WARPED: A Menapace Collection of Short Horror, Thriller, and Suspense Fiction Read online

  From tales of chilling horror, to gut-wrenching stories of suspense, WARPED is author Jeff Menapace’s ultimate collection of short fiction.

  WARPED contains popular tales of the macabre like “Princess” and the award-winning “Sugar Daddy,” to the author’s preferred version of his controversial novella “Torment.”

  In addition to this, WARPED contains the formerly exclusive prequel shorts to Menapace’s acclaimed Bad Games trilogy, “Job Interview” and “Get off My Ass.”

  Eleven pulse-pounding stories in all for hours of entertainment, WARPED includes:

  “The Straw Man and a Murder”

  “Torment” Author’s preferred version.

  “Jeremy’s Loss”

  “Get off My Ass” Previously Exclusive!

  “Job Interview” Previously Exclusive!

  “Sugar Daddy”

  “Fish and Biscuits in a Barrel” Available only in WARPED!

  “Five Card—Draw!” Available only in WARPED!

  “Business is Business, James” Available only in WARPED!

  “Princess”

  WARPED:

  A MENAPACE COLLECTION OF SHORT HORROR, THRILLER, AND SUSPENSE FICTION

  Jeff Menapace

  2014

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  The Straw Man and a Murder

  Business is Business, James

  Torment

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Fish and Biscuits in a Barrel

  Sugar Daddy I: Then

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  II: Now

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  Five Card—Draw!

  Princess

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Jeremy’s Loss

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Job Interview

  1

  2

  Get Off My Ass

  1

  2

  3

  4

  About The Author

  Author’s Note

  Introduction

  Short stories are hit or miss with a lot of people.

  I love ’em.

  I look at them like a sort of middle ground between fast food and fine dining: go in with realistic expectations, and you’ll be more than satisfied—maybe even wowed if the rotisserie chicken is cooked just right that day. You might not get the strong backstory, deep character development, and elaborate ending that fine dining offers, but you came here on your lunch hour, didn’t you? You want that middle ground between a greasy flat burger and a ten-course meal with all the trimmings. And the author (at least this one) is always going to do his or her best to give it to you so you can leave your lunch hour satisfied, maybe even wowed if they cooked that chicken just right.

  For me, ideas for short stories usually happen via two ways. Dreams (to which I have many, never lacking in WTF!?-ness), or observing something in everyday life I found peculiar, something my mind—off its leash now—begins to create an explanation to, the more bizarre the better.

  “The Straw Man and a Murder” was based on a dream I had about a scarecrow dancing in a cornfield as it rained blood (WTF!?-ness), while something like “Princess” was based on my observing one of the most depressed-looking middle-aged men I’d ever seen in my life, sitting in a mall food court, looking like he was dreading something. As I window-shopped after lunch, I came upon a creepy-looking mannequin in a shop window. Still thinking about the depressed guy, my mind started its typical churn. Maybe the guy is really lonely, goes home to a mannequin of his own and pretends it’s his wife. In my car now, and I’m barely concentrating on the road (at least I wasn’t texting), and all I can think about is the depressed guy and the mannequin. SO much fucked-up potential there…

  I may have lied a little: sometimes stories come from good old-fashioned ideas. Ideas that had novel-sized aspirations but fell short in length (insert phallic joke here) once the story was told. “Torment” is one such story. Wooowee! did that story go through some changes. There are at least four different versions of that story (my preferred version is in here, of course), and many people simply did not like the majority of them. And I kinda can’t blame them—of couple of those versions ended up falling a little flat. I had always been fascinated with cannibalism and the legend of the Windigo (read the story to learn more) and wanted to write a story about it, however, I wanted to do it in a very unique way, one of my few attempts at social commentary within a story. That coupled with a lot of ambiguity and an abrupt ending that left the audience scratching their heads, and what I had was a lot of annoyed readers. So I pulled the story and said screw it, I’m gonna play with this. The result was the version in this anthology. Still somewhat ambiguous, still a bit of a noodle-scratcher when it comes to figuring out what’s real and what’s not, but a much more satisfying ending—one to hopefully make you whisper “Oh shit!” to yourself once you read what the child ends up “taking” from Kane (you’ll know what I’m talking about when you read it).

  Ah shit, I lied again. There are three stories in here that were not spawned through dream or observation. These stories (“Business is Business, James,” “Five Card—DRAW!” and “Fish and Biscuits in a Barrel”) are really short. Less than 1,500 words each. Why? I was going to submit them into a contest years back. The rule was that they had to be less than 1,500 words. This is not an easy thing to do. But what it does do is give the writer a fantastic tool in which to sharpen his trade, utilizing one of William Strunk’s and E.B. White’s timeless rules: omitting needless words. I would encourage every fledgling writer to give this little exercise a shot. You’d be amazed at how many words you can do without in order to tell your tale.

  And of course, there are stories like “Job Interview” and “Get off My Ass.” These are the prequel stories involving characters from my Bad Games trilogy. They were originally exclusive to my Bad Games Box Set, but I decided to throw ’em in here too. Short and pure popcorn, these stories are for those who have read the Bad Games books and wanted another fix, no matter how little. And no, you don’t need to read the Bad Games books first to follow them, and they won’t spoil any of the Bad Games books if (and when!) you decide
to read them.

  So here it is, guys and gals: a collection of my short fiction. I hope you can select a story, sit down during your lunch hour, and I hope I can fill your belly with something satisfying, maybe even wow you if my rotisserie was working particularly well that day.

  All the best, my friends

  Jeff

  The Straw Man and a Murder

  The crows were not afraid of the scarecrow. Maybe the first day or two after it had been erected they steered clear of it, but as soon as Thomas Bowen started smuggling bread outside to feed them, and as soon as Thomas began his habitual chats with his best and only friend—the once imposing straw man—the crows were never wary again.

  The feeding of the crows was therapeutic for Thomas. It gave him the delight of watching the black birds soar and dive like toy planes as they plucked the pieces of bread he tossed from the air, and it allowed him time to think—of what he and his straw friend would talk about that day. It mattered little whether it was new territory or old that they covered; it had all been discussed before. He had told the scarecrow about the kids at school who bullied him; the teachers who told him his drawings were a waste of time; the unfair judge who wouldn’t let him live with his mother because of what she had done with Todd. And of course, the alcoholic father he was forced to live with who was relentless with his verbal and physical abuse.

  Before each chat, Thomas would present his straw friend with a drawing. Today’s was a brilliant black and white sketch of the boy and scarecrow: a close-up of their smiling faces, their heads tilted and leaning on one another, the sketch easily on par with any competent teen as opposed to the ten-year-old boy who drew it.

  Initially Thomas had stapled the drawings to the outside of the scarecrow’s clothing—a patchwork of sorts in the medium of paper and ink. When Hunter Bowen became aware of what his son had been doing it all stopped; the drawings were snatched off and ripped to pieces. This was followed by the predictable hiding and punishment of course, yet Thomas remained undeterred; he soon began stuffing the drawings safely inside his friend where they would remain out of sight—their clever little secret.

  The crows never flinched when Thomas jostled the straw man. Never flinched when he would hug him tight, or break out in laughter from a joke they shared. The birds simply looked down from the wide straw shoulders, black eyes blinking, observing, monitoring, approving—parents watching their child play.

  And so today, after his drawing had been stuffed deep inside the straw man’s shirt—the crows sitting regally on their perch, bellies full from bread, their calls light and content—Thomas Bowen sat near the foot of the pole and looked up at his friend to begin their chat.

  But the crows interrupted him. They screeched angrily, flapping off the scarecrow’s shoulders in a feathery black gust. Thomas Bowen needn’t turn around to see why the birds had fled. He knew, and he felt it before he saw it.

  Hunter Bowen slapped the side of his son’s head hard enough to rock him on his side. The boy put up no fight; he just lay there, hoping his submissive posture would signal acquiescence. It did not. Hunter reached down and grabbed hold of his son’s hair, ripping him to his feet. Thomas stifled a cry of pain.

  “Goddammit, boy! What good is a damn scarecrow if it don’t scare crows?!” He tightened his grip on Thomas’s scalp, leaned in, and jammed the boy’s face into his own, their eyes all but touching—the boy’s blue, wide, and scared; the man’s black, narrow, and blazing. “Those filthy bastards are hell on my crops, and you’re out here feeding the sons of bitches with food off my table!” He pulled the boy’s face away from his and slapped him. “Ungrateful little shit...maybe a night with no supper will teach you to respect the food I put in your stomach.”

  Hunter Bowen, still gripping his son’s hair, dragged him backwards through the rows of corn towards their home. Eyes blurred with pain, Thomas watched the straw man grow smaller and smaller as the heels of his shoes scuffed the earth and his scalp ached like a hat of tacks. Still, despite the pain, he managed to wave goodbye to his friend. The crows were gone.

  * * *

  Thomas sat at the kitchen table, his arms folded on top of one another, his head down. The boy’s father loomed over him.

  “I don’t see why you can’t be no normal boy. Spendin’ all that worthless time talking to a stupid scarecrow. Drawing all those sissy little pictures. Can’t be a normal boy and play some football or baseball, can you?”

  Thomas spoke without lifting his head. “Momma liked my drawings.”

  Hunter Bowen latched onto the boy’s scalp and jerked his head backward. Thomas gasped from the breath that was squeezed from his throat.

  “What did you say, boy?”

  Thomas said nothing; he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

  “Come on, boy; say what you just said about your momma.”

  Hunter let go of his grip and Thomas’s head sprung forward. The boy took several breaths, and then, for some reason even he himself didn’t understand, he repeated his previous statement.

  “Momma liked my drawings.”

  Hunter’s eyes crackled, his mouth fell open. The boy’s defiance had apparently rattled him, and violence was his only means to debate an insolence he couldn’t comprehend. He hoisted the boy out of his chair and threw him into the corner of the kitchen. Thomas landed hard on the dirty linoleum floor.

  Hunter removed his filthy cap, wiped his balding head with the forearm of his sleeve, put the cap back on. “Your whore of a momma gets no mention in this house, you hear me?” Hunter turned to leave the kitchen, stopped, and returned to his son. He was grinning. “You know what a whore is, boy?”

  Thomas didn’t reply, but it hardly mattered; his father’s question was now rhetoric.

  “A whore is a woman that screws men for money. Did ya know that, son? Did ya? But here’s the thing…” He snorted, phlegm bubbling in his throat. “Your momma was worse than a whore. You know why? Because she didn’t take no money—she screwed everyone for free.” He kicked Thomas lightly with his boot until the boy looked up at him. “You hearing me, boy? You hearing what I’m saying?” Hunter looked hard at his son, a sneer curling his lip, the disgust in his eyes hinting he may spit bile instead of the phlegm that gargled his voice. “You look like her, boy. All that ridiculous blonde hair of yours. Those girly blue eyes...” He bent over and gripped the boy’s arm, his thumb and index finger touching. “Weak spaghetti arms…skin as soft and as white as a baby’s. God Almighty you actually look like her.”

  The more Hunter spoke the more his revulsion seemed to fester like an infected wound. “Sorta makes me wonder about you, boy. Her spendin’ all that time with you— encouragin’ you to keep drawing all those stupid little pictures. I wonder what happens to a girly-looking boy who spends all his time with a whore. I wonder if it makes that boy go a little bit funny.”

  Thomas looked away, and Hunter kicked him again.

  “How ‘bout it, boy? That whore make you go all funny on your old man? Hell, I bet she did. I bet it’s why you spend all your time talking to a scarecrow and playing with little birdies. I imagine you’ll be wearing dresses soon too. You gonna start wearing dresses, boy?”

  “No sir.”

  Hunter squatted down into a catcher’s stance. His voice was low and intense. “You damn well better not, boy. I swear to the Almighty Himself, you better not. Because ten years old or not, I catch you in a dress and I’ll kick you right the hell out this house, just like I did that whore of a mother of yours. You understand me?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Hunter stood to his feet, lifted his cap and wiped his brow again. “Good. Now I want you to get started on supper early today. You won’t be having any, but I got Earl coming over and we plan to do some celebrating tonight. Earl’s little boy just made captain of his football team. Lucky bastard, that Earl. Now there’s something to be proud of.” He snorted again, spit a wad of yellow into the sink, then called over his shoulder as he walked out of the ki
tchen. “Get supper started.” He did not notice the three crows perched and watching from the kitchen windowsill.

  * * *

  It was after six. Dinner was cooked and eaten. Thomas stood on a small stool to scrub the dishes and pans in the kitchen sink. Hunter and Earl sat slack and slovenly at the dinner table, their bellies full, bloated, and peeking through the bottoms of their shirts. A third-of-a bottle of Jim Beam, two half-empty whiskey glasses, and beer bottles gripped tight in the meaty palms of both men were all that remained on the table.

  Earl had spoken of nothing but his son’s accomplishments on the football field during the meal, and it continued—intensified and embellished now—during drinking time.

  Hunter listened with both awe and envy. He called to his son by the sink. “You hearin’ this, boy?”

  Thomas kept his back to the pair and his hands in the suds—seemingly hopeful his obedient labor would excuse him a reply.

  Hunter drained the whiskey in his glass then sipped his beer. He belched, felt the familiar disgust threaten to raise the booze back up his throat, then waved his hand at the sink as though shooing away a fly. “Look at what I been dealt, Earl. Christ, from the back you’d think I had a daughter. Reckon he ain’t even fit to be a place kicker.”

  Earl snickered. He was a big man in clothes, and that’s the way he always kept it. Come summertime you had a better chance of finding a leprechaun than you would Earl at the local swimming hole or the lake. Called on it, he would always reply that swimming was a sissy’s sport; a girl’s sport. Truth was—and Hunter and a few of the guys ribbed him a time or two about it—Earl didn’t want to give the town an eyeful of his bountiful man-boobs when he could just as easily throw a hefty shirt over them and look as though he could bench press a refrigerator instead.

  “What do you do, Thomas?” Earl asked.

  “Tell him, boy,” Hunter said. “Answer our guest.”

  Thomas replied without turning around. His voice was soft. “I like to draw.”

  Hunter belched again. “He likes to draw, Earl. And that’s all he does—doesn’t even bring home good grades. Hell, maybe I could stomach it if he was fittin’ to be a doctor someday, but this one just draws. Tell ‘em what else you do, boy.”