Sex and Murder Magazine

By Hal Kempka

“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” the oily-haired carnie called out. “Step right up, and see the most amazing, frightening, and oddest assortment of human creatures ever to inhabit the earth.”
He stood on a pedestal outside the faded red and white tent, tantalizing the crowd with the mysteries awaiting them inside. With my curiosity whetted, I too felt mesmerized and powerless to resist.

There was Lee Ann, the eight-hundred-fifty-pound woman, and Freddie the pierced human pincushion who would drive a railroad spike into his tongue right before our very eyes, a sword swallower, and fire eater, among others. However, the main attraction was Zombie Boy.

His eyes wide and outstretched fingers twitching, he hollered, “Explorers discovered Zombie Boy in the Haitian Jungle, where he lived off the land and any unfortunate souls out after midnight.”

After awaiting the crowd’s horrified gasp, the carnie continued.

“See Zombie Boy, surrounded by the bones and crushed skulls of his victims. He peels off and snacks on his own skin. If he offers it to you, don’t worry. I’ve tasted it.”

Then, putting a hand to the side of his mouth, he said, “It tastes like chicken!”

The crowd erupted with laughter and surged toward the entrance to buy a ticket.

“Mothers,” the carnie continued, “Zombie Boy has a voracious appetite, so hold on to your young at all times. Guys, don’t let your girlfriends out of your sight. Zombie Boy said he wants to marry and settle down, and live the dead life.”

As I stepped up to buy my ticket, the carnie stopped his banter, and gazed hard at me.
“Kid, does your mother know you’ve come to this show, or does she think you’re in church. Either way, you’ll be praying for salvation before you leave here today.”

Salvation? I thought. Runaways don’t get salvation. It wasn’t even in my plans.
I hurried into the tent and followed a roped off walkway to a series of cubicles. The fat lady sat on an overstuffed chair, chewing on a turkey leg and flashing disgusted glances at the audience between bites.

The audience shrank back horrified as Freddie the human pin cushion pounded a nail through his tongue without it bleeding. I watched him closely, and noticed that a permanent hole in his tongue allowed neither pain nor bleeding.

After ogling the tattooed lady, the fire eater, and pint-sized, Frick and Frack the Scandinavian midgets, the audience crowded around Zombie Boy’s cubicle.

“My god, he is hideous,” a woman whispered to her husband. “That horrendous odor and gray, rotted skin makes him look so real.”

Zombie Boy then peeled off a strip of dead skin, and offered it to her. She covered her mouth with her hand, and ran from the tent gagging. Zombie Boy turned toward me, squinting as though gauging my fear. I stared back, ready to piss my pants but not about to be intimidated.
He thrust the strip of human jerky toward me. Bone showed where chunks of flesh had been gouged out of his ashen, colorless skin.

As I grabbed the strip of skin, his other hand gripped my wrist. The nails dug into my skin, and I shivered from the clammy coldness of his hand.

I yanked my arm back, and stared defiantly as I bit into the skin strip. The carnie was right; it tasted like chicken.

I nodded. “Yes, very good.”

A hint of a smile crossed his face and I caught a whiff of his putrid breath.

“Forever, you like,” he rasped, in broken English.

The crowd applauded and tossed tips into a cigar box. As we were herded from the tent, my stomach rumbled. I hurried into the dark between two tents, certain my stupid display of bravado was going to cost me the cotton candy, corn dog, and deep fried onions I ate earlier.
Strangely, rather than vomit, hunger pangs stabbed at my stomach. I heard angry voices coming from the end of the tent, and peeked out. The carnie held two kids caught trying to sneak into the show by their shirt collars.

“You young thugs are gonna pay for trying to sneak into my show,” the carnie growled. “Maybe I’ll let the fat lady squish you, or have the pincushion drive a spike through your head.”

“Look, mister,” one boy said, “just let us go.”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” he said. “You can take my punishment or I’ll call the cops.”

“Man, if you do, we’ll be reformatory-bound.”

He laughed, low and mean. “Then, perhaps I’ll feed you to Zombie Boy.”

The other boy snickered. “You wouldn’t kill a couple of innocent kids. Besides, these freaks are all phonies.”

The carnie glared. “Phonies, huh?”

He dragged the boys toward a large silver trailer. After opening the door, he shoved them inside.

“Zombie Boy, here’s your dinner.”

He locked the door, and within a few seconds, the trailer began rocking. Although I heard no screams, I snuck away from the tents, and into the crowd.

Later that night, my stomach roiled as I crossed the railroad tracks to find a place to await the next freight train out of town. My mind reeled with thoughts of Zombie Boy. Suddenly, my head began throbbing and my body shivered uncontrollably.

Something squeaked in the darkness, and my eyes darted toward where it originated. A rabbit lay beside the tracks with its hind legs missing. Its eyes bulged with fear and pain, and I held it in my hands unable to watch it suffer.

The egg-like crunch of its skull broke the evening silence, and my eyes rolled upward. My lips smacked as I relished the warm blood and pasty tissue sliding down my throat.

At that moment, I knew salvation would have to await another day. I had found my calling and someday, the world would know me as, Zombie Boy.