Twisted Bits

Fictional works by Jeff Thomson

The Load from Hell

The Load from Hell

The air breaks popped with a loud hiss as the behemoth truck and trailer settled into park. Grant Latimer lowered the electric window then shut off the engine, leaving himself and the world around him in silence. He sat there, smoking, tapping a single finger on the steering wheel, and listening to the slowly fading road sounds in his head. He was an unremarkable man in every way: medium build, medium hair, medium clothes, and of indeterminate age. One might forget all about him ten seconds after meeting him, as if the eyes would slide right off and move on to more interesting things.

Nothing interesting – or new – could be seen through the bug-guts splattered windshield, just the rutted gravel parking lot of Clancy's Roadhouse and Truck Stop. It squatted in the middle of a five acre plot of land speckled with islands of weeds, as if they were mapping an archipelago of neglect.

Grant had parked his truck at the farthest corner away from the single-storey, green, peaked-roof building. One other car sat between faded yellow lines on the strip of concrete supporting the fuel islands, nearest the entrance to the bar. The sign with the establishment's name hung tacked to the wall on one side of the door, its plastic facade even more faded than the parking lines and with one corner of its white border broken and missing. Another sign said simply BEER in red neon through a dirty window. The dust from Grant's arrival finally settled, so he clicked the ignition to BATTERY, raised the window and groaned his way out of the truck.

His legs were stiff, his back ached and his butt hurt after nearly eleven hours on the road. Anyone witnessing his half-stagger across the gravel might think him drunk, but he wasn't. Yet.

He stood in the doorway for a few moments, allowing his eyesight to recover from the contrast between bright sunlight and dingy bar light. It didn't appear to be doing any good, but then he realized his sunglasses were still perched upon his nose, where they'd been for so long he'd forgotten they were even there. He took them off and slid straight up to the bar, where Izzy Schwartz had a glass filled with ice and a deep red liquid ready for him. He sipped and smiled, then noticed a descrepency.

"No Vodka?"

"It's virgin," Izzy replied, "Didn't want to spoil it."

Grant nodded and took a long pull, after which he let out a contented sigh.

Just then, naturally, out of the blue, Izzy decided to be a buzz kill.

"Whatever happened to that gorgeous brunette you were dating?" he asked, wiping a towel across his already shining bar. He was an younger man, but he looked older, with the many miles of his existence etched not upon his face, but within his eyes.

"Romana?" Grant asked with an involuntary shiver, his mood beginning to sour.

"That bad?"

"Worse," Grant replied. His eyes suddenly popped wide. "Can you imagine if we reproduced?" He shuddered again. "Between my devilish charms and her acute psychosis, Chucky would have run screaming away from our kid."

"And wouldn't that make a papa proud?" Izzy laughed.

"Right," Grant agreed, dubiously.

The bartender turned to the back of his bar and began unnecessarily wiping there, as well. Glasses lined some of the shelves, with bottles of expensive liquor on others, all interspersed with a collection of art and artifacts best described as eclectic, though some might also call it bizarre. To the right lay a glass cabinet containing an old and faded Ouija board, a torn and scarred deck of Tarot cards, and two shrunken heads, rumored to have come from a native tribe still living in a largely unexplored region of the Amazon. Grant made a note to himself never to go there. To the left lay an old ship's bell, surrounded by bits of what could best be described as treasure: a spray of old coins, three silver goblets, a broach the size of a baseball, and an ornate dagger, which may or may not look as if it would find itself right at home at a human sacrifice. Few knew (Grant being one of them) that if someone removed a few of those objects, it would reveal a finely drawn pentagram.

Izzy reached the centerpiece of the whole affair and brought out paper towels and glass cleaner. Belinda stirred in her tank.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you this for a while now," Grant began.

"Go ahead," came the reply, filled with the weight of disappointed expectations. Grant almost felt sorry for him, but he had to know.

"What possessed you to think having a squid for a mascot would be a good idea?"

The cephalopod in question moved with languid flicks of its many legs, slowly swimming back and forth within its two hundred gallon glass prison, rising in almost imperceptible gradients towards the top of the tank. It paused there, letting its legs seek out the lid and scan its dimensions and textures. Another flick and it moved half a foot and repeated the process, as if...

"Looks like it's trying to find a way out," Grant observed.

Izzy nodded and pointed to the three large stones he had placed atop the lid. "And if those things weren't there she'd find it, too."

"What if she did?"

Izzy turned back to face his customer. "It would be bad." He didn't look as if he might be kidding.

"What?" Grant asked, skeptical. "It's just a weird looking fish."

Izzy smiled. "Is it?"

"It's not?"

"Remember where you are, Loadmaster."

Two things occurred to Grant at virtually the same time: how could he forget, and the barman would do well not to use the honorific in public. Of course, the establishment couldn't exactly be called crowded or, for that matter, populated at all, save for the two of them but the point remained germane. Some things were meant to be kept silent. He could tell by Izzy's expression that he knew this to be true. His eyes showed fear, as they should. No need to beat him over the head with it. This time.

A change of subject seemed in order.

"So why Belinda?" he asked, pointing toward the occupant of the tank.

"Named her after my ex-wife," Izzy said, and appeared ready to leave it at that. Grant's raised eyebrow asked for more. "Have you ever seen one of those pictures of a sad sack with all his pockets turned inside out?" Grant nodded. "That's what it was like after the divorce, only it seemed to happen all at once, as if she had a multitude of arms."

"Ah."

"Yeah, well, that and they're both demons from the nether regions."

Grant pointed toward the squid. "You mean?"

Izzy smiled. It would have scared small children, had there been any around.

"Where'd you get it?" This had suddenly become interesting.

"That little shop in the alley off Fourteenth and Broadmoor?" Grant knew the place. He hadn't known its inventory included demonic familiars. Interesting . . .

Sadly, any further investigation of the subject needed to be placed on hold after the outside door opened and two disreputable looking miscreants entered the building.

The first was tall and lean and looked more or less exactly like a human ferret. He wore chinos and a tattered tee-shirt and held a cell phone to his ear. The other was a brute, the rough size and shape of a soda machine, wearing jeans and – as incongruous as could be – a Hello Kitty golf shirt. Izzy and Grant stared at the pair as they made their way to the bar.

Basic decorum would have dictated they move at least a few feet down the bar so as not to be sitting right next to the only other patron, but apparently they'd never learned their Emily Post.

"Don't worry about it, I said," Ferret Boy said into the phone. "It's handled." He listened for a moment, then snarled, "Yes I'm sure. Fuck off," then depressed the key ending the clearly intellectual conversation. He sat upon a stool right next to Grant. Mister Soda Machine just sort of leaned on Grant's other side.

"Whiskey," Ferret demanded.

"Beer," Soda added, in a surprisingly soft voice, given his gargantuan size.

Izzy flicked an eyebrow skyward, but Grant merely shrugged. The entire scenario seemed odd, but in its oddness also lay the potential for a bit of fun, so he felt content to let it play out however it would.

"Nice truck out there in the parking lot," Ferret said, casual as could be. Grant said nothing. Izzy leaned back against the shelf holding Belinda's tank and folded his arms across his chest.

Grant reached for his drink but a hand the size of a dinner plate covered it before he could.

"The man said nice truck," Soda repeated, softly.

"I heard him," Grant replied. Outwardly it looked as if he hadn't a thought or emotion behind his blank expression. Inwardly, he grinned. This could be entertaining, indeed.

"Whatcha hauling?" Ferret asked.

Grant turned to him and made his grin public. "Something you want nothing to do with." Truer words were never spoken, though the two idiots couldn't possibly know it. But Grant hauled freight for exactly one very specialized client – certainly not the kind of individual who would take kindly to having his merchandise messed with by the likes of the newcomers. "Walk away," he cautioned, knowing it would do no good.

"Walk away, he says," Ferret said to Soda Machine.

"I heard him," the Hello Kitty fancier replied.

"It would be wise," Izzy offered. They ignored him.

"I think he needs to show us," Ferret said, then added, "but he doesn't look convinced."

"Maybe I should persuade him," Soda Machine suggested.

Grant sighed. "You look like two intelligent men," he began, lying his ass off. "So I'll say it again. Walk away." The human flatware moved from the drink to the back of Grant's neck and squeezed, as if Grant's skull might be a Pez dispenser. It hurt.

Oh yeah. He was going to enjoy this.

In what seemed no time at all, the foursome found its way to the far back corner of the still nearly empty parking lot. A primer-speckled pickup truck had been added to the inventory. It sported a bumper sticker proclaiming: God, Guts and Guns.

Grant smiled. Wait till Eve gets a hold of these two, he mused in excited expectation. He flicked his eyes toward Izzy, who winked.

Ferret and Soda brought Grant and Izzy to the back of the truck. Somewhere along the way, Soda had produced a handgun from beneath his tattered shirt.

"Open it," Ferret ordered, waving the pistol at the padlock securing the rear trailer doors.

Grant stuck his hand in his pocket and removed a set of keys. He grasped the padlock and lay the key at the edge of its slot, but did not insert it. "Last chance," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Unlock it," Ferret ordered again, "before I have my associate open the damned thing with your head."

Grant shrugged, said, "Out of my hands," and inserted the key. A single, muffled woof sounded from inside.

"What the fuck is that?" Soda demanded.

"Just my dog," Grant said, and this time he spoke true.

"What kinda dog?" Soda Machine asked.

"A hybrid," Grant replied.

"What kind is that?" Ferret Boy asked, sounding as if his IQ might be dropping with every passing moment.

"A mutt." This was technically true, given that Eve had no pure-blooded equivalent, but Grant doubted any discussion as to the genetic makeup of the beast would make these two miscreants any the wiser. In any case, a few more moments and it would no longer make any difference.

Ferret shoved the pistol barrel into Grant's temple. "Open the fucking door."

"If you insist," The Loadmaster replied, and turned the key.

The first head Eve thrust through the door was all teeth and drool and malice. The second wasn't any more subtle, and the third was no less than the stuff of nightmares. Ferret Boy and Soda Machine started screaming almost immediately, but not for very long. Grant took three steps back to avoid the blood spatter. Izzy, however, wasn't so lucky.

"God dammit!" the bar owner swore, wiping a chunk of Ferret's cheek away from his eye. A bit of nose slapped against his forehead, then splatted upon the ground with a sickening squelch.

The rest was grunting and growling and chewing.

"Good girl, Eve," Grant said, stroking the Hell Beast's bison-sized body. "Who's a good girl?" The center head looked up at him with unconditional love as the one and only tail wagged hard enough to clang against the metal of the trailer's bumper. A string of what appeared to be lower intestine hung from the side of her mouth.

"Why call her Eve?"

"Because of the movie," Grant replied, as if the answer was self-evident. Izzy's clueless expression showed differently. "Three Faces of Eve," he added, "of course."

Izzy shook his head at the bad pun, then observed: "Too bad she's such a sloppy eater," right before sneaking a peek into the back of the truck. "What . . . ?" he asked.

"You don't want to know," Grant replied.

Izzy accepted this answer without question or complaint, and chose instead to survey the carnage. "Geez, what a mess," he proclaimed.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Grant asked. Izzy didn't, at first, but then he signaled his understanding with a slump of his shoulders.

"Oh, man," he whined. "I just got done cleaning the woodchipper."

The End

The air breaks popped with a loud hiss as the behemoth truck and trailer settled into park. Grant Latimer lowered the electric window then shut off the engine, leaving himself and the world around him in silence. He sat there, smoking, tapping a single finger on the steering wheel, and listening to the slowly fading road sounds in his head. He was an unremarkable man in every way: medium build, medium hair, medium clothes, and of indeterminate age. One might forget all about him ten seconds after meeting him, as if the eyes would slide right off and move on to more interesting things.

Nothing interesting – or new – could be seen through the bug-guts splattered windshield, just the rutted gravel parking lot of Clancy's Roadhouse and Truck Stop. It squatted in the middle of a five acre plot of land speckled with islands of weeds, as if they were mapping an archipelago of neglect.

Grant had parked his truck at the farthest corner away from the single-storey, green, peaked-roof building. One other car sat between faded yellow lines on the strip of concrete supporting the fuel islands, nearest the entrance to the bar. The sign with the establishment's name hung tacked to the wall on one side of the door, its plastic facade even more faded than the parking lines and with one corner of its white border broken and missing. Another sign said simply BEER in red neon through a dirty window. The dust from Grant's arrival finally settled, so he clicked the ignition to BATTERY, raised the window and groaned his way out of the truck.

His legs were stiff, his back ached and his butt hurt after nearly eleven hours on the road. Anyone witnessing his half-stagger across the gravel might think him drunk, but he wasn't. Yet.

He stood in the doorway for a few moments, allowing his eyesight to recover from the contrast between bright sunlight and dingy bar light. It didn't appear to be doing any good, but then he realized his sunglasses were still perched upon his nose, where they'd been for so long he'd forgotten they were even there. He took them off and slid straight up to the bar, where Izzy Schwartz had a glass filled with ice and a deep red liquid ready for him. He sipped and smiled, then noticed a descrepency.

"No Vodka?"

"It's virgin," Izzy replied, "Didn't want to spoil it."

Grant nodded and took a long pull, after which he let out a contented sigh.

Just then, naturally, out of the blue, Izzy decided to be a buzz kill.

"Whatever happened to that gorgeous brunette you were dating?" he asked, wiping a towel across his already shining bar. He was an younger man, but he looked older, with the many miles of his existence etched not upon his face, but within his eyes.

"Romana?" Grant asked with an involuntary shiver, his mood beginning to sour.

"That bad?"

"Worse," Grant replied. His eyes suddenly popped wide. "Can you imagine if we reproduced?" He shuddered again. "Between my devilish charms and her acute psychosis, Chucky would have run screaming away from our kid."

"And wouldn't that make a papa proud?" Izzy laughed.

"Right," Grant agreed, dubiously.

The bartender turned to the back of his bar and began unnecessarily wiping there, as well. Glasses lined some of the shelves, with bottles of expensive liquor on others, all interspersed with a collection of art and artifacts best described as eclectic, though some might also call it bizarre. To the right lay a glass cabinet containing an old and faded Ouija board, a torn and scarred deck of Tarot cards, and two shrunken heads, rumored to have come from a native tribe still living in a largely unexplored region of the Amazon. Grant made a note to himself never to go there. To the left lay an old ship's bell, surrounded by bits of what could best be described as treasure: a spray of old coins, three silver goblets, a broach the size of a baseball, and an ornate dagger, which may or may not look as if it would find itself right at home at a human sacrifice. Few knew (Grant being one of them) that if someone removed a few of those objects, it would reveal a finely drawn pentagram.

Izzy reached the centerpiece of the whole affair and brought out paper towels and glass cleaner. Belinda stirred in her tank.

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you this for a while now," Grant began.

"Go ahead," came the reply, filled with the weight of disappointed expectations. Grant almost felt sorry for him, but he had to know.

"What possessed you to think having a squid for a mascot would be a good idea?"

The cephalopod in question moved with languid flicks of its many legs, slowly swimming back and forth within its two hundred gallon glass prison, rising in almost imperceptible gradients towards the top of the tank. It paused there, letting its legs seek out the lid and scan its dimensions and textures. Another flick and it moved half a foot and repeated the process, as if...

"Looks like it's trying to find a way out," Grant observed.

Izzy nodded and pointed to the three large stones he had placed atop the lid. "And if those things weren't there she'd find it, too."

"What if she did?"

Izzy turned back to face his customer. "It would be bad." He didn't look as if he might be kidding.

"What?" Grant asked, skeptical. "It's just a weird looking fish."

Izzy smiled. "Is it?"

"It's not?"

"Remember where you are, Loadmaster."

Two things occurred to Grant at virtually the same time: how could he forget, and the barman would do well not to use the honorific in public. Of course, the establishment couldn't exactly be called crowded or, for that matter, populated at all, save for the two of them but the point remained germane. Some things were meant to be kept silent. He could tell by Izzy's expression that he knew this to be true. His eyes showed fear, as they should. No need to beat him over the head with it. This time.

A change of subject seemed in order.

"So why Belinda?" he asked, pointing toward the occupant of the tank.

"Named her after my ex-wife," Izzy said, and appeared ready to leave it at that. Grant's raised eyebrow asked for more. "Have you ever seen one of those pictures of a sad sack with all his pockets turned inside out?" Grant nodded. "That's what it was like after the divorce, only it seemed to happen all at once, as if she had a multitude of arms."

"Ah."

"Yeah, well, that and they're both demons from the nether regions."

Grant pointed toward the squid. "You mean?"

Izzy smiled. It would have scared small children, had there been any around.

"Where'd you get it?" This had suddenly become interesting.

"That little shop in the alley off Fourteenth and Broadmoor?" Grant knew the place. He hadn't known its inventory included demonic familiars. Interesting . . .

Sadly, any further investigation of the subject needed to be placed on hold after the outside door opened and two disreputable looking miscreants entered the building.

The first was tall and lean and looked more or less exactly like a human ferret. He wore chinos and a tattered tee-shirt and held a cell phone to his ear. The other was a brute, the rough size and shape of a soda machine, wearing jeans and – as incongruous as could be – a Hello Kitty golf shirt. Izzy and Grant stared at the pair as they made their way to the bar.

Basic decorum would have dictated they move at least a few feet down the bar so as not to be sitting right next to the only other patron, but apparently they'd never learned their Emily Post.

"Don't worry about it, I said," Ferret Boy said into the phone. "It's handled." He listened for a moment, then snarled, "Yes I'm sure. Fuck off," then depressed the key ending the clearly intellectual conversation. He sat upon a stool right next to Grant. Mister Soda Machine just sort of leaned on Grant's other side.

"Whiskey," Ferret demanded.

"Beer," Soda added, in a surprisingly soft voice, given his gargantuan size.

Izzy flicked an eyebrow skyward, but Grant merely shrugged. The entire scenario seemed odd, but in its oddness also lay the potential for a bit of fun, so he felt content to let it play out however it would.

"Nice truck out there in the parking lot," Ferret said, casual as could be. Grant said nothing. Izzy leaned back against the shelf holding Belinda's tank and folded his arms across his chest.

Grant reached for his drink but a hand the size of a dinner plate covered it before he could.

"The man said nice truck," Soda repeated, softly.

"I heard him," Grant replied. Outwardly it looked as if he hadn't a thought or emotion behind his blank expression. Inwardly, he grinned. This could be entertaining, indeed.

"Whatcha hauling?" Ferret asked.

Grant turned to him and made his grin public. "Something you want nothing to do with." Truer words were never spoken, though the two idiots couldn't possibly know it. But Grant hauled freight for exactly one very specialized client – certainly not the kind of individual who would take kindly to having his merchandise messed with by the likes of the newcomers. "Walk away," he cautioned, knowing it would do no good.

"Walk away, he says," Ferret said to Soda Machine.

"I heard him," the Hello Kitty fancier replied.

"It would be wise," Izzy offered. They ignored him.

"I think he needs to show us," Ferret said, then added, "but he doesn't look convinced."

"Maybe I should persuade him," Soda Machine suggested.

Grant sighed. "You look like two intelligent men," he began, lying his ass off. "So I'll say it again. Walk away." The human flatware moved from the drink to the back of Grant's neck and squeezed, as if Grant's skull might be a Pez dispenser. It hurt.

Oh yeah. He was going to enjoy this.

In what seemed no time at all, the foursome found its way to the far back corner of the still nearly empty parking lot. A primer-speckled pickup truck had been added to the inventory. It sported a bumper sticker proclaiming: God, Guts and Guns.

Grant smiled. Wait till Eve gets a hold of these two, he mused in excited expectation. He flicked his eyes toward Izzy, who winked.

Ferret and Soda brought Grant and Izzy to the back of the truck. Somewhere along the way, Soda had produced a handgun from beneath his tattered shirt.

"Open it," Ferret ordered, waving the pistol at the padlock securing the rear trailer doors.

Grant stuck his hand in his pocket and removed a set of keys. He grasped the padlock and lay the key at the edge of its slot, but did not insert it. "Last chance," he said. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Unlock it," Ferret ordered again, "before I have my associate open the damned thing with your head."

Grant shrugged, said, "Out of my hands," and inserted the key. A single, muffled woof sounded from inside.

"What the fuck is that?" Soda demanded.

"Just my dog," Grant said, and this time he spoke true.

"What kinda dog?" Soda Machine asked.

"A hybrid," Grant replied.

"What kind is that?" Ferret Boy asked, sounding as if his IQ might be dropping with every passing moment.

"A mutt." This was technically true, given that Eve had no pure-blooded equivalent, but Grant doubted any discussion as to the genetic makeup of the beast would make these two miscreants any the wiser. In any case, a few more moments and it would no longer make any difference.

Ferret shoved the pistol barrel into Grant's temple. "Open the fucking door."

"If you insist," The Loadmaster replied, and turned the key.

The first head Eve thrust through the door was all teeth and drool and malice. The second wasn't any more subtle, and the third was no less than the stuff of nightmares. Ferret Boy and Soda Machine started screaming almost immediately, but not for very long. Grant took three steps back to avoid the blood spatter. Izzy, however, wasn't so lucky.

"God dammit!" the bar owner swore, wiping a chunk of Ferret's cheek away from his eye. A bit of nose slapped against his forehead, then splatted upon the ground with a sickening squelch.

The rest was grunting and growling and chewing.

"Good girl, Eve," Grant said, stroking the Hell Beast's bison-sized body. "Who's a good girl?" The center head looked up at him with unconditional love as the one and only tail wagged hard enough to clang against the metal of the trailer's bumper. A string of what appeared to be lower intestine hung from the side of her mouth.

"Why call her Eve?"

"Because of the movie," Grant replied, as if the answer was self-evident. Izzy's clueless expression showed differently. "Three Faces of Eve," he added, "of course."

Izzy shook his head at the bad pun, then observed: "Too bad she's such a sloppy eater," right before sneaking a peek into the back of the truck. "What . . . ?" he asked.

"You don't want to know," Grant replied.

Izzy accepted this answer without question or complaint, and chose instead to survey the carnage. "Geez, what a mess," he proclaimed.

"You know what this means, don't you?" Grant asked. Izzy didn't, at first, but then he signaled his understanding with a slump of his shoulders.

"Oh, man," he whined. "I just got done cleaning the woodchipper."

The End