Shock Radio
(Author's note: This story is an official entry into the 2007 Literotica Halloween Story Contest. It is easily the darkest piece I have written for Literotica, and includes the themes of mind control and non-consensual sex. I hope you enjoy, and please, don't forget to vote.)
***
"Thirty seconds to air, Joe."
"Thanks, Dickhead."
The producer rolled his eyes; for three years, ever since the syndicated talk show took off, he had been affectionately referred to as 'Dickhead.' It wasn't his fault that he had become prematurely bald at thirty-three, revealing the slit-like scar from an adolescent accident on the top of his head . . . .
Joe Rags – Ragsurillio, to be exact – cracked his knuckles, then his neck, loosening up as he always did before the show. He tossed back a Zanex with his coffee, put the pill bottle below the desk. The camera was about to go live, and he did not want to provide any proof to the numerous rumors concerning his drug use.
A quick glance to Humpy (a.k.a. Harold Lumis) told him everything was ready for the show. Humpy was a chubby guy, very crass and not the least bit shy or tactful. Joe couldn't host the show without his sidekick's vulgar contributions. Good thing the Joe Rags Show was on satellite radio. There were practically no restrictions on either content or language, a far cry from the 'early' days of bowing to FCC regulations and getting the daily slap on the wrist from a stodgy producer.
"Ready to freak them the fuck out?" Joe asked.
Humpy grinned and nodded, showing tobacco-stained teeth. He drummed his fingers next to the screen before him. "Let's do it," he said.
Joe looked to Dickhead, who was watching the clock. The producer held up a hand, counted down on his fingers while silently mouthing the words: Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . .
Through his earphones, Joe heard the raucous cacophony of the Crypt Keeper's laugh (the royalties to use it were ridiculously cheap), followed by the opening instrumental of 'Rock Lobster,' over which ran the introduction:
"Straight from the pits of Hell, bat wings glowing bright with flame, sweeping into the deepest, darkest place in your heart! Set aside normalcy, set aside morality, set aside civility! It's Joe Rags! Live and uncensored!"
Joe grinned. Howard Stern, eat your fuckin' heart out, he thought, then leaned into the felt-covered microphone. "Yeah, it's the Joe Rags show," he said to the millions of listeners who tuned in every night at eight o'clock. "So if you're not in the mood for raunchy debauchery or immoral turpitude, then switch over to that other guy and enjoy some outdated, 'Father Knows Best' shit. Otherwise, stick with me, kids, and get a real education."
He paused a moment, took a sip of coffee, and nodded to Humpy. "Okay, so this is Halloween—" he paused a moment as Humpy hit the 'diabolical laugh' button on the touch-screen before him. "—and we all know what that means: dress up your thirteen-year-old daughter like a hooker so she can get lots of treats and maybe turn a few tricks.
"You know, what bothers me about Halloween – aside from the asshole fuckers who put up scary pumpkins and lame-ass Casper posters in the store windows – is the dichotomy of thought about social mores and the costumes kids wear. I was shopping with my daughter the other day; she's going to some sorority party, and wanted to dress up like . . . whatsername . . . ."
"Brittney?" prodded Humpy.
Joe grimaced. "No, the other trashy bitch," he said.
"Lindsay Lohan."
Joe snapped his fingers. "That's the cunt. Damn, now there's a chick who would really benefit from a sex video, you know? Hell, I wouldn't mind seeing that tramp with a dick in her mouth. Anyway . . . so my daughter says she needs a set of six-inch stiletto heels to complete her outfit . . . I'm thinking, 'what the fuck? So you're finally legal, and you wanna show it off like a Vine Street hooker?'"
"You know she's gonna make you a grandfather before she's twenty," Humpy remarked.
Joe shook his head, took a sip of coffee. He glanced to Humpy, saw the man chuckling. "But that's just a small part of it," Joe continued. "It's the whole commercialism of Halloween that gets me. Just like how jolly old St. Nick is pimped out like a ho on 34th street every year, now we got Freddy and Jason practically sucking cock for the American dollar! It's disgusting! Whatever happened to the real spirit of Halloween? Whatever happened to scaring the shit out of your fellow man? Well, tonight, I'm going back to the roots of Halloween.
"It's called All Hallows Eve, and it's a Christianized bastard of a pagan holy day known as Samhain. Samhain was celebrated after the first harvest by the Celts of central Europe and what is now the UK. It was a positive celebration, heralding the good fortune raked in by honest, hard-working farmers. Don't see too many of those these days, do ya? No, now it's all about business and productivity. Shit. Almost makes me wish we were socialist."
"Socialist? You a fucking Nazi now, Joe?"
He shot a sour look to Humpy. "Fuck you," he spat. "You're not listening to me, dude. I'm ranting against commercialism, not for control. But, fuck that. We'll table the pros and cons of commercial whoring for another show. Tonight is about the practice of Halloween. Of putting on masks to ward off the evil spirits and all that jazz. Centuries ago, they sat around campfires and told stories, and that's what we're gonna do tonight. I wanna hear about the freakiest Halloween stories you all have to tell.
"1-800-555-HELL. That's the line for Halloween stories, and they better be good. I'll kick your ass off the air without so much as a 'fuck you' if all I get is some buttered-up version of Halloween V, got it? And, to get things moving . . . ."
Joe paused a moment, sipping his coffee, feeling the Zanex kicking in. He sighed softly as the relaxing glow spread across his shoulders like the warm rush of morphine. "Seven years ago, tonight, I was in an accident. Pretty bad one, too. Me and my bitch ex-wife were driving along a country road and got clipped by some jackass in a commercial van. Spun around a few times, then flipped, end over end. I could have sworn I had my arm out the window and lost it. Hell, I could feel it being ripped off! Blood everywhere!"
Joe gritted his teeth, looking for a moment to the camera, then to Dickhead in the booth, then to Humpy, who was watching avidly. "I can remember the pain. I can remember seeing the smeared remains of my left arm on the road outside the window of my '69 Camarro as I hung, upside-down, constrained in the driver's seat. And the crying of the Bitch. Like she'd broken a nail or something.
"I don't really know what happened next. I passed out, and when I awoke, I was in a hospital bed, and the docs – fucking losers, you ask me, they don't know half as much as they want you to think they do – were telling me I was gonna be just fine. I still had my arm, which sort'a freaked me out, since I knew, I fucking knew, it had been ripped off. They told me I had been hallucinating. Said something about too much alcohol and drugs. Fuck them; they don't know shit.
"You know what, Humpy?"
Humpy stared, his round, pale eyes wide. "What's that?"
"I did lose my arm. Fucking thing was ripped off, I know it. You know what happened?"
Humpy frowned. "Um . . . what?"
Joe chuckled. "I think I can remember it, now, though it's like some kind of freaky dream. Like the kind you have when you take morph on an empty stomach. Turns ya inside-out. Anyway, I remember it. Dark smoke and that stench of sulfur . . . it was the Devil. He came to me that night, gave me back my arm. And all he wanted was a signature on the dotted line."
Joe winked to his producer. "Now look at me. Sold my soul to the devil, and I got me a national satellite radio show. Not a bad trade, huh?"
Humpy suddenly laughed. "You're a bastard, Joe, you know that?"
Joe grinned. "Yeah, I know that," he agreed. He faced the microphone once more. "Okay, open lines. 1-800-555-HELL. Scare me. I dare ya."
***
". . . and I just knew it was my husband," Marian from Kentucky said on the other end of the line. She sniffled with emotion. "He just wanted to tell me he was all right, that there was life after death—"
"Oh, fucking hell," groaned Joe, hitting the switch that cut the line. "What the fuck is this? Sappy Halloween Night? Come on, you twisted sad-sack assholes out there! Scare me!" He jabbed at a button. "Line three. This is Joe Rags, you're on the air. Talk to me."
There was a long pause. "Hello, Joe." The voice was smooth, dark, and deep, like congealing blood on a sidewalk.
Joe rolled his eyes. "Nice work on the voice modulator, dude," he said. "Let me guess: drama student?"
The line was silent for several seconds, spitting out faint static into Joe's earphones.
"Hello? Look, man, if you're a heavy breather, I know some sorority chicks that would get off on this shit—"
"How's the scar?"
Joe stopped abruptly. "What was that?"
"The scar," repeated the haunting voice across the line. "The one you got when you were nine, walking the slippery rail outside school. Don't you remember that, Joe? You slipped, cracked a tooth, slammed your chin into the ice-covered railing."
Self-consciously, Joe touched his chin. The scar was faint, but the calcified fracture beneath still bothered him now and then when the weather turned cold. He forced a chuckle, conscious of the camera upon him and the millions of watchers throughout the country. "Nice," he said. "Almost got me. So what's your story?"
There came a low, rumbling laugh from the other end. Joe could just make out the faint sounds of footsteps, the distant noises of the street. "Same old story, Joe," the man said. "Desperation, depravity, pain and consequence. We see it all the time, don't we?"
Joe sighed. "This ain't 'Junior Socrates Hour,'" he said. "You got a story for me, or what?"
"Oh! There she is! Mmmm . . . my, what a sweet thing, Joe. She really is very pretty, and sexy, too. Nice and slender, despite having squeezed out that brat you call a daughter."
For a moment, Joe was speechless, not sure what to say. He glanced to Humpy, who shrugged, then Dickhead. No answers there, either. Joe quickly brought his wits back into play. "Okay, I'll give it to you," he said. "You're a pretty slick fucker. Now—"
"Sorry, Joe, gotta go make some Halloween cheer. I'll get back to you."
Joe frowned as the line disconnected. "Asshole," he muttered, then punched a button. "Line four, you're on the air."
***
Joe eased back in his chair, slipping the headphones from his head. The last couple of callers had been so-so, mildly entertaining, but they were not on his mind. The caller who had implied he was stalking Joe's ex-wife was. Joe had been glad to get rid of the woman he considered an emotional and financial drain (despite the fact that he now paid over six grand a month in alimony), but the mere idea that someone out there might be stalking Carrie bugged him.
He had a three-minute break while the ads were read, satisfying the Gods of Capitalism for their monetary support. The camera was still running, of course, with Joe's legions avidly watching even his most mundane moments. Just for the hell of it, he picked his nose while he took out his cell. He still called Carrie once or twice a month – mainly just to check up on their daughter, Melissa – so her number was in phone's memory.
It rang.
And rang.
And rang . . . .
Finally: "Hi, this is Carrie Stathan. I don't feel like talking to you, so leave me a message."
Joe grimaced, snapped the phone closed. It wasn't uncommon for Carrie to ignore his calls, unless she was expecting one. Still, given the unnerving tenor of the 'stalker's' words earlier, the lack of acceptance on the other end was a little . . . frightening.
"Joe, you okay?" Humpy asked, munching on a toasted coconut donut.
He shrugged dismissively. "Just checking with my bookie," he said. "Asshole must be doing his secretary or something."
Humpy grunted. "Yeah."
"What the fuck does that mean?" Joe snapped. "'Yeah?'"
Humpy frowned, mid-bite. "Hey, why you getting mad at me? I ain't one'a your callers."
Joe frowned. "Finish your fucking donut," he said, after glancing to the clock. "We got thirty seconds."
Humpy studied his boss, his friend of more than half a decade, noting the slight twitch in Joe's left eyebrow that always came when the man was nervous. "That guy got to you, huh? That guy who said he was checkin' out Carrie—"
"Hey," interrupted Joe with a glaring look. "Nobody gets to me, got it? I'm Joe Rags. I get to people, not the other way around."
Humpy dusted his fingers, sucking a tooth as he nodded slowly. "Sure."
Joe gave his partner a disgusted look, noticing Dickhead gesturing from the corner of his eye. The bald man began counting down silently once more. "Get on the clock," Joe grumbled, then fitted his earphones back in place. He watched Dickhead's fingers folding in: three . . . two . . . one . . . .
Joe waited for the Crypt-Keeper's laugh to fade, then spoke: "Okay, hour two of the Joe Rags Show, and it's Halloween!" He hit a button on his console that elicited the 'maniacal laugh' of Vincent Price. "I wanna hear your raunchiest, most perverted, most disgusting and frightening Halloween stories. Don't hold back, got it? I don't want any sappy, mamby-pamby bullshit about ghosts and weird noises . . . not unless the ghost looks like Elle MacPherson naked and she's cutting off some guy's balls. So, come on! Give it to me! 1-800-555-HELL."
He jabbed at a button. "Line one, you're on. Scare me, I dare ya."
"Hey, Joe. Love your show, dude."
"Great," responded Joe curtly. "What's your story?"
"Well, man, I ain't shittin' ya, but last Halloween, I made it with a real fuckin' vampire. She turned me into one."
Joe paused a moment, giving Dickhead a dubious look. "Yeah, those vampire sluts really suck, don't they?"
"Dude!" the caller responded with an extended laugh. "Fuckin' bitch sucked me off like a . . . a fuckin' nomad in the Gobi, needin' a drink!" He laughed some more. "So, anyway, I'm at this nightclub, and she walks up to me, kind'a like Trinity in The Matrix, right? Black leather and bare shoulders and all that shit . . . ."
Joe barely listened to his obviously inebriated caller as he watched Dickhead in the producer's booth. The soft-bodied man was talking to someone on one of the holding lines, frowning and looking uncomfortable. He looked up to Joe, and gestured, waving two fingers.
". . . so she's, like, getting' all down and dirty, on her knees right there in the club! Like, tons of people watching! And—"
"Really fascinating," Joe said to the caller on line one, just before slapping the button to end the call. He sighed and chuckled into the microphone. "Halloween porn. Gotta love it." He depressed the button for the second line. "Joe Rags. Talk to me."
"You should have left the other caller on. I was getting into the story."
Anxiety gripped him for a brief moment, as Joe instantly recognized the smooth, nefarious voice. "Well, if it isn't my number one fan," he remarked dryly.
"More like the other way around, Joe, but we'll get to that later."
Joe frowned, listening to the background noise from the other end. The man was obviously indoors, and sounded relaxed, suggesting he was sitting down. Faintly, Joe thought he could discern something that sounded like whimpering. "You know, dickwad, this whole creepy Hannibal Lecter routine is getting old, fast. You got a story, fine, let me have it. But lose the whole—"
"Oh, I have a story. Guaranteed to scare you into next Tuesday."
Joe froze visibly. Guaranteed to scare you into next Tuesday, he thought. That's what Uncle Marty said to his wife on Halloween before he blew his head off with a shotgun. Jesus, that was more than ten years ago. He leaned closer to the microphone. "Who are you?" he asked.
There came a dry chuckle through the line. "Why don't you call me Nick?" he suggested. There came the ringing sound of a Zippo being flicked open, then the unmistakable click of steel on flint.
"Okay . . . Nick," Joe said patronizingly. "So what's your story?"
Nick exhaled on the other end, invoking an image in Joe's mind of a dark-haired man leaning back in a leather chair, a cigarette between the fingers of a slightly-canted hand. "Well, it involves a rather pretty woman, forty-one years old, though she's held her age well . . . about five-five, little on the slender side, with dyed blonde hair. It's a good job, really. Can't even see her roots. Why, you might even believe she really is a blonde, since she shaves the carpet."
Joe felt his palms getting sweaty. 'Nick,' whoever he was, could have been describing Carrie to a tee. He looked to Humpy, who stared back with wide, wondering eyes. He shrugged helplessly as if Joe had asked him a question. "Sounds a little . . . typical to me," Joe said. "Like you're just making something up off the top of your head."
Nick chuckled. "Bear with me," he said. "There's a killer twist."
Joe ground his teeth a moment. Nick's voice was compelling, bidding him to continue listening. As well, he wanted to keep the man talking, if only to reassure himself that this was all an elaborate hoax. "Well, don't keep me waiting."
Nick laughed again. "That's what I like about you, Joe. Ready to jump in the pool without looking for the sharks." He paused, exhaling again. "So let's get to it. I picked her up as she was walking to her car. Not the Mercedes, but that maroon SUV. What's it called? A Marino?"
Joe took a breath, keeping calm. "Murano," he corrected.
"Yeah, that's it. Nice ride. Lots of space. Tossed her in the back where no one could see her. Oh, don't worry, she's not dead. I'm not into necrophilia."
Joe tensed at the implication of Nick's words. He saw the worried and angry look that crossed Humpy's face; he had always been infatuated with Joe's ex-wife. A cautionary hand silently bade Humpy to be quiet. "So you really want me to believe that you kidnapped my ex-wife?" he prodded.
"Sure. Want to talk to her?"
Joe caught his breath, swallowed thickly. He had expected – hoped – that Nick would balk at the challenge. Words stuck in his throat, alongside his heart. He listened as Nick moved on the other end of the line. The whimpering that had been faint earlier became louder. Joe heard Nick talking to someone else, ostensibly, his ex-wife.
"Just a few words, honey," Nick said in a placating tone. A feminine gasp sounded from the other end. Joe imagined a gag being pulled away.
"JOE!"
He stiffened instantly, recognizing the voice of the woman he had spent over sixteen years of his life with. His stomach tightened, in response to the invisible dagger that was suddenly thrust home. "Carrie?"
"Joe!" she shrieked again. "What the fuck's going on! Who is this asshole?"
"J-just try to stay calm," stammered Joe. His mind was spinning from the sudden reality that, indeed, Carrie appeared to be a prisoner of some sadistic, evil man.
"Calm? Calm? I'm tied to a fucking bed, Joe! This better not be some kind of sick fucking joke, 'cause if it is, I'm gonna fucking roast you in court!"
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the impulse that whispered in his ego to lose control.
Nick's diabolic laugh returned on the line, with Carrie's shrieking voice becoming muffled. "Now isn't that sweet? She thinks you're behind this, Joe. But then . . . you are."
Those last two words were delivered with such malevolent tone that Joe felt a shiver travel down his spine. "Who the fuck are you, really?" he asked.
"You'll figure it out," Nick said casually. "Hold on a moment, will you?"
Joe frowned, as much annoyed by Nick's casual malevolence as he was intimidated. He heard faint sounds of movement through the line, the sound of cloth sliding off limbs. Joe hated the image that came to mind, an image of a man disrobing in preparation for rape.
"You mother fucker," Joe hissed into the microphone, his mouth so close to the felt-covered device that it brushed his lips. "You do anything to her, and I swear . . . I got a Beretta in my desk, and I'll find you and put all ten fucking bullets in your head—"
"Ah, that's better," Nick said, apparently oblivious to the words Joe had just spoken. "Oh, I'm sorry, were you saying something?"
"Just that I'm going to kill you," spat Joe.
Nick laughed loudly. "Oh, if you only knew how ridiculous that really sounds," he said. Creaking came from the background, amid muffled, pitiable squeals. "Let me ask you something, Joe. Does Carrie deep-throat?"
Joe blinked in alarm; he caught a similar expression from Humpy, and even Dickhead in the booth. "What?"
"Oh, never mind," Nick said. "Guess we'll find out . . . ."
"Joe! Joe!" Carrie screamed desperately, but her voice was quickly muffled. She sounded like she was choking.
"You fucking bastard!" Joe roared. "What are you doing to her!"
Nick sighed loudly, a sound of contentment. "Why, I'm fucking her mouth, Joe," he said calmly. "Didn't you once say that Carrie's mouth was only good for one thing, and it wasn't talking?"
Joe seethed, closing his eyes a moment. "I don't believe you," he growled. "This is just a trick. You're trying to get to me, asshole, but I ain't falling for it—"
"Here. Listen."
Joe fell quiet as he heard unmistakable wet, gurgling noises, the sounds of a mouth being plundered. Carrie sputtered and panted, coughed and gagged now and then. The mental image that her pretty face was being orally raped filled Joe's mind. Suddenly, she gasped, gulping for air, just before the tell-tale sound of a hand slapping hard across her face filled the air. Carrie gasped in pain.
"Try to bite me again, and I'll rip your tongue out," Nick's baleful voice was somewhat faint. He was still holding the phone near Carrie's face, obviously. A moment later, the gurgling, gagging noises returned, then faded before Nick's voice returned.
"She isn't bad, Joe," he said, his voice somewhat labored. "Not bad at all. In fact, I think she's getting into it."
"All right, mother fucker," Joe intoned. "I don't give a fuck who you are, but this shit's gonna stop. Now." He slapped the button that muted his microphone and shot a look to Dickhead. "Get the fucking cops on the phone!" he shouted. "Get them to trace this fucking call!"
Dickhead nodded, snatching up the phone in his booth. Joe glared at Humpy, peripherally listening to the stinging cacophony of his ex-wife being forced to give head. "Get over to her house. Now."
Humpy shot up without a word, just a grim nod, and darted for the door.
". . . don't think I feel like stopping just yet," Nick was saying, his breathy voice reverberating in Joe's ears. "Though I'll have to take a break after I cum . . . ."
"You know what you are?" Joe spit acidly into the microphone after turning it back on. "You're a roach. A slug. Just a fucking shit-stain on my boot heel. You might think you're slick, but we'll see who's laughing when I'm putting a bullet—"
"Actually, Joe," Nick said into the phone with a grunt. "Right now . . . I'm the guy who's . . . cumming in your ex-wife's mouth . . . ." He sighed loudly, grunting again, then again.
"Mother fucker," Joe muttered, shaking his head, eyes closed, teeth clenched. "Mother fucker . . . ."
"How right you are," Nick responded. His tone and direction changed as he addressed Carrie: "Don't you dare spit that out, you little tramp. Swallow it. Do it!"
Joe couldn't help but focus on his hearing. Nick was obviously holding the phone next to Carrie's face now, so that Joe – not to mention the millions of listeners who were, by now, as riveted with morbid curiosity as Joe was – could hear her sputter, and gag, and ultimately . . . swallow.
"Ugh!" she gasped. Joe heard her spit a few times, then retch reflexively. ". . . fucking asshole . . . ." Her words degenerated to soft sobs, interrupted by more retching.
Joe felt the dagger inside him angling upwards to his heart, where it twisted and turned. Despite all the hateful words spoken during the last two years of their marriage, despite the accusations of adultery on both sides and the vitriol of the divorce hearing . . . he still loved her, he realized. What she was being subjected to made Joe squirm with impotent rage. He could not begin to imagine the pain and humiliation Carrie was experiencing.
"I'm gonna kill you, Nick," Joe avowed fiercely amid heavy breaths. "I swear to God, I'm gonna find you and—"
"Oh, so you've found religion, now, have you Joe?" Nick interrupted with a snide laugh. "That's rich. That's really rich. I hate to remind you, buddy, but God doesn't give a rat's ass about you anymore. You were pretty clear about that."
"Fuck you," hissed Joe. "You'll get what's coming to you."
"Oh, indeed I will," Nick responded with a dark, malevolent curl to his voice. "Just as soon as you figure it out."
Joe frowned. "Figure what out?"
"Why this is happening," Nick returned. "Don't worry, buddy. It'll come back to you." The line suddenly went dead; Nick had hung up.
Joe was silent for a long moment. Dickhead didn't speak, and Humpy was gone, on his way to Carrie's condominium. The overwhelming sensation of helplessness weighed down upon Joe like a hundred blankets soaked in kerosene, awaiting the match.
"Go to commercial," Joe said in a faint voice.
"What was that?" asked Dickhead.
"Go to fucking commercial!" Joe yelled, shooting up from the desk. His face was lividly crimson, veins jutting out on his forehead. "Clear all the lines, and turn off that God damned camera!"
***
He paced in the lounge, shaking hand clutching a styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee. Dickhead's call to the police had produced no results; Joe Rags was suddenly regretting his 'expose' on the 'gestapo tactics of the police.' It went without saying that the boys in blue were not is biggest fans.
"Mr. Lorenzo's on the phone," Dickhead said after stepping tentatively through the door to the small room. "Wants to know why you turned off the camera. Evidently, some of the sponsors are complaining. Ratings are going through the roof—"
"'Ratings?'" Joe asked, giving Dickhead a vicious look. "My wife is being raped, and you're worried about fucking ratings?"
The round-bodied man held up his hands defensively. "Look, Joe . . . is this real? I mean, if this is some kind of elaborate Halloween joke—"
Joe crossed the floor in two long, quick steps and loomed over the shorter man. His eyes blazed with undirected fury. "What the fuck do you think?" he growled. He held Dickhead's eyes for a moment, then turned away, pacing once more. He glanced to the digital clock on the wall above the drybar stocked with expensive gin and tequila. It had been seven minutes since Nick had hung up.
"Jesus Christ, Joe," Dickhead said emphatically. "Who is this guy?"
Joe drained his coffee, then stepped up to the bar, pouring a generous belt of Tres Generaciones, straight, into a Waterford crystal glass. "A sick mother fucker," he muttered, then tossed the biting liquid back. He winced as it stung his throat. "What about Humpy?"
"Haven't heard from him," came Dickhead's reply. "It's only been about ten minutes since he left. Carrie's condo is halfway across town."
"Get on the horn with the cops," Joe ordered as he contemplated a second belt of tequila. "I don't care what you do, but get them involved. This shit's for real, and I'll be damned if I let anything more happen to Carrie."
Dickhead fidgeted a moment. "I'll do what I can, Joe."
Joe glared. "Then why the fuck are you just standing there?"
***
All the lines were blinking when Joe returned to the studio, but Dickhead indicated Line Three as being Nick. Joe slapped the button, began speaking immediately.
"You think this is gonna make you famous, Nick? You think you're gonna go down in history? You're not, asshole. You're gonna be just another dead, sick fucker, like Chester the Molester, forgotten by everyone as soon as I put a bullet in your brain."
A long, heavy sigh filtered through from the other end, followed by a series of 'tsk, tsk, tsk.' "I was hoping you might have figured it out, Joe," Nick said with a tired air to his voice. "Maybe I should jog your memory. Halloween, seven years ago. Ring any bells?"
Joe licked dry lips. "Now I know you're sick," he said. "I made that shit up, asshole. You wanna know what happened that night? I was so whacked out on pain killers that I barely remember the car flipping over."
"No. You remember, Joe." The deep, dark evil was palpable in Nick's voice, carried like molasses through a tube in Joe's earphones. "You remember what it felt like to have your arm ripped off, because it was."
Joe suddenly winced, feeling a hot, burning sensation through his left arm, from the shoulder down. The sensation escalated, transforming into real pain in an instant. Joe cried out, agony sweeping through his nerves, nearly crippling his mind. He slapped a hand to his arm, but found only an empty sleeve, saturated with warm, sticky blood. Horrified, he looked, seeing shreds of cloth hanging from the bloody stump of his left shoulder.
"Fucking Hell!" he cried, pushing back and stumbling to his feet. Shocked, fearful eyes stared at the bleeding mass of flesh and bone that had once been his arm.
"Joe!" yelled Dickhead from the booth. "Joe, what's going on?"
He gave an incredulous look to his producer. "M-my arm! My fucking arm!"
Dickhead frowned. "What about it? What, you having a stroke?"
"It's gone, you asshole! It's fucking—" Joe stopped, mid-sentence, looking back to his arm. Instead of a bloody stump from which hung blood-soaked tatters of cloth, he saw a completely intact, healthy arm, his right hand squeezing the bicep tightly. There was no blood, no indication that what Joe had seen a moment before had been real.
"Come on, Joe, don't fall apart on me," Dickhead said in an uncharacteristically supportive voice. "I got the cops on the line. They're gonna help out. But you gotta stay in there."
Joe barely heard his producer's words. He flexed his left arm, curling his fingers, turning his hand around. The lingering sensation of pain remained, but it was fading like the memory of a nightmare. He took a few deep breaths, then slowly retook his seat. "I'm fine," he muttered, then took up the earphones – he had not realized that they had fallen off when he stood – and fitted them back on his head. He was greeted by Nick's dark chuckle.
"Is it coming back, now, Joe?" Nick asked in a patronizing tone.
Joe took a deep breath. "You're not fooling me, asshole. I've seen Derren Brown and people like him. You're good, I'll give you that. But you're not getting to me."
"The night's still young," Nick answered ominously. "We still have two hours until midnight. More than enough time for me to get what's due to me . . . not to mention fuck the hell out of your ex-wife."
Joe bristled. "You know, it's gonna feel really good when I pull the trigger that ends your worthless, fucking, pathetic little life—"
"Ooo! Damn, she's tight."
Joe winced, feeling bile rise in his throat. He struggled to control his rage as his traitorous mind whipped up debauched images of Carrie being defiled even further.
"You really should see this," Nick continued, speaking over the muffled, painful whimperings Carrie made in the background. "I've got her on her stomach, her legs pulled about as far apart as they can go . . . watching those slick, puffy lips spread wide to let me in is . . . well, almost religious. Believe me, that's saying quite a bit."
"You can gloat all you want, asshole," Joe grumbled. "Go ahead, have your fun. It's not going to change the outcome. I'm gonna find you, and—"
"No, it's not," Nick said quickly, his voice betraying his exertion. "The outcome will be exactly what I think it will be. What I know it will be. Because you have no choice."
"Got that right, mother fucker. A bullet in your brain, and I'm the guy who's gonna—"
"Oh, shut up, Joe. You're distracting me."
For a moment, Joe did not know how to respond. He listened as Nick's voice became steadily more raspy and heavy. The sound of a man fucking. His ragged panting became quickly replaced – as he moved the phone, obviously – by the mournful moans of a woman being defiled, her cries muffled by whatever gag Nick had placed over or in Carrie's mouth. The images that erupted in Joe's mind were as vivid as if he were watching the scene in person.
"YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER! I'M GONNA KILL YOU, NICK, YOU GOT THAT? I'M GONNA FUCKING DRILL YOUR FUCKING HEAD!"
Nick laughed, a soft, dark, demented sound that echoed unnaturally in Joe's ears. "Can you wait until I'm done drilling Carrie? 'Cause I'm pretty close."
Joe gripped the microphone with white-knuckled fingers. "Yeah, go on, mother fucker. Go on thinking you got it made. But when Carrie's pointing you out in a police line-up, when I'm following you home after you made bail, and I got my Beretta in my pocket . . . we'll see how much you're laughing then."
"Hey . . . Joe?" Nick asked between belabored breaths.
"What."
"Shut up. You're distracting me."
"Oh, my bad," Joe retorted sarcastically. "I'd really hate to distract you while you're raping my wife!"
"And doing it so well . . . here, you judge."
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to rip off the headphones so he would not hear what Nick wanted him to. But he could not. Even the loud, painful sounds of Carrie's muffled cries, her grunts of humiliated exertion, the audible expulsion of her degradation, could not tear him away. He hated to admit it, but the image of Carrie being taken against her will, by a man who did it for the thrill before millions of listeners . . . it was arousing. But in a way that, conversely, made Joe's stomach churn.
For a moment, Joe wondered as to all those who were listening in at that moment, listening to his ex-wife being raped. Were they getting off on it? Did they think it was real, fake? Did any of them really care about the truth, or did they simply revel in the fantasy?
I've built an empire on debauchery and humiliation, Joe thought suddenly. Maybe this is how I reap what I have sown . . . .
"No," he said under his breath, not even cognizant of the word escaping his lips. But then, he was slapping his hands to the desk and shouting into the microphone: "NO!"
"Yes . . ." sighed Nick, having obviously returned the phone to his ear. "Oh, yes indeed . . . ."
Joe turned his head, as if that would keep him from hearing the guttural sounds of pleasure Nick emitted as he emptied himself inside Carrie. Not for an instant did Joe think that what he was hearing was anything less than the satisfied grunts of a man ejaculating deep within the womb of a woman . . . and an unwilling woman, at that.
He listened to Nick's heavy breathing, to the sound of a satisfied and spent man. The very thought of what had made the man so spent caused Joe's stomach to flip. He grimaced against the taste of bile in the back of his throat.
"I'd say she was a keeper," Nick said at last. "But we both know better."
Joe's brow darkened. "What the fuck do you mean, asshole? Haven't you had enough? Christ, she's got nothing to do with this!"
Nick's rumbling laugh filled Joe's ears. "Oh, but she does, Nick, she does. You gave her to me, remember?"
Joe breathed in, instantly searching his mind, his memories. Going back seven years, to a night filled with pain and desperation. "No . . . Oh, God, no."
"Yes, Joe," said Nick knowingly. "Now you're getting it."
Joe shuddered. "I . . . I didn't mean it," he said. "I didn't mean it! Holy shit, I was so hopped up on painkillers and beer! I didn't know what the fuck I was doing!"
"Doesn't matter, Joe. You signed the contract."
Joe trembled. "Oh, God . . . ."
"As I said: God doesn't give a rat's ass about you now." Nick stirred on the other end. Joe could faintly hear the man – if he could be called that – pulling on his pants.
"It's all over now, Carrie," came his voice, echoing slightly through the phone. Joe imagined that Nick had set the device down, laying it open to capture the sounds. Carrie's sobbing moans were just audible.
Click.
Joe jerked himself back to the moment. That singular sound was eerily familiar. He had heard it enough at the shooting range he visited twice a week.
"Nick? Nick, oh, God damn it . . . don't do it! Don't fucking do it!"
He imagined the man leaning over the cell-phone as it sat upon a table or dresser, his lips almost brushing the device. "I have to, Joe. Don't you remember? It's part of the bargain."
"Nick!" cried Joe. "DON'T!"
BLAM!
Joe stared, blinking, dumbfounded, shocked and fearful at the microphone before him. That single uproarious sound, so full of violence and finality, seemed to hang in the air around him. He did not want to think about the scene his mind had created.
"C-Carrie?" he asked tentatively.
Silence was the only response.
"Carrie?" he asked again, his voice becoming choked. "Come on, baby . . . ."
"You know," came Nick's voice, sounding frighteningly calm. "The only bad thing about shooting someone, at point-blank range, in the back of the head . . . is the splatter. I'm gonna have to hang up for a while, Joe. Wash my face. I'll be back in a bit."
Joe's lips quivered, his entire body shook as he listened to the suddenly dead line. That didn't just happen, he thought. No, it's just a trick. They're fucking with me. Carrie's gonna call in a little while, probably right after midnight . . . It's just a revenge thing, for all those times I cheated on her and thought I got away with it . . . .
"Joe."
He lowered his head, folding his arms on the desk and resting his forehead upon them. It had been years since he had cried in earnest; for the King of Shock, there had never been a reason to give in to emotion. He had detached himself from everything, living in his own little anti-social bubble, acidly attacking the world around him. For Joe Rags, the world had been something to critique, to ridicule . . . not something that affected him.
But not anymore.
"Joe."
He lifted his head, eyes swollen and red, puffy with the tears that had leaked out and soaked into his sleeves. He looked helplessly to Dickhead.
The pudgy man held up a phone receiver, then spoke into the mike before him. "Police," he said simply.
Joe sniffled, pinched his nose as he straightened. He nodded, cleared his throat, then slowly depressed the button for Line Four. "Joe Rags."
***
The man was surprisingly efficient and professional. While Joe Rags had often denounced the men and women of civilian law enforcement as 'nazi-esque propagandists,' the detective with whom he spoke – a man named Arturo Mendes – acted as if Joe were any other human being on the planet who feared for the safety of a loved one, and not a controversial talk show host worth millions.
"I'm about to arrive at your ex-wife's address, Mr. Ragsurillio," Mendes said over the phone. "Is your daughter also at the same address?"
"No," Joe said, his voice, and emotions, dulled. "She's . . . at a sorority party." A sudden sense of newfound fear flooded through him, envisioning his little girl being abducted by a stranger, just as her mother had been. "Oh, Jesus . . . ."
"Do you have a phone number, Mr. Ragsurillio, where I can reach her?"
Joe collected his thoughts, inspired by the desperate need to protect his little girl. "She has a cell-phone," he said, and rattled off the number.
"Thanks, Mr. Ragsurillio. I'll be in touch."
"Just keep my daughter safe," Joe said in a strangled voice.
"Stay where you are, Joe," Detective Mendes said, using the shock-jock's name for the first time. It was strangely soothing. "Let me do my job."
Joe nodded, even though he remained invisible to the detective. "All right."
Mendes hung up, leaving Joe alone, once more, within his brightly-lit studio. The store-bought decorations of skeletons and ghosts, evil-faced pumpkins and gruesome witches were garish to his eyes, now.
"I'm taking a break," he said to his producer, then pushed back from the desk without waiting for an answer.
***
Carrie's dead, he thought, as much as he did not want to admit it. Raped, defiled, humiliated before millions . . . and then murdered. Because of me. He looked to the blinking lights on his console; callers wanting to chime in. I'm a millionaire celebrity . . . and I'm impotent. I'm nothing.
And yet, the public awaits . . . .
Wearily, Joe stirred himself, sitting up straight in his chair. He looked to the booth, where a tired-eyed Dickhead sat. "Open it up," Joe said.
Dickhead looked surprised. "You sure?" he asked.
Joe nodded, his emotions dulled, his face blank. He faced the microphone. "I'm not taking any calls," he said to his audience. "I really don't wanna hear what anyone has to say tonight. I don't care what you think, if this was all a hoax or if it was real. I'm going to sign off soon, and leave you all to your costumes and beer-bong parties and candy and tricks. In fact, I think I'm going to take a few days off."
"Joe."
"Yeah."
"It's the detective."
Joe looked to the single blinking line. The surreal stress of the evening made him flippant. He tapped the button. "Joe Rags. You're on the air."
"Uh . . . Mr. Ragsurillio? You might want to take this call private."
Joe shook his head. "Fuck it. Anything you wanna say to me, you can say to everyone."
Mendes sighed deeply. "I don't think that's the best course of action."
"Ask me if I care."
Mendes sighed again. "I've investigated your ex-wife's condo," the detective said. "We found your wife."
Joe held back his emotions. "She's really dead."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ragsurillio."
Joe squeezed his eyes shut, controlling himself. He found the suppression of anger easy, as if the emotions he felt weren't real, but rather a reaction he was expected to have.
"Do you know a man named Harold Lumis?" Mendes asked.
Humpy? "Yeah. He works for me."
"Mr. Ragsurillio, I think we really should continue this discussion in private."
"No," Joe said adamantly. "What happened? Is he dead?"
Mendes hesitated on the other end. "No, but . . . he is not exactly in a stable frame of mind."
Joe gritted his teeth. "What about Nick? How could you let him get away? What the fuck am I paying taxes for?"
"Mr. Ragsurillio," said the detective with admirable professionalism. "We're doing everything we can to find this man."
Joe forced himself to take a calming breath. "What about my daughter?"
"I'm tracking her down now. Calls to her cell-phone have yielded nothing so far."
"Then find her!" Joe yelled into the microphone. "That's my little girl!"
"I know. You have to trust me; I'll do everything I can to keep her safe. I'm going on the assumption that whoever this perp is, he's looking to hurt you through your family. Believe me, I have an army of patrolmen at my disposal."
Joe worked his jaw. "I hope it's enough." He tapped the button, ending the call, then noticed a single blinking light on his panel. Joe looked up, questioning Dickhead with his eyes. His producer responded with only a somber nod. Joe inhaled deeply, steeling himself, then depressed the button.
"What did you do to Humpy?"
Nick laughed darkly, a swirling sound that swept through Joe's ears like the cold, odorous cloth of the Devil's shroud. "Some people just have a hard time with the truth," he said enigmatically. "You really should not have sent him on that fool's errand. Yet another life you've ruined, Joe. But don't fret. It will all be over soon."
"So why not end it now?" snarled Joe, feeling reckless. "You know where I am."
Nick chuckled darkly. "Eager to die? That's not you, Joe. What happened to the man who was willing to trade his own soul and that of his wife for seven years of glory and fame?"
Joe swallowed nervously. There was no doubt in his mind now that the man he was speaking with was the one and only Devil. That realization, as disturbing as it was, was not nearly as frightening as Joe figured it should have been.
His memory was clear now, harkening back through the fog of seven years, to the night of the accident. He could practically smell the odor of gasoline and the stench of friction-burned paint and steel, the taste of blood in his mouth, the pain radiating from the stump of his left arm.
Footsteps clicked on the asphalt, barely audible to Joe's pained ears, yet steadily growing louder. Beside him, Carrie had stopped crying, having lapsed into unconsciousness aided by alcohol. Blood dripped from a nasty gash on her forehead as she hung upside down in the overturned car.
"Nasty accident, there, Joe," a voice said.
Joe snapped his head around in desperation, looking upon the man in the black suit as he squatted beside the shattered driver's- side window. "Oh, God, please, you gotta help me! Please!"
The man shook his head, lips pursed. "Sorry, Joe, but I don't save people. I take them."
Joe's face paled. "Wh-what?"
"You see, I'm the Devil. Satan, Mephistopheles, Baalzebub, whatever you want to call me. And you, Paul Joseph Ragsurillio, are what I consider prime stock. You've been an immoral bastard your entire life, taking advantage of people whenever you can, using them for your own ends. Greed and depravity have been your inspirations. I'm very proud of you."
"I-I'll change!" Joe declared. "I swear! I-I-I'll do charity work! I'll feed the homeless! Anything!"
The Devil laughed. "You don't get it, do you? As much as you've helped me, by spreading moral poison across the air waves with your syndicated talk show, you're done. You're dying, Joe. In a matter of an hour or so, you'll bleed to death, long before anyone finds you."
"I don't want to die!" lamented Joe. "I'm only thirty-seven!"
The Devil shrugged. "Them's the brakes, kid," he said. "And trust me, I hate taking such a helpful soul as yours."
Joe whimpered. "Isn't there anything I can do? I don't want to die! I'll do anything! Anything!"
The Devil paused, thinking. He tapped his fingers on his chin. "Well . . . tell you what. I'll give you seven years, and more than that, I'll make things happen for you. You'll be rich, a millionaire. And all you have to do is keep preaching your message of immorality, intolerance, prejudice and greed. How's that sound?"
Joe sputtered with relief. "Th-thank you," he said.
"But there's a hitch."
"I don't care."
"Give me your wife."
Joe blinked in shock. "Wh-what?"
"Your wife. I want Carrie. She'll make an amusing pet. Oh, don't worry; I'll let her stay with you for the seven years, but when your time is up, so is hers. Never let it be said I'm not generous."
Anxiety flooded Joe's mind. He looked to Carrie, unconscious, witless. Was his continued life worth her sacrifice? Was anything? But then, why not? They didn't love each other. Joe wondered if they ever had. Carrie had been a hot piece of ass, nothing more. He had married her only for the sake of regular sex. With Joe's growing fame had come Carrie's growing greed and self-serving attitude.
He suddenly realized that Carrie was no more important to him than any of the other people he had stepped on during his upward journey.
". . . okay."
The Devil grinned, and reached inside his jacket for a neatly-folded sack of papers. He unfolded the pages, then produced a fountain pen, the tip of which he stuck into the bloody stump of Joe's arm. Joe gasped in pain. "Don't worry about the fine print. Just sign here . . . ."
"Like you said, I don't have a choice," Joe said at last, responding through the microphone.
"You always have a choice, Joe."
Joe looked up, startled by the man's voice. He wasn't talking through the phone lines anymore; he was there, in the studio, standing in the doorway. He wore the same jet-black suit and shirt, the same crimson-colored tie. His sudden, inexplicable appearance took Joe back. He pushed up from the desk slowly, slipping the headphones off and setting them on the desk.
A quick glance to the booth told him that Dickhead was gone; maybe the Devil had taken him, too. He did not care that the mike was live, the camera once again running.
"So this is it? Seven years to the day. I always figured you'd be punctual."
The Devil laughed softly, stepping into the room. "To the minute, in fact, in case you've forgotten. What can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic."
Joe hung his head, defeated . . . hopeless. "Get it over with."
"What, no begging? No pleading? You disappoint me."
Joe lifted his head with a sudden moment's haughtiness. "Well, I seem to be fresh out of wives," he said with bleak sarcasm.
The Devil smiled, wagged a single finger. "Tsk, tsk. You know, it's only because you and Carrie got married in a Christian church that I was able to take her in your place. My former boss and I have a strange understanding that way." He winked, as if sharing a private joke. "See, if you hadn't been married, I couldn't have taken her. It's the same basic set of rules that allow me to, say . . . take family members in place of a soul that's already been designated mine."
The Devil fell quiet, dark eyes glowing intently, allowing his words to soak into Joe's mind. The talk show host stared back, slowly understanding the implication carried along by those words. He swallowed nervously.
"Melissa."
The Devil smiled again, thin lips spreading slowly over unnaturally perfect teeth. He produced a neatly-folded stack of pages. "It's your choice. Who knows what you could do with seven more years?"
Joe slowly looked away, contemplating his situation. Bad enough I sacrificed Carrie, just for fortune and fame. What did I really get out of it? I'm still damned . . . .
"Tick, tock, tick, tock," the Devil said. "It's just about time."
Joe hung his head in shame. "I . . . I can't. She's my little girl."
The Devil laughed, harsh echoes spreading through the air. "Yes, you're little angel," he said patronizingly. "Never mind that she's getting gang-banged at a frat party right now."
Joe looked up in alarm. "What?"
"Oh, come now," chided the infernal one. "You can't really expect any daughter of yours to be any more moral than you are, can you? Why, if she keeps it up, she'll be mine anyway."
Joe ground his teeth. I can't do it, he thought, though it felt to him that he was trying to convince himself. Not Melissa. Not my little girl, who I watched walk for the first time, whose first word was 'chock-lit,' who skinned her knee riding her first bike and told me Joey Mathers tried to kiss her in first grade . . . .
"Seven more years, Joe," the sulfuric voice said, now coming from behind him, teasingly whispered into his ear. "Seven more years of fame, money, eager Vegas whores and groupies willing to do anything you want. You could get into movies . . . porn, even. I'll make it all happen."
Joe shuddered, fighting against his selfishness, his desires. Then, suddenly, the choice was clear.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't . . . .
***
Detective Arturo Mendes frowned tiredly upon the scene before him. The young woman lay naked on her back in the frat house bed, arms and legs akimbo. Her sex was saturated with the seed of her rapist and murderer, a fraternity member who was now in custody. Her face was largely blackened by gunpowder burns around the large, welt-like hole in her forehead. Mendes was fairly certain that the pistol found on the young man would turn out to be the murder weapon that had ended the life of both Melissa Ragsurillio and her mother, Carrie Stathan. The case seemed pretty obvious. Open and shut.
Leaving the CSIs and patrolmen to the task of cleaning up the scene, Arturo headed back to his car. He felt sullen, morose. In nine years of being a homicide detective, he had seen some strange cases. But this one beat them all. If I ever write a memoir . . . .
"Detective! Detective!"
He glanced up, mere feet from his car, as an eager-eyed young reporter ran toward him, after ducking beneath the yellow crime scene tape that kept the hundred or so curious civilians away from the frat house. Mendes cursed, shaking his head. Where the hell are the uniforms? I don't need this shit . . . .
He sighed as the young man – early twenties, Mendes figured – stumbled to a stop before him. "Do you have anything to say for the Sentinel?" the young man said, thrusting a digital recorder in the detective's face.
"No comment," Mendes said sourly.
"Oh, come on," bemoaned the reporter. "Joe Rags' ex-wife and daughter raped and murdered on Halloween! Millions of people around the world heard what happened to Carrie Stathan! You have the man in custody! And you're telling me—"
"No. Comment," Mendes repeated, his manner and voice threatening. He jerked open the door to his car, slammed it shut once he was behind the wheel. He suddenly wanted a cigarette, even though he had quit over ten years before.
He took out his cell, but his fingers hesitated over the buttons. He wanted to call Joe Rags – a man he had never liked, had always vilified as the majority of the law enforcement community did, yet for whom he felt vicarious pain and loss – but he could not think of just what to say.
Instead, he looked to the dash of his car, and the small device attached there. He considered his subscription to satellite radio an unnecessary luxury, despite his addiction to a certain comedy show that aired every morning. There had been many times he had considered canceling his contract, but for this night, at least, he was strangely glad he kept it.
On impulse, he turned the key in the ignition, then tapped the power button on the satellite receiver attached to his radio. It was already tuned in to the Joe Rags Show, though he did not expect to hear the shock-jock's voice. He was disconcertedly surprised.
"It's seven minutes to midnight," Joe Rags was saying, speaking with an unnaturally calm and composed voice. "Halloween is nearly over. Seven minutes . . . before the start of seven more years of the Joe Rags empire. I'm sure a lot of you have questions about what happened tonight. We'll have to save that for tomorrow's show."
What the hell? Mendes thought. He's still on? Doesn't this guy have a heart? A soul?
"I'm just going to say," Joe continued, his voice dark and haunting. "My duty, my obligation, has always been for all of you out there. To inspire the world to follow in the standards which I have laid out. The Joe Rags Show is in for some changes. We're only going to get better, I promise you. There's no envelope we won't push, no boundary we won't topple."
You heartless bastard, Mendes thought in disgust. Just like you to capitalize on tragedy, even when it's your own. I should have known.
"After all," Joe continued. The detective was sure he could all but hear the morbid smile the radio personality wore. "There's no sacrifice I won't make to insure my message is heard.
"This is Joe Rags, the Devil's Talk Show Host. Happy fucking Halloween."
-finis-
(Thanks for reading. Please vote, and if you like, leave me a word or two. Your feedback is what keeps me writing.)