Good Monsters

by Michael Channing

Chapter Three: "Nothing Personal"

Pin recoiled in disgust. "Don't." The revulsion on her face. A moment ago she was watching Technicolored mutilations and smiling. "It's nothing personal. I just don't like being touched. I know you didn't mean anything."

Yeah, sure. A girl who looks like the bastard child of Johnny Rotten and Count Chocula is horrified by my presence; no reason for me to take it personally.

"It's okay," I said. "No big deal."

"I think I need you to go now. I'm sorry."

"Sure. Yeah. Okay." The things you say when you don't know what to say.

She followed me to the door, all but shoving me out with her eyes. The lock and chain snapped into place behind me.

I went back to my apartment and sank down into the couch. Stared into space for a while and turned things over in my head.

I grabbed my coat and keys and headed out. Turned on all the lights on and locked up as I left. Just got in and already wanted to leave. Pass through the back end of this town like a lump of shit and roll downhill to my next destination.

Don't know why, but I drove past the old house. Wasn't any different, except the front yard now had a tree in it. A young boy sat up in that tree, reading by flashlight. I parked a ways down. Nothing creepy about that, just sitting in front of a stranger's house, watching some young boy in a tree.

I couldn't make out what the kid was reading, but it looked the size and shape of a comic book. It was a nice scene. A boy sitting peacefully in a tree, losing himself in a comic. Gave me comfort. There was something right somewhere in the world.

I drove on.

Now that I was feeling better, I began to enjoy the drive. Passed the park where I used to ride my bike. All the playground equipment was different, safer, but otherwise it was the same. The old mall had a look of depression and abandon, like it had been given a fresh coat of gray. The library looked smaller. High school, too. Never spent much time downtown, so I didn't have a frame of reference to compare to.

But this.

I would have known had this place been here before.

A video store. Not a chain with nothing but the newest Hollywood ear-fucks nor a some cheap joint that made more off the flicks in the back room than the token shelf of real movies out front. No. How can I explain my instant love for this place? Some people choose where they live based on the proximity of a certain school or the number of night clubs. I've been known to move when my favorite independent rental place closed. Call me a fucking snob, but if I can't find at least two Dario Argento movies in your store, I won't step inside a second time. This place called to me. Movie posters covered every inch of window space. Apes and bug-eyed monsters carrying unconscious girls. Saucers raining death upon the great monuments of the world. Giant ants and locusts eating buildings. Madmen toting their own heads. Skeletons and blood and werewolves and demons. And the name of the store. The glorious, boner inducing name of this movie-house Mecca: Monster Video.

I parked across the street, and the building drew me inside.

At the register, two old dudes and one guy near my age looked up as I entered. One old dude had gray, frizzy hair and a ZZ Top beard, and the other was bald and wore a handlebar mustache waxed and curled at the tips. The young guy nodded and smiled while the other two just stared.

"Looking for something?" Mr. Handlebar said.

"No. Just looking."

He made a grunting sound that could have meant anything from "Let me know if I can help you find anything" to "If you steal anything I'll cut your balls off."

They went back to their conversation and ignored me completely. Beside the register was a painted bust of Bela Lugosi as Dracula. I felt at home already.

I floated through the place. It was small, cramped with shelves, the shelves stuffed with DVDs and tapes. The movies were grouped by category. ALIENS. MAD SCIENTISTS. GIANT BUGS. The ZOMBIES section alone put most entire stores to shame. The grandeur of it all crushed in on me, made me feel safe.

The conversation from around the register filtered back to me.

"What about Faces of Death?" This was the young guy.

"Every one of those was fake." The old dude had the voice of a teacher tired from going over the same lesson again and again.

"But the gas chamber--"

"Was built in somebody's basement. They don't film executions."

There was a pause, and I could feel the room flood with disappointment. It so happened that I found Faces of Death on a shelf just then. Along with four sequels, Mondo Cane, and a few Asian shock films. All under the heading PSEUDO DOCUMENTARY.

"There are certain movies, right..." This was the young voice again. Cautious. Taking its time. "That have like real... deaths in them."

The room got cold. Swear to god. Fucking chilled right then. I leaned toward the conversation.

"Carl, I don't like where this is headed. Don't let me hear that kinda talk anymore. Or you're out. Got it?"

"Yeah. I was just talking. Nothing to it."

"We don't need that kinda talk around here."

I felt uneasy listening to Carl take a dressing down. So I moved on.

And I found Old Frankie waiting for me.

Big cardboard standee, green face, neck bolts and forehead scar, flattop skull. Classic. My friend there to welcome me, saying "This is a safe place. You're home now. You didn't know it, but all that time you were running, you were headed here."

I very lightly touched my knuckles to Frankie's shoulder.

In that corner of the store was the CLASSICS section. A bunch of the Universal movies were there, Chainsaw, Nightmare, Exorcist. And as an added bit of flare, wedged between the original Dracula and Nosferatu, sat a mock human skull, its top canines sharp and overhanging the bottom row.

I ran my finger along the spines of the movies, most of which I'd seen. Frankie was right. This was where I was meant to be.

I picked up the skull. The Nosferatu and Dracula boxes fell inward and leaned against each other. A quaint little vampire tent.

The shape and solidity of the skull. The jagged ridges where the curved plates fit into one another. The library of teeth.

The elongated canines.

Bit into the soft web of skin between my forefinger and thumb.

I screamed. The three guys at the register came running to find me holding what I thought was a Halloween prop skull, its teeth clamped down on my hand, blood flowing from the bite and pooling on the floor. The young guy, Carl, was jazzed about the whole scene, his eyes jumping from my hand to the blood and back. The old dudes looked exasperated.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I slipped." I know I didn't slip. But that was the only explanation that made sense at the time.

The old guy with the biblical beard said, "Look at the mess you made."

"I'm sorry," I said again. "I'll clean it up."

"I wasn't talking to you." He took the skull away from my hand. When the fangs pulled free from the puncture wounds, the blood flowed faster. It spattered loudly on the linoleum.

Carl was like a kid seeing his first circus. "Wow," he said. Anything more profound he might have had to say was cut off as Mr. Handlebar grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him toward the door.

"Good night, Carl."

"Wait." He fought to stay, but the old guy was relentless.

"Good night, Carl. We got this. See you tomorrow." He flung open the door, shoved Carl out, slammed it shut, turned the bolt.

Handlebar came back to where I was. The blood had nearly stopped, like a faucet turned off and dripping its last.

"This is just goddamned great," Handlebar said.

"Look, I said I was sorry."

"I wasn't talking to you."

"Then who?"

"Him." He pointed at Mr. Beard.

And Mr. Beard held up the skull, its teeth still slick with my blood.

I was stupefied.

"You apologize for what you did," Mr. Beard said.

I stammered out, "I'm sorry?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

"It's nothing personal," said the skull.

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