TALES FROM THE ODDSIDE:
And this is what happened
Al Bruno III
What happened at the house next door was not my fault. I am no accomplice, I’m a survivor, and a victim too. Yes, some kids died but at least for them it’s over, I’m the one that has to live with what happened.
And this is what happened;
It all started when the state bought the house next door to mine and filled it full of retards.
Oh don’t give me that, you’d think the same thing if you woke up one morning and found a home for ‘special needs children’ had popped up on your doorstep. Besides having Downs Syndrome the kids were all orphans. Even worse was that most of them weren’t even American.
I like my quiet and suddenly that quiet was gone. Music, laughter and the sounds of idiot children playing assaulted me all day. This was no joke because I work from home doing medical transcriptions; if I can’t concentrate I could make a mistake and someone could die.
The only thing I did wrong in all of this was that I made eye contact with one of the little fuckers. Then he said hello in this thick slurry Mexican accent and like a fool I said hello back.
For Christ’s sake it was like feeding a stray cat. From then on every time I left my house I got a hearty ‘Hello’ from Slowpoke Gonzales or whoever the Hell he was.
The nightmare just escalated from there, whenever he was outside he called to me, he asked my name, he asked me if I had any kids or if I wanted to come to his house and play. I had to keep my office window shut. You see it faced the House That Dripped Drool and if he saw me working he would call and shout until I acknowledged him.
I didn’t complain to the imbecile wranglers that ran the place, not only because they seemed to have their hands full just keeping those damn kids in the yard but also because I knew that if I said something all of a sudden I would be the bad guy in all this.
Yeah I know, fat lot of good that did me. When it all went down I had to move, then I had to move again when people in my new neighborhood realized who I was. I’m going to have to change my name next. It’s insane.
I was never charged with any crime. Why don’t people understand that? I’m practically an innocent bystander.
See, I talked to my supervisor about it, his name is Jorge but he’s not like an illegal immigrant or anything, he’s a respectable guy, has a condo and everything. He told me that his grandmother used to tell him stories about Kara Muerte which I guess means Dead Face.
After I told Jorge it sounded like he had a really fucked up grandma he explained that back in the old country when people had kids that were really bad or really mongoloid the adults would chant "Cara de Muerte dice que los niños rotos tienen el mejor sabor" in the moonlight. That roughly translated to "Death Face says broken children taste best."
Nice huh? Well, after you said that the ‘broken children would be whisked away by Kara Muerte and made part of the retard buffet she kept in her basement. Although sometimes she just took normal kids too so I guessed she was just a general all around bogey man or woman or whatever.
I was sure it was total bullshit but I thought to myself that if these kids were from the same old country as Jorge’s evil grandma they might know the same stories.
So, when Slowpoke Rodriguez knocked on my door a week or two later to invite me to his birthday party I told him I couldn’t because I had a hot date with Kara Muerte.
The kid totally freaked.
Then I whispered "Cara de Muerte dice que los niños rotos tienen el mejor sabor" and that set him running, then he fell on his face then he ran some more.
It was a little mean I admit but I had work to finish and they playoffs were starting for fuck’s sake! What happened next was not my fault.
First off I never ever believed that this Kara Muerte was real and second I didn’t even say the magic words in the moonlight. It was barely dusk!
A few nights later I heard footsteps downstairs. I got my good golf club and went to see what it was. What did I find? The dining room all done up with candles, wine and incense. She was waiting for me.
Kara Muerte. She was tall and long haired and her face was cleft. Do you understand what I mean? It wasn’t just a cleft palate, she had a cleft face. It was like the whole front of her head was a mask that twitched and grinned.
She pointed a long, red-stained finger towards the front of the table. I should have run or fought or screamed but I was too terrified. I knew that if she had to call after me or scold me the sound of her voice would make me go insane.
Once I took my seat we stared at each other for what seemed like forever. She never said a word, she never explained herself, she never left a single fingerprint at my house or at the scene of the crime.
She set two trays down in front of me, both overflowing with raw, pink meat.
Death Face says broken children taste best.
Before she left Kara Muerte made sure my taste buds had learned every subtle difference.