Ye Liveliest Wickedness

Cherry Gerrard

Description

The macabre and supernatural add to the atmospherics of this beguiling collection. From the descent into madness of a man trapped in the Polar ice to a gruesome American Civil War discovery far grislier than the usual horrors of war, or the oddly ribald haunting in New Orleans to the downright bizarre man who comes to a restaurant every day to gulp down vast quantities at the shrimp buffet while his forlorn waitress seems to gain weight on his behalf. Gerrard achieves a delightful balance of whimsy and the grotesque.

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 22 mai 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780974521787
• Langue: English

Extrait

Title Page
Ye Liveliest Wickedness


Cherry Gerrard
a World Waters publication
Las Vegas - Ottawa



Publisher Information
Copyright © 2012 Cherry Gerrard
Published in 2012 by
World Waters
Las Vegas, NV USA
www.worldwatersbooks.com
Digital edition converted in 2012 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
All rights reserved
Cover design by World Waters
Interior layout by Steven Urban
Original text produced in the United States of America . No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form - except quoting brief passages in a review - without permission in writing from author or publisher.
1 st ed.



Author’s Note





With the exception of Luna Umbra, the locations, customs, and arcing theatre of events in these stories are historically accurate (barring the supernatural, of course).



Book I: Luna Umbra
New M oon
Returning t o the table, the man set the heaping plate before him. Deftly he slid into the seat and then wriggled in firmly. His napkin was plucked delicately from the table and the tips pushed deep into his shirt collar. The peach linen reflected curiously from the polished silverware. He brought simple contents from the buffet, but he reviewed them with intense, manifest scrutiny.
I wondered what was so fascinating about it. His plate was piled high with pink, unpeeled shrimp. The mound of morsels rose like a pyramid. Circling it were four lemon wedges, all placed carefully apart from each other . He was very particular about that: they were at 0°, 90°, 180°, and 270°. They all faced inwards, paying homage to the shrine of nourishment.
The man’s lips cracked into an anxious grin. Seeing his pink, swollen tongue momentarily peek from behind the coffee-stained teeth made me grimace. There was something very unsettling about his mouth. His short white mustache was stained with a hint of pink.
He was ready to begin.
With a grand sweep of both hands he pushed the entire affair onto the tablecloth. Shrimp dropped to the linen and lemons cascaded after. The backs of his hands became greasy and covered with lemon juice. He brushed them absently upon his pants.
After cracking thick, knobby knuckles the man began to peel. The meat was deposited once more onto the grease-smeared plate. Those large hands did not appear a part of the man who utilized them with such precision. Though his waist was trim, his hands were bloated. They bobbed in the air before him, not possibly part of his slender person, but like swooping, pale vermin.
Slowly the plate filled with the shrimps once again, now peeled and ready for consumption. The linen beside the plate had since grown wet and slimy beneath the detritus, but the man paid it no heed. I thought he looked like nothing more than an unthinking robot, some sort of shrimping machine.
Yet I sensed this was not so. Beneath the mildly sweating forehead and knitted white brows lurked a thinking man. His mind orbited the plate’s growing contents with unparalleled marvel. He throbbed with anticipation of what was to come next.
Finally the plate was full and the table loaded only with discarded shells and shrimp legs, barring the lemons. He excitedly snatched up the citrus and squeezed the pulp viciously. The lemons were horribly mangled in those powerful hands, the rinds actually splitting and the juice dribbling from his clenched, hammy fists. The renewed mound of shrimp flowed with the fluid like a volcano smothered in molten lava. Once bereft of their precious juice, the crushed lemons were cast aside as so much useless rind.
This ritual lasted nearly five full minutes. To my further disgust, he shoveled the shrimp into his mouth and gulped them down in barely a single breath. Once through, the man wasted no further time with contemplation or digestion. His napkin was already ripped from its home and tossed to the table, and he departed. He was intent upon the buffet line once again.
***
“Oh my God,” I groaned to Wayne. “He’s back again.”
“Who?”
“The shrimp guy.”
Wayne echoed my moan. “What, is this guy European or something?”
I shrugged, not understanding his reference. “I don’t know. I guess he kind of looks European. Why?”
“You know, lot’s of Europeans come in late and stay all afternoon. Those countries with siestas and all that.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, but no, I don’t think he’s European. He’s too nice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Most Europeans I’ve served are really demanding and think of waitresses differently, like a servant and stuff. You know, Americans are friendly to waiters.”
“You think?” he acknowledged, lost in thought.
“Well, maybe not here in Chicago...” I muttered.
This man, Mr. Arno, had returned yet again after discovering the peel-and-eat shrimp buffet four days ago. The first day he had not eaten anything, but had seemed very excited when he spied the buffet. The next day he returned and began his strange ritualistic eating. He was nice enough, but he came in late and left even later. We had to keep the buffet open for him, and I had to waste all damn afternoon. I normally only had two hours between lunch and class, and now I had to rush even more. Not surprisingly, he was sitting at table 29.5. He always sat at the little half-sized table by the pillar, and always did his shrimp thing. He was so weird!
“I swear to God, if he comes tomorrow I’ll quit. This is a fine dining restaurant - for dinner anyway - not the Tuna Bucket Buffet.”
I looked over to Wayne, but he was absently flexing his muscles beneath his uniform. I could always tell by the way the tendons in his neck tensed and popped. He had a deplorable fixation with his bulk and was adding to it every day. This he bragged about more than his grades, or even his steroid use.
I rolled my eyes in wonder at him. In particular he always flexed when I was around. I guess he thought it turned me on. I told him a dozen times that I couldn’t date him even if I wanted to, which I did not, because he was only seventeen.
“Wayne,” I chided, “Stop it.”
“Hmm?”
“You’re flexing again. You are almost as obsessive as Mr. Arno.”
Wayne’s pale features were flushed red with the combination of his excitement whenever he was around me, his constant use of a tanning bed, and the excessive acne that was a secondary result of steroid use. His pimples and freckles fought for dominance over his face and in particular on his pug-like nose. He swept aside his pale blond hair in a further act of self-posturing.
“If you want to talk about obsession,” he retorted. “Then let’s talk about it. I can’t believe you let go of your script for more than five minutes today!”
“Don’t remind me! It’s at home, and now all this time is wasted. Tomorrow I’m bringing it for sure.”
I had less than two weeks remaining to memorize all my lines. I was playing the lead female role at the Cook Community College’s performance of Cyrano de Bergerac. Not only was I being graded on my performance, but if I did well I could get accepted into the Emoting Society. Oh that would be awesome. Usually I went nowhere without my script, but after my hairdryer broke this morning I forgot it in my anger. I am helpless without my routine.
“Look, he’s doing the shrimp thing again,” Wayne giggled.
I had no desire to watch the horrible ritual yet again, so I left the serving station and strode down to the kitchen. I wanted to escape the two most annoying men ever known. Well, man and boy . I had no luck. Wayne trailed after me, continuing, “He shoveled it all in, and now he’s on his second plate.”
Wayne was not tall, but he still towered over me. I was very small. Five foot two, eyes of blue, one hundred two , I liked to say. I knew I was pretty, but I thought my nose was too big. Obviously Wayne didn’t. I swear he talked about me more than even himself, if that’s possible. I’m sure it never crossed his mind that I was twenty-two and not about to date a high school kid. It’s not like he loved me or anything. He just liked my ass.
“Wayne,” I said, turning on him suddenly, “I am going to have a cigarette, all right?”
“Sure,” he said, standing a bit too near for my comfort.
“Okay, then stop following me. You need to keep an eye on Mr. Arno.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Arno. The shrimp guy.”
“Ok, yeah. Sure,” he said as he skipped away. He acted pleased to be doing me a favor, as if it weren’t his job. I sighed quietly, but was thankful for a few minutes of respite from his constant harassment. He was a good kid, very smart, but just so... annoying!
I worked my way through the kitchen and to the back dock. Through the greasy metal doors was the smoking area. I stepped into the concrete cell walled with the brick of the building. The area was dominated by the huge garbage dumpster, and was only reached from the kitchen or the ramp leading to the alley. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. Strange smears of black and brown streaked across the concrete, indicating years of dragged canisters of restaurant refuse. Potato peelings were mercilessly driven into the concrete.
My favorite spot was blessedly free of stains but weeded with cigarette butts. I kicked aside browned and smashed filters like dead leaves, and leaned against the cool brick.
I fished the lighter from the half-empty pack and lit a cigarette. I sucked it all in, loving it. Only slowly did I let out the smoke. I never used to smoke so much, but after meeting the trying Mr. Arno, and having to endure the extra hour daily with Wayne, I found the numbers increasing dramatically.
Tomorrow I would bring my script again. Wayne had offered o