carefully guided by the barrel to point needle where the duck would appear. Foam dribbled down his hound's mouth. The whistle dripped with Herman’s coffee flavored saliva. Something pushed through the reeds, but he dropped his gun in disappointment as he saw that no duck swam past before him, but a mass of weeds, grass, and branches. The hound still growled. Herman took hold of the hound’s collar, and asked him what the matter could be. The hound didn't have any concern with the grassy mass, but instead something on the other side of the marsh where the grass reached higher than Herman could stand.

White breath escaped as he exhaled through his hairy nostrils. He slung the shotgun around his shoulders, and called it another day. Better luck next week. The dog growled at him as he began to wade into the marsh. His waders pressed against his layers of sweatshirts and jackets with a cold but dry weight. The decoys he placed floated just ten feet from where he planted himself. The dog stopped growling and started to whine as the tall grass began to shake. Herman looked up, reaching for his weapon hoping to see some game but when the hound barked the shaking stopped. Stupid mutt Herman remarked. The hound never scared off game before. He wondered what could have him so worked up as the hound stood up and seemed to be following something with his nose, and barking at it once he found it. Herman saw no creature, so he drifted further into the mist coated marsh. The weather report said that it would be around forty or fifty degrees. It felt like thirty, and the water felt like frost. It's too cold for the ducks he reasoned. He waded further until the water was up to his waist. He kicked through grass on creek bed, the ground feeling softer with each step. Only just a few feet from his decoy the dog repeated a tirade of barks towards the bushes of thick weeds. Herman reached to grab his decoy but he missed when his foot slipped from under him. He tried to plant his other foot, but to his horror it began to sink in the mud below. Slipping deeper into the cold mud, the bed swallowed him.

Herman pushed the decoy away and he threw the gun off of his shoulder and planted it into the mud. He tried to use it to prop himself up and it might have given him a few seconds before the mud began to swallow it as well. The sloppy marsh bed sucked on his feet and enveloped his ankles. The algae coated waterline splashed against his breast, dripping down into his waders. He splashed with his arms trying to recover his weapon, by the time he had it loose the creek bed had claimed more of his legs. The dark, frosted water poured into his waders, and he sunk faster. The weigh of the water pressed his legs down. He couldn’t lift them to struggle. The mass that alerted him floated nearer. He grabbed for it but almost lost his balance as the mud sucked on his knee caps.  Mud and sweat blinded him as his heart raced. He kept his head up and reached once more. His fingers almost had it. The dog growled with  a fierceness that made his blood run cold. His submergence came to a pause when with a flinging grasp he took hold of the mass. It sunk beneath the water but surfaced again, and he clung to it with exertive will. A complex conjunction of forest waste, he laughed in relief that it held him up, but his smile receded back to a grimace as he found that his knees on down still belonged to the marsh bed. The water still ran down his waders, and damn did the marsh chill like arctic seas. The grass behind him rustled more and more as the hound released a conquest of savage barks.

Herman couldn’t lean back, but he twisted his neck until he thought it would snap. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his hound with its hind legs wound up, ready to attack, as the grass parted. Herman almost lost control the mass he clung to, he readjusted his hold on the slimy material as water soaked through his gloves and sleeves. He looked back to his dog. A heavy, slow lump emerged from the grass. It seemed formless, made of mud but with the texture of a frog’s flesh. Ribbited with squirming holes, with thin arms and legs that it used to pull its yellow stomach through the bush. It opened its jaw and lurched towards the hound, exposing its two sets to teeth. One set sharp and jagged. The second set flat and unrefined. Two eyes shone like mirrors as it moved unphased by the mutt’s threats. With unflinching fortitude it lunged at the dog and took hold of it. Herman exclaimed in terror as it lifted its head and swallowed the hound with only gradual chewing. The creature's neck extended as the lump of dog pushed slid down into the gut of the creature. Once it had swallowed the mutt, the creature's neck retracted back to a ring of flesh between the creature’s flat head and round fat body. Herman looked away and tried to pull himself from the mud but doing so only dug a deeper hole.

The water line danced at his arm pits and a chunk of the foliage that supported him broke off and floated away in his vain attempt to free himself. Frigid water dripped down his face. He didn’t know when, but his hat had been knocked off. He saw it float away near the shore. His hair hung loose and wet. He shivered and his teeth chattered. His waders added an extra twenty pounds or more to his weight and then he realized that he couldn’t feel anything lower than his waist. His heart beat so hard that it choked him. His fingertips burned as if the bones tried to tear free of his flesh. He gasped for air as the weight of water pressed against his chest. The creature let out a long, edacious growl. Herman looked back to see it perched on the shore, blood and fur staining its exposed teeth, mirror eyes shining towards him. The odor that permeated from its open jaws soured the marsh. He clung harder to the mass, his finger digging into a soft jelly beneath the mass of grass and weed.

A potent nausea boiled in his stomach. He started to gag but nothing came up. Only painful dry heaves when he wanted to measure slow, conservative breathes. He tried to plan an escape. He looked all around him, and started to call for help. A game warden, or another hunter maybe would hear. He hollered and hollered until his voice went out, and at last some bile that tasted like his coffee squirted up his throat and into the marsh. He looked back at the creature.

It remained perched, its back legs bent under like a frog, and its forearms keeping its head propped up as its body heaved with slow, easy gasps and hot, steaming emissions. The holes along its body grew wide and constricted as it breathed. Inside them he saw black eggs snug inside of the body. Herman laughed as a weightlessness came over him. The creature hadn’t come into the water. It didn’t have a long, serpentining body like a fish or crocodile. It didn’t have flippers or gills. Herman didn’t notice that his skin had become blue or that he lost feeling in his arms. He leaned against the mass, feeling hungry and lethargic. As he did so more of the mass fell away, yet he still floated.

The stars had gone away, as did the moon. The mist started to fade as the sun lit the sky to a morning blue. More of the mass floated away as his body weight caused the mass to gradually sink. His mouth found something salty-sweet like deer jerky. He chewed on the ribbons of it, lifting his head to see that he had been nibbling on flesh. A fat, white face with cheeks and eyes peeled away looked at him blindly with the jaw wide open and stuffed with soiled grass. Dead limbs floated freely. The buttons of his soiled hunting vest strained against his bloated corpse. Marsh colored his orange hunting vest.brown with mud. Herman kept his head up, his mind melting, the bloated body seemed to be speaking to him.

We’re going to get back out, next week… we gotta git back out there and bag some ducks…

Herman laughed “I’m going to get them. I’ve always wanted to get one that I can mount. A real sport, you now.

The creature lurched forward, wading through the water.

Them ducks won’t expect to see us… they’ll just be sitting, floating along, they didn’t even think that they’ll be someone else’s dinner, did they?

“No sir, those birds did not.” He let go of the mass and slipped into the dark waters.

The creature’s body submerged, its body bobbing up and down as it swam towards Herman,

with its mouth open and two sets of hungry teeth exposed. Overhead, a triangle of ducks migrated

past.

The Suitors

Margaret entered her studio. A heavy silence filled the mostly vacant room. All four walls painted in cloudy white, except where the shadow of her wax mannequin stood undressed where she left him. A pole protruded up its neck. Both hands propped besides his waist, each finger bent in an arthritic angle, but reaching out far enough so that his suit could rest in his arms. Without a head the body stood at six feet tall. Barrel chested, and richly endowed, she loved her creation.

A small counter waited for her besides the wax body. Her tools lay in disarray among pieces of discarded wax. Transparent boxes containing imperfect eyeballs, teeth, lips, ears. She set down her coffee, and wasted no time procrastinating. She knew exactly what she wanted this time.

It came to her the night before. She swallowed a few oxycontin, and let her imagination swell. The perfect husband, she fantasized.  A man of deep thought, a man of patience, a man subtle and tame. Intelligent, and a thoughtful. Yes, that’s what she wanted that night.

She gave him a thick skull, but made his jaw and chin unproportional to the top half of his head. An ametuer mistake, Margeret lamented. She had only been working with wax for a decade since retiring from the army. The interests in crafts had always been with her. Sewing and knitting, to pottery, to making birdhouses, and for a short time gardening has been in her life. For those ten years she wore the kind of clothes her grandmother would wear, and lost interest in the world outside her home. When her pension check came in the mail, she would go out to cash it and  shop for groceries, but she no longer recognized any of the faces on the tabloids, and the things that young boys and girls wore made her grimace. She couldn’t travel home fast enough. She had wax cats to feed, and a bare home to keep spotless.  Every room had immaculate walls untouched by pins for decorations of any kind. She liked it that way. No shelves, only a loveseat and a nightstand. Dust and curly hairs stuffed the outlets. She made her bed every morning the same way, and always had her curtain drawn. She shook all the time, until she sat down to work on a craft. Once she had her hands on wax her nerves calmed. Sudden noises still caused her to scream and jump from her seat, but with the doors and windows closed very little distracted her from the work she committed to accomplish. Yet even as she scraped lays of wax away with a scalpel, her eyes popped like a frogs and the fuzz where one might have eyebrows remained raised as if caught in suspense.

She wove a graying beard thick with volume and applied it around the jaw, chin, and up to his bald head. The moustache she applied  curled from its fat middle into thin hooks. She didn’t want him to look too old, but she wanted someone distinguished. Some bags under the eyes she had no problem with. Some wrinkles on his forehead. She couldn’t decide what kind of hair she wanted on his head, so she left his scalp clean. She stopped work only to get a drink of water. Hunger stabbed at her stomach but she didn’t care about that so long as her hands produced work. When completed she fawned over the lifeless head, hugging it, and humming a sweet little tune before taking it with her to the naked mannequin.

The suit that had been neatly folded and placed into his arm had fallen to the floor. So invested into her work she hadn’t even noticed but the sullen disturbance rattled her fists. She balled them up and swallowed the angst. She picked up the suit, and dressed the mannequin. Then she took the head and placed it over the pole.

She kissed him on his cheek. With eager eyes leaking joyous tears, she giggled like a girl, fiddling her fingers below her chin. The embarrassing realization that the apron and gloves she wore would appear lazy and uncultured compared to someone not covered in wax arose. The bouncing she did with her toes stopped but he didn’t notice. With a bold grin, he reached out to take her hands.

Margaret gave him a brief tour of her studio. They spent most of their time in the closet where she kept most of her supplies. He closely inspected the materials she used, taking everything out, reading anything printed on it, and placing it back.

“You’re an artist?” He inquired. “Then you’ve read Bernett Newman.”

“Have I?” She asked keeping her voice down.

“Aesthetics is for the artist as Ornithology is for the birds. Do you recall?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Please, my love, do allow me to indulge myself in reciting his brilliant words. The abuse of beauty compels the concept of art forward, as the oxen does the cart, but art must not be confused with life itself as art is a reflection of ourselves. I am enchanted. Will you do me the pleasure of exhibiting a private display of your work for me?”

“Why, certainly. I store my work in the garage.” Holding each other at the waist, she walked him into the hallway, into the kitchen where she had to take her arm away to unlock the garage door. Owning no car, she had plenty of space. As she unlocked the door she explained “I started out making candles and grew out from there. You’re body is the biggest thing I ever made, but even so I made it piece by piece. Everything else is smaller than your head.”

They walked into the dark garage together. With the tug of a string a lightbulb lit up the garage. A work bench hosted a row of small wax horses. Dozens of candles cluttered shelves around the perimeter. Busts on the shelf below the workbench intrigued the suitor. He walked away from her to and knelt down to inspect them, stroking his beard.

“I see you are an ametuer, and one that has been sculpting for some time. I do assume that I’m the first husband you’ve created, as none of these heads have the color or the touch of what the French call un personnage.”

Dread pounding against her ribcage. She couldn’t follow if he intended to insult her or if she simply didn’t know enough about her craft to know any better. The Suitor could tell this by the nervous expression draining the color from her face.

“May I inquire about your library?”

“Yes. My books are in my bedroom.” He came to her side and they crossed the kitchen to the hall and through the door opposite the studio. She turned the light on and showed him the trunk at the foot of her bed. She opened it, and showed him her collection of books. His eyes widened and he got down, pulling each on up, and reading every word on their cover, and placing the ones he wanted under his arms. Margaret had no recollection of what books she stored or how many she had actually read. She held her arms against her chest.

Once he found the books, the Suitor had little interest in Margaret. She remained in the bedroom, a soundless mouse, turning page after page, then moving onto the next book. He acknowledged her when he wanted a notebook and paper which she happily delivered. When the clock rolled around to 8:00pm she climbed into bed, while the Suitor sat against the wall, the stack of books growing as he went through one after another.

When she woke up at 6:00am, he sat right where she left him. The stack of books now surrounded him. He put the last one down, and stroked his beard. She asked him if he wanted breakfast, and he look surprised.

“I forgot all about you. I became so immersed in my studies but I’m almost completed.” He read the last page of War And Peace, and put the book away in the stack. When Margaret got up to she noticed the bare surface of the trunk. He had read every book. She looked back at him, and to her disgust, he had begun reading them again, starting with The Interpretation of Dreams. Margaret began to change her clothes in front of him, hiding the scar necklacing her her neck with his frail arms, but turning to check if he watched her. His eyes ran like rails over the pages, oblivious to her nudity. She put a morning dress on, and called on him.

“The Oedipus complex is an interesting theory,  but how can it apply to one that is homosexual, one must inquire.” Is how he responded.

“Who’s Oedipus?” She asked.

“Only one of three surviving plays written by the apt Greek Sophocles. I’m sure you’ve read Oedipus Tyrannus though I don’t see a copy in your collection. ‘Let every man in mankind's frailty consider his last day; and let none presume on his good fortune until he find Life, at his death, a memory without pain.’  Wisdom transcends age and culture, dear wife. Then why is it, I am troubled to question, why you appear so uncomfortable in your own home?”

She didn’t realize he had asked her a question and only nodded shyly. He stroked his beard, and flipped through the notes he had taken.

“It cannot be my presence here that disturbs you. Quite the opposite. However there is small chance that I have earned enough trust to be indulged in the tragedy that darkens your eyes, such as it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one understands the experiences that compels one to live in the fashion tailored for yourself but for you, and perhaps Mr. Freud. Though many of his theories are preposterous in light of modern psychology, your condition won’t take a thinker like Freud to diagnose. Tell me, your father and mother fought constantly, yes?”

She nodded.

“These fights were physical, and when one couldn’t fight the other, they came to you, yes?”

She nodded, her hands shaking.

“That’s why you joined the military. You’re not a patriotic woman, nor are you a violent enough to pursue a career in warfare. The pension certainly appealed to you, but that’s not why you enlisted. Two reasons drove you to that commitment. You wanted to prove to your mother that a woman is capable and strong enough to carry herself, and you wanted to escape your dysfunctional household. None of that is why you’re such a nervous woman.” He stood up, stepped over the books, came to her and took her hands, and spoke softly. “ Certainly I am no threat to you, but I feel your trembling hands indicating otherwise. You carry an insurmountable burden with you. A shameful attack on your life, your pride, your spirit! A victim hiding in her fortress, anything that she can’t control makes her nervous. This constant worrying has caused your early aging, even your balding. Yes! You can hide nothing from your husband, and will find that there is no controlling creation. But can you accept turmoil? Can you accept me?”

Margaret pulled away and left the room. The suitor shrugged and went back the books. He picked up De Rarum Natura, and stroked his beard as Margaret peeked from the corner, entering on her tiptoes with a heavy tool slumping her shoulder. The suitor didn’t notice, perhaps he already knew, but she stood at his back raising an axe. Her murderous shadow cast across the room. The suitor had time to say, “Please, you're in my light.” Before the axe came down and swiped his head off. The wax body remained motionless while the bearded head cried “MERCY” as it rolled across the room.

She scooped the head up, took it into the garage  and dropped it into an empty crate, closing the lid to drown out his concise and pointed arguments against her actions as she shut out the lights and locked the door behind her. She made eggs and bacon, the axe resting on the kitchen table, and decided she wanted a new husband. One that had nerves of steel. One that shared the experience of a hard family life. A traditional man, the kind that used to be. Someone that always thinks ahead, not for the present. After she ate, she went back to work creating a new husband.

This new suitor had rounded eyebrows, small, furtive eyes, and unlike the last one, a long cheekbones, and a sturdy jaw line. Pouty lips, and scalp carpeted in buzzed black hair. She placed this one on the pole, and kissed it on the lips. The suitor became alert, twitching then standing up while she remained kneeling, looking up in admiration while he stared down at her with considerable disapproval, raising one eyebrow, and sliding his lips back and forth.

“Well, woman, are you going to sit there or get me some smokes?”

“I-I don’t smoke.”

“Don’t know what you’re missin’ Dollface. Better get up.” He offered an arm, and she took hold of it. When he pulled her to her feet it came with such force that she thought that he would grab and her and perform unspeakable acts. She liked the idea, but muted the thoughts when he put his hands on his waist, and eye her up and down. “So you made me, huh? I suppose you think you’re some hot shit. Right?”

“N-no.”

“You’re humble. I like that in a woman. Some gals talk too much. The rest talk all the time. But how many actually have anything to say? Too few, in my humble opinion. You know better, don’t cha? Tell me, jewel eyes, where you keep your smokes?”

“I don’t have any.”

“That’s strike one, doll. Why not?”

“They cause cancer.”

“Strike two. Listen, I’ve been smoking three packs a day since I was twelve and no harm’s been done to me” He paused to hack unpleasant goo from his throat. “Excuse me. Just because some pencil neck in a white coat says so doesn’t make it so. Now, you better put on a coat.”

“Why?”

“Cause you’re my date, Doll. We’re going to get some smokes.”  He went to the closet, pulled out one of the coats hanging on a hook, and held it open for her to put on. She liked the service and thought he picked out a decent one. As they left, he took the keys from her hands and locked the door for her. They walked alongside one another as the evening sun set against the sky. Margaret's stomach rumbled. Time had gotten away from her, and she had been so excited that she forgot to eat. She liked this new husband. More brash than she preferred, but it gave her a tingle. She reached for his hand. Large, and tough, she wanted to squeeze it and feel him squeeze back, but he whipped it away and shot her a look of disbelief.

“Woman, we’re in public!”

She led him to the gas station where he stood in front of the cashier and asked for“Manoli Dandies”. The cashier raised his thick black eyebrows in confusion.

“Don’t have ‘em? Fine. How about some Bull Durhams? “

The cashier rubbed his greasy locks as Margaret swayed back and forth, her eyes scanning the door as she played with the cash in her dainty palms.

“What’s the world coming to these days. How about Chesterfields? You got ‘em? Hallelujah,I want three packs.”

The cashier took down the cigarettes and run them up as margaret approached with the money.The suitor smirked and looked at the cashier.

“The doll’s got her own money, can you believe it? Next she’ll want to vote.”

As they left, she told him that she had been in the military, which shocked her suitor. The smoke dropped from his lips and he didn’t even notice. She told him about her career, the places she had sent to, and the wars that she had been a part of.

“What is the world coming to?” He lit another cigarette. “First, a sand nigger is selling smokes, next thing I find out is that doll’s are in the army. Do elephants fly?”

“You shouldn’t call anyone a sand nigger.”

“Why not? It’s what my old man called ‘em.”

“It’s hurtful.”

“You think that’s hurtful? My old man caught me stealing his smokes once, so he held my arm under an iron and sent me to bed without dinner. That was hurtful. I was working in a factory capping tins for Spam. See the scars on my hands? That’s hurtful. One time I got a loaf of bread because I was hungry, and on the street. A sand nigger, just like that one, comes from nowhere and gives me a loaf of bread. Then a gang of Irish white trash jumped me, held me down and took turns laying punches on me. They stole the bread, and I couldn’t talk for two weeks. I had a broken jaw, drank whiskey to make the pain go away, went to work. That was hurtful.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I don’t need your sympathy. All I need,” He lit his third cigarette. “Is some healthy tobacco, and a good woman to go home to.”

“My folks hit me too.”

“You don’t say? Well, that’s life, woman. It made us stronger in the long run.”

“No.”

“Of course it did. You just told me that you fought in war, got promoted to a commanding officer, and you think it came from nowhere? If your folks had been buttercups, think any of that woulda happened? Think you woulda made me? Forget about it.”

She felt oddly secure. She wanted him to pull her over and hold her against him, but her tongue couldn’t find a way to justify the offenses he dropped onto her. In a way that disgusted her, the tingle grew more powerful the more he repulsed her.

Once home, she helped take off his coat and placed it on a hook. He reclined on the love seat, and grabbed an old newspaper. Barack Obama had visited the UN. The suitor rubbed this forehead, and muttered “You’ve got to be kidding me…”. Margaret didn't hear it. She disrobed before him, took the newspaper from his hands, and mounted him, laying hard wet kisses on his neck. He gasped and pushed her to the floor.

“My god, woman! Have you any decency?”

She started to cry.

“I’ll give you a reason to cry.” With a hard left, he struck her across the face. “Now get dressed and get some dinner ready.”

She only cried harder as horrendous memories re emerged. A dark alley, dirt and broken glass sticking to the blood in her hair as someone dragged her by the feet to a pickup truck. She got up and went to the kitchen, where instead of preparing dinner, she took the biggest knife she had, held it over the stove, went back in to find the suitor napping comfortably, the cigarette remaining in his mouth even as he slept.. She forced the blade into his neck and sawed away. His hands grabbed at her as he swallowed the smoke. His eyes lit up as he tried to get up but only agonized gasps escaped. In four sawing motions the head fell from the body.

“You’ll get yours, dollface!” The suitor cried as she took into the garage and dropped him in the same crate as the bearded philosopher. She left, slamming the door and leaving them in the dark. She decided that she actually would prefer a man that is more sensitive. Someone that would listen to her, and bring her flowers. Yes, she thought, as she entered the studio, and swallowing a couple more pills. That is exactly right.

She made this one with dark hair parted to the side. She wanted a bigger nose, but cut half of it off. Shaping the edge to a point, it came to be the size of pen cap. It tickled her fancy so she kept it. He wanted his forehead to be narrow but seeable. Wrinkless, this new one she made younger than the other few. His lips poked into his cheeks so that they would fold over a little bit. And Dimples! She couldn’t help herself. Two in his cheeks and one in his chin. She loved him.

MArgaret felt tired. When the clock struck three am she jumped from her seat, holding the head like a shield. She laughed with exhaustion, taking the head to bed with her and holding it to her chest like a nursing baby as she slept.

In the morning she placed the head onto the pole of the body, and kissed him on the forehead. She watched with one hand on her hip as his hazel eyes shifted around the room. With a lazy yawn, he leaned forward, and wrapped his arms around her, moaning with contentment as his soft hands massaged her back.

“You smell like roses.” He said.

“I smell like wax.” she corrected.

“I like it. Let’s shower together.”

She smiled and led him into the bathroom, where they undressed and washed one another.

When they exited, Margaret felt like she had hit the nail on the head. She held his hand with a sensation of immortality that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Maybe never before.

“I like how you touch me.” He told her, embracing her. “Do it again.”

“I have to make breakfast. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Hungry for you.”

“That’s great, but I’m starving. What do you like to eat?”

“You never have time for me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic. You eat, don’t you?”

“Of course I eat! How could you be so insensitive…” He pulled away from her and began to weep into his palms.

She threw him his suit.

“Put that on and be in the kitchen in twenty minutes. We’re having bacon and eggs.”

She cooked bacon, but had forgotten eggs, so she microwaved some instant biscuits. Just as well. She made some coffee. It took twenty one minutes to put together. She looked at her watch, but the suitor hadn’t come in. Annoyed she entered the living room, where she found him weeping at the window.

“Food is ready. Stop being frivolous and come here.”

“I’m sorry. The sun light coming through the window is so beautiful!” He collapsed against the sill and balled his eyes out.

She started to eat, but his food only grew colder. She went back to the living room, and found him nowhere. Nervous ticks went up her arm. The bathroom door hung open. She crept inside, and peeked. The suitor had her makeup out, and was trying on different eye shadows, and lipsticks.

“What are you doing?”

“You never buy me any makeup so I have to use yours.”

“For what?”

“I want to look as beautiful as I feel. Don’t you understand?”

The streaks of mascara cried down his cheeks.

“Get out of my makeup. And you look like a whore.”

He started bawling and ran past her, knocking her against the wall where she slid the floor, in a state of shock. When he saw this, he came back and knelt down to her level, embracing her and apologizing. She accepted his apologies, his deep voice sincere and moving.

They spent the rest of the day sitting on the couch. The suitor went on and on. He let Margaret talk some, but he always interrupted to add his own input. Every sentence began with “I” or “me” or “my”. Once night fell, Margaret had enough, but he knew that telling him to shut up would only cause him to cry. He lay down and rested his head on her lap.

“Tell me you love me.”

“I-”

“You do, right? You aren’t just toying with my feelings? It’s so hard to find a person to connect to, but I feel like I can tell you anything. I can open up to you. There’s no one else like that in the whole world. Just tell me you love me.”

“I-”

The doorknob jolsted.

“Someone’s there…”

“Who?”

The jostling stopped. They both sat still. Listening. Waiting. Then a crash broke the silence as glass fell to the floor. The suitor stood up and screamed.

“Do something! Do something!” he prayed to Margaret as he huddle in the corner.

The door unlatched. The backdoor! Margaret reached beneath the loveseat and produced a baseball bat. A ray of silver light cut through the dark hallway. Feet shuffled across her hardwood floor. HEavy breathing ruined the stealth. Coming closer, and closer, Margaret waited, bearing the bat. When the head appeared, the suitor screamed at a pitch so high that Margaret's ear ached at the sound. She swung the bat at the spectre who had already begun to flee. He bolted out the door into the dark.

Margaret called the police. Once she told them what happened and they left, the suitor came out of hiding.

“Are they gone? That was so scary!”

Margaret left the room, and came back with the axe.

“What’s that for?” He asked, pleaded her to reconsider as she lopped his head off. He cried the whole time she carried him by the hair to the crate with the others.

She took a handful of pills. Someone needed to fix the window that the intruder had broken. She decided she wanted a handy man. A gentleman, a stoic, someone with a good mind for her.

She got to work right away. Her womanhood burned as she molded bold, blue eyes and a head of blonde hair. She gave him a strong nose with wide nostrils. Some moles here and there. She kissed each one, and wasted no time putting the head back on the body. The suitor fell back, stunned, when seeing his wife for the first time.

“You’ve got to be an angel.”

“Maybe. Are you good with tools?”

“Yes, I’m a hell of a craftsman.”

She showed him the damage, which he inspected. He informed her that until he picks up a new window that he would just put plywood over it. She had no plywood, so they used a cabinet door. He wanted screws, but she had only nails. With two swings he had each nail in. She liked watching him work.

She liked this one because he didn’t talk much, and did everything she told him to do. Take out the trash, cook, clean. He even helped her with wax working. The studio had become cluttered and hardened scales of wax spotted the floors and walls. She had the suitor remove them. He used a chisel. The wax lifted from the floor, but it took floor and wall with it. Before Margaret could notice, he had the damage filled in with wood glue and putty. She liked having something for him to do, because if she didn’t he would follow her around the house. Into the bathroom, into her studio, even when she went to get the mail. It made her nervous. He didn’t act like a puppy dog, but a parole officer. She couldn’t explain his suspicion, or his caution with her. When she got her check, she went out to cash it, and the suitor insisted that he come along. He kept his eye on her the whole time. The sensation of heavy eyes pressing against her caused to to mis write her own signature on the check. The teller at the bank even gave the suitor a strange look.

“It’s okay. I’m her husband.” The suitor told the banker.

At the grocery store he took every item she put in the cart and inspected it, inquiring if she thought it was nutritious enough, or too expensive. As they left he asked:

“Why did you make a man?”

“Because I wanted a husband.”

“I know, but have you considered talking to someone.”

“Talking to someone?”

“Yes. Going out, and talking to someone.”

“Like where?”

“A bar, a park, a bookstore, a cafe. Outside. Ever think of that?”

“If I could do that, I would’ve.”

“But you haven’t. Why?”

She couldn’t answer.

“Fine. You don’t have to say.”

“I’m going to the hardware store to buy a new window.”

“I don’t want to fix it.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not fixing it.”

“But I said so.”

“The door works. It doesn’t need to be fixed.”

Margret’s viens felt like surging power cords. She balled her fists and grinded her teeth.

“You need to leave me alone. When we get home. I’m going to my studio, and you’re going to leave me alone.”

“No.”

“I’ll lock the door.’

“I’ll break it down.”

“Why are you being so difficult?”

“What’s in that crate in the garage?”

“What crate?”

“There’s one you put a cinder block on top of. Must be something inside you don’t want getting out.’

“Stay out of the garage.”

“You take one step into that studio, and I see what’s in the crate.”

“I made you, I can destroy you.”

“I thought I was good enough for you. I thought I was making you happy. I’ve been a fool. Now I know better.”

Margaret knew exactly how she wanted to kill this one. When they got home she did exactly as she said. She went into the studio. First, she screamed and kicked at the walls. Pieces of wall crumbled and fell. She took her stool and hurled it against the other side of the room. She collapsed to her knees, and hurled furious fists into the floor. Her knuckles bled, and her feet ached, but she wasn’t finished. She dug through her closet, knowing she still had it. Simple, fine, but deliciously cruel. Her eyes bulged with joy when she had the piano wire in her hands. She liked how it cut into her hands when stressing against something. Almost as much as she liked to hear people gagged for air but receiving nothing. If only had had her knife back then, or her gun. Then she could’ve immobilized her assailants, and then she wouldn’t have the pleasure of strangling one with piano wire.

She crept from the studio, being as quiet as a rodent. Tip toeing, checking each room, her veins pumping so fast that purple strains pressed against her skin. Each room was empty, but the garage. The door hung open. She made her way in. The light was on. She dropped the wire, and hit the floor in despair, sobbing and biting at her own arms until they bled.

The crate lid had been opened. The heads inside argued amongst one another about whose fault everything was. The suitor swung from a rafter.

Margaret took the crate and buried it in a field outside of town. Even as she filled in the hole, the heads screamed and begged her to stop. He didn’
t stop filling the hole until the weight of the dirt concealed their voices. Then she put rocks over the spot for good measure.

When she got home she took a hammer and broke off each limb from the wax man, then smashing them to pieces, knocking over the body and pounding it until a layer of rubbery dust covered the garage floor. She took all of her wax creations of melted them. All her tools and equipment she left in trash bags by the curb. She took some more oxycontin, and sat on the hard wood of her empty studio, staring into the blank walls, pondering what hobby she would occupy her time with next.