The clown with the filthy, toothy grin was arranging his latest attraction, "the Bird Woman" in the exhibition room. Otis called her the "Griffin" but he had no idea what one was, and thought it sounded fruity besides. Otis and his books, Spaulding thought. He heard the bells ring up front signaling someone entering the premises and groaned. If it's those goddamned cops again the shit will hit the fan for sure this time, he said to himself.
"You again?," complained Spaulding, scratching his crotch. "What you want now, you big goofy-lookin prick?"
The auburn-haired young man forced a smile. "I'm buying gas. And I'd like to go on the Murder Ride." And look around for what happened to Stacy, Rick and Becca. Fuckin lunatic clown.
"Ohhh, you would, huh?," he chuckled, suddenly very helpful. "Well step right up!"
"Can I see the freak show first?"
"Why, shore," Spaulding answered, his shark tooth grin at its fullest. A few moments later if anyone else had been around, they would've heard a man screaming "Becca!" and some dull wet thuds coming from the back room of Captain Spaulding's Fried Chicken and Gasoline.
Spring had already melted into summer by the time Stacy's unfortunate brother had ran afoul of a certain clown, and she had worked her way up the food chain, so to speak. She worked in the fields, she fed the animals, she pleased Otis and pretty much had the run of the place. RJ and Tiny kept a sharp eye on her, however, like two great vultures waiting for something to keel over. Stacy couldn't believe the things she did, but their were reasons for most of it. The ratty curtains and bedsheets and butcher-shop smell no longer bothered her; she had learned to get along with her captors. She found that she loved Otis, the man who had killed her fiance and best friend, and was unsure of how something like that occurred. They actually had meaningful conversations about subjects they both were interested in and he didn't wear her severed finger around his neck as much. She missed Rick, and her sanity as well. Sometimes it felt as if she was in a dream.
"Stacy," he called to her, unlocking the door to her room and opening the door. "There's somethin I wanna show you," his lips curled into a smile. He was wearing a cowboy hat, flannel shirt and torn jeans. Old bloodstains creased them in places.
She took his hand and followed him to one of the older rooms, where he rummaged in a closet and came out with a leather case, like a suitcase. He opened it and inside nestled in padding and felt was an assortment of metal implements. They appeared old, and indeed they were, being finely crafted instruments of 19th century origin. Knives, scalpels, forceps, and even the bonesaw was ornate and well-tended. "This is an heirloom," he began, taking out a wicked-looking knife and gazing at it. "Brought over from Whitechapel, England."
Stacy didn't understand at first. "The Fireflys are from England?"
"Don't be an idiot, princess. They've been here fer time out of mind. No, my granddad came over last century. Some call him Jack the Ripper, and these were his prized posessions."
The young woman swallowed, observing how easily he held the surgical tools, knowing they had been used on human beings, and not to heal. Oh God, what had she gotten herself into? "They're to be passed on to my children," he went on. "Our children." Stacy had neglected to tell them she was barren, it may be what's keeping her alive. Otis replaced the tools and closed the case, putting it back in the closet. "The ol' boy was employed by Her Royal Fucking Highness to take care of anti-monarchy factions back in the late 1800's. Seems he liked his work a bit too much," he snorted. "He was an artist. Like me."
Stacy licked her lips. "Misunderstood?," she ventured.
"Yeah, heh," he affirmed. "Didn't go in the sun much, an' I don't either. Must run in that side of the family." He walked toward her, a glint in his pale eyes. He slipped his hand under the peasant blouse she was wearing, found her large round breasts and cupped them. Stacy sighed in response, allowing him to touch her. His mouth found hers, thin white hair falling over her face. "You don't turn away," he spoke softly, sounding surprised.
"I won't ever turn away," she breathed, helping him undo her blouse. God help me, I'm attracted.
"Mama," murmured Baby, her blonde head in Mother Firefly's lap, who was painting her nails a garish shade of pink. They were both on the battered couch in the main living room.
"Yeah, Baby?"
"Otis won't share Stacy."
"Well Baby, he likes her," Mother told her. "They need ta spend time together." Almost on cue, grunts and moans could be heard from upstairs.
"Mama," went Baby again, fidgeting with the hem of Mother's nightgown.
"What is it, sweetie?"
"I'm horny."
"Oh sweetheart, some more people will be along directly, then you can have as much fun as you want," assured the older woman, blowing on her nails to dry them. "We are getting low on entertainment. And roast. Well, don't you worry, RJ will round up somethin soon."
Grampa Hugo moseyed into the living room and turned on the tv, plopping down in a sofa. The sounds of pleasure in the upstairs room grew in intensity. "Damn," he said to no one in particular, "That's makin me horny."
"Sweet fuckin monkeyballs," Otis exclaimed after his orgasm, both of them drenched in sweat.
Stacy was making him soft; he was never one to get all googly-eyed over some broad. Especially one that was still kicking. Most chicks thought him a freak. Baby never did, but she was family. He smoothed a strand of red hair back on her head, looked into round light brown eyes that were almost gold and found them looking back. When they separated they realized he'd banged her right on the lone table. Stacy pulled up her shorts, surprised at her audacity. Ah well, what's between her legs could mean life or death for her. But how could she enjoy it so?
A few days later RJ and Otis left the house for a while, leaving Stacy wondering what was going on. Little did she know they were picking up human cargo from Captain Spaulding.
Hidden eyes observed the two leaving in RJ's tow truck, dust kicking up as they departed.
The person the dark grey eyes belonged to slipped closer, staying in the brush. After a while the front door opened and a big tall girl appeared, followed by a shambling giant in a tattered shirt and mask. The girl was dressed in work pants and a tiny t-shirt, red hair falling down her back, arms strong and tanned. The lanky tall guy was then followed by a scantily dressed older woman with a puffy bow in her blonde hair, who sat on the porch sipping on iced tea.
The young lady proceeded to weed and hoe the garden under the watchful eyes of the other two. She handled herself in swift, sure strokes--a far cry from the sheltered chubby girl she had been earlier. He--the observer, for it was a he--inferred that she wasn't related to the others, for he had watched them before though it had been some time. He'd almost been caught, and he couldn't have that. He'd been at this far too long to mess it up. If the girl was a prisoner, he had to help her if he could.
"Well sugar," came a bubbling voice behind him. "Are yew a peepin tom?"
He whirled and saw the blonde devil he'd seen before, angry at himself for being taken by surprise. Crazed blue-green eyes regarded his own grey ones. "Whatcha plan on doin with that?," she pointed at the handgun on his hip. He pulled the gun, but she was even faster knocking it from his grip. She was inhumanly quick, dodging the blow aimed at her head and nailing him with the ball peen hammer she'd had hidden in the back of his head. Dirty blond hair was stained red as he slipped into darkness. "Hahahahahahaha!," she cackled, bringing Mother Firefly off the porch.
"Baby? Whut's goin on?," the matriarch asked, making her way through the cluttered yard full of trash, old tires and car parts. "My oh my! What a catch you have. Oh he's a young one!," she exlaimed, nudging the powerful- looking man with a dainty foot. "Oh I'm so proud o' you Baby."
"I love you Mama," she purred.
"I love you too, Baby," Mother smiled her yellow-toothed smile.
"Who you talking to?," Stacy asked, approaching them and wiping sweat from her brow. She saw a heavily armed man slumped at the female Fireflys' feet, blood pooling around his head.
"We got another visitor!," said Mother Firefly with glee. "Help Baby get him in the house and trussed up." Her heart leaping up her throat, she did as Mother Firefly told her, helping Baby to relieve him of his weapons and fasten him to a chair. God, what were they going to do with him? And why did he come here in the first place?
"Yep, you can take 'im on," declared Spaulding, scratching his straggly beard. He wasn't in clown getup this time, his face looking the worse for having no greasepaint on it. "Be glad to get rid of the nosy fucker. He can ride YOUR nuts a while!," he guffawed.
"He's a big un," RJ observed. He was a man of few words, but sometimes he could wax eloquent when the notion hit him.
"Uh uh," agreed Otis, gazing at the inert young man. He somehow looked familiar...but he couldn't place it. "Well you ol' bitch-hawg, what'll I owe you?"
"I jus wanna see his stuffed fat ass in the corner right over there, for bein sucha pain in my ass."
"I'll see what I can do," mused Otis, motioning RJ to pick up the boy and carried him around back to the tow truck. He was tied hand and foot, so he wouldn't be going anywhere. Baby will be sooo happy, Otis thought.
Becca smiled, her beautiful smile making Stacy a bit jealous. "You may be right. We could get some cool pictures, interview some locals, write up a big story. Ace that final project...."
"Get a jobby-job," Stacy finished, giggling.
"Yeeeah, girl," Becca popped a french fry in her mouth. Stacy couldn't help but love her, her best friend since high school.
he scene changed; she heard Becca screaming and was fighting someone who grabbed her from behind. The black girl's screams cut off after a vicious whack.
Stacy jerked awake, the now-familiar faded wallpaper of her room greeting her as she raised her head. The still, dozing form of Otis was nestled beside her, wiry arm thrown across her. Her round face took on a look of exasperated affection. He'd tuckered himself out yesterday and last night, and she wondered what this present was that he'd brought Baby. She eased out of the rickety bed, padding down the hall in just her t-shirt. Entering the kitchen she took a glass from the drainer and turned on the faucet.
"Up already?," asked Grampa Hugo from the kitchen table, eating (surprise) a heaping bowl of cereal. "Figured Otis kept you up all night," he chuckled. Stacy seated herself across from him with her glass of water, silent. She felt she understood the old bastard better than anyone else. Her sanity was almost as cracked as his, and he was probably senile besides.
"Personally, I think a mature man with experience is much more attractive," she told him with a straight face.
Grampa stopped in mid-bite, beady eyes riveted on her. Then they both started guffawing. "Silly girl. You just be glad I ain't 20 years younger."
"More like 40," interjected a shirtless, even more tousled than usual Otis, coming into the room.
"Eh, go fuck yerself you brainless basterd," Hugo exclaimed, shaking his fist at Otis.
"Don't make me whoop your ass in front of the lady." Otis burst out laughing, shaking his head. He threaded his arm around Stacy's waist. "We got some things to attend to," he said softly in her ear.
When she walked through the doorway, the man was awake and lucid, tugging at his bonds keeping him in the chair. The same chair she'd been strapped to when she first arrived here. Baby had had some fun yesterday, Stacy could hear her cackling and moans of pleasure coming from the other room while she was having a bath. Now the young man sat terrified in the chair, his clothes loosely pulled back on him, an eye socket empty of one pretty eye. Otis produced a straight razor, holding it in front of the prisoner's face and eliciting muffled screams from behind his gag.
"Come 'ere, Stacy," he spoke, and she slowly obeyed. "Time for you to truly be part of the family." He put the razor in her right hand, the one missing half a finger. She looked down at the stranger, met his terrified gaze. He shook his head, tears coming out of his good eye. "Come on," Otis goaded. "Cut this vigilante wannabe. Educate him. Come on! Do it!" The lanky albino grabbed her hand and brought it down, forcing her to slice the guy's chest. The sharp blade went easily through shirt and skin, and the captive bucked and struggled in his chair as blood ran down the front of his shirt.
"No!," protested Stacy, trying to twist away but riveted to the sight of the crimson trickle.
"Look at him!," barked Otis. "He thought he was a big-shot, but he's stupid an' soft. Like you was before, but now yer not. He wanted to start some shit, and now he's got it. Give it to him. Give it to him!!" His hand still clamped around hers, he guided her to the man's arms, his thighs, cutting and slicing. Stacy's mind went blank and turned in on itself, and when some time passed she was doing it on her own, painting her arms and the floor red, red, scarlet filled her whole vision. Otis clapped his hands, cheering.
Suddenly the red fog lifted and she ceased, casting her eyes downward, looking at her hands. The razor clattered to the floor, splattering blood on her bare feet. "Oh God," she moaned, then smacked her lips, surprised at the coppery taste. Wiping her mouth, she found she had blood on her face. Had she licked the blood from the blade? "No! Oh God!" She ran sobbing from the room, Otis's laughter following her to her little room, her own space where she stripped off her clothes and huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth.