Sex and Murder Magazine

By Danny Rhodes

The guy was staring at him. There was no question about it. He’d been staring for the last ten minutes while Henry ate the chicken sub and now he was on the apple and the guy was still staring.

Henry wasn’t sure where to take it from here, to go in and ask the guy what his problem was or to walk away and forget all about it. But it was such a beautiful day. He didn’t need any trouble. Henry checked over his shoulder again. There truly was nothing behind him, nothing to hold the guy’s interest for so long. He was the focus of interest, for some peculiar reason, and in the end curiosity got the better of him.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Henry.”

“Not this cat,’ thought Henry. ‘I’m just taking a look.”

It was a comic store. That made him smile. How long had it been since he set foot in a place like this. Twenty years? Easily, but inside he caught a whiff of the paper and ink, the faint odour of an underworld he had once been part of, and it all suddenly felt fine. There was just the guy behind the counter. He was bald, underweight, wearing thin wire framed glasses. He looked like the kind of guy who might work in a specialist record store, or a book store full of rare poetry imprints, not the stereotypical comic store proprietor at all. But he kept on staring all the same, so that Henry built this picture of the man through a series of tiny glances, each one cut short by the intensity of the stare coming back at him. He retreated to the back of the shop and leafed through comic after comic, looking perhaps for a character he remembered from his childhood, not really sure what he was doing there, feeling only the weight of the stare and already wanting to leave.

“Just another minute,’ he told himself. ‘Just to make it look natural.”

The comics were a little odd though. They sure had changed since he was a kid. There was a lot of blood in these things, an awful lot.

A minute was too long. Henry was at the door, the comics back on their shelves when the proprietor erupted. Erupted was the right word.

“Excuse me, Sir. I’m sorry. It is you isn’t it? Of course it is. It’s such an honour. I feel such a fool, for staring like that, but this is almost too much. You understand? I know you understand. You must get it all the time.”

Henry was about to say ‘no,’ but the guy was already out from behind the counter, already blocking the door.

“I saw you across the way there, eating your sandwich. I thought to myself, it must be him but…but then I thought why here? What would bring him here? None of my business though. Imagine it, Henry Zellinger here.”

Odd this, that the guy would know his name. Henry almost leapt out of himself when the guy spoke those two familiar words. Henry Zellinger.

“How did you…”

“I’ve been reading your work for years, since I was knee-high to an Ewok. It’s so like you, to come here. I love it, just love it. The others won’t believe me. Thank biscuit for staggered lunch breaks. When Eric gets back he’ll be mortified he took the early slot. And Raymond…oh who cares what Raymond might think…bosses Henry…who needs them? I’m Dunk by the way.”

‘Ewoks? Biscuit?’ Henry shuffled back a step, towards a case full of action figures. A goblin stared back at him, it’s fantastically detailed teeth fixed in an angry snarl.

“This is going to sound strange but…” started Dunk. “Oh should I ask…?”
He had his hand out in front of him and Henry was shaking it. It was going on far too long.

“Okay. I always promised myself I would. Could you give me your autograph?”

Dunk still had hold of Henry’s hand and Henry was beginning to feel it was well beyond the time to exit this place. Dunk was giving him the creeps. His hands were way too sweaty. He was stepping from one foot to the other like a kid that needed the toilet. It unnerved him. The trick now was to do as requested and bolt it.

Henry Zellinger nodded his head.

“Fantastic. Okay, that’s stage one. Now for the awkward bit...!”

The awkard bit?

“Listen Dunk,” said Henry. “This is becoming awkward enough. What exactly do you have in mind?’

“Could you sign here please?”

Dunk swivelled around and lifted up his shirt to reveal his bare back, except it wasn’t entirely bare. Scrawled at random points on his white skin were various signatures, each one tattooed in place, each one recalling a similar galling incident such as this one, where Dunk had hijacked a hero and terrified, yes terrified, him into submission. Because Henry was feeling that now, a sense of terror, as if to say no would cause Dunk to take a knife from under the counter and plunge it into his chest, perhaps even have him sign his name in his own blood in the few seconds before he bled to death. Thinking only of getting out of the store and back to his hotel room, Henry Zellinger did as he was instructed. He signed Dunk’s back with the pen. He had it clear in his head now. He’d get to the hotel and call the shop. He’d tell Dunk he was not the person he imagined him to be. He’d tell his colleagues about his brush with fame. Everybody would laugh, and cringe at the thought of the little man who tattooed himself with signatures of his heroes.

Job done, signature in place, Henry patted Dunk on the back. His shirt stuck to the sweat there. This was obviously a real moment for Dunk. There was no way he was shattering the guy’s illusions face to face. It was time to leave.


Back in the street, the sun warming his face once more, the girls sunning their tanned bodies while they shopped, Henry Zellinger counted his blessings. It wasn’t every day you had the chance to be a hero, not every day you got to make somebody’s day. It certainly beat the sales convention. Okay, so Dunk was a little weird. There was no harm in that. A guy works in a comic store all day has the right to be a little weird. It was nice too, to get something for free. Dunk had wrapped it especially in a brown paper bag. Henry sat on the wall outside the hotel and looked in the bag. He had ten minutes before they expected him back to give his sales pitch, ten minutes before the property world sucked him back in to its monstrous belly. Inside the bag was a comic book, perfectly presented in clear plastic wallet, the kind with the zip-strip on top. On the front cover was a picture of a fat man in a suit. He was tied to a chair in what looked like a basement. There were splashes of blood all over the basement walls, a severed arm on a shelf, a foot in a waste bin. Sweat was pouring down the man’s face. His eyes were wide and staring. In the top corner were two sets of black boots, each pair walking down the steps to the basement, each pair entering the picture. Beside the first pair of boots was an axe, beside the second a saw. The man in the chair was struggling for release. Henry could see the way the rope was cutting into the flesh at his wrists. Written on the basement wall, designed to look like a daubed bloody message were the words, ‘Welcome to the insane world of Henry Zellinger’, and underneath, ‘Issue 1- Beyond the Basement Door’. There was more but Henry Zellinger had to close the brown paper bag pronto. A cute blonde was walking up the steps to the hotel. They’d shared coffee at morning break and hit it off. He wasn’t going to let her see this sort of thing. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to look at it himself. The blonde smiled.

“Hi Henry! Are you going to wow us all with your sales talk? I can’t wait to hear it.”

‘I’ll wow you any which way,’ thought Henry. ‘Any which way I can.’

He called the comic store at three but there was no answer. Perhaps they were on half-day closing. Perhaps Dunk had gone home to show his friends the latest addition to his own personal chamber of horrors. He’d call tomorrow then after he’d shown the blonde the rest of his sales pitch. It surely didn’t matter much.

But he didn’t call.

And it did matter.


Four weeks later, Henry was back in the town. He was following up a few leads from the convention. It had been quite a success. He’d sold two apartments outright and two more couples wanted to sit and talk figures with him face to face. They were just a step away from signing. Besides, he was going to meet the blonde again. The two of them had shared quite an evening. She only lived an hour up the road and she was happy to make the drive if it pleased him. It pleased him alright. That ass would please any guy with the knowledge of what he could do with such a thing.

He had some time to kill on arrival so he made a bee-line for the little sandwich place where he’d bought the chicken sub the last time. It was just what he fancied. He didn’t think he’d forgotten the comic store until he came upon it and then he remembered it all. What’s more, Dunk remembered. He was stood on the other side of the glass when Henry walked past. Henry glanced in that direction just for a second, no more, and Dunk’s eyes fell on his.

‘Jesus, that guy,’ thought Henry. ‘Like a leopard or something’, and like a leopard, Dunk pounced. He was at the door as Henry reached it, ushering him inside.

“Henry, you’re back. What is it with us? What fascinates you so with our little town? You’re setting a story here. That’s it isn’t it? You’re writing us in…”

“Hey, Dunk,” said Henry. It was time to tell the truth, time to let this guy down easy. He had work to do.

“I’ve got something to show you Henry,” said Dunk. “Come over here with me, come and see. Now I know I told Raymond I wouldn’t do this again but Raymond’s not here so…”

Dunk grabbed Henry by the arm and pulled him towards the counter. He had a firm grip for such a weak looking man. He was pulling hard too, getting a little over excited maybe.

“Watch the…”

“Sorry Henry. I just have to show you though. It’s all very confusing.”

Before Henry could say anything, Dunk started unbuttoning his shirt.

“Not again,” said Henry. “I couldn’t…”

But Dunk just shook his head and turned around. His shirt fell from his shoulders. There in the centre of his back was the signature Henry had signed. It was no longer written in pen. It was tattooed in place.

“Impressive,” said Dunk. “Don’t you think?”

“It’s great,” said Henry. “Now I have to…”

But Dunk had hold of Henry’s arm again and this time he was really gripping him tight. He had nails. They were digging into Henry’s skin. Once again Henry felt a little tinge of terror. He was bigger than this skinny gizoid, stronger too for sure and yet there was something about Dunk, the way he was looking right now that made Henry think it was best not to start anything physical.

‘Take it easy,’ he thought. ‘Get through this and then when you’re out of here get the fucking police to come and nail the bastard.’

“I have to ask you Henry,” said Dunk. “I have to ask you about the convention.”

“The convention?”

What the fuck did Dunk want to know about a property convention?

“We went, Henry. All of us. Eric, Raymond, Richie. All of us went. They couldn’t believe it when I showed them the signature so we all went to the convention. I told them you’d remember me, told them you’d shake me by the hand and thank me for the gift I gave you. But what did you do? You blanked me. Not just once, I’d have forgiven once, but three times …”

“Dunk, I didn’t see you at the convention…”

“Oh come on Henry, you saw me. You looked right at me and through me and all the others laughed Henry, until I showed them the picture I took of you out on the street, remember, when you were eating that sandwich. Then they believed me, and they all agreed, Henry, that it was a terrible thing to do, to ignore a fan like that. You never ever know how something like that might make a fan feel. But I said ‘no’, Henry’s not like that. Henry wouldn’t ignore a fan like that, so I came back here and…”

Dunk stopped babbling. He stood there instead with his eyes closed, as though he were off in some far away place. Henry looked beyond him towards the door. He could get to it, if he pushed his way past, but what if Dunk had that knife, the one Henry was sure he carried. Little guys like this didn’t go pulling big guys around unless they had a back up plan. And then Dunk opened his eyes. He was staring at the ground. Henry followed his gaze and froze. There it was. Just like he’d imagined it, a six inch serrated hunting knife, pointing straight towards his belly.

“Turn around, Henry. Turn around and walk through that door. Don’t you dare do anything else.”

It was in the eyes. There was no mistaking it. This freak would do it for sure, split him open without a second thought. Henry turned around as ordered and opened the door. It was dark beyond it. There was a set of steps leading down. Henry felt for the first step with his foot, then the second, then the third. Behind him, he felt Dunk reach across his shoulders. There was a click and the dark space was flooded with light.

It was a basement. Boxes were piled around the place, brown boxes full of comics, all of them still in their plastic wallets with the little zip-strips closed up, each one in its own little vacuum that protected it from the world. In the centre of the basement was a wooden chair. Henry made it down the steps and stood on the concrete floor. The door behind Dunk was closed and Dunk was stood four steps up, brandishing the knife expertly, twisting the blade in his fingers. There was a photograph on the chair. It looked familiar.

‘That’s because it’s me,’ thought Henry. And yet there was something odd about it. Something just didn’t look right. Was it the hair? Was it the eyes?

The man in the photo was staring back at him. In the corner, printed in white lettering were the words,

‘Henry Zellinger welcomes you to our 13 Annual Horror Convention’

‘Horror convention?’

“Take off your shirt,” said Dunk.

“Hey now listen,” started Henry.

“No, no, no…” said Dunk. “Just take off the shirt. No chat, no nothing. Just do it.”

The knife was vicious. This wasn’t the time to argue. Perhaps Dunk would try to get his kicks and let him go. Perhaps if he did try and get his kicks he might forget himself for a moment. If that happened perhaps Henry would get a chance, just a small one. Perhaps a small chance was all he needed.

He unbuttoned his shirt slowly and deliberately, all the while looking at the knife. When the last button popped open he placed it very carefully on the chair. It was cold in the basement. His nipples were erect, the hairs on his chest stood on end, and he was shaking too. Perhaps that was from the cold, perhaps it wasn’t.

“Now turn around,” said Dunk.

‘He is going to have his fun,’ thought Henry. “The sick little...’

“You do look like him. You can see how it happened. Eric said he’d have been just as fooled, Richie too. Thing is though, they wouldn’t have gone for the everlasting reminder, not unless they were one hundred percent sure. But I rushed into it. I guess that’s my fault. Then Raymond did some research and found out about the tattoo. He wasn’t impressed, I can tell you that. And now here we are. You don’t have a tattoo do you Henry? You don’t have a tattoo, you don’t live in Hollywood and you don’t write comic books. You’re an impostor Henry.”

Henry Zellinger laughed out loud. It was funny. There was no denying it. That two people could look so similar, that those two people might be born with the same name. It was almost beyond comprehension. And with the laughter came the sudden realisation that this pathetic individual was really nothing to fear. In a second he’d turn and face him. Dunk would bottle it. He was talking too much. People that talked too much thought too much, and people who thought rarely gutted prisoners in their basements.

“Listen, Dunk,” he said. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you. You were so carried away with meeting the guy…”

“It’s true, Henry. You’re right….”

Henry started to turn around. Dunk was babbling on again.

“…and I said that to Raymond, but you know Raymond didn’t see it that way. Raymond says you’re an impostor and Raymond says that posing as someone else is way out of line, but posing as him, as Henry Zellinger, that’s the worst crime of all…”

Henry was on him in a flash. The knife hit the basement floor and skated to a corner. Henry sent Dunk cart wheeling and tumbling after it. He really was weak, far weaker than even Henry expected. He was two thirds of the way up the stairs already. Dunk was spread-eagled on the basement floor, his left arm twisted underneath his body at a ridiculous angle. There was a piece of white bone showing at the elbow, near-black blood pulsing onto the concrete. His neck didn’t look right either.

‘I’ll call him an ambulance,’ thought Henry Zellinger. “I’ll tell them he fell…” and then something hit him on the side of the head, something very, very hard.


When Henry Zellinger woke he was surprised to find his chin stuck to his chest. At first he wasn’t sure how to deal with it but when he tilted his head upwards, after the first wave of nauseating pain shot through his skull, he realised it was okay. It was just dried blood that had run from the head wound.

The light was harsh. He had to shut his eyes at least ten times before they adjusted to it. When they did they screamed at him to be closed again. The basement room resembled an abattoir. There was a hunched shape in the corner behind the boxes. Something was oozing out from under there, soaking up into the cardboard. There was something on the shelf too. It looked like…

Henry Zellinger started to panic then. The thing on the shelf was a severed arm. There was a piece of white bone poking out from the torn flesh. There was a foot propped up in a waste bin in the corner. The screwed up comic books in the bin were covered in blood. Jesus, there was a head in front of him. It was sat on a box, staring at him insanely. Some of its teeth were missing. It was wrapped in a clear plastic wallet with a zip-strip. There was a puddle of blood in the bottom with bits in. The plastic was a little steamed up but Henry could see enough to know whose head it was in there. He knew that stare too well. But worst of all were the walls. They were smeared in a bloody message. Fighting the pain, Henry turned his head slowly and put the letters together.


‘Henry Zellinger is an impostor’


On the floor by his feet, Henry could see a comic book. It was the same edition Dunk had given him as a gift. He could see the man in the chair, the writing on the walls, the severed arm on the shelf. He could see the rest of the cover too, the section the brown paper bag had covered, the bag he’d never opened because of the blonde with the ass that he’d never see again.

Below the man’s feet, daubed in the same red blood, was the edition’s title, ‘Beyond the Basement Door’ and an addition, ‘All impostors must die!’

That was when the door to the basement opened. Henry heard voices and saw two pairs of black boots on the steps. They started down.

“Fuck it. I warned him enough times. You can’t just bring people in off the street like that. You have to choose them carefully. You have to nurture them. Dunk got what was coming to him. It’s like that tattoo thing. What was he thinking?”

There was another voice, inaudible.

“No, this one’s from down south somewhere, a real estate salesman. They won’t think twice about a comic store. This one’s going to be great!”

Henry guessed this was Raymond and Richie, or Raymond and Eric. Perhaps Richie was behind, minding the shop. It hardly mattered. What mattered were the objects they were carrying. What mattered more was what they planned to do with them.