Three Twisted Stories Part 6

Just like Melvin Finkelmeyer.

Six scotches in, Charlie should have been able to push the dead man from his mind, but the story the widow told him was haunting him.

The truth was, Charlie had thought the homeless guy was black the first time he'd seen him. He was standing in the street dressed like a black man, talking like a black man. h.e.l.l, he'd even called himself a black man.

Coward can't handle takin' on no homeless brother!

Outside the dry cleaner's, Finkelmeyer still looked black. He sounded black. The knife even looked like something a black man would carry.

Add to that the fact that the man's own wife, now his widow, had claimed that he'd turned into a black man. She'd kicked him out of their home for it. She'd alienated him from his children. She'd barely given him sc.r.a.ps from her table.

So Finkelmeyer thought he was cursed. What man wouldn't? He'd killed himself to end it. Charlie wasn't going to kill himself. He'd spent his entire life scrambling to survive. No way in h.e.l.l he'd take his own life, no matter how bad it got.

Honestly, how bad was it, anyway?

Not bad. Charlie could deal with what was happening to him. So what if people were treating him like he was an idiot? So what if blood was coming out of his p.r.i.c.k and he felt bloated all the time? So what if his chest was sore, and double so what if it wasn't really his chest, but his nipples?

Sue's laughter traveled down the stairs.

Charlie closed his eyes. Instantly, he saw Sue being f.u.c.ked by Burt Reynolds. He was behind her. His hairy chest was rubbing against her naked back. He squeezed her b.r.e.a.s.t.s as he rammed into her. She could feel his breath on her neck. His tight b.a.l.l.s slapping her a.s.s. His fingers reached down and touched her between the legs and- "Jesus Christ!" Charlie jumped up from the table so fast that the chair fell over.

"Charlie?" Sue called, worried.

"I'm-" Charlie had to clear his throat to bring his voice down a few octaves. "I'm fine."

h.e.l.l yes, he was fine. He was hard as a f.u.c.king rock.

Charlie picked up the chair off the floor and righted it. He sat down with his legs wide apart. His pants were tented up like Ringling Brothers. He hadn't been this hard in twenty years.

Charlie laughed. What a dumba.s.s he was. That stupid Jewish slit had him thinking he was turning into a woman. He could say the words now, if only to himself. The widow claimed Melvin Finkelmeyer had turned into the very thing he hated most. Charlie didn't hate women. As a matter of fact, Charlie loved women.

He laughed again. You didn't see a woman walk around with a b.o.n.e.r like this between her legs.

He shuddered at the thought.

And then he listened.

Sue was chuckling at something on TV. The floor creaked as Jenny walked from the bathroom back to her bedroom. He heard her door shut.

Slowly, Charlie unzipped his pants. He stared at his c.o.c.k like it was a long-lost friend. Jesus, it was magnificent. Not as big as most, but he could do a lot with it. Charlie spit in his hand. He wrapped his fingers around the shaft. He gave it a gentle stroke.

His c.o.c.k came off in his hand.

Literally.

His entire c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s unplugged from his body.

Charlie stared at his genitals. He raised them to eye level. He turned them upside down. There were two thick p.r.o.ngs like an electrical plug on the bottom.

He felt between his legs. Two sockets. Or maybe not two sockets. The one in back was definitely his a.s.shole. Which meant the one in front ...

Charlie thought about that for several minutes.

He licked his fingers and stuck them into his v.a.g.i.n.a. Charlie hadn't put his face near one of those things in years, but the smell was familiar. He slowly pulled out his fingers and traced them up the inside of his slit.

"s.h.i.+t!" he gasped.

Who the f.u.c.k knew that thing was there?

Charlie touched it again. An electric jolt went through his body. He played around, trying to get the touch just right. Oddly, lighter was better. He guessed that made sense. The little flap of skin was sensitive. Charlie remembered his girlfriend asking him to touch hers, but he didn't have the patience. Put one of these on a man and he'd have all the patience in the world. Jesus Christ, it felt like a thousand b.u.t.terflies giving him a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b.

He closed his eyes as he touched himself. His tongue darted out between his teeth. His toes gripped at the floor. He thought about his girlfriend. Then he thought about his wife. He forced himself not to think about Burt Reynolds.

That guy probably knew where to put his fingers. Charlie probably would've too, if he'd had the time. He was always rus.h.i.+ng around trying to work, trying to take care of his family. s.h.i.+t, he should probably be at work right now. He still needed to process the paperwork on Commissioner Ballantine's Cadillac. He needed to go back to the mall and get underwear. He'd take a hundred-dollar bill and shove it in Judy's face. Let her tell Mabel about it over lunch. And he should probably get Jenny that Easter basket. College! Who knew his baby was going to college? She'd need all kinds of things. Sheets for her bed, posters for the walls, and he wasn't going to send her to UGA without buying her a new wardrobe. How much was that going to cost? Charlie would have to talk to his sales team. The quotas were going to go up. They couldn't coast anymore. Maybe he should fire some people to put the fear of G.o.d in the rest of them. Deacon should be the first one out the door. The way he had talked to Charlie today like he didn't know his own mind.

Charlie realized his hand had stopped.

What the h.e.l.l? He couldn't concentrate long enough to diddle himself. Normally, he clocked out the minute his d.i.c.k got hard, but now he felt overwhelmed with things he had to do. He needed to make a list.

Charlie stood up. He opened the junk drawer, but it was so messy he couldn't find anything. Sue had left the supper dishes drying on the rack. He should probably put those away. Had she ironed his s.h.i.+rts yet? He couldn't show up at Mike Thevis's wearing a wrinkled s.h.i.+rt.

"s.h.i.+t." Charlie sat back down in the chair. This wasn't him. What did he care about ironed s.h.i.+rts and clean dishes? He was a man.

He said the words, "I'm a man, G.o.dd.a.m.n it."

Charlie grabbed his c.o.c.k off the table. He crammed it into his v.a.g.i.n.a. It caught on the sides, but he breathed through the pain, shoving it up to his b.a.l.l.s. He wriggled his hips. There was still some room in there. Charlie pushed harder, but apparently he had an unnaturally long v.a.g.i.n.a.

Charlie didn't let this stop him. He f.u.c.ked himself. First fast, then slow, then fast again, then slow. He pulled it out until the tip almost showed. He pushed it in until he felt the b.a.l.l.s strain. Back and forth, fast and slow. He turned it different ways. He went upside down. More fast, more slow, until finally, he gave up.

Charlie stared at the d.i.c.k in his hand.

Honestly, he didn't see what all the fuss was about.

APRIL 8, 1974.

Chapter Seven.

The Braves hat was back on the chicken when Charlie walked onto the dealers.h.i.+p floor. He wanted to let it go, but it grated like nothing else in his life. Charlie was running a business, not a nursery.

He raised his voice. "Who put this f.u.c.king hat back on the chicken?"

Everybody looked at him like he was insane.

Charlie screamed, "I asked who put this f.u.c.king hat on the chicken!"

"Hey, hey, brother." Deacon put his hand on Charlie's arm. "Let's chill out, now. All right?"

Charlie threw off his brother's hand. "Don't tell me to chill out, you jacka.s.s."

Deacon rubbed his hand like Charlie had slapped it. "I know you don't care about sports, but it's a big thing for a lot of guys. Hank versus the Babe. History in the making." He winked at Charlie. "If they don't shoot him first."

"What if a customer walks through that door, sees that hat, then walks back out?" He s.n.a.t.c.hed the hat off the chicken and threw it at Deacon.

Deacon missed the toss. "Jesus, Chuckles. No need to get hysterical."

"I am not hysterical," Charlie said, hearing the hysteria in his own voice. He tried to sound calm, but all he could manage was to hiss the words through his teeth. "I said don't put the hat on the chicken."

He turned on his heel and walked toward his office. He felt the heat of Deacon's gaze on his back. Let him stare. Charlie didn't give a s.h.i.+t. He was so tired of getting pushback on everything he said. Charlie made thousands of decisions every day. He didn't have time to explain the reasons behind them. And he shouldn't have to. This was his dealers.h.i.+p. This was his company.

Charlie felt tears in his eyes. He was so angry that he felt his throat closing. He wanted to go back and scream at Deacon, but he knew how his brother worked. Somehow, he would manage to make it look like Charlie was the crazy one.

"f.u.c.k it," Charlie said. He pushed open the door to his office. He put his briefcase on the floor when what he really wanted to do was throw it through the window.

He stood in the middle of the room with his hands on his hips.

What fresh h.e.l.l awaited him today? Going by Finkelmeyer, the whole f.u.c.king building would burn down. Let it burn, Charlie thought. And then he chastised himself for going to such a dark place. Deacon wasn't his only employee. The guys in the back respected him. The porters never questioned Charlie's decisions. They did what he said and were happy to take their paychecks.

"Am I interrupting?" Darla stood in his office doorway. "Just checking if you want some coffee. I just put on a fresh pot."

"Sure." Charlie started toward the door.

"I'll get it." Darla gave him a curious look. "You want a doughnut, too?"

"No thanks. I'm trying to watch my weight." Charlie wiped his eyes as he walked over to his chair. He hoped Darla wasn't going to tell the other secretaries that he'd been crying.

Charlie sat down at his desk. He looked around his office. Why had he ever thought this s.h.i.+thole made him look successful? All the furniture was chrome and leather, looking every bit of the discount Charlie got from the guy who sold it to him. The paneling on the walls was buckled. The framed photos of him with the old mayor, the new mayor, and any other dignitary who was willing to stand in front of a camera with him were kind of braggy. And his desk was huge. There was no point in having a desk this large. All it did was collect paperwork. And dust. Charlie ran his hand along the back edge. How much was he paying the cleaning crew? Why was it the only way a job got done right around here was if Charlie did it himself?

The phone on his desk rang. Charlie answered because Darla was busy getting his coffee. "Lam Auto Sales."

"Mr. Lam?"

Charlie felt a pebble lodge in his throat. "Mr. Chop."

"Going to the game tomorrow night?"

Charlie hesitated. This was off script. "If you think I should."

"I heard about your altercation."

Charlie sat up in his chair. He pictured Mike Thevis outside the kitchen window last night watching Charlie try to f.u.c.k himself.

"Finkelmeyer." Thevis said the word like it left a bad taste in his mouth. "f.u.c.kin' c.o.o.n. Who knew?"

Charlie knew, but he didn't say.

"People hiding like that. Thinking they can pa.s.s. Makes me sick, you know."

Charlie said nothing.

"Mr. Lam?"

"Yes, Mr. Chop?"

"You're not hiding anything?"

Charlie felt his stomach drop. "No, sir."

"Good," Thevis said. "I'm sure it'll be easier for you today."

"Today?"

"When you go to pick up your suit."

Charlie swallowed. Just the thought of going back to the dry cleaner's made him feel like he was going to wet his pants. "Yes, sir. I'll be there as soon as-"

There was a click on the other end of the line.

Charlie hung up the phone. Did Thevis know what was happening to Charlie? Did he know about the curse? The man ran all kinds of p.o.r.n. The kiddie stuff at the widow's house was just the tip of the iceberg. There was talk about snuff films. Bondage that went too far. Had Thevis set up Charlie for one of his sick movies?

Charlie gripped the arms of his chair. This was some kind of black voodoo magic that was working on him. If Thevis was involved, then Charlie was f.u.c.ked more than he thought.

"You okay?" Darla stood with a cup of coffee in each hand.

Charlie felt sweat dripping under his b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Is it hot in here?"

"It's always hot." Darla handed him one of the cups. "Your sister called. I said you were with a customer. Two of your brothers called. I should know them by now, but I couldn't tell you their names."

"I have that same problem." He indicated the chair across from him. "Let's talk."

Darla sat on the edge of the chair. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, of course not." Charlie drank the coffee. She'd put in too much sugar, but he didn't want to upset her so he drank some more.

She asked, "Do you want me to take dictation or-"

"How much do I pay you?"

"I'm not complaining if that's-"

"I didn't-"