Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4 Page 3

  Nick did his best to suppress how over the moon he was to have this conversation with another human being. “I love that one too, but my favorite was the one about how Myers would sit in his room at the institution and would look at the wall, look through the wall—”

  Hellen finished the sentence along with him. “—looking at this night.”

  “What made Myers so scary in that movie, beyond the creepy William Shatner mask, was how he was this ball of rage that waited, and waited, and sat on that rage for an extended period of time before the right opportunity to act came along. That is the scariest shit ever.”

  Nick couldn’t take his eyes off Hellen. Bonding over a fictional body count; there was nothing else in the world like it. Quiet fell over the room again, but this time it was welcome, and marred with only the sound of his pounding pulse in his ears.

  Blaire came into the room and whispered. “Nick, it’s about that time.”

  “Hmm?” The reality of where he was and what he was doing there crashed in around him. “Right. I have another thing. Signing table.”

  Hellen stood up. “Yes. No problem. Thanks again for having me.”

  Nick hoisted himself out of his chair with his cane and shook her hand. “Anytime. Really.” The handshake continued for an unnatural length of time.

  Corpse cleared her throat and moved toward the door. “Let’s go, Bromeo.”

  Nick, Hellen and Blaire followed Corpse out into the hallway. Further down, people streamed in and out of the convention hall. Nick couldn’t resist the urge to leave this particular door open. The words fell out of his mouth before he knew they’d formed. “I’ll probably see you around the con, right?”

  “Abso-friggin-lutely.” Hellen waved and walked away. “You have my number.”

  He abso-friggin-lutely did.

  Corpse grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward the convention hall doors. “The worst taste in girls, swear to God.”

  Blaire walked along with them. “Aw, do you have a thing for the podcaster? That’s cute.”

  Corpse let go of Nick’s hand. “It’s not cute, it’s twisted.”

  Nick’s cheeks filled with warmth. “Oh, stop it. We live a thousand miles apart, nothing’ll come of it. I’m allowed to flirt.”

  “And I’m allowed to smack you in the head when you flirt with someone who helped fuck your life up good and proper only a few months ago.” Corpse threw her arms into the air. “Need I remind you of a little thing called Night of the Maggots, during which I was fucking shot? That was her.”

  Nick tensed as they neared the crowd. “That was Wormwood. When she found out what he’d done, she put his freakin’ eye out with her car keys and called the police. She says that’s how it went down and I believe her.”

  Corpse cracked her neck. “We’ll come back to this. Put your game face on. You got books and boobs to sign, and I gotta make sure you get through it in one piece.”

  As they approached the hall, the convention goers took notice. They wrapped themselves around Nick, Corpse, and Blaire, chittering excitedly. Several of them had red flies visible somewhere on their person.

  Nick and his companions pushed their way through the open double doors and into a massive hall filled with well over a thousand people.

  “Nick.” Corpse raised her voice to be heard over the din of the chaos around them.

  He raised his voice to match. “Yeah?”

  “You should have let me bring my bat.”

  Chapter 4

  Nick’s hand was on fire.

  Not literally. The one instance was more than enough for a lifetime. But the cramps… he hadn’t missed the burning ache that accompanied signing a person’s name over and over for hours on end.

  He whipped his hand back and forth at the wrist in a desperate attempt to loosen it up.

  “You doing okay there, boss?” Corpse stood behind him wearing her best possible ‘don’t fuck with us’ face. If the lack of attempts on Nick’s life was any indication, it was super effective.

  “Yeah, think I’m almost ready for a break though.” He motioned to Blaire, who sipped at a latte while chatting up some people in the front of the line; a line which stretched far beyond what he could see of the collection of booths, displays and garish costumes filling the hall.

  Blaire approached the table, a concerned brow and that damn smile awkwardly huddled together on her face. “How are you holding up?”

  “Fine, but I’m gonna need a break in fifteen or so. A short one. My hand’s killing me. And I’m hungry.” He set his pen down, laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.

  “No problem, just say when.” Blaire went back to the front of the line and directed the next person to approach the table; a plump kid wearing a shirt that said Damien Thorn is my co-pilot.

  “Hi,” the kid squeaked. His eyes darted back and forth between the line behind him and Nick as he set a copy of Rat King down on the table. He was nervous. Distracted.

  “Hi.” Nick felt for the socially awkward types and made a point to attempt to connect with them as he scrawled his name across whatever they set before him. “Rat King, is that your favorite?”

  The kid’s attention was on something or someone behind him. “Hmm? Oh, yeah. Thank you.”

  Nick leaned to one side, trying to discern what was so interesting. “You having fun at the con?”

  “Yeah, totally. Just glad to be out of this line.” The kid checked behind him for eavesdroppers. “Some of your fans are a little intense.” He picked up his book and shuffled away.

  Intense. That could mean any number of things. Nick glanced at Corpse, ever at the ready. For someone who always did four things at once, she was a tireless sentinel.

  Something landed on the table with a clank. Nick turned to see a black case and two thin hands unrolling it across the table to reveal half a dozen long, smooth, curved pieces of stainless steel. He knew what they were—he’d seen them before.

  Urethral probes.

  Nick looked up into the eyes of a woman in a Wile E. Coyote Don’t Care tee with a red fly pinned to it; the same woman who’d sneaked into his home in the dead of night over a year ago. Jane. Plain Jane, he’d called her in his head.

  She wiggled her fingers in his face. “Hi Nick. Is this weird? Please don’t let this be weird. Shit, it is, isn’t it? I’m sorry.”

  Nick’s penis hid between his crossed legs like a groundhog ready for six more weeks of winter. He waved his arm in front of Corpse and stuttered. “Ch—Chalupas.”

  Corpse looked at him, her eyes wide with recognition and elation. “Chalupas?”

  Nick quickly bobbed his head up and down. “Chalupas. Chalupas.”

  His erstwhile companion exploded. “Ooooooh my god, that sounds good right now. Let’s get a bite while we’re on break. We’re in Texas, after all. Good Mexican food.”

  “Here.” Plain Jane handed Nick a silver marker. “Sign my bag for me and I’ll get out of your hair, promise. I’m doing much better these days. I want something to remember the first time we met, is all. I mean, besides this shirt.” Her hands caressed the material from the breasts down.

  Nick didn’t understand why Corpse hadn’t dove across the table and throttled Jane, but whatever the reason, it was on him to get rid of her as a result. He took the silver marker in hand and wrote his name across the bag.

  “Of course,” Jane said and flipped her hair behind her shoulder. She batted her mascaraed eyelashes and left flakes of the black stuff on her cheeks. “If you don’t want me out of your hair, I’ll be around all weekend. Room five-thirty-eight.” She batted her eyes again.

  The edicts of polite conversation took hold and ran away with him. He belted a fake laugh and said the first thing he could think of. “Don’t you have a boyfriend or husband or something anyway?”

  She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Nick, we have an arrangement, remember? He’s somewhere right now lusting after one of the Elm Street women, little horn dog that
he is. But tell me…” She pulled one of her probes out of its pouch and touched the tip of it to her lips. Bat. Bat. “…will she ever sound his pound with one of these? I think not.”

  Nick mouthed the word “chalupas” one more time, but no sound came out.

  Jane put her probe back and picked up her bag. “Five-thirty-eight, Nick.” She walked away, disappearing into the chaos of the con.

  His vocal cords relaxed and words happened. “Corpse, what the hell, where were you on that?”

  “On what?” She looked around for what she’d missed out on. “What happened?”

  “I said ‘chalupas’ and you were like, pfft.” Nick flapped his arms about. A large man with a red fly pin on his shirt approached the table and stood in front of it.

  Corpse crossed her arms again. “I said we’d go eat. Whenever you’re ready, I’m starving.”

  A woman in a shirt with a giant red fly printed on it lined up next to the big guy. Nick assumed it was the dude’s girlfriend. “Isn’t ‘chalupas’ the code word?”

  Awareness flashed, quickly replaced by annoyance. “That’s ‘chimichangas’. A chalupa is an entirely different thing.” Corpse put two and two together. “Wait, did you want me to chimichanga that lady? I can go find her.”

  “Excuse me?” Blaire’s chipper voice had risen. Nick turned to see what had her dander up.

  Four Maggots were in front of the table, each designated as such by some type of red fly on their apparel.

  Blaire became more insistent as two more Maggots joined them and positioned themselves at the sides of the table. “Excuse me, one at a time, please.”

  Corpse clenched her fists as she realized they were suddenly surrounded. “Hey, Maggots, whatever you’re up to, turn around and walk away.”

  “Corpse,” Nick said. He had no follow-up. Even she couldn’t take on six people at once and he wanted to rein her in before she bit off more than she could chew.

  Four more Maggots pushed their way through the line and added themselves to whatever this was. Nick gripped his cane and stood up. Was this how Caesar felt? It was an imperfect analogy, but he couldn’t help but believe that he was about to be stabbed twenty-three times.

  Corpse moved in front of him. He had to hand it to her. She was always ready to go down swinging.

  “I’m calling security,” Blaire yelled.

  That morning, Nick had mentioned exposure therapy. In retrospect, appearing at a convention of horror fans, a good number of whom were known and proud members of Myiasis, didn’t seem so much like exposure therapy as complete lunacy.

  A single click came from behind the wall of Maggots.

  She’d never admit it, but Nick saw Corpse flinch. He put his arm in front of her. He’d not let her take another bullet for him.

  Music played. A familiar whine, starting high and then dropping into a low tone before it climbed again.

  It was ‘Thriller’.

  The song lifted into its famous crescendo, a Maggot in a red leather jacket with a giant boom box on his shoulder rose up behind the others.

  All at once, the Maggots broke into choreographed dance along with the song, a near perfect rendition of the moves made popular three decades earlier by a long dead pop star. It was a song and video that Nick had grown up with and the combination of nostalgia and overwhelming relief that he wasn’t being murdered sapped his strength. He dropped into his chair, held his hand to his chest and made a mental note to have his ticker checked as soon as possible. Being scared half-to-death was a young man’s game. Younger, anyway.

  Corpse was still combat ready. She could take a swing at the dancer closest to her at any moment.

  “Corpse, stand down.” He wafted his hand through the air. “It’s a DawkinsCon stunt.”

  So he assumed, at any rate. If the song ended and they all whipped out knives, he owed her a Coke.

  About half-way through the song, the Maggot with the boom box lowered the volume and the dancing stopped. The participants turned and took a bow for not only the line behind them, but for the crowd of con-goers who had accumulated to watch.

  A Maggot behind the others held up a smartphone and shouted “I got it” and everyone broke into thunderous applause. Even Nick deemed it appropriate to put his hands together a few times. He had to admit, it was an impressive showing.

  “Sorry we couldn’t do the whole song,” the large man in front said, “it was short notice.” He raised his fist and held it in front of Nick.

  Nick smiled and bumped his own fist against the Maggot’s. “Dude, you guys scared the ever-living shit out of me. Well played.”

  “All part of the game, man.” The Maggot broke off and his companions followed one by one as they waved at Nick and told them they loved his work.

  Corpse was not amused. “Can we go get some food now?”

  “Yeah, best idea ever.” Nick picked himself up out of his chair and steadied himself with his cane. His legs were still a bit wobbly. “Do you still want chalupas?”

  “Hell yes. All the chalupas in the world, please.” Corpse chattered away about the fundamentals of proper Mexican cuisine.

  “We’ll be back in thirty,” Nick told Blaire as he passed her. He glanced at the line of people as he walked away. Vampires in droves, zombies and even a werewolf or two dotted the crowd. And a dog. He remembered the man in the dog mask and lifted a hand to wave. The dog mask man just stared, his mask giving the impression that he didn’t so much as blink. Unnerving would have been an understatement.

  Nick bumped into someone, a woman in a tattered dress and zombie makeup. “I’m so sorry,” he said. She smiled politely and continued on her way. He turned to look at the man in the dog mask again.

  The man was gone.

  Chapter 5

  A closer look at Dawkins… that’s all Dogman had wanted. But as he stood in line with the rest of the weirdos and Nick stared him down, he thought better of it. Best to stay out of sight. Off Nick’s radar completely. It was too early to give the game away because he couldn’t wait another few minutes or hours for the perfect moment to present itself.

  Besides, if he’d been within arm’s reach of that spoiled, entitled son of a bitch, he wasn’t sure he’d have been able to contain the red swell in his chest.

  The swell in his chest. The memories. The rage. Push it all down. Keep it. Save it for later. Suck on it like a contemptible candy without end. What did Willy Wonka call those?

  An Everlasting Gobstopper. An Everlasting Gobstopper of gall and rancor and...

  He stopped himself before he deteriorated into a shrieking mass of malice.

  Still, there was a degree to which he couldn’t help himself. He was overtaken with the urge to keep tabs on Nick’s every move—to hound him. He scratched his face under the rubber mask. The façade he’d chosen in the clearance aisle of Party City was appropriate. He would stalk his prey like the self-absorbed author was one of the rabbits he used to hunt with his pa.

  Better days.

  Dogman watched from afar as Nick returned to his table and continued to sign autographs on whatever objects his fans presented to him. Books, photos, DVD’s, cleavage… it went on for hours, long after the author had started shaking his hand out between every signature.

  Pussy. He didn’t know what real work was.

  Credit where it was due, Nick stuck with it longer than Dogman ever imagined he would. Then again, Dawkins appeared to have a limitless appetite for the attention and drama that followed him everywhere he went. It was no wonder he sat there and soaked it up for as long as they’d let him.

  That was Dawkins’ thing. Always the center of attention. Attention that tore apart everyone and everything around him and somehow—miraculously—he survived with hardly a scratch. Like he existed within the eye of the friggin’ hurricane.

  It’s everyone around Dawkins who catches the fallout. Everyone around him who was shot, or had their storefront destroyed, or…

  Red filled Dogman’s vision. He
closed his eyes and breathed deeply into his shitty mask.

  Control it. Hold onto it. Wait. And the girl… she was the persistent sort. She never left his side, watching people come and go like a hawk. She sized up every one as though looking for weaknesses in case things got hairy.

  She could be a problem. Or maybe not. They didn’t seem to be a couple. There was never any sign of affection or intimacy between them. If they weren’t, he assumed Nick would be alone when he retreated to his room for the night. That’s when Dogman would make his move.

  The rest of the signing went by without incident and when it was over, the smiling woman with the dirty blonde hair left. Nick and the girl spent some time wandering around the convention floor, stopping at the odd table to look at art or purchase a DVD. They spent an extended amount of time fawning over a pair of dark-haired twins at one table. More famous freaks. A circle-jerk of celebrity. Dogman tailed them the best he could while remaining at a distance.

  Silently, he wished they would hurry up and call it a day. The dog mask grew hotter and hotter with each passing minute. The smell and humidity inside it from his breath threatened to overwhelm him. He thought about going to the bathroom just to take it off for one blessed moment, but he didn’t dare. With his luck, the second he did, Nick would go upstairs and be lost for the night.

  Dogman’s leg cramped. He massaged it as, fifty yards away, Nick Dawkins marveled at a life-size replica of some hideous leprechaun thing. A grown man dressed as a zombie version of Captain America bumped into Dogman and pardoned himself.

  What kind of hell was this? Who in their right mind came to this place? Were these people employed? Was this how they chose to spend their weekend? He couldn’t believe it.

  It was enough to drive a man crazy.

  Crazy. The word latched itself to his brain like a tick. He’d heard it a few times recently. Enough that it’d lost its sting.

  Nick finally tired of meandering around on his stupid cane and led his assistant out of the convention hall. As they passed out the exit doors and into a hallway, someone ran past and chucked a red orb at Nick. The orb burst in a shower of red.