Sunday, February 14, 2010

The New Kid and The #3 (Fiction) by Joseph W Patterson


The New Kid And The #3
by Joseph W Patterson

It was turning out to be a fantastic day. Bullies were expertly avoided and stealthily eluded throughout the neighborhood. Girls were herded to the park, wrangled, and properly kissed in bushes and under Elm trees. Candy bars were heisted along with dirty magazines and bottles of pop at the convience store. And bad intention guided missiles were hurled into school windows, mostly the third floor. Their accuracy was uncanny.

Robby and Dennis liked the new kid. He came upon them like unexpected old age. He was the creature around the corner that you expected to see, but didn’t want to, but glad you did because of the thrill. He went by the name of Brent, and they suspected that that wasn’t his real name, but they didn’t care. They liked his destructive enthusiasm and apocalyptic ideas.

“Have you guys ever drank holy water?” Brent asked as they trekked across the avenue.

“Nope.” they both replied like twins.

“Cool. Let’s head to St. Peters and get us some. My throat’s drier than pimp balls, and holy water will do us up right. Catholic holy water’s the best. That’s what my dad says.”

They took him for his word, because they weren’t sure if he had a dad or a mother too. He was that kid we all knew growing up. He was that kid that smelled a little off because of lack of showers. He was that kid that wore the same jeans everyday and the same shirt every three days. His shoes had holes on the sides and his hair was a bit oily but slightly combed. Brent was the kid that wasn’t being cared for properly because he was mostly taking care of himself. He was a bit stinky, but he smelled opportunity. He was raggedly, but he carried himself like a prince. And even though they’ve only known him for about a month, he was their leader, and they felt blessed. They crossed the avenue and headed toward St. Peters when Brent felt fflicted. He stopped suddenly and doubled over.

“What’s wrong Brent?” Robbie asked.

“Uhgg. I...don’t know. I think I got to take a number 3.”

“You want to go to my house”. Dennis asked.

“No. Too far. I’ll just go behind the church.”.

And with his features contorted with pain and anticipation, behind the church he went.

Dennis turned to Robbie and said “Jesus Christ, he looks sick. What’s he gonna wipe with?”

“Wipe with?” Robbie asked puzzled.

“Yeah dipshit, his ass. When he gets done.”

“He ain’t shitin’ he’s puken. That’s what a number 3 is.”

Dennis thought about it for second, just to make sure and replied, “You’re wrong Robslob. If pee is number 1 and poop is number 2 add them both together, and that’s what he’s doing. A number 3!”

Robbie was dumbfounded. How could Dennis be so stupid?

“Dennispenis, you’re wrong. Even though you don’t have to poop when you go pee, you always go pee when you poop. That’s why it’s a number 2 moron! A number 3 has to come out of your mouth, so it’s puke.”

“But why did he have to run behind the church to puke? Dennis asked. “I mean if that’s the case, it’s just puke. It’s nothing to hide.”

Just as Robbie was about to reply, a very strange sound came from behind St. Peters.

Now we’ve all heard weird and unsettling things, and so have Robbie and Dennis but imagine if you will the up and down whirl of a police siren, combined with the blood curling roar of a lion. Between the two lets splice in the sound of shattering glass and crumbling brick and the sound of blood through veins when it flows to thick. Intertwined with that you may here a high rise imploding, a shuttle exploding, a dead corpse molding and a murder plot unfolding. A car crash at the point of impact, an apology after the fact, and a dying victim in the street after he got jacked. Far below everything you’ve just heard, you hear an unholy language from the unholy word. Like the ripping of skin do to the murderous knife, the sounds of Pedro killing his wife, those creepy things that go bump in the night; they give you such a fright because they’re just beyond your sight. You hear that demon laughing under your bed, the molested girl buried under Al’s shed, the devil dancing a jig and giggling with glee, because Brent’s behind St. Peter’s taking a number 3!

Their brains felt like rotten eggs mixed with sour milk scrambled on the hot pavement. The smell around them was unbearable, and if Robbie was right about what a number 3 was then they both did it right there on the corner. But he was wrong. They were both wrong. They hadn’t the slightest notion of what happened to their friend or what he did back there.

“Brent?” Dennis called not expecting an answer. “Almost done, hold on.” Brent replied, and hold on they should have. Three heavy and loud thuds shook the ground, causing every dog on street to bark, a pitcher window across the street to shatter, and a car alarm blare a block away.

“Jesus Christ. What did he do?” Dennis asked mostly to himself, because as he asked it he watched Brent come from behind the church. Brent was literally covered in sweat. Absolutely nothing on him was dry. He shook his head like a dog to shed himself of the extra moister. And as Dennis watched he noticed he shook his whole body like a dog. From his head to his butt he gyrated like a dog to shed himself of the extra water and the sweat sizzled when it hit the ground.

“Oh man, that was serious.” Brent said joining his compadres. Robbie seen blood streaks flowing from Brent’s eyes and down his cheeks.

“You ok Brent?” Robbie asked.

“I’m better now.”

“What did you do?”

“A number 3.”

“What’s a number 3?” Robbie knew he asked one too many questions. Brent was prone to fits of rage for something as simple as a question, but he had to know. His head was ringing from the psychological sounds that bombarded him. His stomach knotted and twisted and attempted to leap out of his mouth from the stench his good buddy Brent hath brought forth. And from what he could see this good neighborhood was going bad and in the near future it was going to be ugly. Just what in the hell did he do? Brent wiped the blood from his eyes and the corners of his mouth and wiped it on Dennis’ shirt.

He then walked up to Robbie, placed both hands on his shoulders, looked him straight in the eyes and said. “If you don’t know, I ain’t going to tell you.”

“Ok.” Robbie said staring into Brent’s psychotic bloodshot eyes. And down the street they went. Showers were needed to get rid of the nastiness that Brent has brought upon them, because girls were being met at the mall this evening. They had to be at their best.

That neighborhood did go from bad to ugly, it only took a month. The neighbors had a horrific smell that seemed to come from nowhere and was everywhere. Things died because of that smell and within a couple of days people left, never to return. St. Peters fell into a sinkhole and things started to smell worse. The people in the area became very ill and were evacuated, and those that stayed died. Eventually, everything within a three block radius of the number 3 was ruined or died off. Then a new kid emerged from the very same hole that swallowed St. Peters. He was a bit stinky, but he smelled opportunity, and he headed for the next town with destructive enthusiasm and apocalyptic ideas.

Author bio:

Joseph W. Patterson resides in a shack on the haunted plains of Kansas, with a hissing cat and a dog that bites people. Stories written by the heavily intoxicated are some of his favorites, and he's had works published in Twisted Tongue magazine, Writing Shift, 69 Flavors of Paranoia, and Whispers of Wickedness.

1 comment:

joe patterson said...

You've been warned, he is born.