(AI Illustration)
Yard Work
by John Stanton
(Originally published in Indiana Horror Review 2014)
Frank’s next-door neighbor’s toy spitz’s given name was Pepper, but he usually called him
Peter. Because it drove him bat-shit crazy. Frank had just to yell “Peter!” and
the dog’s lips would curl back unsheathing those nicotine-stained needles. Then
came the menacing growl, and lift-off. Usually followed by a resounding yelp
when the leash nearly snapped his neck.
Frank caught the familiar waddle of Selma
Pilchard as she strutted down her driveway and headed in his direction on her
morning walk, no doubt to complain about the noise from his A.M. labors. Beak always pointing to the North Star, all
she needed was a monocle to be the incarnation of a late 1920s The New Yorker caricature. As Selma stalked up to
Frank, Peter bared his teeth, snarled and leapt from her arms. Frank took a
step to his right. He felt a cold shiver of guilt as the mutt sailed past him
and into the hopper of his Uncle Phil’s woodchipper. Selma shrieked, then
dropped to her knees.
Moments later, Frank was in his kitchen pouring
a glass of ice water for her, thoughts racing on apologies and penance;
especially to his wife Pammie, who actually liked the diminutive Pomeranian snotball. Peter would eat kibble right out
of her hand.
Through the kitchen window, he could see Selma,
now rocking side to side, keening, sun glistening off her diamond earrings. As
he opened the screen door, she stood tall for a moment, then dove headlong into
the woodchipper.
“Why didn’t I turn the damned thing off?”
When he got back to the chipper, all that was
left of Selma that wasn’t mulch, was a single red shoe where she last stood. As
Frank jammed his thumb into the “Off” button, electricity shot through him. Everything
went black. He didn’t know how long it was before he could see again, but it
seemed like hours before he could pull himself up enough to sit.
“Mister? You OK? Did you hurt yourself?” A
teenage girl’s voice cooed from behind tousled blond locks. Frank managed an
unintelligible guttural.
“Dude, what the hell happened here?” echoed
tinny from the male-thing hovering next to her. School must have let out.
“Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar . . .”
they chorused. Christ, she’s a fucking cheerleader. Man-boy laced his
fingertips together and the girl stepped in his hands, placing her palms on his
shoulders. “All for Southwest, stand up and holler!” She arced gracefully above
the horizon–the diesel
whined while the chipper blades gnashed dense bones and gristle, then returned
to its steady hum. The boy then threw a leg over the hopper, cheerfully doffed
his cap and said, “G’day, mate!” in a fake Aussie accent before he slid in
after her. Frank puked until there was nothing left to hock up.
“This isn’t fucking happening,” he could hear
himself snort. “Maybe the mutt, maybe Mrs. Pilchard . . . but nobody is going to believe this shit.”
When he could stand, Frank kicked the crap out
of the chipper; he hopped around with a broken toe, while it chugged menacingly
behind him.
Leaning against a tree, Frank frantically
punched the keypad of his cell until Uncle Phil’s phone rang. Meanwhile, a fat
squirrel scrambled up to the lip of the hopper, sniffed the air for a few
seconds, then flopped in. Uncle Phil’s phone went to voice mail.
Back in his house, Frank hobbled around the
kitchen nursing a cold brew. “Who can I call? The cops? The fire department?
The Bureau of Haunted Woodchippers?” He heard the damned thing whine again and bolted back outside.
The letter-carrier’s mailbag, stuffed with
bills and advertisements, sat on the sidewalk. No sign of balding Bob, who had delivered
Frank’s mail for the past six years. No point in looking at the growing pile of
gore behind the chipper.
Frank backed the Mini-Cooper out of the garage
and used it to impede about half of the access to the chipper. A few minutes
later, while rolling a wheelbarrow stuffed with bulky garage crap and yard
gnomes out to block off the other side, he saw the Fatso’s Pizza delivery guy
scramble up the Cooper and do a cannonball into the chopper hopper. The more
obstacles Frank placed in its way, the more determined folks became—it averaged
four people and a critter
or two an hour, for the next three hours. He could have sold tickets.
Frank jammed his shovel into the spinning
flails of the woodchipper, and all he got for his trouble was a dislocated
shoulder, which he slammed against the garage door frame until bone popped back
into socket.
Only when he had stopped screaming did he notice the shrapnel in his
leg.
Frank used his belt as a makeshift tourniquet.
He hobbled back to the chipper and watched with fascination as it gorged itself
on an elderly man’s leg. The old man sat on the lip of the hopper, weeping and
wobbling, looking at Frank with pleading eyes. Frank obliged, and gave the old
fellow a helpful shove. Moments later, the crimson maw spat out a titanium knee.
It clipped Frank on his left temple.
With the thud of metal to bone came searing
pain–and epiphany. Prometheus. Odysseus. Kris Humphries. Frank realized he had
joined the roster of those royally fucked by the gods.
Frank laughed until tears rolled down his
cheeks. He pulled out his phone and flipped between numbers in the address book. Wilmer Gerhardt, his
boss. Pammie’s mother. Floyd Bishop, who had debagged him in high school. Clive
Wilson, whom Pammie promised she’d never see again ….
“Eeny, meeny, miny, moe . . . which of you has
got to go?”
Frank thought for a long moment, then dialed the number.