Flypaper Opus: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 2 Page 10

  It was beautiful. His shot-framing had gotten much better.

  Time to share it with his adoring audience.

  Internet still connected. Clark clicked the red fly on his screen.

  Page not found.

  Page not found? Son of a bitch.

  He opened a web browser and went to a random site in his bookmarks. It popped up just fine. He went to another. And another.

  He typed in the address for Myiasis by hand.

  Page not found.

  He breathed in sharply through his nose. What kind of bullshit operation was the Admin running that a little extra traffic could knock the fucking site offline? What was the point of having a site at all if not to draw in the most traffic possible? More importantly, how the fuck was he supposed to show off his most audacious piece so far?

  Clark leaned on the horn and hoped he’d startled the dentist with a drill in someone’s mouth.

  When he felt satisfied that everyone within two-hundred yards knew how aggravated he was, he put the van in reverse and backed out of the parking lot at an unsafe speed.

  Truth be told, there was only one person’s opinion he cared about anyway. The one guy who mattered. The one this was all for.

  Nick Dawkins. And Clark knew where he lived.

  Chapter 13

  The assortment of talking heads convened on Nick’s laptop screen looked as though they were in line before a firing squad, minus the blindfolds and the cigarette dangling from their mouths. For them, this situation unfolding in Forest Down was DEFCON One.

  For Nick, it was an annoyance. He’d rather have still been asleep. He’d slept for an hour before his phone’s alarm had jarred him back into consciousness, which in retrospect may have been worse than getting no sleep at all.

  The two faces he did know by sight were his harrowed looking agent, Blaire Coutrice, and Victor Trumble, the implausibly successful director the studio wheeled out whenever they wanted to majorly fuck up anything Nick had written.

  Nick was familiar with the other three participants in the conference call from sporadic conversations over the past few years, but couldn’t remember their names. To him they were Old White Guy, Young Black Guy and Big Hair.

  “Right now our suggestion is that we sit on it for six months and then quietly release it to VOD and home formats.” Young Black Guy was marketing, public relations, or some liaison between the two. Always concerned with the face of the company. The public’s perception. The spin.

  If Old White Guy were a board game, he’d be Monopoly, and the Bank would always win. “The returns on video-on-demand would be negligible; we’d lose millions on this thing. We’ve spent sixteen million on marketing alone.”

  Nick laughed, but covered it up with fake coughing. Sixteen million in marketing? Most of his favorite horror movies were made for a fraction of that.

  Big Hair hardly ever spoke, but when she did, the others shut the hell up and listened. Nick didn’t know what her title was exactly, but whatever it was, she had the final say in how everything panned out.

  Young Black Guy read off of an adjacent screen no one else could see. “We’re hearing this guy they took to the hospital had his toes severed. Our fear is that by putting that scene in theaters in a couple of weeks, we’ll appear insensitive.”

  ‘We’ll appear insensitive’. Listening to suits talk made Nick’s head hurt. It didn’t help that his eyes felt like sandpaper. He didn’t remember all-nighters being this agonizing in college.

  Victor Trumble spoke up, his voice like a fat man slurring his words. “We actually don’t show much of that scene, the toe severing is done tastefully.”

  Nick stifled another laugh. The toe severing is done tastefully. That alone was worth however much of his life this call stole from him.

  “Can we get by without the toe scene? Just cut around it?” Old White Guy either had no idea what the story was about or he gave not a lick whether the final product made sense. Neither would have been surprising.

  Trumble snorted. “That would be extremely difficult. That scene is crucial to the central character’s unraveling in act two.”

  Points to Trumble. Nick wanted to make a note on his calendar of the first time they’d been in agreement on anything and opened his phone.

  Blaire, always the proponent for the solution that makes everyone happy, chimed in. “Nick, do you think there’s any way to not have the toe scene in the movie and the overall story remain intact?”

  Nick looked up from his phone. “You’re asking what I think?”

  Old White Guy’s demeanor became exceedingly genial, like a grandpa patting his favorite grandson’s head. “Yes, Nick, remember, you’ve got a lot of money on the line here, not only in regards to your take-home on this movie, but future movies as well. We can’t invest in future adaptations if we can’t show that they’re profitable for us.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “I think you’re going to do whatever you’re going to do and ultimately it doesn’t matter what I think. But to answer the question, no, the story doesn’t work as-is without the toe scene. If you want to cut it, which you apparently do, you’d have to replace it with something else, so that’s re-shoots.”

  “I agree,” Trumble said with a croak.

  “Thanks Vic. Here’s the problem though.” Nick’s exhaustion took control. The words came out of his mouth, but it was as though someone else said them. “Even if you reshoot it, release it, and we all make a million dollars, you’ll be looking at the same kind of thing next time. I know you’ve all seen this site; there are hundreds of these guys. If you did Fists of Hair next year, you’d probably be looking at some variation of the same situation then.”

  Blaire tried to interrupt him. “I think what Nick is try to say—”

  Nick didn’t need her to clarify anything for him. “What I’m trying to say is that what you’re seeing today is, sadly, the Nick Dawkins legacy writ large. It’s a train wreck. That’s not a phrase I throw around anymore. It’s literally a train wreck. And honestly, I think it’s kind of gross we’re even having this conversation. There are two guys over at Beasley now being stitched back together right now.”

  Young Black Guy interjected. “Actually they’re reporting that the toe-guy has died from his injuries. As far as I’m concerned, that’s the nail in the coffin.”

  “Nice choice of words there, buddy. And by the by, I call you ‘buddy’ not because it’s a friendly colloquialism, but because I can’t be bothered to remember your name. Any of your names.”

  “Nick, darling, you should see their names right below their windows on the chat screen.”

  “Can’t be bothered to read them either, Blaire.” Bless her heart. He’d have to apologize to her later. Satisfying as it was, this sort of thing made her life so much harder. “A guy died today, just now. It just happened and you’re talking about marketing budgets. Come on, what else do you need? Sit on the movie, yes, Jesus. Between my indirectly killing a guy and Trumble’s asinine predilection for close-ups—

  “Hey,” Victor said with churlish indignation.

  “—It’s true, Vic. Between those things, you’d probably be doing the world a favor if you never let it see the light of day. Sorry, money guy.” Nick inhaled. He’d gotten most of that out in one breath. “But like I said, it doesn’t matter what I think.” He pointed at Big Hair. “This one’s already made up her mind.”

  Nobody said anything. They were all waiting for Big Hair to weigh in. Her mouth opened.

  Nick’s doorbell rang before she could utter word one.

  “What was that?” Big Hair asked.

  “My damn doorbell. One second. See, I’m kind of in the middle of something over here.” Nick got up and walked over to the security monitor in his foyer. He raised his voice so the others could hear. “You may have forgotten, but there’s some dickless psychopath in town butchering people.”

  Nick looked at the screen. He didn’t recognize the man standing at his door, but he
recognized the description. Long hair, glasses. Camera in hand.

  MaggotMaestro? Fuck. Looking at the guy, the name made so much more sense.

  Whoever the guy was, he was pressing the button on the porch’s intercom and speaking into it, unaware that it didn’t function without Nick pressing his first.

  Nick ran back into his kitchen and picked up his phone. “He’s here, the guy is here.”

  Blaire’s happy face soured. “He’s there? The crazy guy? Are you sure?”

  Nick pressed the icon on his phone for the FDPD. “Pretty damn sure, Blaire.”

  Blaire picked up her own phone. “Do you want us to call the police? Be careful, Nick.”

  “Where’s your gun, Dawkins?” Trumble sounded like he was getting ready for the Friday Night Fights. “Get your gun. Shoot the son of a bitch. It’s self-defense, we’re witnesses.”

  “I don’t have a gun.” Nick went back to the security monitor.

  Trumble scoffed. “You don’t have a gun? Who doesn’t have a gun? If you survive this, you should buy one.”

  “Mary.” Young Black Man called to someone off screen. “Mary, get a statement prepared. Three versions. One for if Nick Dawkins is attacked but unharmed, another for if he’s attacked and injured, and the third for if he’s attacked and killed.”

  Nick paced back toward the kitchen. “Really, dude? I’m right here.” He heard a nasally voice pick up the other end of the line. Officer York.

  “Forest Down Police Department, what is your emergency?”

  “York, it’s Nick. The guy is here.”

  “I apologize, but can you be more specific?”

  Seriously, York?

  “The guy, the one that’s been doing all the weird shit, he’s on my porch right fucking now.”

  The doorbell rang twice more.

  “I’m sorry sir; I mean can you be more specific regarding your name? Nick who?”

  Nick who? Who did he think? Little shit.

  Nick hung up the phone. Fuck the police, as they say. He had a direct line to the big dog. He dialed Reed.

  He felt someone watching him and looked up to see the long-haired man at a window in his front room. The long haired man smiled and held up his camera as if to say Look what I have!

  “Dawkins,” Reed barked in the phone. “What is it?”

  The man at Nick’s window waved.

  Nick waved back. “He’s here. The guy is here. He’s at my window and he’s looking at me, Reed.”

  “It’s him, are you sure?” There was a lot of commotion behind Reed. That’s right, bring the cavalry. Put this freak away.

  The long haired man pointed at the front door and stuck a thumb up in the air.

  “Pretty sure it’s him, yeah.”

  Nick could hear Reed’s phone jostling and her breath quicken. She was running. “Listen Dawkins, whatever you do, do not engage him.”

  He looked back up at the window. The long haired man looked confused as to why Nick wasn’t letting him in.

  “Um. Okay.”

  “Dammit, you already did, didn’t you?”

  “Just get everyone here quick, yeah?” Nick feigned a smile. The man’s brow furrowed.

  “Quick as we can. I’ll stay on the phone with you. Kern! Kern, drive me. Dawkins, what’s he doing now?”

  Nick looked over at the window again. The long haired man was gone.

  “I don’t see him.”

  A rock the size of a softball careened through the window and onto his floor. A security alarm sounded.

  The long haired man walked up to the hole in the glass and poked his face through. Nick expected him to say Here’s Johnny. No such luck. “Who the fuck are you talking to? Are you calling the cops? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Nick ran into the kitchen and pulled a knife from a drawer. This had worked once before. Sort of. He hoped this lunatic wasn’t armed with anything more dangerous than a urethral probe.

  He was surprised to see everyone still on the conference call.

  Blaire yelled at him. “Nick, darling, be careful! Go hide!”

  Nick could hear glass break in the front room.

  Trumble sounded off. “Hide? Don’t be a pussy, Dawkins, fuck him up!”

  “Be sure to kill him, Nick, if you hurt him on your property and he lives, he can sue.” Old White Guy had priority issues.

  “He’s right, and don’t worry, we can sell a self-defense kill. In fact, if you kill him, I think we could still release the movie to good press. ‘Book causes problem, author solves it’. Yeah, I think that would be an ideal outcome.” Young Black Guy had even bigger priority issues.

  Nick whispered into the phone. “Reed, I think he’s coming in. I have a knife.”

  “We’re on the way, Dawkins. You’ll be okay. He hasn’t shown any inclination toward hurting you, remember? Just do whatever he says.”

  The long haired man casually appeared in the doorway of the kitchen. He had his mouth on his hand. “I cut myself. That smarts.” He looked at Nick. “What are you doing? Are you talking to the police? Give me that.”

  “Dawkins.” Reed’s voice came through the phone. “Give the phone to him. I’ll do what I can to keep him calm and talking.”

  Nick gripped the knife tightly and held the phone across the kitchen table. “She wants to talk to you.”

  The long haired man reached his hand out and calmly accepted Nick’s offering. Without warning, he threw it onto the stove. The cell’s parts went flying in all directions.

  “After everything I’ve done.” The long haired man opened his arms wide. “I thought you’d be a little more appreciative.” He extended a hand. “Clark, by the way. You’d know me as MaggotMaestro.”

  “Appreciative.” Trumble, of course, had to get his two cents in. “You bust into a man’s home, you fuck with his livelihood. If I were Nick, I’d gut you like a fish.”

  The long haired man bent over and studied the laptop screen. “An audience. I do love an audience. No audience, no art.” Clark squinted through his glasses. “Is that Victor Trumble?” He looked up at Nick. “I thought you didn’t work directly with Victor Trumble. Everyone knows you hated the Rat King movie. It was shit.”

  “Hey! Say that to my face you human piece of garbage!”

  Christ, Trumble, shut up.

  “Who are you?” Clark walked around the table, staring Nick down. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are.”

  Nick held the knife up, doing his best to keep his hand steady under the other man’s glare. “Don’t come any closer.”

  Clark nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and set his camera down on the table. “Who are you, Nick Dawkins? Explain it to me. Because I thought I knew.”

  “I’m the guy who’s going to stab you in the face if you don’t back up off me.” That actually sounded pretty badass. Nick broadened his shoulders to complete the image.

  The stranger smiled. His teeth looked like candy-corn. “That’s pretty good. Almost convincing. But not quite.”

  Nick swiped at the stranger and circled around the table.

  Clark followed… slow, methodic. “You know, I came here to show you my new piece. I would have posted it like the others, but the site’s down.”

  Nick couldn’t help but gloat. “Oh yeah, good luck with that. I hope we melted their servers right the fuck down.”

  Clark stopped dead in his tracks. “You did that? Why would you do that?”

  “Why?” Nick gritted his teeth. “So maybe you and every other demented half-breed basement dweller on that site would die of boredom and go back to whatever hell you came from.”

  “Ugh,” Clark said, his eyes narrowed. He pressed the heel of his palms into his temples, as if to keep his head from exploding. “This is why they say you should never meet your heroes.” His arm darted to the side and grabbed a plastic bowl off the counter. He flung it at Nick, hitting him in the arm.

  It seemed at first like a tantrum, like Clark had lashed out in a
fit. Not the case. In the moment it took Nick to raise his arm in defense, Clark was on him. He clutched at Nick’s knife wielding arm, digging his fingers into the tender places where there was no bone.

  Nick wrapped a hand around Clark’s throat. He had fingers too, and he used them to squeeze the lunatic’s windpipe. Clark gagged and clawed at Nick’s eyes. He wasn’t messing around. He aimed to take one out.

  “I need you alive, Dawkins. It doesn’t have to be in one piece.” Clark could hardly talk. His voice sounded like he’d breathed gravel. He bit into Nick’s arm.

  Nick gripped the knife with one hand and Clark’s throat with the other.

  Blood seeped through monstrous teeth and Nick’s fingers opened of their volition. The knife clattered to the floor.

  Clark released his jaw and spat blood into Nick’s face. Nick recoiled and released Clark’s throat.

  Two feet of distance grew between the men. Nick wiped at his eyes with the forearm that wasn’t dripping blood. He blinked repeatedly to clear his vision, expecting Clark to attack again. He didn’t.

  Clark clutched at his throat, and coughed. After a moment, he laughed and licked the blood off his lips. “I have to ask. The flypaper bitch, she didn’t, you know, give you anything when you fucked her, did she?”

  Nick saw red and not because of the blood in his eyes. He leapt at Clark and crushed him into the countertop. He reached for Clark’s throat. He’d kill him. He’d mop the kitchen floor with this fucker’s blood; use his greasy head as the swab.

  Clark reached into a cabinet and pulled out a tall glass. He smashed it into the right side of Nick’s face, shattering it.

  Nick reeled, afraid to move, afraid to blink; terrified one of the shards would make its way in. He held one hand up in defense and wiped bits of glass away from his face with the other. He looked at his fingers. They were tipped with crimson.

  Clark wiped blood and glass onto his pants and pulled the empty coffee pot out of the kitchen sink. He screamed and lunged, wildly swinging the pot.