B-Movie Reels (5 page)

The blue sludge winded its course down through the woods and continued for miles until it reached Silver Lake.
 

Karen Marshall enjoyed the evening jogs at Silver Lake along the edge of the woods. She had halfway completed a mile-lap around the entire lake. Her pink windbreaker housed her keys, mace and a bottle of water. She lived in a house eight miles from here, but Anderson Mills was a better place to run than the city of Lawrence, where the city life bred panhandlers, bums, rapists and most of all, obnoxious college kids.
 

She was thirty-five and fifty pounds overweight, and Dr. Richard Nelson had warned her if she didn’t lose weight, she could spark her family’s history of heart disease and diabetes—both she’d avoided despite her craving for ice cream sundaes, potato chips, and a good movie rental.
 

Sex would be a good substitute for this running bullshit.
 

She struggled up the short hill and gasped for breath once she reached the top. Sweat dripped down her face and her outfit clung to her skin. Karen charged across the next straightaway, forcing herself to keep going, and took yet another break at the boating dock. She doused herself with the bottle of water and rinsed her mouth out.
 

You keep running four times a week, surely Gary Hinkle would check me out in the breakroom. He’ll ogle me instead of the snacks in the vending machines.
 

Is he the real reason why I’m doing this?
 

I’m pathetic.

Karen re-tied her pink Reeboks and started at a slower pace up the next hill. Another half mile and she’d reach her Monte Carlo parked in the picnic and camping area.
 

Ahead of her, a shape skittered from the road, and it squealed. Piercing the darkness with her stare, she caught the shape and noticed the way its legs flailed in the air spastically, and then the way it suddenly went still. Karen slowed down and inspected the object up close. It was an opossum, but half its body was gone, a trail of red behind it sinking into the cracks of the road. The oval face and rat-like snout pulsated as fluid was suctioned from its throat, and when the noises increased with a vacuum’s intensity, its eyes were sucked back into its sockets.
 

Karen’s impulses told her to sprint away, retreat and don’t turn back, but she wondered what could cause an opossum to bleed like that—and for its eyes to disappear into its head! The body curled into itself, and its bones cracked under an unknown pressure and snapped into many pieces. Pink mist sprayed the air, and then the opossum was rendered down to liquid that glistened on the grass and road. The blue substance showed up when the opossum’s skull dissolved. It was neon blue, bubbling and puckering like a boiling egg sunny-side up.
 

It trickled toward her, branching out in gooey forks. She was so mesmerized, she didn’t back away until the tip of the sludge made contact with her shoe. The rubber toe sizzled and spat out a curl of smoke. Her big toe itched and an arch of pain branched up her foot. She didn’t know what to do. Alarmed, she fumbled backward, and in the process of gaining her footing, she toppled to her side.
 

The slime trail closed in.
 

Karen unzipped her windbreaker and frantically retrieved her mace. She sprayed it at the enclosing puddle. She was shocked when the tendrils turned into smoke with each jet of mace that hit them. The goo dried up with a wet smacking noise, and as blue smoke issued from the mass, the strange puddle evaporated.
 

3

Andy was astonished at the spread on the kitchen table. Brisket, rolls fresh from the oven and glistening with butter, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried okra, green beans, and two cherry pies whetted his appetite. Mary-Sue served his plate with a sizeable portion of brisket and then let Andy pick out the rest for himself.
 

“Where’s your dad?” he asked.

“He had to leave. Said a friend in Lawrence needed to use his trailer hitch. Dad used to run a tow-truck service on the side, something he did during the winter when people slid off the roads. He’ll be late.”

He peered outside through the window at the wooden fence sheltering the dairy cows. “So you’ve been at this farm your entire life?”

“Pretty much.” She picked at her okra with a fork. She hadn’t taken a bite of anything. “It’s kind of boring living around here. Dad has machines that do the milking of the cows now, so all I have to do is feed them and clean up after ’em—excuse my dinner talk.”

“I’m not bothered by it.” He ate a forkful of brisket. “Aren’t you hungry? You haven’t eaten much, and I’m stuffing my face. You worked hard on this, I’m sure.”

“It’s hard to eat what you’ve cooked, and I’m not very hungry anyway.”

The way Mary-Sue’s eyes slanted when she looked at him, clearly something was on her mind. She looked hurt. Preoccupied.
 

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

She cleared her throat. “What do you know about your Uncle James?”
 

He swallowed down another bite of brisket. “He did magic tricks at family gatherings, and after years of struggling to make a living, he got famous. After that, I don’t know much else. Uncle Ned told me during one of his shows he made a little girl disappear, and then he couldn’t bring her back. The girl didn’t turn up. Even now there hasn’t been a word about the poor kid. He quit working the magic shows after that, and then eight months ago, he tried it again…and then you’ve heard the rest. I never believed he was a murderer. What happened to those people at the club, their body parts mismatched, what single human being can do that? If anybody at all? It should be more of an unsolved crime than a conviction.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, though she sounded bemused. “I didn’t know him very well. Ned came over a lot and ate meals with us, but James wasn’t much for socializing. Not to be critical of your uncle, but he let that house go to shit. It could make a descent boarding house, especially with all the college kids that live just miles from here. You’d make good money.”

“I don’t want the house,” Andy insisted. “I’m a film student. I want to make movies and documentaries, maybe shoot commercials. I’m out of work right now, but my professor’s got me watching a bunch of old horror movies for an upcoming project. He’s releasing the movies on DVD, and he wants me to help him write commentary and even liner notes.”

Her interest was limited, so he brought the conversation back to her. “So are you going to take over the farm when your dad retires?”

“Fuck no.” She threw her head back. “The way you feel about your uncle’s house is the way I feel about the farm. As soon as I figure out what the hell to do with myself and get a job and a husband, I’ll be set.”

She got up and brought a bottle of Zinfandel from the cupboard and poured him a glass. He sipped the wine and let his stomach swell with food and spirits. “Ah, you’re going to put me to sleep.”

“And would that be a bad thing?” Her brow arched.
 

She then pulled her chair next to him. Perfume scented the air between them, something smelling like flower blossoms. Make-up highlighted her otherwise drab features: a solid wall of foundation, a hint of blue eye shadow, mascara and red lipstick.
 

She placed her hand on the inside of his thigh. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not since about a month ago. H-how come?”

He was nervous, but he held it down the best he could.
 

“I’ll be honest, I like you.” She puckered her lips. “And I noticed the way you were looking at me back at your house earlier. You were looking at my chest—and don’t get me wrong, I like it. All the guys look at my tits.”

She moved her hand up to his lower abdomen and lifted his shirt to pet his bare stomach. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been with a guy. Maybe you don’t have that problem with getting the girls.”

She kissed him, her tongue licking across his lips. Her hands roved to unbutton his jeans, but he backed up out of her reach. “I, I’m sorry… I can’t do this. I barely know you. No offense.”

“It’s okay.” She kissed his neck. “We’re both adults.” Then she laughed. “It’s not high school anymore.”

He struggled out of his chair and retreated to the front door, nervously throwing out, “Thank you for dinner. I, um, I apologize if I’ve offended you. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude. You’re pretty…you really are.”

Mary-Sue raced ahead of him and blocked him from leaving. Then her face turned serious. “I’m giving you sex without commitment. Doesn’t that interest you?”
 

She unsnapped her bra from beneath her midriff and tossed it across the room. “Don’t you want to see my breasts? I’ll show you the rest of my body…
if you let me
.”

In that moment, he saw her breasts through the thin fabric, the nipples the size of a cookie—a hearty-woman’s tits. The primordial urge to obey her instructions throbbed below, but he couldn’t take the first step. It was too soon, and the way her eyes pierced into him, she didn’t look at him, she looked through him. There was a reason for this charade.
 

The girl’s appeal was suspicious.
 

He still enjoyed her company tonight. “You’re a nice girl. Let me get to you know you first, okay?”

Mary-Sue opened the door for him. “Then get out, Andy. You’re an asshole. I worked all day on that meal.”

You’re telling me you wanted sex for the meal?

He didn’t mean to smirk, and lucky for him she didn’t catch it in the dark once he was outside, officially kicked out of the sex without commitment club. He walked in shame to his Fiesta and returned home, confused and his belly full.

Andy burned the midnight oil. He worked best during the hours between eight and three in the morning. The project at hand was what mattered. He was determined to watch more of the reels tonight.
Attack of the Sludge
ran sixty-eight minutes. It was the average second film of a double feature bill at a drive-in. If all of the movies were that length, it wouldn’t take long to complete Professor Maxwell’s assignment.
 

He glommed over the notes he haphazardly jotted down during the film.

Attack of the Sludge.
Released 1971. Starring Claire McLeon, Tom Hanson and Misty Jones. Gamma rays are shot from space by a saucer-like craft, the source of the sludge. Whether the rays were from aliens or the government, the plot leads you to question both and fails to explain which is the culprit. It’s interesting how the money is poured into the special effects. Lots of bodies turning inside out without the camera flinching. Police use flame-throwers, Molotov cocktails, water and bullets to stop it, but the blue sludge continues to attack. It never grows in size; the sludge attacks rest homes, a high school football team’s locker room, a hospital, and it all ends at a police station when Chief Stanley Parks fires a jet of mace at it in frustration. Other policemen add their mace in a comical climax. The sludge turns to smoke and evaporates. Somehow, the directors added three shower scenes: two of housewives and one of an entire high school football team. Perhaps this was one of the first group male shower scenes in cinematic history. Groundbreaking.

“What’s next?”
 

He shuffled through the stacks of reels and stopped at one entitled
Jorg: The Hungry Butcher.
The caption written on each of the reel cases read “Jorg liked serving his customers—for breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”

“Ah, this should be interesting. Implied cannibalism. Nothing beats that.”

A fork of lightning flittered in the window. The patter of rain thrummed against the shingles. He glanced outside. It stormed in blinding sheets. He checked to make sure the windows were closed throughout the house.
 

Finished, he set up the next reel, determined to complete his mission. He turned off the lights. He was ready to forget about the strange episode with Mary-Sue. He still felt the impressions of her fingertips playing along his belly. He couldn’t lie to himself. Her touch was soothing. It was a compliment to be pursued by a girl. Did she really find him attractive? That was one angle, but there was another reason for her advances, and it had nothing to do with his appeal.
 

You’ll never figure out women, so why bog yourself down with questions?

Andy began the next film, taking his own advice.
Jorg: the Hungry Butcher
played on the screen. Hokey music played during the opening credits, and then a panel shot of a butcher’s shop kicked things off, the front glass window reading: Jorg’s Finest Cuts. The music reminded him of the theme played during
Leave it to Beaver
, a wholesome soundtrack—a clash against a movie he was safe to assume was about cannibalism and human slaughter. The butcher appeared, a man over three hundred pounds with a fine-trimmed beard and mustache with red rings under his eyes and nicotine-colored skin. In the scene, he was working in a fridge full of hanging slabs of animal torsos, each carcass obscured beneath the haze of cold air. In the next shot, he chopped the head from a pig with a cleaver. The head flopped over the edge of the table and landed in a plastic receptacle with the heads of cows, sheep, and two belonging to a man and woman whose mouths were locked wide open in a permanent scream.