a short story by Cult
A short time back Cult & Feind were brainstorming some things we could do for the site and basically for fun. After shooting some bad ideas back and forth mainly in attempts at lame humor as we are prone to do we really came up with nothing. Then while watching a UFC fight one evening shooting messages back and forth we had the idea to collaborate in a way. Why not write a story going back and forth with Cult writing one part and Feind writing the next until we played the tale completely out? Cult already had an idea that we both liked but Feind couldn’t leave well enough alone suggesting why not have each of us start a tale then swap but what do for the other tale? Then it came out of somewhat of a bad joke from Feind. You see for his grueling day job Cult delivers bread along with other tasty baked goods to which Feind said, “Hey, what a great cover for a serial killer!” It was actually a suggestion but Cult it seems is no killer so rather than stalk the streets of Tucson, butcher knife in hand it appeared Feind was going to have to write it that way instead. So the tale that Cult will begin, Blitzkrieg Crescendo, will combine something The Scribblers love in heavy fucking metal with, of course, horror. Meanwhile Feind will start the tale of a demented serial killer stalking his victims under the cover of his day job as a bread truck driver just makin’ deliveries and slayin’ bitches everywhere he goes. The Scribblers hope it will be as fun for you as it is for us! But enough babble, on to the important thing, The Scribblers’ horrible writing! Enjoy!
It measures eight feet deep and twenty-five feet wide of dark, flat material leading backstage until disappearing altogether to reveal a wide set of anchored metal steps a few feet away from a collection of trailers that housed equipment, technicians and talent. Heavy beams crisscross under canvas arching several feet overhead. In the darkness of the canvas’ folds, rolled tightly attached to a complicated pulley mechanism was a giant banner proudly displaying the title of the main act. It was set to drop opening as it goes to proudly display the headliner's logo as it had successfully in every venue they had played the past four months. From far afield as Thailand to Greece even a venue in Bavaria, that appeared as if pulled from the pages of a Brother's Grimm fairytale, their fans congregated to see them in the flesh.
Their trademarked logo was unmistakable which was the point. Every band had one though it seemed a current trend that most lay hidden in an undecipherable scrawl of spider webbed mosaic in dark ink. The headliner’s displayed a naked couple in an unnatural act of coitus. The couple were in a standing position with the female's legs bent wrapped around her mate, her arm's spread and in each palm she held a gore encrusted knife. Her mouth was open wide in laughter with blood spurting over her facial features from a ragged hole in her partner's neck. One of the male’s hands was spread open flat against her neck effectively cutting off her oxygen supply pinning her in place. Both are blood splattered and tightly bound by lengths of intestine originating from gaping wounds on each other’s torso. Carved deep in the flesh of the male’s shoulders and back was the name of the band, Entanglement of Carnal Chaos.
Which idiot booked a date in Arizona anyhow! In summer of all seasons! It's only noon and already over one hundred goddamn degrees! You would truly have to be a sadist to want to live here full time.
“Most of my family lives here about an hour away.” A tanned arm hovers over Bert's head pointing south toward desolation, dust and the desert landscape with mountains lurking like slumbering giants along the horizon. The image wavered and flickered resulting from the heat and moistness in the air.
Everything makes sense now.
Al, short for 'Alien' cut down as most of the crew found it hard to say without laughing, continued, “I lived here for about ten years.” He paused slightly dropping his as he turned to his companion, leaning in lowering his voice to a whisper, “Before the lights converged and gathered menacingly overhead. I had to get the hell outta here, man.”
“Whoa!” Bert’s eyes widen, believing his interested utterance was all that would be needed to prompt his coworker to proceed with the tale that, although he had heard it numerous times before, only became more humorous and outlandish with each and every new telling.
“Fuck man! I remember keeping quiet as a mouse peekin’ ‘round my parents bedroom door. My mother hovering naked above the bed as they...”
“Hey guys!” The greeting coupled with a loud bang of the trailer door being slammed open cut off Al’s tale causing them both to turn. The history behind along with any details that may result from this telling of the “lights” in the Arizona sky so many moons ago would have to wait until another time.
Gee! Damn! Now I'll never get to know what happened to his mother.
“Only an hour ‘til the gates open.” The door smacked closed with a thud. The voice was still without a face although both knew from who it had originated from.
He lets out a grunt popping another nugget of licorice in his mouth as he bucks his pelvis up for the sweet release. The treat bucket fell to his pants bunched around his ankles as his arm reached over to a blinking phone. He presses a single button placing his hands one across the other for better grip. In a sudden vicious downward plunge he manages to achieve orgasm. Under his grip the young fan writhes as though in spastic seizure gagging noisily as Harold’s load shoots down his throat. The sound rivals Harold's own climactic moan. In a cumbersome movement Harold gets to his feet with a yelp from the companion still in his tight grip choking at his crotch. He pushed the corpse painted groupie aside and off balance reaching down to pull up his pants.
“Asshole.” The dejected youth looked up in tangled heap of chains, cotton and comically smeared make up wiping at the splatter of pale viscous fluids from his nose to his neck. “What the fuck man, I...” A sudden rapid pounding on the trailer's door halts his diatribe cutting short the coming train of complaints and accusations before he had barely even begun.
“Boss?” A square shaved head sitting on a neck as thick as a bull’s peered through the widening crack that produced by the opening door.
“Brent, say hi to... Oh, sorry I already forgot your name.” The violated young man finally managed to get to his feet opening his mouth to complain about his forgotten name though quickly decided against it seeing the size of the brute standing at the door. The door appears surreal like a toy on account of the giant brute's paw clenching its edge. He muttered a half-hearted curse under his breath lazily fiddling with his unbuckled belt as he moved to the door. The hulking figure moved aside with a sneer just enough to let the assaulted youth flee the scene.
“Hey, faggot!” The youth turned back as if to voice some snappy retort, “You forgot your sharpie.” The small cylindrical object cleaves the air between them in a flash bouncing off the grotesque image emblazoned on the youth's t-shirt landing at the bottom step in a miniature cloud of dust.
“Fuck y...!” His insult falls unfinished from his lips as he is unceremoniously thrown from the top step sent stumbling through thin air with a cavalcade of pointing fingers and laughter.
“Hold on sweet cheeks, I'm getting there.” He looked down at the expectant face, dotted with freckles, excitedly looking back at him.
It would be a hell of a lot easier if it wasn't so damned muggy.
Any reliable grip was tricky hampered by sweaty palms on the tiny separations in the wire, he slipped time and again. He quickly realized that this fence was obviously not designed to be clambered on and over but he was on a quest and determined to see it through. This was Hannah's first concert. He had been happy to splurge for tickets after hearing her sing along to a track from the latest Entangled’ album. He aimed to give her a day to remember believing it the duty he was entrusted with as her only sibling.
He pushed down while straightening up with a tight grip on several wires held with aching fingertips finally able to see over the fabric sight obstruction. To his left he could see the remainder of the line in, snaked tight around the whole length of fence.
Dammit! I thought we were near the front.
The line was a veritable beast clothed primarily in black with swathes of vibrant color becoming increasingly agitated due to the wait. The waiting fans weary because of the heat which only made them more eager to pounce through the gates when they finally opened in a race for cold liquid refreshment inside. On the other side of the fence was a large open area with an assortment of vendors’ carts and tents dotting the landscape. They were all busying themselves with their final touches. The merchants appeared like determined ants made more so due to their distance from his vantage point.
“What can you see?”
A impressive looking collection of RVs are clustered together about a stone's throw away from a large rectangular area shaded by a metal framework overhead. He blinked suddenly from the reflection of a door being thrown open its aluminum door momentarily blinding him. He opens them able to make out a few figures had emerged with one seem shuffling around in a cloud of dirt.
“Brad?” The persistent but gentle tug at the hem of his pants grabbed his attention, “What can you see?”
“Sorry, sun got me! I think someone's getting kicked out already and he's not happy b…” Brad’s information relay is cut short.
“Get down punk!” The chain link abruptly starts to shake violently.
With venom this time, “ Get DOWN!”
“Consider it done.” Brad scrambled down now nervous of a serious beat down.
Brad hurried to comply. His fingers slid out of position as he stole a glance down. The next instant his boots slip from their moorings as well. Before plummeting to the ground he steals a last look to the cluster of trailers witnessing the swift approach on the dirt track. Brad smirked, a strange thing to accompany the chaffing of his hands as the flesh rubs brusquely against the wire in an uncontrollable descent, believing he had made out the unmistakable band logo even in the plume of thick dust that enveloped the large vehicle.
“They're here!” He slowly rose from the crumpled heap he fell in glancing at his sister, her previous concerned face replaced by the visage of childhood happiness and glee.
Her expression changes back to concern looking down on him, “Brad, you're bleeding.”
“Aww it's nothin’ sis.” He says as he wipes his aching palm with a bunched wad of his shirt.
Where his wrist met his hand a few droplets of blood congregated forming a, now, congealing sticky splotch amidst the ragged flap of scraped flesh. A collection of crimson dots decorated the ground inches from his dusty black boots. Excited murmurs rise as the line begins to move. Brad grabs his sister's hand in a mock struggle to make up the gap left by the now moving line. Hannah giggles at her brother's antics and tomfoolery instantly forgetting his injuries and the drops of blood that are no longer there.
Do like the idea of Dueling Scribbles?
Let us know your thoughts in the comments below.