Flypaper Cast: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 3 Read online

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Flypaper: Cast

  Copyright © 2015

  C.K. Vile

  http://ckvile.com

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this work may be used or reproduced in any manner, except as allowable under "fair use," without the express written permission of the author.

  Chapter 1

  “They say human tastes kind of like veal, but I can’t help but imagine Nick Dawkins tastes more like beef. I don’t know why.”

  The audio clip played itself out. Hellen tapped away at the touchscreen monitor in front of her. A few taps cued up Nobody But Me—the anthem of any self-respecting Nick Dawkins fan—and the theme song to her weekly podcast. Their weekly podcast.

  Across the large wooden table from her, the lanky man known far and wide throughout the Myiasis community as Wormwood danced a jig in his chair, a knowing grin spreading on his face.

  Motherfucker.

  She crossed her arms in playful defiance. Every week he did this. The moment they started recording, he did some asinine thing to make her break. He’d made it his mission in life to make her laugh like a loon while she tried in vain to keep her game face on. Not this week. She may only be twenty-seven, but she was a professional, dammit.

  Wormwood stopped dancing and leaned into the microphone. “That audio clip, of course, was one of many, many, messages that’s been left on our site by Longpig9514, one of the more active members of the Myiasis community. We have a special reason for kicking off this week’s episode with that little morsel, but first, I’m Wormwood.”

  She tightened her mouth and shoved the giggles still dancing in her throat back into her chest. “A very special reason indeed. I’m Hellen. And this is the number one Nick Dawkins fancast in the world, period…”

  Their eyes met, cueing one another to speak in unison. “Flystrike.”

  Wormwood made crazy eyes at Hellen and raised the roof as he turned up the volume full blast. She pursed her ruby red lips together. Not this week, not this week. It was a lot of effort for nothing. A laugh bubbled up out of her and escaped into the air for their entire audience’s listening pleasure.

  She covered her mouth. “You asshole.”

  Wormwood played the innocent, throwing his voice up an octave from its already less than macho falsetto. “Wow, Hellen that was really uncalled for. Why on earth would you verbally assault me with no provocation whatsoever?”

  Hellen raised her voice in false indignation. “No provocation whatsoever, he says. You people should see what this idiot looks like when he dances. I’m going to Vine it next time.”

  “You always say that.” Wormwood shook his finger at her. “But you never remember in time to catch me. Never happen.”

  “Asshole.” The mile-wide smile on her face neutered her profane insult. She brought the music down and looked across the table at his shit-eating grin.

  “I can’t help it, you know I can’t. Guys, if you could see my beautiful fiancé, who I love more than anything… she has this vampy Elvira-meets-Bettie Page thing going on, and she likes to keep it—” Wormwood lowered his voice and eradicated any trace of joy from his face. “—very serious. But I know how to crack her, because that’s the kind of shit you figure out after a couple of years together.”

  Hellen balled up a scrap of white paper and threw it at him. “You’re still an asshole, but I’m going to let it go because we have bigger things to talk about. And someone on hold.”

  Wormwood brushed the wad of paper out of his spikey black hair. “Damn right we do, like I said, we had a very special reason for opening the show with that clip, so let’s get right into it. After weeks of trying—”

  “And failing.”

  He shot her a look that would send a small child scurrying up its mother’s leg. “After weeks of trying, I have successfully convinced Longpig to talk with us.”

  Hellen tapped at her monitor and pulled their guest line into the recording program. “That you did, very cool. Longpig, how are you today?”

  A voice came over their headphones. “Hungry.”

  Wormwood leaned back in his chair and put his arms behind his head. He always stared up at the ceiling of their recording room when he wanted to focus. “Oh come on, now.”

  “I’m kidding. Little bit of cannibal humor. That’s what people expect me to say, right? I’m fine, thanks for asking.” The voice was genial, calm. The kind of voice expected of an accountant, or an Apple Store employee.

  Hellen traced a long, black fingernail across the table. “You say ‘cannibal humor,’ but as I understand it, you’re not actually a cannibal. Is that right?”

  “Y…yet,” Longpig stammered. “That’s technically correct, Hellen. I haven’t tasted human flesh as of yet, simply because the only person I’m interested in eating is Nick Dawkins. I find no appeal in the thought of eating anyone else. In fact, thinking about it turns my stomach a little.”

  Wormwood intervened. “But you do seem incredibly sincere about eating Nick Dawkins. You have a lot of posts on Myiasis about it. Are you for real, or is this some bullshit trolling thing you do for attention?”

  “Oh no, I’m very sincere. It’s something I’ve put a lot of thought into and definitely hope to get to do someday.” Longpig’s voice never wavered. He may as well have been speaking about trying sushi for the first time.

  Wormwood swiveled in his chair, never taking his eyes off the ceiling of their rundown rental home. “You mention putting a lot of thought into it, what do you think about? Different ways to cook him? Do you have a list of different recipes written down somewhere?”

  Longpig laughed. “No no. I think that’s the perception people have because of certain fictional cannibals, that I want to eat his kidney sautéed in a sauce perfectly heated to whatever. But I’m afraid they’d be disappointed. Give me a Nickburger with American cheese on it. That’s more my speed.”

  Hellen moused around her screen, only halfway participating in the conversation. “A Nickburger, that’s pretty pedestrian.” She pulled up the Flystrike e-mail account and scrolled through the messages while Longpig played pretend. It wasn’t as interesting a conversation as she’d hoped for. Then again, as Wormwood would no doubt point out, her disappointment may be the result of her unrealistic expectations as much as Longpig’s lackluster delivery.

  Am I talking to Hellen or Helen, he would ask, his passive-aggressive way of saying, if she were any more wishy-washy, people would try to shove coins into her at the laundromat.

  She never cared for that assessment. She wasn’t wishy-washy. She was complex. Hell, the world was a complex place; a desert of ever shifting sands, never the same from one moment to the next. If a person didn’t continually shift their balance, they’d
fall down and drown in the dust.

  At least that’s what she told herself half the time. The other half, she thought he might be right.

  Longpig chattered like a windup pair of toy teeth. “Well, obviously the Nickburger isn’t the only thing I think about. I think about eating his brain specifically. I’d like to fry it, but worry it might fuck up—pardon me—might damage whatever knowledge may be gained by consuming it.”

  Hellen did her best to pay attention to the dweeb in her headphones, but half the e-mails in their inbox were more engaging in their subject lines alone. Nick Dawkins is speaking to me through my dog. She wanted to talk to that guy. She had a dozen questions off the top of her head.

  Does the dog’s mouth move?

  What does his voice sound like?

  Does Nick Dawkins speak through his dog by means of science or magic?

  Wormwood sat up in his chair and brought his gaze back to the microphone in front of him. “This isn’t the radio, Pig, it’s the fucking internet, you can fucking swear. But see, there have been extensive discussions on the forums about this, discussions you were a part of, and there’s no reason to think you have anything to gain by eating Nick Dawkins’ brain. Other than, you know, protein.”

  Hellen’s eyes caught another interesting subject line: The guest you’ve been waiting for. She opened the e-mail while Longpig spouted his power fantasy garbage like a trash disposal in reverse.

  Wormwood and Hellen,

  I am the Administrator of Myiasis and a big fan of Flystrike. I’ve heard you say multiple times that the biggest coup your show could ever hope for is an interview with Nick Dawkins himself. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to put you in contact with him, but I can do the next best thing.

  Hellen read the first paragraph once with mild curiosity, and then again with cautious interest. Her heart skipped a beat. Was this for real?

  This link will take you to a secure chat; secure for you, secure for me. You won’t be disappointed. I’ll be waiting.

  She moved the cursor over the link enclosed in the e-mail.

  You won’t be disappointed. She’d be the judge of that.

  She massaged the mouse button with her finger. At worst, this thing would virus the hell out of her computer. But at best…

  The guest you’ve been waiting for. It was intriguing, no question about it.

  Hellen motioned at Wormwood, who listened to Fannibal the Cannibal drone on and on about the beliefs of some indigenous tribe he or some other internet troll had probably made up anyway. He didn’t notice. She picked up a pen and flung it at him.

  Wormwood turned to her, anger ripped across his face. He shook his hands at her, fingers taut. She pointed at his monitor and then typed at her keyboard with gentle keystrokes, below the microphones’ sensitivity. She hit ‘enter’ and sent a private message to his screen.

  Bored. Get rid of this guy. You need to see this.

  Wormwood read the instant message from his fiancé. “Yeah, Pig, are you sure you’re not thinking of a scene from Cannibal Holocaust?” He then typed at his own keyboard. His message popped up on Hellen’s screen.

  Are you kidding me right now?

  Hellen looked up at Wormwood. He stared at a wall full of horror movie icons, each one acquired and autographed at one convention or another. His head swiveled left and right on his shoulders and he breathed in and out through his nose; pouting, for lack of a better word. She tried not to think much of it. Like her, he was only twenty-seven. He was bound to grow out of this someday, right?

  She sighed and typed at her keyboard again. A single word.

  Please?

  Wormwood looked at his screen and then back at her. He rolled his eyes and rested his arms on the table. “Hey Pig, I hate to do this after you’ve been good enough to talk to us, but we need to take a break for a bit. We’re having a technical thing over here.”

  Longpig stopped midsentence. “Oh. Okay. Do you want me to just wait on hold or…?”

  Hellen stuck out her tongue and pulled at an invisible noose around her neck. Kill me now.

  Wormwood shot her with his hand-gun, index finger pointed and thumb up in the air. “No, tell you what, the episode doesn’t go live for a couple more days anyway, so let’s call it for now. I’ll get back to you and we can always pick up where we left off, then cut it together. Sound good?”

  As reluctant as Longpig had been to talk to them in the first place, he sounded crestfallen that his fifteen minutes in the light had been cut short. “Alright, sure. Hit me up later, I guess.”

  “Will do man, sorry.” Wormwood stood up from his chair as Hellen disconnected Longpig’s call and stopped the audio recording. “Hellen. What the shit? It took me ages to talk him into an interview.”

  “Come on, that was egregiously lame. And you heard him there at the end, if this isn’t better we can get him back.” She patted the top of her monitor. “Come see.”

  Wormwood walked around the table and leaned over Hellen’s shoulder. “This better not be more Nick Dawkins tentacle porn, I swear to god.”

  Hellen watched Wormwood’s lips move as he read the e-mail to himself. “I didn’t click it yet. I didn’t know if I should do it on this computer.”

  Wormwood rubbed the patch of scruff on his chin. “Yeah, that’s sketchy as hell. Scroll down.”

  The e-mail continued below the link.

  If you doubt I am who I say I am, go to Myiasis. Then click the link. Talk soon.

  The Administrator.

  Hellen moused to the red fly icon on her desktop and clicked it. The page opened and her breath caught. At the top of the page, above the graphic that read Myiasis, was a large line of text.

  It’s not a joke, Flystrike. Click the link. Let the fun begin.

  Hellen looked over her shoulder at her fiancé. “It could have been hacked or something, right?”

  Wormwood pointed at the screen. “What the hell. Back up the Longpig audio to the external. If this thing skullfucks your computer, I don’t want to lose it.”

  Hellen moved the file to her external hard drive and disconnected it. “Ready?”

  Wormwood nodded. “Do it.”

  She clicked the link and a small black chat window opened. Text scrolled across it.

  The Administrator has joined the conversation.

  Guest has joined the conversation.

  Hellen’s body was electric, a vibrating pulse of possibility. “Holy shit. What is happening right now?”

  The person on the other end of the chat greeted them.

  Welcome. Love the show.

  Wormwood spoke first. “Um, thanks?”

  Hellen flicked at her keyboard. Thank you. We’re honored. What is this about?

  The seconds crawled. Hellen’s mind danced with possibilities.

  As I said, I can’t put you in direct contact with Nick Dawkins, but I can do the next best thing. Guaranteed to be a great show and will definitely get his attention. Sound like something you’d be interested in?

  Hellen and Wormwood exchanged glances. It was a no-brainer. No discussion required.

  She punched at the keys, took a deep breath and pushed ‘Enter.’

  Absolutely.

  Chapter 2

  Nick lined the gun’s sights on the other man. Steady. One of them would drop and it damn sure wouldn’t be him.

  He squeezed the trigger and his target’s face disappeared behind a puff of crimson mist.

  “Oh shit, did you see that?”

  CorpseFlower punched at the keys of her laptop with the fury of a monkey on crack. “Nope, sorry, little busy with a game of my own.”

  Nick turned his attention away from his wall-mounted television, a black video game controller in his hands. He tilted his head toward Corpse’s side of the couch. “What are you playing?”

  Corpse laughed, the sound a strange combination between the Joker and Bugs Bunny, and pulled her hand away from the keys only long enough to brush a strand of violet hair out
of her face. “It’s called Which Governor Has Secretly Been Accepting Donations From White Supremacist Groups? You can watch me beat it tonight on the ten o’clock news.”

  Nick set his controller down. “Are you sure I don’t have to worry about like, the FBI kicking down my door?”

  Corpse lifted one hand and pressed a single finger forcibly against Nick’s lips. “Shhhhhhhhh. Shh. Play your cute little shooty game.” Her other hand continued darting around the keyboard, not missing a beat. If he hadn’t been able to see various windows on her screen open, fill with text and close again, he’d have sworn she mashed keys at random.

  Nick scratched at his left leg the best he could, given it was covered from his foot to his knee by a red fiberglass cast. “My cute little shooty game? This is your game. It’s your PS4. I haven’t played a video game since college.”

  Corpse reached for an energy drink on the coffee table in front of them and slugged one back. She never took her eyes off her screen. “Meh. I never play with that thing. I prefer games with real lives and real consequences. No higher stakes. Just ask the Governor of—whoops, spoilers.”

  Nick set the controller down in his lap. “Suddenly my cute little shooty game seems trivial. I have to admit though, I missed this. I can’t thank you enough for letting me jam out on your shit. I’d have gone nuts sitting around the house all day.”

  “Gosh, Bro Duke, shouldn’t you be, I dunno, writing something anyway?” She set her drink back down on the table. “You were yo Joe gung-ho about that when you got out of the hospital.”

  Nick affected a terrible Italian accent. “Never ask me about my work, Corpse.”

  That got her attention. She threw a ‘should I be worried’ glance his direction. Nick blushed. “Pacino? Godfather?”

  She shrugged. “Never saw it.”

  Nick would have leapt to his feet if doing so were an option. “How have you never seen The Godfather? That’s like, one of five movies everyone should see in their lifetime.”

  “Hey asshole,” Nick’s television yelled at him. More specifically, another player’s soldier avatar yelled at him. “Fucking AFK dick. Quit trying to suck yourself off and play.” The soldier hopped up and down.