18 April 2020

Inner Beauty

One of eleven surviving short stories/novellas I wrote in a roughly five-year period (2004-2008).

This is one of my better short stories of the time, to the point, without most of the pseudo-Lovecraftian purple prose which defined my writing at the time. The wording's still cumbersome, the narrative saturated in the antisexuality and misogyny I was harbouring at the time.

Original spelling mistakes, grammatical errors, omissions, and alterations have been preserved for your reading pleasure.

* * *

With the removal of the last of the stubble, he discarded the razor, letting it splash and sink through the scummy, tepid water to the bottom of the porcelain sink. He picked up his guaranteed method of protection, like more than a yammaka fashioned from aluminum foil, and placed it over his freshly shaven scalp; over this he placed a wig of brown hair, maneuvering it into position, making certain it coveringed the silver metal and appeared as nothing other than true human hair. Making certain everything was perfect in the mirror, he reached out a flipped a switch, casting the small bathroom into darkness. He stepped out of the bathroom; pulling from his pocket as he did so a small blue cell phone; he flipped it open, dialled the desired cell phone number, then brought it up to his ear. After three short rings, there was a click as someone picked up.

"Astarte?" he inquired.

"Yeah, speaking," the feminine voice replied.

"A heard from a friend about the services you provide."

"Really?" the voice took on a seductive quality.

"I could use a friend tonight."

"Give me your name and adress, sweet putz," she cooed.

He gave it.

"Be there in a while crocodile," she uttered. The line then went dead.

He smiled, then closed the phone and returned it to his pocket. He entered his living room, and took a seat upon his sofa and waited. Twenty minutes passed, and a ring issued from the doorbell. He pushed himself up and off the sofa, walked to the door, and opened it. There, standing at the threshold, was an alluring Goth woman; her piercing blue eyes contrasted with her eye shadow, pale skin, and dyed-black hair, clad in a black tank top, leather wristbands, black leather miniskirt and thigh-high leather boots. A penagram and inverted crucifix hung from her neck.

She stepped inside, giving a wink and a smile as she chewed blue bubble gum. "Where and how you want it?"

"In the bathroom," he uttered, butterflies crawling about the interior of his stomach. "I like taking girls from behind, but I like to watch their faces in the mirror" as I do it."

"Sure, hon," she winked again. She walked into the bathroom, activating the light as she did so.

She pulled down her miniskirt, revealing a tantalising firm posterior clad in a jet black thong; she positioned herself over the sink and spread her legs.

"Take me hard," she moaned, a sigh escaping her lips. "Hard and slow."

He smiled, teeth revealing themselves. He reached into the waistband of his pants behind him, and pulled out a gleaming chrome .44 Magnum, loaded and ready to fire. As Astarte waited for penetration, black-lidded eyes closed, he took careful aim, and pulled the trigger. The weapon recoiled in his hand, and the loud resonating bang pained his ears. Her torso disintegrated in a fountain of blood and innards, few of the tissues actually human. Along with drops of crimson, fluid the colour of lilacs splashed the walls, light, and mirror. As the slain woman collapsed, inhuman tentacles spilled out, twitching slightly before going still.

He wiped a string of extraterrestrial tissue off from his forehead, smiling at having rid the world of a deadly alien creature world of the alien parasite.

The End