In the introduction to his 2004 short story collection, Mark Leslie opened for speculation, "What is the sound of one hand screaming?"
Sadly I have the answer.
I was not able to throttle the life out of the dreaded Hamilton Bogeyman quite in time. The beast managed to garble out a curse, or leastways half a curse. I woke, mid-Atlantic, in severing agony. PAIN. Legions of pain, all of it in my left hand. I crushed molars against crowns. No screaming from me, no rousing all First Class. No. The past thirty years have taught me determination. I watched, through eyes watering, searing, as the flesh split open along every crease of my left palm and fingers.
High-pitched shrieks pierced the darkened cabin. From me? No. Where, then? In excruciation, a new wound unzipped open on the tender pad of my pinkie. Blood coughed out. Then the fresh gape, the split mouth, howled like a newborn.
I buried it in my gladstone bag of pounds sterling, muffling the wail. My lifeline was alive and screaming.
The head stewardess was quick in answering my callbell.
"Yes, Mr. Chatsworth?"
"Champaign," I squeaked. "Be so kind!"
First Class is indispensable. The veteran was back in seconds.
I upended the 1982 Cristal Blanc de Blancs into its ice bucket and plunged my torn extremity in. I say extremity – it is the only sufficient word in the Queen's English. AGONY IN THE EXTREME. The only thought to enter my consciousness other than all-encompassing mortification was to note the sucking sound accompanying the dropping level in the bucket. Yes, the sound of one hand screaming tails off with an unholy slurp.
Last Sunday serves as a perfect example. After the heads of the R-------- zombies were thoroughly dimpled, I had some time to wile away. Usually I would twiddle my thumbs there at the bus stop, but Lefty had informed me repeatedly that they hated it when I did that. And in the rush to find my spare dimpling bat I had forgotten to pack MacKenna's memoir, Things You Should Know. So, forty-five minutes until the next scheduled 18A at 3:10. I lamented that the undead are so insignificant a foe, requiring mere minutes of work even with only one good hand.
"You whistle like shit!" complained cries in foulmouthed unison.
"Sorry!" I apologized. Though I am blazes on the French Horn, I do whistle poorly and so had no grounds to argue.
"And no humming!" the mouths added a minute later.
"Sorry," I explained. "Wagner is still stuck in my head."
Every last mouth on Lefty sighed. Then they began to sing, as the only way to extract a melody from someone's head is to replace it with another.
|
Are you vengeful tonight?
Will you come back tonight?
Are you pissed 'cause I sliced you apart?
Does your undead mind stray
To that bright summer day
When I killed you and carved out your heart?
Are the chairs in your parlour
Still bloodied and stained?
Have you crawled from your grave site
To haunt me again?
Now my heart's filled with fear
For these sounds which I hear
Make me think that
You've come back tonight
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"That's schooled!" I praised my sinister choir, taken back to the surprising stylings I once enjoyed in an exclusive Las Vegas gentleman's lounge. "That's Elvis Presley, yes?"
"No," said my thumb knuckle. "Mark Leslie and One Hand Screaming. The parody is one of the poems in the book."
"Oh! I thought Mr. Leslie's 2004 collection was comprised solely of short stories?"
"Short stories, short-short stories, stories written with other people, poems, liner notes… there's a lot of different material."
"OK, Lefty, I challenged. Smoke rose to horizons east and west. "Little sign of life in this backwater city, certainly no sign of the infernal bus. Tell me a story."
And tell he did. In a voice sounding just like a thumb knuckle, out came the tale of an unwary afternoon browser entering a seemingly endless second-hand bookstore. But what is wrong many of these books? What has become of the cashier? And where, Christ!, where is the path outside?
"Interesting," I allowed at tale's conclusion. Originality is decidedly rare in horror. The same tired thing, over and over again long after the adversary and the situation has lost all menace…. Invention is even more rare in horror fiction, thus a sigh of relief at Leslie's "Browsers".
Real-life Horror, like policework, is nowhere near as exciting or interesting as the movies do portray.
The mouths started to argue amongst themselves, as they always did when thirsty. The dust rose off roads and not a soul in site. No one to apply any belittling label to the ragged man drowning sorrows at the bus stop. The tart sting of Bulgarian table wine was all the belittlement that I and my left hand required.
"Please stop shopping at the discount mart," coughed the mouth in the webbing between my index and middle finger. "That €2.99 plonk is killing me."
"If you hear of any openings in high-end consultancy that are available to aging demon hunters who can altercate solely with their right hand, please do tell."
"Forget about demon hunting," the same mouth urged. Biased little yapper. "Hey, you could rake it in travelling as a ventriloquist. Stick your left hand up the butt of a doll that looks like Vincent Price. Then whistle, gargle, drink a glass of something better than Lidl wine, please. I'll simultaneously moan out a campfire tale that will amaze a packed house."
The mouth demonstrated, performing word for word another Mark Leslie story. An isolated Canadian trapped in his own mansion, thrown whole-body into the world of the occult in which he had foolishly dabbled. The ghostly girl in the mirror caught my fancy, though other elements of the tale I found outrageously implausible. The chap is a millionaire who dispatches $500 tips to deliverymen, and no woman has ever latched on and made him feel he was in love? Fending away golddiggers had been a daily task in my two-handed, First Class days. I wish now that a woman of any color would show an inclination to dig me.
All the mouths cheered encouragement when the aspiring ventriloquist concluded his summary, and then their conversation descended into arguments as to the style of dummy within which they would live. Insufferable mouths. I had built a long career as a world-class opponent of dark arcana, demonstrating control over powers which rendered insignificant my fellow First Class travellers' command of finance. I would not close my days sitting on a stage, displayed for all public eyes, as a performer of suspect magics.
After a habitual glance, then a moment of confusion, I dug out the mass produced, base metal pocketwatch. Damned left hand, refusing to wear my father's own wristwatch. Well, with the help of Mark Leslie's tales, time had marched swiftly. The 18A was officially late. I would be writing a firm letter regarding their service to the Greater O------- Department of Transportation.
Though wearied by the swift decline of my fortune, battling this throng of zombies had not left me physically exhausted. It was only four miles to my bedsit and the Ecco footwear I had acquired in better times maintained its firm purchase and comfort. So issuing to G.O.D.O.T an oath worth of the Hamilton Bogeyman himself, off I set homeward.
3
"Tell me," I invited my hand. "Has that Mark Leslie book any travelling tales suitable for an extended walk?"
Two mouths spoke at the same instant, and soon fell to argument. The insults they traded were rich fare, in a low working class manner. In due course the thumb mouth was beaten into silence and the ring finger crowed with triumph. "This story," he howled to the moon itself, "Is called 'Eratic Cycles.'"
Out spun the tale of a lawyer deep in the wilderness, stranded by car trouble. It ended in an unexpected way, making me glad that no trees towered over this section of suburbia.
My attuned senses detected a low roar approaching from behind. I turned, lights bearing down. What luck! A Mercedes G-Class Cross-Country Vehicle, the first motor I had seen in hours and it was headed in my direction. Lefty proved cooperative and my thumb was out to hitch a lift. But straight past without even the consideration of slowing flew the Mercedes. The silly uncharitable cow! Lefty swore aloud several saltier descriptives.
"Considers her new seats too rich for my bottom!" I agreed in conclusion. "It's not even like she has the good taste for a G-Class Grand Edition." Well, it was afoot that I would complete my journey, and still several miles of brooding Georgian houses to pass. "So this Mark Leslie," I resumed our earlier conversation. "What are his strengths, what weaknesses?"
"He's mighty good with a hook," wagged my pinkie.
"Oh! An encounter with a merwolfman, wot?"
"A wha?"
"In Tangiers, last January, I was called in to dredge the depths for a dreaded beast that was half-man, half-fish. And when the full moon sank into the sea, the man half would change most horribly into a murderous kelp intent only avenging imagined threats to its fortune of sand dollars-"
"Go on, get off of that!" interrupted the precocious little pinkie. "That was just Marty. A dead sound bloke until you snagged a silver hook through his snout. He was innocently trying to earn a crust, saving up to buy a ring for his girl- a right looker, too, in a 'Jaws meets Jennifer Lopez' type of way-"
"Please do desist, Lefty-"
"-a mermaid in Manhattan-"
I shoved my left hand into my sweaty armpit until the biting grew intolerable. "Look here, Lefty, I know your loyalties lie with the demon world. The constant second-guessing and berating over my thirty years of victories has grown tiresome. Can you please just continue with your analysis of Mark Leslie's fiction?"
The sound of one hand grumbling echoed from lonely, shadowed walls. "By 'hook' I meant the first lines of his stories always made me want to read more," a mouth finally piped up. "Quite readable, if horror fiction is your thing. It never scares me, personally."
That voice always tried to put on a brave face, but had only the mouth for it. "I understand that Mark Leslie is working on a novel, at present?"
"Yeah," chimed a whole chorus. "You can listen to how he is coming along with it on writingshow.com! Every few months Mark Leslie has a fresh interview with Paula B, describing his progress and saying charitable stuff about Critical Mick."
"Paula B I am of course familiar with, Lefty. Who's Critical Mick?"
"Some punk polluting the Internet with any old shite," whined a particularly painful mouth ringed with a moustache of hangnails. "What's more important is that I complain a little while. Leslie's novel-in-progress and the first three stories in One Hand Screaming all feature characters who are writers. I hate that self-awareness shit. Also the whole short story collection only amounts to 155 pages. Twenty of which are liner notes, detailing what inspired each piece!"
I shoved my left hand into the deep pocket of my hideous department store duffel coat, but its insulation was too thin to completely muffle the ceaseless complaining. At length I withdrew it again, so better to add a swing to my stride. My evil hand fell silent.
"I liked the way he used skulls and crossbones instead of #'s or *'s to show breaks in scenes," piped one cheery little voice. "Production quality was excellent throughout."
"I am intrigued. Perhaps I shall sample Mr. Leslie's fiction in an hour of succoring relaxation upon reaching my destination."
One mouth recommended "Phantom Mitch." Another considered "Til Death Do Us Part" as the collection's best. Then the mouths descended into a conversation regarding whether or not Wolverine would defeat Blade in a comic-book battle. I sighed. Just when it had seemed an intelligent conversation was imminent…
"Would you be so kind as to have a word with my feet?" I interrupted the inanity. "Please. After standing so long at the bus stop and this unnecessary hike, they are rather sore and complaining. Pass on my contrition, and assure them that respite is just a shortcut away through this last dark alley."
"Tell them yourself," spat back an unpleasant little biter. "It's your own damned fault for bad planning."
"I beg your pardon-?"
"Remember that 3:10 you were waiting for? Bus 18A comes every fifty minutes…." The retort came like a slap. "Between six AM and eight PM!"
Good Night! In a foul state at my own foolishness, I was bloody delighted to suddenly be jumped by a full grown Stark spider and its six dozen dinner plate sized hatchlings. As the fangs dripped, as my bat dimpled, as my left hand cheered encouragement to the bewhiskerd hellspawn and legs flew, I cursed my own poor judgement. Thirty years of steady earning, lost in what his housemate had laughed away as a obvious scam. Thirty years of experience that had succeeded only in placing me out of touch with the rest of humanity. Thirty years and a hand possessed. I bashed with pure vengeance.
"Bite him, Spidey! Bite his hand off! Snip us free! Snip! Sn… um… oh… ah ha," the frenzied chorus sank to embarrassed silence. The last of the mercenary spiders fled, trailing web strands that would melt to an ichor more vile than leibfraumilch at the sun's first rays.
In silence I reached my tenement.
4
"You can't blame us, really." This protestation of innocence from my middle digit. Exhaustion lessened my appreciation of how ironically appropriate. It coughed until confident. "It was in that book we just read, One Hand Screaming. This character in one of the stories had only one hand. He seemed jolly enough. Yeah! Well, until a car yanked the prosthesis off his stump. This character was as happy as we mouths would like you to be!"
I dropped my other shoe and settled back onto the narrow bed. Any reply would only encourage the demon mouths, and all I wanted was rest. Just as sleep's shroud settled, a hellish racket startled me across the room and into a fighting stance. Heart racing, I swore. My hand giggled. "Sorry," Lefty chortled.
The sinister bastards had changed my mobile ringtone again.
"Chatsworth," I answered, damning the death metal roar.
"Good Morning sir- damned glad I finally got a hold of you- erm…."
An American gentleman. Sounded confident enough, relaxed, so likely no immediate emergency.
"Yes, yes. How can I help you?" And, how did he get my number?
As if reading my mind: "Well, Mr. Chatsworth, I received your text-"
Text? Bugger all! I had forgotten myself earlier this evening, and left the mobile phone in my pocket. My left pocket. Lefty sent disturbing messages to half of demonkind last time, and to the Prince of Wales.
"-and have decided that I would like to avail of your services- expensive as they may be."
"Sorry- I have just had rather a rough night- could you refresh me, Mr.-"
"Oh! Apologies, Mr. Chatsworth. This is Lee. You offered to act as creative consultant on my new horror series? I hear you have wide experience of the supernatural. None of that rehashed B-movie stuff. REAL experience."
"Thirty years worth. Old boy, I could tell you stories."
Lee laughed. "I am counting on that! For six thousand, six hundred and sixty-six dollars a day, you had better."
Good day! How-?
"…will courier all the details to your address there! How soon can you be in New York, Mr. Chatsworth? I'll include a First Class ticket in that package."
"Very generous of you, Lee. Quite generous indeed."
The laugh crackled through the ether. "Please! I'm only Mr. Lee to the youngsters. As a man with thirty years experience, you can call me Stan."
5
"Yes, Mr. Chatsworth?"
"Champaign?" I requested. "Be so kind."
First Class is indispensable. The veteran was back in seconds.
I poured one glass, then upended the 1982 Cristal Blanc de Blancs into its ice bucket. As miles soared, we both savored.
The spokesknuckle spoke. "Well, you sure as hell weren't doing a thing to get us back into First Class." I laughed, and my index finger took over. "Between your old stories and our knowledge of who's who in evil, we can't go wrong."
"But how did you know to make contact with Stan Lee and his comic books?"
"Chatsworth, dear- that's our specialty! Didn't you know, almost every bastard in the entertainment industry is evil?" And the dim first cabin darkness, my beloved enemy Lefty laughed maliciously.
The sound of one hand scheming.
Thanks again Mark! Best of luck with ACWWINY!
Read Critical Mick's interview with Mark Leslie!
