Murder Laundromat Inc.
© By Gary L Morton (1000 words)
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Let me tell you about something a friend of my mother told her cousin-
Huh, Jack. That's no way to start a scary story.
Who in the hell are you? I don't see anyone?
I'm the funny voice you've been hearing for years, Jack.
Oh, you. Well, try not to cause problems. Let's begin again. --There'd been reports of evil Elvis angels in the snow that year, so it came as no surprise when he heard a werewolf howling at his window that morning.
You’re right Jack, and that howling skirled up so high and sharp his backbone shattered like an icicle.
And his teeth chattered as he crossed that desolate snow-blown highway out front of Murder Laundromat Inc.
For some reason he was startled when he found the place empty, but not so empty that invisible eyes weren't everywhere on the walls.
And this was no enchanted dance floor he saw before him. It was a grimy, gritty, soap-and-bloodstained floor that was smeared and running with slime like Godzilla snot.
Of course it was at that moment that he heard a ghostly, ghastly cry -- Ooh-ah, Ooh-ah!
Sort of like the cry you'd make if someone hacked off your hand with an iodine-soaked cleaver.
And then one of the laundry machines started by itself, rolling and thundering round in rumbles loud enough to bust pack ice.
Something dark and evil was behind that steamy porthole, he knew. And snapping a cloth out of his laundry basket he went over and rubbed the glass clear for a better look.
And as he rubbed, the lights blinked and a face flashed behind the glass. A hideous face; the face of a genie.
Then terror hit him. Flakes of dead skin stood up like scales on the back of his neck. That genie was the spitting image of long dead Saddam Hussein.
That's right, Jack. The genie didn't shave, and he knew that if Saddam was around he stood a good chance of getting blown to smithereens by some of them bearded Yiddish guys.
What? Bearded Yiddish guys? Hold it, that's no way to build suspense. There is nothing scary about bearded Yiddish guys. If you're going with Saddam, go with him - make him a goddamn axe-murdering monster.
Jack, this is hardly the place for gore and yellow journalism.
Okay, okay -- nevertheless, Saddam genie disappeared and our hero yelled, Whatthefu. . . ledtjdidd . . . ! And this was because in place of Saddam, he saw hundred dollar bills fluttering. It was a miracle washing machine, drying a load of hundred dollar bills.
Needless to say, he opened the washer to snatch those bills, only all he saw was a swirling pit of purple prose.
And Saddam genie was in there, laughing wickedly.
One swift movement and Saddam genie had his arm, pulling him in.
Then the scene changed and he saw a bad zombie movie and a blood soaked sign that spelled MURDER LAUNDROMAT INC., YOU'RE SNUFFED PAL.
Lightning scritched, rains of soap slashed him, then the world was a gearbox.
Big grinding razor gears that were turning his arms into hamburger, bone bits and pieces of crap that looked like something a torturer might peel from your spleen.
It was then that he realized what the stains and Godzilla snot were - they were the left-behinds of people who'd gotten the gears.
God it was a nightmare -- his shoulder caved in like a Crispy Crunch bar as he was inched further inside.
His screams echoed up and rent the sky above that place called Murder Laundromat Inc.
Demons ripped at piano wires.
Time stood still so that the eyes watching him from the walls saw him being chewed up in slow motion.
Then Saddam genie appeared, laughing wickedly as he ripped at the cord of a chainsaw.
But when it wouldn't start, he put it in a dryer and said- Cut off the hands of the thief! Cut out the tongue of a liar!
And the gears sped up with the sound of his voice, and quicker than an Arabian knight, he lurched forward and shoved our hero into the gears.
It was garbage-disposal city as a green-pink rain of bloody goo showered the wild Saddam genie. And for our hero it was the--
It was the Twilight Zone. Out of that pit of purple prose like a man shot from a canon he came whirling, tumbling and sliding under the neon signs depending from a sky never-ending in a world dead-ending in the--
Not the goddamn Twilight Zone!
Yes and not a place like in all those horror stories where it just looks like the Twilight Zone. It was the real zone. The neon signs said TWILIGHT ZONE, and as he ran into those blue magic lights, on to paradise and into the beyond we all call the unknown -- into nightmares--
Wait a moment. Nobody takes a meat grinder to the Twilight Zone. You can't end a story like that.
Why not? How would you end it?
Me? Well -- A mound of lung-heaving green tissue slipped through Murder Laundromat Inc., hungry for victims as Saddam genie stepped out front into the howling wind. There he posed beside a wooden Indian and froze. Lights twinkled in icicles, his eyes and off his scimitar. Will he strike again? Is there anyone who can stop Saddam genie?
Say, do you hear that sound?
Yeah, a voice saying, Who put the bop in the . . . .
Right, it's the magic language of the Old Ones calling us to Cuthulu.
We'll never get good reviews with this shit.
You want good reviews. Okay, we'll change the ending again. Make it one of those offbeat literary fiction endings the critics rave about.
-- In the emptiness of that human wilderness, there was incest between a man and his dog. Without warning, a runaway train struck them both. When the conductor got out and looked at that mess, he knew that his life, and indeed all of our lives, have never been more than the reflection of blood on ice.
That's great, Jack . . . good night.
---The End ---