Sex and Murder Magazine

By Asher Ellis

As Winston Todd walked down the underground tunnel beneath the barn of the old Brooks Farm, he thought about his conversation earlier with the younger man who walked ahead of him. The conversation had taken place only two days prior, and it was quite remarkable in Winston's opinion how the events since had unraveled so quickly. Born and raised in the metropolitan world of the city, Winston knew quite well how long even the simplest query could take to receive an answer. A question could be passed around like a potato, from one department to the next.

Oh I'm sorry. You'll have to talk to so-and-so about that.

But here, in this small rural town that Winston had just moved to only a month before, your questions got answered right away because either everyone knew everything or no one knew anything.

This raw simplicity was the exact reason Winston had packed his bags and gotten the hell out of Dodge. After his 40th birthday, two divorces, and a company letting him go only to say it was "out of their hands," Winston Todd had had enough of the big city bullshit. It was a lifestyle given to him, handed to him, forced on him. But worst of all, it was expected of him. He imagined most would label his choice a typical "mid life crisis," but Winston could deal with that. What he couldn't deal with was living as Mr. Predictable another day further. So he sold his downtown apartment, loaded up his car, and headed for the country. A better way to activate change and shock the ones who thought they knew him, Winston did not know.

There were trials and tribulations of course. But that's to be expected when one slams the breaks on their life and yanks the wheel a sharp ninety degrees. So Winston was OK with having to stay at the low rate, in fact seedy, Pine Lake Motel while the last few details of his new home deal were being negotiated. Details that included, but were not limited to, the previous owner's relatives clearing out the remaining furniture left behind after the death.

But patience paid off and it wasn't long until Winston was fully moved in and proud to call the old colonial-style house his new home. A new home to go with his new business, owning and running the town's dry goods and general store. A rather bold investment considering the townsfolk were not likely to take kindly to an outsider buying one of their properties. However, once they realized the new selection and lower prices his business savvy was bringing for their benefit, it did not take long for the locals to welcome him warmly. For the first time since he could remember, Winston was happy.

And then he found the tape in his mailbox.

The footage had arrived in a plain looking manila envelope, lined with bubble wrap to protect the cassette inside. There was no name on the packaging but only the physical address of Winston's home, handwritten with a black magic marker. Winston initially assumed it was mail meant for the previous owners from a faraway associate who had yet to hear the news. But since it was addressed to any person in particular, Winston could not fight the urge to rip the seal once he had returned indoors.

It was easy to tell the videotape was a blank meant for bootlegging, one that can be found at any electronic store. A crude label consisting of a simple strip of packaging tape was stuck to the front. In fountain pen written letters, the title read "Attic Attack."

Due to an oddly coinciding event, Winston just happened to have his old VCR plugged in to his much more modern, flat panel TV. A few days earlier, his high definition DVD player had broken leaving him with no other option for after dinner cinema than this older piece of technology. He was still waiting for his new player to arrive in the mail, a purchase he was forced to make online since the closest Best Buy or Circuit City was several hours away.

So with the convenience of the compatible machine only a few feet across the living room, Winston popped the tape into his VCR believing it to be a low budget horror movie recorded from late night cable.

He had been close.

It was indeed a low budget production. In fact, Winston could say with a high degree of confidence after making his own share of home movies, that it was filmed with a consumer camcorder. It began with a middle aged looking woman going through an old trunk in an attic similar to Winston's, and the plot progressed quickly from there. Three large men wearing black ski masks suddenly ambushed the woman, one of them emerging from behind the camera. Two of the men brought her to floor and pinned her arms and legs.

Winston did not look away when they began nailing her hands to the wooden floorboards like an un-glamorized reenactment of the crucifixion. He was appalled and disgusted at this recorded ultra-violence, but was determined to find proof in the image that it was all a falsity.

It was when they began to take the hatchet, like the one resting in the chopping stump in Winston's own front yard, and hack away at the poor woman's ankle that Winston finally stopped the tape, literally punching the power button on his TV.

Winton raced back over to the dining room table where he had placed the empty envelope. He frantically searched for any details he might've missed but it was clearly evident that nothing more was written than the address on the front. But as Winston, in a state of pure shock and panic turned it over and over in his hands, a small business card sized piece of paper fell to the carpet at his feet. It was a note that simply read,

Like what you see?

Red Leaf Tavern, 10 PM.

At the time, Winston was too shaken up to have said why he followed the card's directions and didn't just phone the police. But in retrospect, the answer was as clear as day. It was the same reason that had led him to the small town in the first place. Phoning the police would've been the smart thing to do. The safe thing to do. The expected thing to do.

So Winston had gone to the local pub and ordered the cheapest beer on tap. He spun his barstool around and looked over the night's crowd, his eyes darting from one man to another trying to instinctually identify the author of the note. Instead his glance landed, naturally, on an attractive blonde young woman being escorted by a boy her age wearing a John Deere cap. She stood out in this crowd, not only due to her good looks but her attire as well. With a leather jacket and several earrings, including one in her left eyebrow, the girl more resembled the bar women Winston was used to seeing in the city from whence he came.

John Deere led her over to a group of other men and cordially introduced her. Winston watched her shake hands in a flirty, girly fashion, palm down with her head tilted to the side while she grinned as bright as she could. John Deere patted her on the back and a moment later, he was sitting on the stool right next to Winston.

"Interested in some more?"

At first, Winston was still too preoccupied with the woman across the room to realize the young man was actually talking to him. But in his peripheral vision he could see the brim of the man's hat was facing in his direction.

"Excuse me?"

John Deere swallowed a mouthful of beer and motioned with the bottle to a clock above the tavern's door. "Well you're early. So I'm assuming you're anxious for the sequel."

Winston's heartbeat immediately increased. The bar now felt ten times warmer than it had been only moments ago, but Winston was far too nervous to remove his coat.

"Only if it was real."

John Deere smiled as he reached past Winston for a bag with a label that read, "Snick Snacks Bar Nuts." He opened the bag and offered one to Winston who put his hand up in a "No, thank you" gesture.

"Well, what do you think?"

Winston checked to see if anyone appeared to be eavesdropping. "I thought that stuff was a myth. An urban legend."

John Deere's gaze turned from a basketball game that was in progress on the wall-mounted television. "It is an urban legend because you can't find it in the city. I've never understood how that rumor of an underground market in New York or L.A. was ever started. I mean, c'mon! Undercover cops, homicide detectives, fuckin…" the man searched for his words, "…Police helicopters. You think there's any of that out here? Shit, I've been growing weed in my backyard my whole life without any tents or tarps or nothing. You'll like living here, man."

Winston stared at the man incredulously. He caught himself involuntarily shaking his head as the man talked. The only word he could get out of his mouth before the man spoke again was "But…"

Then the man impatiently cut him off. "You ever hear of Ed Gein?"

"You mean the serial killer?"

"I mean the man who's considered one of the sickest, most depraved men in all of human history. The guy whose casual Sunday wear was a suit of women's skin and was able to outfit his whole house with human furniture before anyone even got suspicious."

"What about him?"

"That all happened in Plainfield, Wisconsin. A town smaller this one." John Deere finished his beer and stood up from the bar. "I got to get going. But if you're interested in more, meet me in the parking lot outside on Tuesday night. I drive a dark blue pick-up truck."

Hesitantly, Winston replied, "Okay."

The man threw his arms in the sleeves of his Carhartt jacket and proceeded to walk away. But he only got one step past Winston's stool before he added a final comment.

"I'm glad you share the local tastes. It would've done you no good going to the police. And you would've had to find that out the hard way. Just like the old timer who used to live at your address."

John Deere winked and walked towards the door. Somehow after hearing one shocking piece of information after another, Winston remembered a very important thought he'd been meaning to ask this whole conversation. He barely made it to the door to catch John Deere from vanishing into the night.

"Hey, I almost forgot!" Winston whispered even though the noise of the bar would easily drown out their own voices from prying ears. "Do I owe you anything for the first video?" Winston wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

"Under normal circumstances, yeah you would. Quite a bit actually. Shit ain't cheap." John Deere let the door swing shut so the cold night air wouldn't invade the room any longer. "But since we couldn't completely get the stains out of your attic floor, this one's on the house."

*****

The tunnel came to an end at a small room with several rows of folding chairs all lined up in columns. An off-white bed sheet with a few dark spots here and there had been stretched out and hung in front of the chairs. An old fashioned film projector sat in the rear.

"Take any seat that's free," John Deere said. "I'll see you after the show and you can buy a copy if you want."

The man left the room and returned back down the tunnel. Winston looked out over the makeshift theatre and in the dim lighting could barely make out several other men scattered in random chairs. Winston swallowed hard and took a seat in the back row. No more than a minute passed before the generator-powered lights above went out and the room became completely black.

The unwashed, slightly stained sheet suddenly illuminated a bright white as the projector began to turn the reel. The murmur of the room's many conversations came to an abrupt end and was replaced by the mechanical whirring noise of film snaking its way around the projector's wheels.

A man coughed to Winston's left, another snorted some meth somewhere in the darkness, and then the words "Honeymoon Suite" appeared on the screen in crude, handwritten letters.

The film began immediately after the opening title. It was appropriately named as Winston was now seeing what could only be the inside of a motel room, with heart dotted wallpaper and a heart shaped mirror above the bureau. It was impossible to say who would enjoy their honeymoon in a dump like this, but it was probably just made up to fit the theme of the movie.

The motel room's door opened quickly and a girl was carried inside. A bag was over her head but her sex was still decipherable, the image of her body clear enough to make a distinction. She did not resist the large, beer bellied men who carried her but instead swung her head from side to side as if she was currently experiencing a vivid dream.

As the men carried her inside, taking their time and being careful not to bang the woman's head on the doorframe as they entered, Winston leaned closer in his seat. He squinted his eyes to better see through the fuzz of the film's grainy picture. With the door open, one could see into the parking lot outside. The corner of the motel's illuminated sign was just visible. The letters "AKE."

It was The Pine Lake Motel; the place where Winston had stayed the first week after arriving in town. The place he stayed while the filmmakers used his future home as a studio.

The door shut and the girl was led to the king sized bed that sat against the wall across from the television. The men kept their masks on. The girl's was removed.

Winston pretended to cough so he could tear his eyes from the screen without arising suspicion. He had not been prepared to recognize the star. It was the girl from the pub, the one where he had first met John Deere. She was still wearing a ring in her eyebrow. He remembered seeing her introduced to a group of three large men before the conversation began that had led him here.

There was little build up of the plot. It did not take long for one of the men to begin tying her hands together while another swung some rope over the room's ceiling fan. Within moments, the girl's feet were dangling above the scummy carpeted floor, defenseless against the pain that was to come. One of the men grabbed what looked like a small garden hoe.

Winston had been previously unsure what he was going to do once the film began. Surprisingly, a voyeuristic numbness had allowed Winston's eyes to endure the onscreen torture even though a very conscious part of his mind knew it to be real. For the first few minutes, Winston finally understood how war photographers could zoom in for a close-up of the most horrific event and do nothing to prevent it from happening. All at once, Winston was the epitome of human passivity to others' suffering, a case study for man's instinctual curiosity for violence.

But then the slightest of movements caught Winston's attention in his peripheral vision to his right. Although the man was trying to be subtle about his action, there was no denying he was pleasuring himself under the plaid wool jacket that lay on his lap. When one of the onscreen "actors" took pliers to the girl's eyebrow ring and pulled, the masturbator moaned.

Winston reached into the pocket of his overcoat and found the handle of the Colt .45 revolver resting within the cloth pouch. It was a safe assumption that most of the grizzly hillbillies that made up the night's audience were armed themselves.

This was probably a mistake.

But Winston still smiled as he brought the firearm from his jacket and pointed it at his first victim. No matter what the outcome of the next few moments, Winston was sure his friends and family would say they never saw this coming.





















































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