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RED JOE
"The Nightmare" Art by Matthew Lappas Copyright 2007 He called himself ‘Red Joe.’ Charlie Tenebrook no longer stared back from the mirror. Charlie was a stranger to Red Joe now, the forgotten picture of a distant cousin. Something about the face, though, Red Joe thought…telling him he should know who Charlie Tenebrook was, but just couldn’t place the bastard. Red Joe remembered Tenebrooks’s life, every detail, every reverberating chord of it: the supervising position at the plant, Charlie’s girlfriend, hockey games, and ginger ale. Tenebrook wanted it all back. The poor sod was crying inside, demanding to be let out! He was pounding on the walls of Red Joe’s skull! Red Joe could put his slapdash on hold long enough for Charlie to savor the last vestiges of his life, couldn’t he? Charlie Tenebrook, the ‘other face,’ had Red Joe to thank for all that. The ruby-colored avenger was running the show! Red Joe owned every aspect of Charlie’s life: the keys to his apartment, his new truck, the safe deposit box, even the keys to Amy’s heart. Charlie was going to ask Amy to marry him… Then Red Joe came along… He was Tenebrook’s caretaker. His presence was everywhere: the kitchen cupboards, cabinets, refrigerator, doorknobs, even the toilet paper roll in the bathroom. Scarlet footprints made a trail across the carpet. Red handprints stamped the walls. Charlie was still in there, though. He was getting used to it, this amorphous creation made more slippery as Red Joe waltzed dramatically from room to room. Red Joe was quite the thespian when he wanted to be. I absolutely love the handiwork! Red Joe told him. He knew how to approach the situation. He had character, a sense of humor! Red Joe was trying to tell Tenebrook this. Just lighten up and enjoy yourself. But Charlie wasn’t listening. Red Joe was schooling him in the arts of slapdash. Yes, he knew how to entertain. See,
you have to let yourself go to the current, Red Joe told him.
There’s a bigger world out there, Charlie-boy.
Quit taking things so seriously all the time.
Have a drink, for God’s sake!
Lighten up! After
all, none of this is actually your fault. It
could be worse. Charlie
could complain, but what good would that do?
He was lucky. This
wasn’t your average case of the blues.
Things had taken an unlikely turn was all, a detour into the
unexplained. How could you not
be thankful? Yeah,
Charlie, so just lighten the hell up, Red Joe told him.
I thought you liked this shade of red.
I thought it was your favorite. It’s
the same color as the truck you just bought. The
truck he’d never drive again, the truck he should’ve driven
to the hospital. It was too
late for that now. Tenebrook
didn’t reply. He came and
went. Maybe he agreed.
Charlie wanted Red Joe to shut up, let him contemplate this
situation, accept this sudden shift into blacker regions of the macabre. Behind
Red Joe’s ruby orbs, Tenebrook eyed what used to be his apartment and
(a sign of Red Joe) couldn’t help but laugh.
He had to accept it eventually, didn’t he?
Maybe Red Joe was right. Even
the smell didn’t bother him now, that sharp, pungent, coppery aroma.
He was used to it. Tenebrook
cackled like a lunatic. It
was funny when he thought about it.
Ironic. If he
didn’t find humor in the situation, he’d go crazy. Or worse. Your
mind would be my mind, Charlie-boy.
Why do you think you’re dealing with this so well? Anyone
for water sports? The
twist paved the way for slaughter. Accepting
it didn’t make the situation easier.
He had a lot of cleaning up to do was all: buckets of soapy
water, bleach, and countless rags… What’s
the big deal anyway? You’d
think you never saw a little blood before. Red
Joe, obviously. Tenebrook
took a seat in the back of his mind and let Red Joe pilot his flesh.
He didn’t necessarily enjoy the way Red Joe was acting.
It scared him. When
Tenebrook gazed in the mirror, he looked for signs of his old self.
He was still in there somewhere, but where? Dark
hair, blue eyes, the moles on his cheeks?
Not a trace remained. Governing
the ride was that ruby-eyed thespian, that ever smiling, always comical
jester. Tenebrook had created a bond between himself and Red Joe, despite how he felt. Pretending it never happened wouldn’t make the situation easier. Humor
is in all things, Tenebrook thought, no
matter how sick and twisted. Wasn’t
it time he looked at things in a brighter light, this everyday ritual in
blood? Red
Joe put a hand to his stomach and doubled over with laughter. Ritual
in blood? That’s good,
Charlie. You ought to write
books. You ought to have
your name in lights! Charlie
Tenebrook didn’t rule out conclusive madness.
That he was wading in it, relishing in the same bliss as
his benefactor must prove something. Yep,
it must prove something. It
proves you’re truly bonkers, whacked right out of the old brain-pan.
Nuts to the root, rover baby.
How does that grab you? Red
Joe wiped comical tears from his eyes.
It was either that or become one with the bloody hell lapping at
his knees. But
you are the bloody hell. What
have you got to say for yourself? No
autographs, please. I must
have time for meditation. Stand
aside. Give me some
breathing room, for God’s sake! I
must have breathing room! Oh!
I don’t know if I can handle all this attention!
No more pictures! To
all my fans, I adore you! What
would’ve happened if he’d never cut himself?
Would he be all right then? At
least until he cut himself later? If
his thumb hadn’t been under the knife, this never would’ve happened! The
little bastard, Charlie thought, thinking of the knife. Look
at it smiling, laughing at me! It
knew what it was doing all along, the bloody fiend, the goddamn villain! Tenebrook
was officially gone. He
couldn’t distinguish what was his or Red Joe’s thoughts anymore.
Yes,
the knife had been the villain.
The knife had a personality of its own.
It laughed when he cut himself.
It was laughing now, holding onto its steel belly, curling into a
sharp, silver ball, similar to what Red Joe was doing. Things
were different, though, now. The
knife, like Red Joe, was a friend. Tenebrook,
Red Joe, and the knife, were regular pals!
Comedy
held beauty. The sonofabitch
couldn’t stop laughing! Laughter
was essential. Tenebrook
didn’t want to consider the ramifications without humor. Being
crazy wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.
Yeah!
So laugh! Sing a
song, dance! Take my
slippery hand and put on your big sombrero!
We’ll toast to friendship, lunacy!
They’ll have to cart us away, we’ll be having such a good
time! Humor
had saved his life. Life
without lunacy? Buried
behind a vermilion guise, Tenebrook shuddered at the thought. Death
was an option, though, right? Death
was inevitable. Death
is over-rated, Red Joe said.
Death ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Why, look at you, Charlie.
You’re dead, and you don’t even know it, and you still manage
to put on a smiling face! Tenebrook
didn’t care, not now. Dismayed,
he shook his head, trying to understand what had gone wrong, who this
dancing, comical nightmare was living in his flesh now. It
didn’t matter. Everything
was clear in the eyes of Red Joe. Everything
was exactly as it should be.
Amy would come by, worried about him, even the police.
Tenebrook and Red Joe’s world would come to a screeching halt. They
had unfinished business, these two.
Red Joe harassed Tenebrook to the brink of tears.
It was understandable, even hilarious.
Watching Tenebrook crack was a goddamn uproar! As
Red Joe laughed, Charlie quietly wept inside, hidden in the recesses of
safety. Charlie’s downfall
made Red Joe laugh like a goddamn loon! Laughing
and crying, Red Joe said. Is
that all you ever do, Charlie? Doesn’t
it get tiresome? Me
laughing, you crying? He
tried convincing Charlie it was best to play along.
Soon,
he did. Charlie surveyed the
blood through scarlet orbs, a deep pool of vermilion wet lapping at his
knees, the walls, and the furniture…
Laughing,
of course, was the only thing left to do.
We
could be the main attraction anywhere, Red Joe told him.
A carnival, you know? The
Bleeding Tenebrook
shook his head. He
couldn’t believe it. Give
him time, Red Joe said to himself.
He’ll come around. He
wished he had a float tube, some lemonade.
He felt he was on the ocean, better than reclining in a hammock
in the backyard. Don’t
forget your sunscreen. You
wouldn’t want to be redder than you already are. Red
Joe erupted in another painful fit of giggles.
Blood
by the buckets. Blood by the
gallons. Blood by the
tubful. It was impossible to
believe without seeing it. You’ve
never seen anything this magical before, ladies and gentleman!
Don’t be shy! It’s
the most incredible marvel in the known universe… Red
Joe beamed, the element fueling his derangement. The
blood was deepening past his knees now, close to his waist.
The marvel was where it came from, a feat of modern miracles too
impossible to ignore. It
gained momentum with every drop spilled, from every nook and cranny,
every pour and molecule of Tenebrook’s flesh.
Blood gushed from his skin like a self-made river.
How could it not be a miracle?
“You
mean disaster,” Charlie said. He
was a manmade waterfall, a blood-red ocean. Thank
you, thank you, Red Joe said.
No need to go to extremes! You’ve
done enough. Quiet please!
Thank you for your round of applause.
You’ve been one hell of an audience!
If
Red Joe didn’t know any better, he might shed a tear.
In all this ruby-colored madness, how could you not shed a
tear? Can
I get some tissue over here, please? Red
Joe had made a name for himself. At
least in his eyes. No
lights please, no applause. Oh,
stop. You’re making me blush. Forgetting
about Charlie Tenebrook (move over, buster!), Red Joe took a bow. * It happened to people everyday… He’s been cooking enchiladas, chopping lettuce when he misjudged his thumb under the knife. Even then, the knife smiled over his hand. The next thing he knew, the blade eased in smoothly with a warm sting. Ah, fuck! Quick. Sure. Pain. Charlie yelped, winced, and bit his lip. He hurriedly went to the sink. He turned the water on and thrust his hand under, blood swirling down the drain. He’d cut it badly, he saw. The pain was a warm, electric throb. Tenebrook grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped it around his thumb, enchiladas forgotten. Trying to ignore the pain, he took a break from making dinner, and decided to watch a sitcom in his favorite chair. The rag was ridiculously heavy after half an hour. A tingling sensation pricked his elbow. Charlie lifted his hand. The entire dishrag was red with blood. Eyes going wide, he got up, went to the kitchen, and turned on the water. He unwound the towel and let it plop in the sink. “What—?” Charlie said, perplexed. Welcome,
ladies! Gentles, all!
Good of you to come! Don’t
want to celebrate before the show’s over?
So, let’s get started! Red Joe had made a dramatic entrance. The man thought highly of himself. Tenebrook didn’t know where he’d come from. He thought he’d imagined it. His hand was a deep scarlet stain. The wound seemed larger than before, deeper than he remembered. The gash was a mouth trying to speak when he flexed his hand. A dagger of pain shot through his arm. He was going to need stitches. “So much for a quiet evening at home,” Charlie said, with tears in his eyes. He clenched his teeth, sucking in his breath with the pain. See!
It’s the knife! Look
at the little bastard, Charlie? Look
at him! He’s got a smile
on his face, for crying out loud! Sure enough, as Charlie looked, the knife lay innocently on the counter except for a dribble of blood. The knife seemed to be smiling. That was true. “Why, you little motherfu—” Charlie said. Charlie held his hand over the sink. It bled porously. He could’ve sworn the cut had been smaller! He didn’t want to go to the hospital. The idea of doctors, needles, getting stitched up! It made him ill. That’s
what the mouth on your thumb was trying to tell you.
“Doesn’t matter whether you want stitches or not,” Charlie said. “Call Amy. Think you can drive?” He hadn’t elevated the wound above his heart. That’s why it was still bleeding, he told himself. Charlie proceeded to clean the gash, re-wrap his thumb, and put it above his head as if he always had a question to ask. “Look,
Charlie wants to go on a ride!” “You
know the answer, do you, Chuck?” “Something
you want to say to the classroom, Tenebrook?” He
tried calling Amy. She
didn’t answer. He grabbed
the keys to the Maybe
this isn’t the best time to go, he thought, and made his way back
to the living room. He
dumped himself in the recliner. The wooziness passed after fifteen minutes. Charlie felt better. He stood up, awkwardly put a plate of enchiladas together, his hand still in the air. He sat at the table and tried to eat, but the corn shells were crispier than he liked; the cheese had blackened. Defeated, Charlie pushed the plate away and sighed. Lights blinked on and off in front of his eyes again. With his arm falling asleep and a dull heavy throb developing in his hand, he returned to the living room, trying to immerse himself in a sitcom again. His hand grew heavy, and the pain was intense. Tenebrook closed his eyes. Would he pass out? Bleed to death? A few stitches weren’t fatal, were they? He could heal it himself perhaps? Maybe he didn’t have to go to the doctor! He got up and tried to call Amy again. He waited and waited. Still, no answer…He didn’t trust himself to drive. He felt dizzy, like he was going to pass out, so he sat back down. Soon, the dishrag was heavy with blood. He hadn’t severed his thumb, had he? Two whole dishrags! He’d have to ask a neighbor to take him to the hospital. What a nightmare! Just home from work! What next? Helicopters? Flight for Life? Something
better! Just wait!
It gets better! Pulling his arm down, a rivulet of blood snaked from his wrist to his elbow. He felt faint again. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and wondered what to do. He let his arm dangle over the recliner. Charlie said a silent prayer. He was going to need a bigger dishrag. He hadn’t noticed the pool of blood widening on the floor. * The trouble, of course, was evident. Elevation, bandaging—a waste of time. Strange as it was, the wound would not stop bleeding, yet, he felt strong, not as though he were loosing blood. He was weak and light-headed only when he stood up. When he tried to call Amy or go to the door—endeavoring to seek the aid of one of his neighbors—his vision darkened at the edges, forcing him to sit back down, as if the wound, the blood, had a mind of their own, preventing him from finding aid. Spots, ribbons, splatters, and lacy tendrils followed him through the apartment… At least have the decency to bleed in the bathtub, for crying out loud! Were you born in a barn? Red Joe wasn’t such a bad guy once you got to know him. The man made the situation easier at least. Unwrapping another towel, Charlie dropped this one, too, in the sink. He looked at the wound. A quick, hot flash of pain pricked his hand. More mesmerized, baffled, and frightened than before, he marveled over how the wound snaked beyond the ball of his thumb and angled toward his wrist. He went to the phone and dialed Amy’s number. Charlie let it ring twenty-three times before he hung up. She must be the only person in the known universe without an answering machine. He cursed and stormed into the hallway. He’d open the front door, run down the hall, and find a neighbor to help him! It was his only option! In a flash, however—before he reached the door—pinpricks of light blinked on and off in front of his vision. He swooned. He knelt on the ground, holding onto his stomach. For a second, he thought he was going to throw up. Inside, with Red Joe making an entrance, Charlie hugged himself in the dark. He began to worry for the very first time. Oh, quit being such a baby. You cry at everything! Want me to get some tissue for those tears? Red Joe was popping up now more than ever. He was taking over the show. What did Tenebrook care? Cockpit’s
yours, Captain. I’m not
cut out for this. Commander’s
orders. Thanks for letting
me tag along, though. Part of him wanted to scream! What kind of wound refused to stop bleeding without the patient passing out from loss of blood or dying altogether? How
come I didn’t leave the front door open?
He could go downstairs, find a way to the hospital. Someone would take him to the emergency room. No city could be that hostile, could it? Where the hell was Amy? He couldn’t just sit here and bleed to death! Making
the resolution, Charlie grabbed the keys to the Just as quickly, his legs turned to liquid… Before he could unlock the door, the darkness came. It descended furiously into his brain. Lunatic whispers invaded his thoughts. The knob slipped away, his fingers falling from the door… I should’ve done this when I had the chance, Charlie thought. Don’t
worry, Red Joe said. That’s
what I’m here for. A blood-drenched smile emerged in the dark. Tenebrook buckled and collapsed. His head cracked with a heavy thud on floor. Red Joe had officially claimed residency, veering the vessel in route to a new horizon. Pleased to make his acquaintance, Tenebrook accepted the dark sleep of unconsciousness. Red Joe was more experienced anyway. Hell, the guy did this kind of thing for a living! Let him run the show! *
It played itself in Charlie’s mind, an extraordinarily vivid performance before a sold-out crowd. Red Joe was the lead, piloting a huge warplane across a vast stage. “Hold on, Charlie,” Red Joe said, fitting goggles over his eyes. (If not for the situation, Charlie would’ve found it comical.) “It’s going to be one hell of a show!” The plane started to roll. Can you fit an airplane on stage, he thought? Tenebrook smiled, knowing he had nothing to worry about, thankful to put this situation in someone else’s hands. Red Joe was enjoying himself anyway. Charlie was confident. He sat back and lost himself in the performance. The plane nosed into the air. The curtains parted. A hush came over the crowd. Columns of light hit the stage. No longer in the plane, Red Joe—wearing a black cape—walked on stage from behind the curtains, and looked at the crowd. He threw his hand into the air. The audience erupted with applause, shouts of praise, and a standing ovation! Cameras flashed. Hollers, cheers, and whistles boomed throughout the auditorium! Stopping at mid-stage, Red Joe crossed his legs at the ankles. He flourished the cape, slicing his right hand through the air. A smile lifted the corners of his lips. He bent at the waist, the cape unfurling, and stood again! The crowd was alive, maniacal! Applause bounced raucously from everywhere! It was dashing, perfect!—a bow to complete and dazzle the wonder of every show! Red Joe relished in their ardor. Letting them soak it in for a split-second more, he motioned to the lights, and focused on the coming performance. The crowd took their seats. The din quieted to a hush, a cough, a few whispers… Red Joe looked from one side of the audience to the other. He nodded, his smile twisting into a hellish grin. Making
sure they got their money’s worth, Red Joe (as he did night after
night) declared his position as one of the grandest masters of the arts.
The most inspiring and memorable of celebrities to enthrall the
universe with his unique and unparalleled vision! Red
Joe showed the world why he’d usurped the throne from the seat of
Entertainment! * For now, however, the show was about Charlie Tenebrook… When he awoke in the hallway, stars tingled in his head. The plane, he realized, was the sound of propellers in his brain. That’s why Red Joe pulled goggles over his eyes. He looked at the bandage. The wound couldn’t be bigger, could it? Groggy, his head reeling from a goose egg, he unraveled the dishrag. His eyes fluttered. It was bigger. The wound had curved from the ball of his thumb beyond his wrist, and was heading toward his elbow. Blood spilled steadily, a pool on the floor where he’d fainted. No big deal, he thought. Can’t seem to stop bleeding. Can’t seem to run out of blood, either. Ho ho ho. The best of millions do not understand this wonder, this magic show. How come he wasn’t dead? Why did this constant energy and weakness come and go? Was it simply the way Red Joe played the part? He had resolve. Part of him denied it was happening. If he couldn’t make it to the hospital or rely on Amy, he’d cauterize the wound himself. It wasn’t the pain and panic taking control; it was a challenge, a game he and Red Joe were playing. It was about acceptance, the slip leading Charlie into a wonderland of light. “Man!” he shouted. “I feel great!” A slow itch throbbed at the wound. Charlie wanted to reach in and dig at it with his fingers, claw at it with his fingernails, but that would only make it bleed more, wouldn’t it? The thought alone sent jagged twists of pain, like a laser, through his thumb and up his arm. Pain ascended to his shoulder, a quick stab to his heart. Did the knife have that much success without him realizing it? He’d show this comical jester! He wasn’t easily upstaged! Amy suddenly came to his mind. He wondered what she’d say, what she’d do. How would the doctors respond? You
think you’ve got problems now, chief.
You just wait! If
they bandaged him up, sealed him in plastic, he’d suffocate in his own
blood. He’d bleed through
the stitches, tear them out one by one.
They’d keep him for tests!
Thanks,
Doc, but I think I’ll let this one ride itself out.
I mean, I feel great!
Feel like a champ! Can’t
seem to stop bleeding. Can’t
seem to run out of blood, either. Go
figure! Hey, I can’t
explain it! I don’t think you
can, either. You mind if
I go home now? Once
he let Red Joe have the reigns, Charlie felt better instantly.
If this was insanity, what was all the hype about?
He should’ve cut himself years ago! He’d have to call the plant, tell them he wouldn’t be coming into work. Permanently, Red Joe said. “You like your enchiladas with or without blood,” Charlie said, and giggled. “They’re bloody good.” You
should do songs, commercials, Red Joe said. It’s
all Entertainment! Red
Joe had a way, at least, of pointing out the brighter side of things.
Making the decision it could only get better (seeing Amy now, the neighbors, or anyone else was not a good idea), Charlie went to the phone jack, grabbed the chord, and yanked it free. There, he thought. No incoming calls. Back to the original plan. Since he’d sliced his thumb, Charlie experienced a surge of hope. “This is a job for Tenebrook!” he shouted. “Move over, jester! No more fun and games!” You’re going mad, Red Joe said. And that’s okay. Madness will help you. Charlie Tenebrook went to the kitchen. He found a candle and some matches in the junk drawer. Thanks to his swoon over Amy, he was anxious for romantic evenings. Many candle-lit dinners had been savored in this very apartment. He fixed the candle to a wooden holder. Charlie struck the match. He smiled as the flame burst to life. Sulfur wafted—welcome—into his nose. He breathed it in. It was part of the healing process. He touched the flame to the wick. Much as the knife had done, the flame, too, had a voice of its own: Go
ahead, you stupid bastard. You
think this is gonna work? You
must be an idiot. You think
you got pain now? But hey,
it’s not my thumb! In
the recess of cold, silent space, Charlie thought: Maybe this isn’t
a good idea. Throwing
the match away, he braced himself. Charlie
held tightly to his left wrist with his right hand.
Shouldn’t you have a belt to bite down on, so you don’t sever your tongue? Red Joe asked. “Belts are for sissies,” Charlie said, preparing for the pain. He clenched his eyes. Tenebrook thrust the wound into the flame. Flesh hissed instantly. Blood boiled. Smoke curled into his face as tears sprang to his eyes. The smell of searing, cooked skin filled his nose. Agonizing pain reared through the wound. Charlie hopped up and down, danced, and cried. Determined, however, he kept the wound directly in the flame. “YEEE-OOOOWWWW!” he howled. Charlie pulled his hand out, traumatized, scarred, branded by pain. He jumped from one foot to the other. He turned on the cold water with tears blurring his vision. He thrust his hand under, whimpering as the wound cooled. Sirens wailed in his ears. Colored lights flashed in his head. That’s just the stage, Red Joe said. And congratulations. Charlie inspected the wound, his lips trembling. Raw pink and white dots of tissue bubbled. It was, in all aspects, substantially worse. He hadn’t done a thing but make it bleed even more. Brightness isn’t one of your more redeeming qualities, is it? Red Joe asked. What could Tenebrook do? Pain paralyzed the left side of his body. Weeping openly, brokenly—knowing the best man had won—Charlie danced in agony through the kitchen. Blood streamed from his hand in a steady flow to the floor. * Amy came by the next day. Tenebrook didn’t care about the carpet, the stained hardwood in the hallway where he’d cracked his head open. Bloody handprints patched the cupboards, the walls, and the refrigerator. Pools and trails followed him from the kitchen to the bathroom. He’d come to the conclusion, of course, that this wasn’t your average wound. Something else was, obviously, at play here. He’d learned to accept this macabre situation with a bright, red heart. Most of that, of course, was Red Joe’s doing. A knock from the front door startled him, his heart skipping a beat, spilling more blood. Amy, Charlie thought. He crept through the hallway, treading lightly on the floor. He peered through the peephole. She looked more furious than worried. She must’ve tried to call and realized she couldn’t get through because he’d ripped the jack from the wall. Her lips curled like a roller coaster, eyes igniting the door in anger, blonde hair spilling to her shoulders in bright, silver curls. Don’t
worry, Amy, he thought. You’re
mad for the wrong reasons. Nothing
we can do about it now, babe. Just
wait, though. You’ll
understand. He wanted to open the door and explain the situation. Once he showed her, she’d understand, wouldn’t she? But he wanted to spare her the horror, not scar her for life. Amy tried the knob. He watched it click back and forth. Thank God he’d locked it! She called his name from the hallway: “Charlie! Charlie, are you in there?” He closed his eyes to the soft, musical sound of her voice. He fell in love with her all over again. That she was stubborn and concerned about him at the same time! When she stomped, defeated, down the hallway, Tenebrook breathed a sigh of relief. Still, his heart broke a little inside. Something wet tickled his ear, spilling down his neck. He wasn’t surprised when he stuck his finger inside and found it wet with blood. Red Joe was taking the act now to a whole new level. Bleeding
from the ears now, Charlie thought.
How is that possible? Charlie shook his head and let Red Joe do what he came here for. * Before long, he was a river, a waterfall of crimson gore. Both ears bled continuously down his jaw and neck. The roots of his hair emitted blood at a slow, steady pace. He wiped it constantly from his eyes so he could see. He bled from under his fingernails, his nose. His eyes were tearful, scarlet orbs. When he looked down, to his horror, he saw the hole in his penis oozed blood as well. Part of him wanted to shriek in denial, but this was Red Joe’s territory. Charlie hadn’t realized how comical the situation was until now. It did no good crying. Why, baby, why? What about a doctor? Details, baby, details. A doctor would be useless. Why bother crying, he thought? If he let the horror consume him, he could embrace the situation with dark humor. That would help. Charlie acknowledged horror in a fiendish, comical light. With the slightest adjustment to his attitude, he could be more than he ever thought possible. Yeah, and what a situation it is. Not the best money can buy, but good enough for some brand new shoes. Who needs controversy? Politics? A little abnormality is all. Make it up, take it up, and wrap it in a bow. It was just a setback, an obstacle in the road to everyday travel. Boo-hoo hoo. It’s just a minor wound, baby. It’ll get better soon. Yes. Crying? Hell. Red Joe had never had more fun in his life! Where’s
that float-tube? Someone get
me some sunglasses! Who
needs to go to a river? We
have one right here! * Charlie (Red Joe) loved it. Recognizing beauty in the situation was vital. You simply must bring in more red, darling. More red is always the thing, you know? Charlie
was laughing now. He
couldn’t stop laughing. The
shift from one extreme to the other kept him rolling with humor.
Yesterday, he’d been Charlie Tenebrook, supervisor of the
plant, owner of a new Now, however… “A scientific experiment has gone terribly wrong!” he shouted, and laughed again. He was the Crimson Avenger, perhaps a better villain than a hero. Unless you can save the world by bleeding to death, he thought. He didn’t wear clothes. Clothes were too heavy. From every appendage, every orifice, he was scarlet from head to toe. Even the wound, like a canyon was traveling up his forearm toward his shoulder. The pain had—for whatever reason—noticeably subsided. The blood was beyond his knees, too—gathering at such momentum—it was now a lake in his apartment. Charlie smiled, holding his arms out on either side. He looked toward the ceiling. This madness had changed him. He welcomed whatever death (if any) would come. Something, he knew. It had to give sometime. Anything… Maybe I’ll grow gills, he thought. Imagine the stardom, your followers, walking in your own bloody footsteps, sitting in the same bloody chairs. He could already hear their applause. They loved him! “Thank you,” he said, bowing. “Thank you.” Red Joe was a gentleman. He savored the spotlight, every second to perform this wondrous act of miracles. Tenebrook, however, withdrew to the shadows. He was no longer around. He sat comfortably in the back of the theatre, and wondered how it was going to end. * Todd Dos was not a healthy man. He was not a thin man by any means, either. He was, in fact, an obese man, a man shaped by idleness. Television and beer were among the finest marvels of the civilized age. If they could somehow put a toilet under the seat of the recliner (another brilliant invention), he would be the happiest man alive. He’d never have to leave the recliner, his biggest dream. Standing up meant a long emptying of the bladder and undoubtedly missing one the funniest parts of his favorite sitcoms. To sit, drink, and giggle was a goal Todd Dos endeavored to capture every day in his degenerate, hapless life. The remote control (another brilliant invention) was on the arm of the chair, the beer cans piling up alongside him. He did not believe or care about chilled beer or trashcans. Convenience for convenience’s sake was part of the dream as well. He
was watching his favorite sitcom, The Simpsons.
The Simpsons was the only show that truly spoke to
Todd. The Simpsons and
Married with Children. Character,
he constantly told the television. He
was able to relate and appreciate the sitcoms because of
character, why the rest of He’d rented apartments throughout the years, endured pestering neighbors, unsympathetic landlords. He recounted a myriad of things gone wrong with apartments over the years: water damage, bad electrical, bad plumbing, paint peeling from the walls. It came with renting on the cheap side of town. When the overhead light darkened, however—dripping a strange, foreign substance into the fixture—Todd’s brows came together because this was something he hadn’t seen before. Vexing him—because The Simpsons had just started—Todd Dos stood up. He left his beer on the carpet. He stood on the recliner, examining the light fixture, and squinted. “What the—fuck?” he said. Messes didn’t bother him as long as they were his own, but he didn’t know what this crap was pouring into the fixture. It stank, too. Todd looked at the wall and saw the same dark substance oozing from the electrical sockets, two thin trails spilling down the wall like tears. Was it…red, he thought? Todd Dos detested having his evening interrupted, pulled from his favorite time of day, his favorite show. It was a cruelty of the bitterest kind. Cursing under his breath—show and beer forgotten—Todd Dos stomped across the living room, opened the front door, and slammed it shut. He stormed upstairs to Tenebrook’s apartment. * Eternity,
Red Joe thought. Sublimity,
light, reflection. Perhaps,
yes! Grace.
How could he not enjoy this madness without a little grace?
A
bit deeper and he’d be doing backstrokes.
Deeper, and he’d smile for eternity, hoping for the best.
He was thinking these thoughts when the acerbating knock came from the front door. He’d been expecting it for some time now. That wasn’t an ‘Amy knock’, Charlie told Red Joe. His flesh produced blood at an incredible rate. It deepened through every room in the apartment. The miracle wasn’t that he was bleeding at such phenomenal velocity, but that the blood was continually pouring with momentum from his flesh. “Tenebrook!”
Dos bellowed from the
hallway. “What the hell
are you doing in there, Tenebrook?
There’s shit all over the hallway! It’s
pouring down my walls like the fucking River Ah! Sublimity! Red Joe thought. The perfect end to all perfect things… Red Joe giggled, thinking how grand it would be to open the door. He’d look out with his ruby-colored face, red eyes, blood spilling from his mouth. He’d reach out and plead in his most bemoaning voice: “Help me, please! God!” Were his teeth red, too? Of course, the hallway, the apartment below…Charlie hadn’t thought of that. Red Joe didn’t reply. Enjoying the theatrical display, he put his hands in the air, twirling through the absurdity like a ballerina. You’ve got so much love, he thought. “Are you gonna open the door or not, Tenebrook? It’s pouring down my walls! It’s a fucking mess down there! Tenebrook?” Dos pounded on the door again. “I’m getting the manager, Tenebrook!” Red Joe smiled. You do that, he thought. You get the manager, and soon, all will be well. All will be bliss and heaven, comfort and stars. Universal sunshine, galaxies made of clay. Bring your friends. Bring your knives. It’s just a slipshod, roundabout way we’ve cut ourselves. There was more to this than simple salvation. Nothing hurt him anymore; nothing panged his ears or made him want to cry. Nothing was that deadly. He had enough ageless time and beauty before him now. Crimson
Avenger, my bleeding ass, he thought.
You’re the King in Red! * Coincidentally, Amy brought officers, Walsh and Jolves to the apartment at the exact moment Todd Dos retrieved the landlord, Mr. Fyuesterman. All five of them met on the ground floor. “What the hell is that?” Jolves exclaimed. He was a young rookie, still harassed by his fellow officers. “I don’t know how you couldn’t notice something like this,” Dos said to Mr. Fyuesterman. “What do you do, sleep all day? I’m not paying this month’s rent, either, not with this crap.” Fyuesterman looked on with vacant eyes. He was clearly troubled, a man dying to find reason in the unreasonable. Amy White looked worried and horrified. Something was terribly wrong, she knew. She’d been trying to contact Charlie by phone, but the line was disconnected. His truck was still parked behind the building. As often as she came by, he never answered. Walsh and Jolves had been reluctant, even rude to her. He was probably avoiding her, they’d said, and if he was that spineless, he wasn’t worth the trouble. Please, she’d begged. If she hadn’t found them sitting in their patrol car down the street eating burgers and fries, she might not have gotten anyone to help. Reluctantly, the five of them stood at the bottom of the stairs now. A thick mass of blood spilled down the steps, pooling around their feet. Their faces were identical: shocked, bewildering expressions of disbelief, horror, and revulsion. “That can’t be what I think it is,” Walsh said, but he knew otherwise. The smell was powerfully acrid. The color, unmistakable. Jolves acknowledged Walsh and nodded, distracted by the long, slender legs of Amy White. “If that’s blood, then I’m John Lennon,” Jolves said. “Sure looks like blood,” Walsh said, ignoring Jolves. “Well, are we gonna stand here and admire the scenery,” Dos said. “Or are we going up?” Both officers ignored him. “Maybe you should wait by the patrol car,” Walsh advised Amy. The look she delivered said otherwise. “All right then,” Walsh said. “I guess nobody minds getting their feet wet.” They started up the stairs, eyeing the blood. Todd Dos said something to Mr. Fyuesterman who hadn’t spoken the entire time. Mr. Fyusterman was in a trance. “It just can’t be blood,” Jolves said. Amy White let out a groan. * How many parts do we dare play? he thought. Charlie Tenebrook had officially left the building. Red Joe hadn’t heard from, talked to, or acknowledged the poor sod. Red Joe had taken over. “Just stand aside, stand aside,” he said. “Who’s got that musical number? Lights, please.” Charlie had to accept the situation eventually. What choice did he have? Just a bleeding man here, Red Joe thought. Just kinda bleeding a little. Just kinda not running out of blood, either. “Mommy,” he said. “I think I cut myself reeeal bad.” Don’t you worry, baby. It’s just a minor wound, baby. “They don’t make band-aids big enough for this!” Red Joe cackled in delight. Thousands of voices surged in and out of his head, but he had nothing to worry about. The fight of some angry young man, presumably Charlie Tenebrook, was still in there, hammering on the walls of Red Joe’s consciousness: “I’ve seen enough, and I want out! You tricked me! This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!” Red Joe admired the attempt, but he ignored Charlie, and basked in the scarlet sunshine. The wound had snaked up his arm beyond his shoulder. It dove down the middle of his chest, heading for his naval. Just stitch the damn thing up, he thought. That’s all you have to do. Just stitch it up, and I’ll stop bleeding. Red Joe cackled maniacally. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. Or had he? Had he known he would bleed through the thread, making more wounds with the needle? What about the hair, he thought? We’ll get a rug for it. The fingernails? Gloves. The nose? The mouth? The ears? We’ll buy a Halloween mask. And uh…what about…you know? We’ll buy diapers. We’ll be fine before the sun comes up! Red Joe (or was that Charlie Tenebrook?) didn’t believe it, but something had to happen. At the rate he was bleeding and not running out of blood, something had to give sooner or later. Another knock issued from the door, something that wasn’t Amy, or the shrill of Todd Dos. “Mr. Tenebrook?” a man called. “Mr. Tenebrook? This is Officer Walsh of the Denver Police Department. Are you having some trouble in there?” Red Joe laughed. Now, that was funny! No, he wasn’t having any trouble. How could Walsh say such a thing? He just couldn’t run out of blood. To some, that might be a blessing. To Charlie Tenebrook—now Red Joe—it was quite the dilemma. Red Joe, just look what you’ve done to the place, he thought. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. “I thought it was a rather nice touch myself,” he answered. “Mr. Tenebrook?” Walsh, a sound man of authority bellowed. “If you’re in there, will you please confirm? Don’t make us break down the door!” “Simple shades to this light and harmony, doc! There’s no place like home!” he said, loud enough for them to hear. “Man! What a beautiful day!” Surprising him, another voice sounded, one that—hurriedly—brought back the life he had. “Charlie?” The humor went out of him. Charlie Tenebrook, in a flash, came to the foreground. Amy? The blood deepened noticeably. The red walls closed in, ready to collapse. Red Joe’s thoughts reeled. He looked for a place to hide, to escape. The window was behind him, but he was four floors up. “Amy!” he said. “Don’t come in, sweety! Let me tidy up the place first! It’s a real mess in here!” Red Joe replaced Charlie and giggled. “Damn, Charlie, I knew you had it in you!” Red Joe said. “It’s good to see you coming to life!” “Mr. Tenebrook, please open the door!” Walsh said. Rage consumed him! How could they let her come up? Didn’t they have any sense? Suddenly, he had more fury for the officers than he thought himself capable. Part of him was even concerned for Charlie Tenebrook. “How could you let her come up here?” Red Joe shrieked. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything? Break it down then, you fucking sows! If you can stop the flood! If you can keep yourselves strong against the dam! If you got what it fucking takes! Break! It! DOWN!” Red Joe’s mad, reddened fury matched the blood. After all, he was still on Tenebrook’s side. In the hallway, Officer Walsh did as Red Joe instructed. * Gunfire sounded, demolishing the doorknob. The dead bolt showered into splinters of wood. Someone tried to push the door open, but the depth and power of the blood pushed it shut again. Red Joe laughed uproariously. Again, the door was forced open, cutting through the gore. It spilled out into the hallway. Red Joe saw the youngest cop he’d ever seen, pockmarked with acne, battling the flow. Suddenly, two officers were visible. It made sense. The young face did not match the voice he’d heard. The blood tugged at Red Joes’s legs, gushing into the hallway. It forced him to take a step toward the door. He caught a glimpse of Mr. Fyuesterman and Todd Dos staring at him with round, white eyes of horror. The door opened wider, the younger cop battling the flood. Amy’s horrified face stared at him. Her jaw dropped, and their eyes locked. Her hands went to her mouth in shock. She paled noticeably, but did not scream. An intense, boiling rage overcame Red Joe when he looked at her. “How could you?” Red Joe shrieked at the officers. His voice was slippery, rough at the same time, like a bad gargle. “How could you bring her up here, you fucking sows!” Red Joe, again, locked his scarlet orbs on Amy White. She used to be a dandelion. Just as breakable, he thought. Just as fragile. What is she now? Where is that pretty little girl? Was Red Joe letting Charlie have a final say? “Goddamnit, Amy!” he shrieked. “Run! Get out of here before it’s too late!” Amy did not run, of course. She was paralyzed. She and Mr. Fyuesterman braced themselves against the opposite wall, battling the flood. Walsh slipped and fell but managed to steady himself by hanging onto the door as Jolves was doing. The door was open wide now. The flow leaving the apartment kept it open instead of closed. Todd Dos had not braced himself against the flood as the others had done. Despite the size of the man—and the current—he lost his footing, and disappeared somewhere down the hallway. “Amy! Run!” Red Joe shrieked. Amy stood, hands braced against the opposite wall, unable to take her eyes off the scarlet monster. The look she delivered was a dagger in Charlie’s heart. So
much for the engagement ring. Living
together, marriage… Walsh,
Jolves, and Mr. Fyuesterman, mimed Amy’s disbelieving expression.
They, quite simply, failed to comprehend…
The river of blood gushed from Charlie’s apartment, tugging at everyone’s legs. In the midst, Red Joe (Charlie Tenebrook)—this strange, scarlet nightmare—continued to shriek and wail. He screamed at the officers, telling them what stupid sows they were. For Red Joe, the wound in his chest came to life, returning with an intolerable itch. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Reaching up, he gripped each side of the vertical gash, and proceeded to pull his chest apart. A surge of blood gushed from his torso. Red Joe shrieked in agony, exposing his shimmering insides. He turned his head toward the ceiling. A turbulent arc spilled from his chest and he wailed in pain. This is my life’s end, my eternal work, Red Joe thought. My poetic justice, the crimson conclusion. Ladies and gentleman, goodnight, and thank you for coming, but the show is over. He managed to smile before his body liquefied. He tried to bow but fell short. Instead, he disintegrated into a bloody mass. The last of Charlie Tenebrook sank into an abysmal horror—and like Todd Dos—disappeared somewhere down the hallway… * It was too much. She couldn’t think straight. She couldn’t believe what had happened, that this had happened, that it happened to her—to him—her Charlie Tenebrook. |
