Shaving Skin

SHAVING SKIN

He had to stop. Without cigarettes he could not drive, safely that was. Without taking endless lung blackening drags, road rage would take over. He had never killed anyone with a car, yet. He had killed people with just about everything else, except a car. He loved his cars and hated the idea of any harm coming to them. A dent, or scratch on the bodywork would result in someone getting seriously hurt, or even killed.

He dragged his heavy carcass from behind the wheel and pushed the door gently shut behind him. The car was a classic, lovingly restored by its murderous owner. Blood and DNA from his victims was smeared over every part of the engine and under carriage. Every time he looked at the car he remembered them. He lived on the road and never stayed in any one place for long.

His handmade cowboy boots supported his seven foot frame as he strolled across the forecourt. The red sign above the door flickered as he walked towards it, causing him to look up. Butler’s one stop and shop. The name was familiar, the sign stirred his memories, even though he had no memory of the place. He had never been here before. So why did he recognise the place?

“Simmons,” a voice from behind whispered.
He spun round, expecting to see someone standing on his boot heels. There was no one there. He stared into the darkness, his sharp eyes scanning the forecourt.
The only thing moving was the dust. Even the pumps were covered in dust.
“Who the hell is Simmons?” he whispered.
It was a name he remembered, a name he had not heard for as long as he could remember. Who the hell was Simmons and why did the name scare him?
He stooped down low as he squeezed through the dusty, rotten doorway.

“Smokes,” he snapped.
“What?” the boy behind the counter said.
“Smokes boy. Unwrap the pack and pull me one out.”
“Please sir, you can’t smoke here. This is a fuel station, its against company policy, to smoke.”
“There ain’t no fuel in this shop, is there? I’ll smoke while you fill my car up, boy. Unwrap the pack and pull me one out, now. Then fill up my damn car.”

The big man was now leaning on the counter, glaring down at the petrified teenager, now trembling by the cash register. He staggered back as an image of a mutilated boy flashed before his eyes. The body beaten to a pulp.
The big man reached across and snatched a pack of his brand and tore off the wrapper, throwing it at the pale faced boy. Only corpses looked that pale, and it took awhile for them to turn that colour. The last he had seen someone that pale they had been dead for three days.

“I could lose my job, sir,” the boy said.
The big man lit up his cigarette, taking a long drag. The smoke being pulled into his black lungs. His heart was darker still. Dark from the death and suffering he had caused for most of his life. Why he did what he did he could not remember, nor could he remember the day it all started. So why could he remember the face of this worthless boy in front of him? He had never been to this place before. So why did he remember it?
“I’ll fill your car up, sir. Be right back,” the boy said as he seemed to float past and disappear through the door.

“Shit, I’ve been on the road for too long. Need some r n r and a wash,” he said.
He always spoke to himself, the dead never answered back. He liked that. Talking to the dead felt as if you were taking their soul, after you had taken everything else.
He loved these out of the way places. You could kill whoever you saw and it would rarely make the news. Dumb hicks, who cared about them?

“Shit, even the devil wouldn’t visit a place like this. Only visitors these people get are the damn army, looking for hick boys to serve at the front.”
“Simmons,” the voice whispered.
“You better come out, or run like a racehorse. I ain’t someone you wanna cross,” he spat. His words vanished as soon as they left his lips. He suddenly felt cold. A feeling he had not experienced in a long time. Someone was walking over his grave and he was going to drag the bitch into the coffin and eat them alive.

“Simmons,” the voice whispered again.
He spun round, pulling out his trusty switch blade, a man’s best friend. Black eyes glance down at the dull blade. What once used to be shiny was dull and speckled. Was it rust or ancient blood that took away the shine? The blade was thin, having been sharpened hundreds of times. A machete was the best weapon, but the damn things wouldn’t fit in your back pocket.

“Simmons,” the voice hissed.
The voice came from behind the counter, from a place that sounded far away.
“I ain’t Simmons, but you’re gonna wish I was.”
Fear was in his voice, as it travelled across the empty shop, the words now seeming to hang in the air.
The floor suddenly turned red, replacing the dirty white tiles. It was flowing under the counter and across the floor, staining his boots
He glanced over the counter and down at the floor. Two mutilated bodies lay side by side. Savage, jagged wounds had been carved into their torso’s, eyes cut from their faces as empty sockets stared at him. Every artery had been severed, causing blood to flow through the shop.

“Shit, there’s sicker bastards than me out there. That is brutal work.”
“In your pocket, Simmons.”
He reached into his shirt pocket, something wet was in there. The contents fell from his leathery hands and onto the counter. Four eyes stared at him. He held his knife hand up to his eyes. The knife was still dripping, the blood landing on his boots, soiled with dead flesh and guts. His reflection stared back at him from a mirror next to the cigarettes. His bloody reflection was not the man he hand seen earlier in his rear view mirror. This guy was bug eyed and looked like a bitch.

“Simmons,” the word drifted through the shop, coming from nowhere and ending up in the same place.
He spun round as a shiver blasted up his spine. Still no one there. He looked back in the mirror and saw his usual, mean, beefy reflection. He leaned on the counter trying to make sense of what had just happened. The eyes and the two bodies were gone. His knife was dull and rusty again.

“Lack of sleep and the past coming back to haunt me, that’s all.”
He stared out at his beloved car, only to see the boy sitting on the bonnet, waving at him. From in here it looked like the boy was transparent.
“Dead little shit,” he said, rushing to the door.
“Yo, jailhouse bitch. I’m gonna steal your shitty ride and party with your momma, back at my place. I think you know where that is,” the boy said, as he rocked with laughter.

The big man ran across the forecourt, tripping over something and falling flat on his face. As he looked up grit sprays in his face as his beloved car tares across the dusty forecourt. His nostrils fill with petrol fumes and his eyes begin to water.
The big man picks himself up and dusts off his sweat stained clothes. He turns round to see what he had fallen over.

Impossible. An old man lay dead, with his knife sticking out of his forehead. His body soaked in petrol from a pump the car jacker has left running.
No other knife had a handle like his one. How did it get there? The old man had been killed when he was in the shop. His knife had been in his hand when he was in the shop.

The knife slid out of the old mans head and into his palm. The blade was clean, only speckles of dried blood were visible on the worn blade. The wound had now closed and the old man looked strangely familiar. In image of the old man beating him suddenly forced its way into the big mans savage mind. A grey haired old man who always stank of cheap alcohol. He beat his wife as well, and his children.

“SIMMONS!”
He spun round, slicing the darkness with his knife.
“There ain’t no Simmons here. Only me and the dead.”
“Drop the blade big fella.”
He looked up to see two cops pointing guns at him. A pot bellied old bastard and a younger, fresh faced little dip shit in a new uniform.
“That’s him, Serg. That’s Joshua Simmons. Killed his father.”
“My name ain’t Simmons and I ain’t killed nobody,” the big man said, but it was someone else’s voice.
“You drop that blade Simmons, now. Otherwise I’ll put one in your legs and make you crawl, you sick bastard.”

The old man’s hand was steady and his voice did not waver. He meant every word he said.
He dropped the blade and stepped away from it.
“On your knees, Simmons, hands behind your head and interlock your fingers. My partner will handcuff you and we’re taking you in.”
“I’m not Simmons. I never killed any of these people, you crazy old fool. They were dead when I arrived.”
His voice had gone back to its normal, deep, gruff tone.
“We’ve been tracking you for three days. Twenty six people, butchered with that knife of yours. I don’t care what your father did to you. Twenty five of your victims were innocent. How many are there that we don’t know about? You’ll burn for this, Simmons,” the old man screamed.

The boys gun trembled in his hand, as he approached. The big man could see fear oozing out of every orifice. As the boy neared he crossed between the old man and the killer. That was all the big man needed. In seconds he was up and three seconds after that the petrified boy found himself in a neck lock. His partners gun was pointing at him and a serial killer with nothing to lose was slowly draining the air out of his lungs.

“You let your emotions get the better of you, old man. Something I never do. Drop your gun or your boy dies.”
“You think I’m that dumb, Simmons? As soon as this gun goes you’ll kill us both. This way only one of us dies,” the old man said as he adjusted his sights, moving the gun up. The big man knew he was going for a head shot. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his death’s head lighter, flipped it and threw it towards the old man. The vapours ignited long before the lighter hit the ground.

The petrified boy was thrown towards the old man who turned and ran towards his car as the flames engulfed him. The big man ran as fast as his long legs would carry him. He sprinted across the forecourt as the flames chased after him, burning the blood from his boots and searing his flesh as the flames licked at his heels.
The explosion threw him skywards, the force of the explosion throwing his bulk clear of the flames and dropping him into the road.
The impact breaking three of his ribs and knocking the wind out of him. He lifted his head and began to crawl. Through his blurred vision he could see a dark figure in front of him, beckoning him forward.

As he neared the blurry figure the word Simmons filled his ears until he thought his head would explode. When he reached the figure it evaporated as disappeared with the smoke from the burning garage.
He rolled down the slope until he reached the bottom of the ditch.
“Where the hell am I now?” he said as the sound of approaching sirens filled his aching head.

He tried to stand but his legs buckled and he fell down. His ribs sent shockwaves through his body every time he took a breath. He touched his cheek to find gravel embedded in it. His hand came away bloody as his skin felt as if it were on fire.
“I’ll thank that little prick for stealing my car, then I’ll cut him in half,” he mumbled as he tried to stand, again. This time he managed it.

His ribs had taken most of the impact. His hands were cut and bloody. Gravel was embedded in both palms and there was a lot of missing skin, but the pain would have to wait. He needed that car. It got him where he wanted to go every time and he had been living in it since his first murder. It was a carriage of happy memories for him. Its original owner had been in the trunk for a few days before he was thrown into a swamp and eaten by alligators. What was his name?
“Holy shit, Simmons. He was a pussy, no way he killed anyone.”
The reflection in the mirror had been Simmons. And this place was familiar. He staggered forward and gazed down at his reflection in the stream. It wasn’t Simmons staring back at him.

“Its me, plain old flesh eater and knife whiz. There’s something familiar about this place, and the name Simmons. Someone I killed. Did I eat him as well?”
The big man believed he devoured the soul as he ate the flesh. Maybe the soul of Simmons was within him.
“He’s dead, so who gives a shit?” he whispered as he staggered along the ditch and away from the choking fumes, black smoke and bright lights. Fire had always terrified him.

“A mans best friend is his knife,” he whispered as he pulled deceased cops gun out of his pocket. “Lucky I didn’t drop this thing. A clumsy instrument, point and shoot. A blade is so much more personal. Get right in there and see the life you have just taken. Watch as death puts in an appearance. Death being me in this instance.”
He mumbles to himself, incoherent babble from a diseased mind. As he reaches the top of the slope he sees the flashing lights of two squad cars and a fire engine.

“I guess the old man must have called it in. Pigs always call for back up before they exit the vehicle. A dying one once told me it was standard procedure.”
Two policemen came walking towards him and he held the gun behind him.
“Sir, are you injured? Where you in the explosion? Tom, get a first aid kit, this guy is bleeding and his breathing is laboured.”
He could make out the young face of the pig, they were all pigs. Stopped a man having his fun and slapped each other on the back afterwards.

He waited until the pig was close, the flames lighting him up well enough for a blind man to see. At this range, in this light he would be able to see the soul leave the body. He would eat one of the others, so he could devour the soul.

Eat the brain, devour the soul.
He swung his arm round and shot the young cop, in the face at point blank range. He pulled the trigger and shot his partner before the body had hit the ground.
The familiar smell of death filled the air and he loved it.
The next one got it in the back, as he reached for the first aid kit, he died. The fourth cop panicked, fumbled for his gun and got shot twice in the stomach.
He pulled the trigger again and the gun clicked empty.

“Damn these six shooters. What are you lot, cowboys?”
He dropped the gun and picked up another, stuffing it into the back of his oily jeans. He smiled when he saw the nut sticks, carefully placed on the bonnet of the car, two on each. Wasn’t that sweet? Side by side, like bodies in the road.

The roar of the hoses spraying water on the burning petrol station had drowned out his firing. They were next, no one would survive tonight, he would make sure. He tapped the nut stick against his leg, as he imagined a real pig would do and walked towards the sound of the water. The sound of water hitting fire fell nicely on his ears as he swung the nut stick down hard into the head of the nearest fireman. The helmet protected his skull, but not his neck. It snapped as the man hit it would all the strength he could muster, wincing as pain radiated out from his broken ribs. One down, three to go. The next swing turned a friendly face into an unrecognisable face.
Two guys on each hose. Did all public servants work in pairs?
“Bullet time,” he mumbled as his face began to burn and his ribs transformed into orbs of pain.

He emptied the chamber into the two fire fighters, three in each victim.
“You’ll be buried whole. You’re lucky your souls are going to god and not to me. Now if you have no objections I’ll leave and go find my car.”

The door to the nearest police car stood open, the keys were in the ignition and the big man was soon heading in the direction of his stolen car. He pulled a tracking device from his pocket and followed the sensor. Under the right wing was a tracking device, soaked in the blood of his first victim.

After years of eating his own kind the big man’s brain was showing signs of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. His victims were beginning to haunt him and his once sharp, animal instincts were clumsy and uncoordinated.
“The car was not far,” he mumbled, wiping his bleeding face and dribbling mouth. “Gotta get my baby and drive on outta here.”
He put the car into drive and followed the signal of the bleeper he held in his grit encrusted, bleeding hands. His car was close and so was his next victim.

“I’ll be frying tonight, by the campfire light, until the full moon is bright.”
The past catches everyone up, no matter how far or how fast they run. Destiny was waiting for him and the name Simmons would be uttered once more.

He turned left and exited the road as the sound of sirens and rapidly approaching lights bore down on him. He glanced in the rear view mirror and saw them race past. His car, and dinner were not far away. The lights on the cruiser were off. The dumb bastard wouldn’t even see him coming, few did.
He saw the shape of the old house before he saw his beloved car, silhouetted against the blackness.

A single light burned in the attic, the rest of the house was in total darkness. He stepped out of the car in the smell hit him like a kick in the head.
Meat, and it was human. The aroma was unmistakable. His car was parked in its usual place and the light in the attic was his room.
“Holy shit, I’m home. After all these years I found it.”
He staggered forward, towards his childhood home. Where his father beat him and his mother drank homebrew in the cellar, before she died and before he turned it into an abattoir.

He tried to run, but the stabbing pain in his ribs and the aching in his head turned his walk into a crawl. Mounting the three steps that led to the front door felt like climbing a mountain. Every step bought back a memory, beatings, murder and taking his first soul.

As he stared into the doorway he saw the car thief carving open his chest and eating his heart. His heart, not him eating the boys heart. He blinked and the boy vanished. He saw himself stand up and then the vision vanished as quickly as it had come.
He had a long scar from his stomach to his chest. And he had no idea how it got there. It was a scar no boy could have put there. His list of victims was a lot more than twenty six. It was nearer three hundred.

The door handle fell apart in his hands, so he ripped the door off its hinges. The house suddenly grew old, the paint peeling from the walls and the glass in the windows faded away. The aroma of fresh meat transformed into a rancid odour of death and decay.
The house was old and uncared for.
The stairs were dead ahead, he remembered the second was rotten.

The car thief was standing half way up, laughing at him. As he walked towards his next meal the apparition vanished, to be replaced by a shadow that faded away before his eyes.

“Crazy, fucking house. Had to be, though, it’s my house. The place where the killings first began,” he mumbled as he staggered up the stairs.
He knew he had to go to the attic, that had been his room. The big man no longer desired human flesh. All he wanted was a dead car thief and to see his old house consumed by fire.

“Up here, Simmons.”
He instantly recognised the voice of the car jacker, dripping with sarcasm.
“There ain’t no getting away this time, boy. If I catch you, I’ll kill you,” he hissed.
“I’m already dead, Simmons.”
“You got that right, and my ain’t Simmons. It’s.”

The word Simmons nearly fell out of his mouth. He stood at the top of one flight of stairs, staring up at the attic door, his old room. He remembered the fun he used to have up there and the games he used to play. The other boys and girls had never enjoyed playing his games, but he always had. He could smell the car thief, behind the door. The fool had no way to escape him now.

The door opened before he reached it, he staggered into the room and everything was just as he remembered it. The walls had his sick drawings on them, the bed was soiled and damp, the floor bear and the furniture scratched and dusty. Sitting on the bed was a tall, thin, elderly man in a black suit and a black hat. He lifted his head and stared at the man who denied his name was Simmons. As their eyes met, Simmons fell to the floor.
“Welcome back, Mr Simmons,” the old man said.
“I ain’t Simmons.”
“On the outside, maybe not. But inside, you are the sick, twisted Simmons who killed people and devoured them, believing he could claim their souls. Only I can do that. And your soul is now mine,” the old man said. The words flew out of his mouth, but his wizened lips did not move.

“What the hell are you talking about, on the inside?”
“Come, come now, Mr Simmons. You remember when your father nearly killed you, and I came to your rescue and killed him. You promised me anything, not to tell anyone what you did when the doors were closed, and what your father did. You promised me your soul and thought you could escape by hiding your darkness in the body of another. The big, dumb man you killed. The one you called a retard and used to throw stones at. You have hidden in his vessel for over fifty years. It took me a long time to find you, but found you I have.”
“I know who I am and I ain’t this Simmons guy. And this vessel you see is gonna kill you and your little car jacker friend.”

“You killed the car jacker, a long time ago. I know you’re hiding inside that enormous vessel, Simmons. You’ll burn twice for what you have done. Nobody beats the devil.”

Simmons ran towards him, the old man laughed as the rotten floorboards gave way and Simmons fell through two floors and landed in the doorway, both of his legs snapping on impact.

The headlights of approaching police cars lit up the house and the driver saw the broken figure in the doorway. Six, armed cops ran to the house, all recognised the figure crawling on the floor. No one knew his real name, but they all knew what he had done.
“Stop right where you are, or I’ll shoot you were you lie, you sick bastard,” the first cop screamed.
Simmons stopped moving and for the first time in his life, he surrendered.
“You’re going to the chair for what you have done.”
He looked up at the cop who was handcuffing him. “Then I’m gonna burn for everything I have done. The devil always gets his man.”