Dead Clown Barbecue (27 page)

After Bernard lay dead at his feet, Terrance wondered if the real jewel was still hidden within the stone dragon. But he wasn't going to risk his arm to find out. Instead, he left his deceased comrade and headed back down the mountain trail.

Before he reached the bottom, he starved to death.

Buzzards ate him.

The Ancient Stone Dragon of Ankiorth laughed and laughed. Nobody even knew it could laugh, because it only did it when everybody in the general vicinity was dead, but oh, how it laughed!

The lesson to be found in this tale is, essentially, "Don't be a murderous treasure hunting dick." If you keep that in mind, there are no promises that you'll acquire wealth, fame, and happiness, but you probably won't get your arm bitten off by a stone dragon mouth.

Though you
might
, so be ever wary.

THE SEVERED NOSE

When you kill people for a living, you get used to finding the occasional body part lying around your home. I do not kill people for a living, and so I freaked.

I have to confess, it wasn't a severed head or even an arm. It was a nose. Still, a severed nose can be extremely upsetting when you aren't used to seeing them, and I let out a loud gasp and dropped my can of root beer onto the floor.

After I got over the initial shock, I decided that the first obvious step was to inspect the nose, which rested on an otherwise empty plate on my dining room table. Though it was an alarming situation either way, my level of concern would be dramatically reduced if it were a rubber nose instead of a real one.

I walked around the table, staring at the nose from different angles. It certainly looked real. If it were fake, the perpetrators deserved credit for attention to detail. It had a few nose hairs and even a small pimple. It was lying on its . . . back? Side? However you'd describe it if it looked like the plate had a nose.

So, visually it was entirely convincing. That still didn't mean it was real. After all, if you buy it from the right magic shop, phony vomit can present a flawless facsimile of somebody having thrown up on your couch, an illusion that isn't dispelled until you try to wipe it up with a wet rag and everybody has a good laugh at your gullibility.

I needed to touch it. But I didn't
want
to touch it. Because then I'd have touched a severed body part, something I'd avoided for all forty-seven years of my life. What if it was the most horrific, disturbing experience imaginable? What if I woke up screaming from ghastly dreams of being inhaled? Or what if it unlocked a fetish for severed body parts, and I became some kind of severed-body-part-fondling maniac?

I really didn't want to touch it.

And I couldn't call the police. Sure, I was a law-abiding citizen, but the local police department was doing a charity drive last year, and they called me during
Extreme Makeover: Home Edition
— right at a highly emotional moment — and I said, no, I wasn't interested in donating, and the cop said "Don't you care about the abused children in our community?" and without even thinking about it I hung up on him. And then I couldn't even enjoy the rest of the episode, because I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to hang up on a cop.

Don't get me wrong, I'd call the cops if there were some sort of emergency, but for a severed nose, I'd handle it myself. Especially if it was a fake nose. I would look like quite the idiot if I called the police over a piece of plastic. They'd probably beat me unconscious with their billy clubs.

So, I quickly touched the nose, then touched my own nose by way of comparison. They both felt real.

I touched the severed nose again, holding my index finger on the tip for two seconds rather than one. Still felt real.

That was a legitimate nose on my dining room table.

Having confirmed its authenticity, I now had four different questions to answer: Whose nose was it, who put it there, why would they do such a bizarre thing, and what should I do with it?

The first question would be simple enough to answer. I couldn't remember ever having seen a noseless person walking around the city, and so if I saw one within, say, the next two weeks, I could be pretty much assured that he or she was the previous owner.

The second question was somewhat more challenging. I knew that the general answer to who'd left the nose was "a sociopath," but I wasn't on speaking terms with any sociopaths that I knew about. I mentally ran down my list of acquaintances and couldn't think of any who seemed capable of mutilation. I had an uneasy relationship with Preston, who lived in the apartment directly below me, yet his crimes were limited to stealing my mail and cheating at Scrabble, Monopoly, and Pictionary.

Third question: why would they do such a bizarre thing? I had no idea. Prior head injury?

The most important question was, what to do with it? I certainly wasn't going to leave it on my dining room table. My first instinct was to just throw it away, but what if I needed it as evidence later? Or what if the sociopath was enraged that I'd rejected his or her gift? It had to have been left on my best plate for a reason, and until I knew what that was, I shouldn't be disposing of anything.

Where to put it? It would rot, right? I couldn't have a rotting nose smelling up my . . .

Smelling up. That was pretty funny. I didn't laugh, because I was still too stressed out over the situation, but I did enjoy a small inner chuckle.

Obviously, it had to go in my refrigerator. I wasn't very comfortable with the idea of having a body part next to my food and drink, yet what else could I do? Purchase a small refrigerator specifically for this purpose? That would be madness. Unless the motive for this whole scheme was to sell portable refrigerators, which I very much doubted, there'd be nothing to gain from spending the money.

I'd simply have to make sure it was securely wrapped and didn't come into contact with my edibles. Everything would be okay. It wasn't as if I ever staggered into the kitchen in the middle of the night and popped a random object into my mouth.

Good lord, what if I was meant to
eat
the — no, no, that was ridiculous.

I needed to get it out of my sight. I grabbed a roll of paper towels and unspooled about a dozen sheets. I picked up the nose with the towel, rolled it up tight, stuffed the whole wad of paper towel into a plastic baggie, sealed it up, and put it in the crisper of my refrigerator.

Done.

I spent the rest of the evening sitting in my easy chair, lost in thought, but the mysteries of the day remained riddles wrapped in enigmas garnished with puzzles when I fell asleep.

* * *

When I returned home from work the next day, there was a severed ear on my table.

A left ear, not that it mattered.

This was even more distressing. Not necessarily because an ear was more upsetting than a nose, but rather due to the cumulative effect of finding a second body part so soon after the first. I paced around my apartment, heart racing, pulse pounding, breath heaving, sweat glands spraying. I could be in mortal danger. The culprit could still be here. I had to call the police.

I picked up my phone and dialed 911, then hung up before it could connect.

Was this truly an emergency?

Yes. Yes, it was. I dialed again.

"911 emergency," the woman on the other end informed me.

"I need help," I said. "There's a severed ear on my table."

"Is it your ear, sir?"

"No. I'm not sure whose it is."

"Does it have any identifying characteristics, like an earring?"

I glanced at the ear. "It's pierced, I think, but there's no earring."

"And how long has this ear been on your table?"

"Since I got home."

"And when was that?"

"About two minutes ago."

"And your address?"

"417 Skylar Way, Apartment 230."

"Okay, sir, we'll have an officer dispatched as soon as possible. Don't touch the ear."

"I won't."

I hung up, feeling a little bit better.

I wondered if the police would question the fact that I'd put the nose in my crisper. I knew I should probably tell them about it, in case a victim turned up with a missing ear and a missing nose and the police wanted to know where the nose went, but, in retrospect, it made me look kind of ghoulish. Maybe I should take it out and drop it on the floor or something and pretend that I hadn't noticed it.

Maybe calling the police was a mistake. Maybe I should call them back and explain that I'd been mistaken, that it was just an ear-shaped piece of pizza crust.

No. I'd done nothing wrong. Or nothing
illegal
, anyway. Not letting the police investigate was a good way for this situation to spiral out of control into a web of insanity, and I didn't need any webs of insanity in my life right now. I'd let the police come, explain what happened, and hope for the best.

I did a thorough search of my apartment and was pleased to find it devoid of sociopaths.

Three hours later, the police still hadn't arrived.

I didn't want to disturb them if they were out catching stabbers or something, but I didn't think my problem was
that
insignificant. I decided to call them back.

"911 emergency."

"Hi. I called about the cut-off ear earlier."

"Yes, sir. You're in the queue."

"Is there a lot going on tonight?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh. Thank you, then."

I hung up. I guessed I couldn't expect this to be a top priority. For all I knew, somebody else found a pair of severed legs in their washing machine.

By bedtime, the police still hadn't arrived.

I decided that if the authorities weren't overly concerned, then I shouldn't be, either. I put the ear in the same baggie as the nose, then went to bed and drifted into a restful slumber.

* * *

When I returned home from work the next evening, there were no new surprises waiting on my dining room table. I have to admit that I was almost a little disappointed. There wasn't much going on in my life, and at least these body parts gave me something to ponder.

Was the culprit taking a vacation day, or had I seen the last of his efforts?

Most curious indeed. I'd just have to wait and see.

* * *

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door.

It was not, however, the police, unless the police had taken to dressing like shady individuals. I couldn't recall ever having seen a pair of men who looked quite that sinister, and this was through the peephole. You have to be extremely sinister to look sinister through a peephole.

They were both tall and wore black leather jackets. One was completely bald, while the other had long brown hair that hung past his shoulders. I couldn't see if they were carrying guns, but they seemed like the kind of people who would be.

The bald one knocked again.

"We know you're there," he said, softly enough that I knew he meant "right there on the other side of the door" and not "in the apartment in general."

I wasn't very much inclined to let them in, but they'd already demonstrated that they could get into my apartment without my permission, so it was probably best not to give them reason to look even more sinister.

I opened the door. The men rudely pushed the door open the rest of the way, and the non-bald one shoved me to the floor. The bald one shut the door and locked it.

Both of them took guns out of their inside jacket pockets and pointed them at me. I cringed and tried not to scream.

"Where's the money?" the bald one asked.

"What money?"

He crouched down next to me and tapped me on the knee with the barrel of his gun. "Are we playing stupid? Is that today's game?"

"I swear, I don't know what money you're talking about," I insisted. "I have
seventeen dollars in my wallet! Is that good enough?"

"We're here for the ransom," the bald one said.

"I don't have anything up for ransom."

The bald intruder tapped my knee with the revolver. "I don't like stupid people, and I don't like smart people pretending to be stupid."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about!"

"Don't lie to us. We told you what would happen if you didn't pay. Didn't it bother you to find your brother's nose on a plate? Did you think we were kidding?"

"I don't have a brother."

The bald man stared at me. "Beg pardon?"

"I don't have a brother."

"There really isn't much of a family resemblance," his partner noted.

"Is this 417 Skylar Way?"

"Yes."

"Apartment 230?"

"Yes."

"Are you Josh White?"

"Yes."

"And you have no brother?"

"No."

"Dammit!" the bald man shouted. "I can't believe this! He did it to us again! This is a bunch of crap.
Crap
! I will not continue to work under these conditions. He thinks I won't walk? I will
so
walk. And I'll tell him why to his face. I'll tell him that this is a bunch of crap. I may yank that cigar out of his mouth before I do it, too. I'll march right in there, pluck that cigar right out from between his lips, and tell him that this is a bunch of crap. Then I'll walk."

"He'll kill you," his partner said.

"Yeah? I'd like to see him try."

"He'll do more than try. He'll shoot you right in the forehead and make me dispose of your body."

"I know, I know. But you agree that this is crap, right?"

"Yep."

The bald man sighed. "I need to change direction in my life. College or tech school . . . I dunno, I'll look into taking night classes somewhere."

His partner gestured at me with his gun. "What should we do with him?"

"I don't know. Cap him, I guess."

I wondered if I could attack unexpectedly and subdue my opponents. But then I remembered something my mother told me: "Son, don't be a hero." Of course, that was moments after my dad died trying to be a hero. He didn't even save the hamster. That said, anything I did now would be more about self-preservation than heroism, so I didn't think my mom's advice was applicable.