GuNNhead

Those who are bound to demons are bound to death in ways unfathomable.

It all began with an Overdose. Antonio Bartolo Linguicci never had an easy life, picked on as a child, ignored by his parents. Growing up in New York had its set of troubles for him. He didn’t have the worst life, or most certainly not the best, Tolo, as he came to be called, had a life that was always set somewhere right in the dark side of the middle. He eventually started running with a bad crowd, getting into drugs. Now, he was a middle-man in more ways than one. The only child and remaining member of his family, he inherited a lot of junk from the old world when they passed on. One such inheritance was a record made of human flesh and record player carved from human bone.

This overweight, greasy, balding, slovenly man with long, curly black hair did not value much in life, but these artefacts spoke to him. They are the only things he kept, he knew what they were made of, but he simply knew that he had to keep them. Drugs carry with them a danger, if you attempt to take more than the perfect middle ground for your body, you can risk death. Tolo, one day, was possessed to do such a thing, but was not allowed the sweet release of death: for he listened to the record while overdosing. He became half-dead: a slave to the forces of darkness; their pawn.

They next day, his boss walks into his apartment, the record still playing. Tolo’s filthy grey wife beater is covered in odd text, neatly written in half-inch tall letters. Always a paranoid man, Vincenzo Melatini immediately sensed something amiss, but could not act on it, the distorted voices from the record soothing his mind in ways he never felt. He was a handsome and tall shrewd businessman, dealing mainly in drugs and arms. His white suit was always spotless, with a healthy dose of chest-hair popping out from his unbuttoned silk shirt on his tanned, muscled chest. “Jesus, Tolo, it smells like hell in here, what’d I tell you about showering?”
“I’m sorry, Vinny, we’ve been preoccupied.”
“We?”
“Sorry again, my Ma just died.”
“Aw, Tolo, you know I’ve always been like a brother to you, your Ma was a great woman. I always respect family.”
“Can you give me a ride to the cemetery?”
“Sure, of course, Tolo, let’s get to my truck.”

The grey, armored bank truck cruises down the road with the two inside, along with the record player in the back. Soon, they make it to the graveyard, and Tolo brings out the record player. “My Ma made me promise to play this at her grave.”

This entry was posted on October 28, 2009 at 4:16 am and is filed under Fiction, Horror. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.