Chat Room
04-21-2009, 12:51 PM
I can't believe it has been six years since I wrote this story, and nearly four years since I dried up and lost the ability to write fiction.
Although the main character is named Woody and the story mentions Denver, those are coincidences. I assure you that he bears no resemblance to me and that the story's events bear no resemblance to anything that has actually happened to me.
WARNING: SOME GRUESOME CONTENT AND POSSIBLE TRIGGERS
Xs and Os
By Woody
Copyright 2003 by Durwood Eldridge
"O." Woody penned a small circle at the top of his blank sheet. From his viewpoint on the sundrenched patio, the 30-ish lady had looked tanned and toned in her green shorts and black T-shirt. She had marched past him on sculpted calves, even her face looking muscular. Woody would have loved to see the colour of her eyes behind those green-rimmed shades. He would especially have loved to see them widen in terror in the final moment. But she probably leg-pressed three times her weight, and today, Woody didn't feel like a challenge. He sucked at the straw in his espresso chiller and waited.
Next came a gross middle-aged fellow leading a Rottweiler. Woody wasn't concerned about dogs; he had pacified a bull mastiff once with no trouble. He could even pose as a dog lover and have an easy way to win the rube's trust. But fat guys have untold reserves of strength from hauling their weight around. Again, too much of a challenge for today. Woody drew another "O" below the first.
Going the other way was a granny outfitted by Saks. She slipped past Woody's vision with mutual lack of regret. Woody always spared grannies in honour of his own, may she rest in peace. Another "O" below the last.
Woody took another pull on his drink and smacked his lips in distaste. It had grown tepid. Perhaps a hot tea was in order. Then he spotted the two slim teenage girls, chatting merrily as they strode down the street, lost to the world. Woody's interest perked. He had done two at a time before. He wasn't particularly looking for lamb meat today, but the girls would be easy. He poised his pen over the paper.
The girls entered the patio. The brunette sat down nearby while the blonde went inside to the coffee counter. Woody's heart sank. He absolutely never did anyone who sat in the same dining space; too many clues for the authorities. He placed two reluctant "Os" in the column and gazed at the brunette wistfully.
The girl noticed Woody's gaze and began to preen. She had a pale face, an elegant neck, and slim fingers with black nails. Woody smiled indulgently. He knew he was young and attractive, and kids like to test their powers on handsome men. She was just acting out of instinct. But instinct could steer a person wrong.
"You shouldn't do that," he told the girl. "You never know who the sickos are."
The girl glared at him, blushing. "Do what?! What's your problem??!"
"Don't shit a shitter, kid. You know what you were doing."
The girl sprang from her seat and marched into the cafe. Woody followed her with his eyes as she walked up to a tall guy who seemed to be the manager. Her arms flew around and her head bopped as she spoke to the man and pointed at Woody. Woody made eye contact with him for an instant, then turned back to face the street.
He had drawn one more "O" on his sheet when the manager walked up, his chest puffed out like a blowfish. "Get out of here."
Woody turned his face languorously toward the guy. "And I did exactly what to deserve that?" He wanted to knacker the buffoon. The guy was also acting out of instinct, but an instinct Woody particularly loathed. Woody's knife was in the nearly empty cloth bag on the table, right at the level of the guy's groin. It would be so easy and so fitting, but would force Woody to make a quick exit.
"You've got five second to leave before I throw you out," the guy said. That did it. Woody reached for the bag, intending to wrap his hand around the hilt through the fabric and make one of his lightning thrusts. In the same second, movement caught the corner of his eye. He glanced sideways while keeping his face turned to the manager. Marching down the street, his gaze glued to the pavement, was a short, spare guy with toothpick arms and legs. Perfect.
"All right, I'll leave." Woody drew an "X" in the column, picked up the bag by the handle, stood up lazily, and ambled into the street.
The skinny guy walked fast. Woody spotted him already halfway down the block. As he walked briskly, keeping pace, Woody folded the paper and stuck it in an envelope stamped and pre-addressed to himself at a post office box in Denver. When he sealed it and shoved it into a mailbox along the way, he felt the thrill of the chase for the first time. It was essential that he get to Denver before the envelope; it always was. Hopefully this one would be quick as well as easy and fun.
The skinny guy turned a corner. Woody almost racewalked to catch up, in case the guy went right or left again. Woody was only a few paces behind, still seemingly unnoticed, when the guy stepped up to the door of a gracelessly aging condo tower. The guy unlocked the door, and Woody slipped through behind him. They were alone at the elevator bank, and the guy stared piercingly at the floor.
They got on the elevator and the guy absently punched 12. The door was a singleton that slid all the way from side to side. After it closed, Woody waited until they were between the second and third floors, then reached out and jerked sharply at the door. The elevator shuddered and stalled. The guy glanced at Woody for the first time, surprised but not scared. Woody threw his free forearm across the guy's chest and pinned him to the wall.
A slow moment passed as they stared at each other. Woody marvelled at the guy's eyes. They were an ancient, weathered blue, full of secret knowledge and understanding. No doubt; the guy knew what was happening to him. Woody noticed the aged scar across his collarbone. This man was neither stupid nor a wimp. Why did he just stand there, limp and unresisting?
When the guy spoke, his voice was measured and weary, and he had an accent Woody couldn't place.
"Do you know what balls taste like? They're salty, like all human flesh. Chewy and slick with sperm. The scrotum is gummy. The hairs tickle the roof of your mouth. You try to ignore the scream as you chew--"
Woody backfisted him across the face. "Shut up, you sick pervert!" He didn't want to hear the guy's disgusting fantasies.
The guy eyeballed him evenly over his split lip and broken nose, his gaze leaden but hard. His mouth sprayed a fine mist of blood as he spoke. "Do you know what a priest sounds like when he's being buried in a box filled with decayed remains? He sings psalms. Even when they pound on the lid and shout at him to stop, he keeps singing. You watch helplessly--"
"I said shut UP!!" Woody felt himself losing the thrill, and it scared him.
"Too bad we didn't meet when I was 20," the guy said. "I would have mopped the floor with you. Where my squad went through, nothing lived. But too many years have passed. Too many neutral years of harming no one but helping no one. What are you waiting for?"
Woody smashed him on the head with the hilt of his knife. The guy collapsed, unconscious. Woody stared at him and panted shallowly, dreading necessity. The guy could identify him. He had to kill him. But some part of him didn't want to.
After he had calmed his breathing, Woody entered his trance. He was five years old again in the hospital room, gazing at his grandmother's pasty face. His parents and aunt and uncle sat with him, grim and tense, as his 10-year-old cousin fidgeted between them. Woody wasn't fidgeting. He saw the translucent amber ghostliness slowly detach itself from his grandmother and drift upward. He reached out without moving his limbs and touched it with his heart. It enraptured him. He knew then the joy of dying and moving on to something better--and how much better it was to be dead than alive! That was when he knew his calling, to speed as many people as he could to a better existence. He had kept quiet about his gift and practised on insects and small animals until he turned 16.
Now, 19 human deaths later, he crouched above the skinny guy with the tip of the knife resting on a spot between the guy's ribs. Woody was wide open again and saw the guy's soul trying to pull loose. Every soul did at every moment.
But as he made ready to press down on the knife, he heard the voice in his head again: "Do you know what balls taste like?" It snapped him out of the trance.
Woody bagged the knife again, slipped the outer door open, and jumped out onto the second floor. He hurried to the stairwell and out of the building, encountering no one. A few futile zigzagging blocks later, he caught a taxi to the airport and the next plane to Denver. For four days he sat in a hotel room and checked the out of town newspapers, but there were no stories about an old man being attacked in an elevator. Was the guy so grateful for his life that he had foregone calling the police, or did he believe he had imagined the whole thing? Woody might never know.
On the fifth day he found the envelope in the post-office box. After finding a private spot, he tore it open and stared at the paper in disbelief.
There was no "X." Just a column of "Os."
Woody walked around the corner and gazed at the first person he saw facing away from him. He tried to summon the trance, but it wouldn't come.
Tears came to his eyes as he realized his purpose was gone. He felt frightened and alone.
Although the main character is named Woody and the story mentions Denver, those are coincidences. I assure you that he bears no resemblance to me and that the story's events bear no resemblance to anything that has actually happened to me.
WARNING: SOME GRUESOME CONTENT AND POSSIBLE TRIGGERS
Xs and Os
By Woody
Copyright 2003 by Durwood Eldridge
"O." Woody penned a small circle at the top of his blank sheet. From his viewpoint on the sundrenched patio, the 30-ish lady had looked tanned and toned in her green shorts and black T-shirt. She had marched past him on sculpted calves, even her face looking muscular. Woody would have loved to see the colour of her eyes behind those green-rimmed shades. He would especially have loved to see them widen in terror in the final moment. But she probably leg-pressed three times her weight, and today, Woody didn't feel like a challenge. He sucked at the straw in his espresso chiller and waited.
Next came a gross middle-aged fellow leading a Rottweiler. Woody wasn't concerned about dogs; he had pacified a bull mastiff once with no trouble. He could even pose as a dog lover and have an easy way to win the rube's trust. But fat guys have untold reserves of strength from hauling their weight around. Again, too much of a challenge for today. Woody drew another "O" below the first.
Going the other way was a granny outfitted by Saks. She slipped past Woody's vision with mutual lack of regret. Woody always spared grannies in honour of his own, may she rest in peace. Another "O" below the last.
Woody took another pull on his drink and smacked his lips in distaste. It had grown tepid. Perhaps a hot tea was in order. Then he spotted the two slim teenage girls, chatting merrily as they strode down the street, lost to the world. Woody's interest perked. He had done two at a time before. He wasn't particularly looking for lamb meat today, but the girls would be easy. He poised his pen over the paper.
The girls entered the patio. The brunette sat down nearby while the blonde went inside to the coffee counter. Woody's heart sank. He absolutely never did anyone who sat in the same dining space; too many clues for the authorities. He placed two reluctant "Os" in the column and gazed at the brunette wistfully.
The girl noticed Woody's gaze and began to preen. She had a pale face, an elegant neck, and slim fingers with black nails. Woody smiled indulgently. He knew he was young and attractive, and kids like to test their powers on handsome men. She was just acting out of instinct. But instinct could steer a person wrong.
"You shouldn't do that," he told the girl. "You never know who the sickos are."
The girl glared at him, blushing. "Do what?! What's your problem??!"
"Don't shit a shitter, kid. You know what you were doing."
The girl sprang from her seat and marched into the cafe. Woody followed her with his eyes as she walked up to a tall guy who seemed to be the manager. Her arms flew around and her head bopped as she spoke to the man and pointed at Woody. Woody made eye contact with him for an instant, then turned back to face the street.
He had drawn one more "O" on his sheet when the manager walked up, his chest puffed out like a blowfish. "Get out of here."
Woody turned his face languorously toward the guy. "And I did exactly what to deserve that?" He wanted to knacker the buffoon. The guy was also acting out of instinct, but an instinct Woody particularly loathed. Woody's knife was in the nearly empty cloth bag on the table, right at the level of the guy's groin. It would be so easy and so fitting, but would force Woody to make a quick exit.
"You've got five second to leave before I throw you out," the guy said. That did it. Woody reached for the bag, intending to wrap his hand around the hilt through the fabric and make one of his lightning thrusts. In the same second, movement caught the corner of his eye. He glanced sideways while keeping his face turned to the manager. Marching down the street, his gaze glued to the pavement, was a short, spare guy with toothpick arms and legs. Perfect.
"All right, I'll leave." Woody drew an "X" in the column, picked up the bag by the handle, stood up lazily, and ambled into the street.
The skinny guy walked fast. Woody spotted him already halfway down the block. As he walked briskly, keeping pace, Woody folded the paper and stuck it in an envelope stamped and pre-addressed to himself at a post office box in Denver. When he sealed it and shoved it into a mailbox along the way, he felt the thrill of the chase for the first time. It was essential that he get to Denver before the envelope; it always was. Hopefully this one would be quick as well as easy and fun.
The skinny guy turned a corner. Woody almost racewalked to catch up, in case the guy went right or left again. Woody was only a few paces behind, still seemingly unnoticed, when the guy stepped up to the door of a gracelessly aging condo tower. The guy unlocked the door, and Woody slipped through behind him. They were alone at the elevator bank, and the guy stared piercingly at the floor.
They got on the elevator and the guy absently punched 12. The door was a singleton that slid all the way from side to side. After it closed, Woody waited until they were between the second and third floors, then reached out and jerked sharply at the door. The elevator shuddered and stalled. The guy glanced at Woody for the first time, surprised but not scared. Woody threw his free forearm across the guy's chest and pinned him to the wall.
A slow moment passed as they stared at each other. Woody marvelled at the guy's eyes. They were an ancient, weathered blue, full of secret knowledge and understanding. No doubt; the guy knew what was happening to him. Woody noticed the aged scar across his collarbone. This man was neither stupid nor a wimp. Why did he just stand there, limp and unresisting?
When the guy spoke, his voice was measured and weary, and he had an accent Woody couldn't place.
"Do you know what balls taste like? They're salty, like all human flesh. Chewy and slick with sperm. The scrotum is gummy. The hairs tickle the roof of your mouth. You try to ignore the scream as you chew--"
Woody backfisted him across the face. "Shut up, you sick pervert!" He didn't want to hear the guy's disgusting fantasies.
The guy eyeballed him evenly over his split lip and broken nose, his gaze leaden but hard. His mouth sprayed a fine mist of blood as he spoke. "Do you know what a priest sounds like when he's being buried in a box filled with decayed remains? He sings psalms. Even when they pound on the lid and shout at him to stop, he keeps singing. You watch helplessly--"
"I said shut UP!!" Woody felt himself losing the thrill, and it scared him.
"Too bad we didn't meet when I was 20," the guy said. "I would have mopped the floor with you. Where my squad went through, nothing lived. But too many years have passed. Too many neutral years of harming no one but helping no one. What are you waiting for?"
Woody smashed him on the head with the hilt of his knife. The guy collapsed, unconscious. Woody stared at him and panted shallowly, dreading necessity. The guy could identify him. He had to kill him. But some part of him didn't want to.
After he had calmed his breathing, Woody entered his trance. He was five years old again in the hospital room, gazing at his grandmother's pasty face. His parents and aunt and uncle sat with him, grim and tense, as his 10-year-old cousin fidgeted between them. Woody wasn't fidgeting. He saw the translucent amber ghostliness slowly detach itself from his grandmother and drift upward. He reached out without moving his limbs and touched it with his heart. It enraptured him. He knew then the joy of dying and moving on to something better--and how much better it was to be dead than alive! That was when he knew his calling, to speed as many people as he could to a better existence. He had kept quiet about his gift and practised on insects and small animals until he turned 16.
Now, 19 human deaths later, he crouched above the skinny guy with the tip of the knife resting on a spot between the guy's ribs. Woody was wide open again and saw the guy's soul trying to pull loose. Every soul did at every moment.
But as he made ready to press down on the knife, he heard the voice in his head again: "Do you know what balls taste like?" It snapped him out of the trance.
Woody bagged the knife again, slipped the outer door open, and jumped out onto the second floor. He hurried to the stairwell and out of the building, encountering no one. A few futile zigzagging blocks later, he caught a taxi to the airport and the next plane to Denver. For four days he sat in a hotel room and checked the out of town newspapers, but there were no stories about an old man being attacked in an elevator. Was the guy so grateful for his life that he had foregone calling the police, or did he believe he had imagined the whole thing? Woody might never know.
On the fifth day he found the envelope in the post-office box. After finding a private spot, he tore it open and stared at the paper in disbelief.
There was no "X." Just a column of "Os."
Woody walked around the corner and gazed at the first person he saw facing away from him. He tried to summon the trance, but it wouldn't come.
Tears came to his eyes as he realized his purpose was gone. He felt frightened and alone.