To all my dearest followers. This is a short story. And darker than anything I’ve written to date. It will not fit in with “Things I want my kids to know…” and the rest of the things found here. I’m not even expecting fireworks, but I am experimenting. I got out of my comfort zone, explored the shadows of my imagination and ended up with this. Humour me.
“Salty,” he mumbled as he licked the droplets of blood from his lower lip. He could feel the stickiness of it all over his face, like those times when he tried eating an overripe mango without a knife.
The woman’s head are now lying face down after rolling a few metres down the small hill. If only there were a few skillets, that would have been awesome. He missed bowling. Her body is still squirting it’s last fluids onto the green grass, a fountain losing pressure, creating a miniscule version of the Red sea. The axe caused a spray that flew in a wide arc across his was-white-now-semi-beige-brown vest and face, hence the droplets covering him like pimples.
He puts his axe down and let the handle lean against his faded denim. He wipes his brow and then attempts to clean the blood and dirt from his hands. He hoped the cigarette tucked behind his ear wouldn’t be ruined, like last time, all soggy and shit. He looked at his hands. Big, strong hands, just like his father’s. And now these big hands are used to seperate head and body, to protect the innocent – a slasher-movie-villian’s wet dream.
“We have another one,” Jim said as he walked around the corner of the warehouse. He was dragging this one by the arms in a semi-awkward, backward walking stance. “Where the fuck are they getting the songs from? I thought they would have destroyed all of the sources by now. What, it’s been three months since the first morphing, hasn’t it? I remember telling my wife that he was crap the first time I heard him. Jeez didn’t realise….”
Most people claimed godlike wisdom and foresight in those first days. A million prophets shouting “I told you so”. What does it matter if they were right or not? It didn’t help the young severed lady with the great body and the big tits lying lopsided at his feet in her blood soaked greenish dress. It also didn’t help any of the other sixteen fans who is lying in a heap a few feet away against the tree. The Diggers will have their work cut out for them this afternoon. It’s summer and they only get rid of the bodies at dusk. The flies have sent out invitations and the families would be arriving any moment.
He turned his gaze to the left where all seventeen heads ended up in the same perimeter after rolling down the small incline. What is the collective noun for severed heads? A rolling of heads? A cutting of heads? A severing of heads? He wish he had more empathy, he wished he felt sorry for them. Since day one he wanted to beat the crap out of anyone who wasted their time listening to that douche bag playing on the airwaves.
And now he’s a Chopper. How quickly things change. His dreams and promises of becoming the head-bouncer at Hooters washed down the drain like the countless litres of blood in the basin to his right. It might still happen, who knows. When the Sheriff arrived on their porch that fateful morning he knew. He instinctively knew that no one else in town would be up for it. No-one would be good enough. It had to be him. You need strong arms, a strong mind and a strong stomach to be a good Chopper. And he was that. All of that. His dad would’ve been so proud. Weighing in at 217 lbs. and standing 6″4′ in his boots he was destined for this. Evertything his dad taught him at the timber yard, before accidently falling into a wood-chipper, has lead him to this. His destiny. He knew he was skillful and he became great friends with his axe, whom he called “Axe.”
Another benefit of this job is that it allowed him a workout as the gym membership became astonomically expensive. He flexed his bicep and had a deep desire to kiss it. He didn’t. Control is important in times like these.
When the morphing started they thought it would work by only cutting of their ears. And there was something worse about girls running around screaming with bandaged heads compared to not having heads at all. That plan didn’t work as the brain seemed to have a built-in memory card or something. The shit got stuck in their heads, like a jammed repeat button, so after a while they would just return to their previous behaviour of killing babies. The only thing that removed their urge to kill was to cut their audio system, unplug the speaker so to speak. As it was all in their head.
Some smart guy in a suit claimed that the morphing was a result of subliminal messaging. Chip didn’t bother to understand the big words, he just realised how crap music can actually be. The guy went on to say that over exposure to the song “Baby, Baby, Baby” triggered the morphing.
He smiles remembering the angry mob of sobbing soccer moms who stormed the singer’s house. They shot the guards at point blank, then butchered the dad for allowing his son to turn into a dick and then dragged said dick outside. He was only wearing a silky pair of Batman shorts and had way to many tattoo’s. Worse part is there were not even one saying ‘Mom’.
Then the woman went ape-shit on his skinny ass and beat and kicked him, going wild, like fat people at an open buffet after a weight watchers convention. They were claiming revenge on behalf of their little ones who were slaughtered by many mobs of senseless teens. It didn’t take long for his snot and spit to change into thick black blood, spilling out of his mouth, nose and ears. Chip shivers remembering the last image of Justin Bieber with swollen, glazed-over eyes and a very unnatural twist in his neck.
Someone said off camera: “Try and sing now, bitch.” Who knew his music would be so bad?
“Hi, I’m saying, we have another one. Are you going to help. Ah shit, never mind I’m just going to leave her over here. Probably the last one for the day. I think she might still be conscious, maybe you should just punch her in the face before severing her head.” Jim dropped the body and walked away, disappearing around the corner. Moments later the rumbling of his pick-up faded in the distance.
He looked at the girl lying on the ground a few metres from him. He knew he wouldn’t bother with punching her, as some other Choppers do, he just used his axe, seemed quicker, less messy. He walked closer, dragging the axe behind him, just like that guy in that horror movie. This girl was already severally beaten, lying on her stomach with her brownish hair caked with blood. Judging by the size of her body she couldn’t have been older than fourteen. All because of that idiot who thought he could sing. The fuck-nut.
Not even the public execution of Selena Gomez would calm them down. Nothing worked on those morphed, crazed teens, they just ran around like headless chickens craving murder, wanting to kill babies. He’s learned that headless chicks are a lot less agile than their birdlike name sakes..
He shoved her lightly with his boot. Even though they couldn’t do anything to him he wasn’t in the mood for a fight. It would just be bloodier and he was already tired. She remained lifeless, which would become her reality in a few seconds. He pressed his boot harder and turned her over, lifted his axe, feeling his toned muscles ripple beneath his skin. He breathed out slowly, and just when he wanted to bring the axe down he saw her face.
He dropped the axe to his side and fell down on his knees and screamed. A primal scream, a painful release that echoed for miles. A scream that released small projectiles of spit from his mouth. The morphed creature on the ground, the being who used to be a girl; was his sister. And she also turned out to be a closet Bieber fan. And she said she liked Pink!