Black Friday Sale!
By
Andy Horvath
It was still dark out when Mark turned into the mall. Cars and trucks jam-packed the parking lot. He looped around several times looking for a spot, and eventually found one all the way in the back. He shut off the car and hopped out, locking it behind him as he jogged towards the building. Somebody laid down on their horn right in his ear and it made him jump. He hadn't even seen the minivan that nearly T-boned him. The incensed driver in the windshield was foaming at the mouth, pumping his fist while the female in the passenger seat stuck her head out the window and started hurling profanities. Mark waved awkwardly, embarrassed, then ran a little faster through the parking lot.
The mall's entrance was barricaded by a sea of restless patrons, at least a hundred people jostling for position. He had thought that if he arrived right at opening there wouldn't be much of a crowd, but that was foolish of him.
Peering over the heads and shoulders of those in front of him, he noticed some commotion near the front doors.
Two women had gotten into a screaming match. It was impossible to determine what was being said or what they were arguing about, too much noise going on, but they were right in each other's faces. Mark noticed that nobody was trying to break them up. The men and women edging them seemed to be egging them on, screaming and pointing and cussing.
One of the women spit in the other woman's eye. The victim grabbed her assailant by the hair and started pummeling her fist into her face. The people crowding them backed up several steps, providing the women with a larger circle to keep fighting.
Then the front doors opened. Cheers and cries emitted from the crowd as they rushed the doors. Mark was elbowed and shoved on his way in. The two women that had been fighting were being stampeded, and Mark could've sworn he saw a crushed eyeball on the ground near one of their bloody heads.
The department store smelled like perfume and cologne and was flooded with scurrying bodies, but nobody stuck around. He found himself sprinting alongside the rest of the patrons, through the aisles and past glass display cases, onto the concourse. An elderly man shuffling ahead of him tripped and fell, and Mark kicked him in the head as he tried to get up.
A security guard stood at the gate of The Infant Store. He smiled slyly with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Hello, sir."
Mark ignored him and went inside, where the stench of baby powder and urine invaded his senses. The sounds of crying, wailing infants filled the stale air. Lining the inside of the store were rows of radiant warmers with babies sprawled over the beds, many of them being scooped into the arms of greedy shoppers. Along the wall a man and a woman were yelling at each other, similar to the spectacle Mark had witnessed outside.
They both had their clutches on the same baby. "I was here first!" the man shouted.
"I saw it first!" the woman yelled. "You pushed me out of the way and got your dirty paws all over it!"
The baby was sobbing and screaming.
"This is my baby!" He ripped it out of her hands and tucked the infant in the crook of his arm, using his free hand to fend off her pinwheeling blows. The security guard Mark had seen on the way in burst through the store and tackled the irate woman, mounting her and pinning her wrists in an effort to subdue her. She howled and squirmed and kicked. The man who she had attacked was standing over them, grinning, then ran towards the checkout.
It was getting more and more crowded, more and more hectic. If Mark didn't snatch something soon, they might run out of stock in a matter of minutes.
In his eye he picked out an infant in the far corner of the store, could see its tiny, chubby hands clutching the air. Next to it was a happy-looking couple fawning over a newborn that they had picked out. He made his way over to the quiet baby, tucked in a blanket with a knitted hat covering its hairless head. Its eyes were squinted shut, its face scrunched, and it looked as if it was about to start crying at any moment.
When Mark took it out from under the blanket and held the baby in front of him by its flanks, it did start crying. Dressed in a zip-up onesie that covered its feet, he placed it back on the bed and pulled the zipper down.
It was a boy.
Satisfied, he tucked it under his arm and waited in line to check out, ignoring its writhing and fussing.
By the time he made it to the cashier the arm of his jacket was soaked with tears and drool. A thin woman with short-cropped hair asked, "Find everything okay?"
Mark nodded and tapped his credit card on the payment terminal. The woman plucked a receipt and stashed it in a thick shopping bag. She stretched the handles apart over the counter and he dropped the crying infant into the bag. "Thank you," she said.
The line was backed up nearly to the entrance as Mark ambled out of the store. Most of the radiant warmers were now vacant and the few stragglers were being aggressively sought out.
The concourse was swarmed with bustling people, many of them swinging shopping bag. "Hey!" somebody called out.
It was a man he'd never seen before. Mark's heart rate spiked as he loped towards him. There were bags under his eyes and a desperate angst about him. "Hey man, can I buy that off you?"
"No way man. Get your own."
"They're sold out. Come on man. How much?" He removed his wallet from his pocket and folded it open with trembling hands. "Everyone's got a price."
Mark turned and hastened for the department store.
A bony hand gripped his shoulder. Mark whipped around and swung the bag, and it clunked against the man's skull. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, then Mark started running.
He was winded by the time he sped through the department store and made it outside. It was still dark out, and he could see his breath in the crisp weather. His purchase had gone silent ever since he wielded it as a weapon.
When he got to his car he opened the trunk and inspected the infant. It was still breathing, but its neck was crooked, so he kept it out of the bag and laid it over some musty clothes, then slammed the trunk and drove home.
Mark's home was shoddy at best, a stucco bungalow with rusted gutters, cracked walls, and a roof bandaged with patches of tarp. His jalopy croaked and squealed when he pulled into the detached garage. He got out and rushed to the trunk, opened it.
The baby hadn't moved, it wasn't breathing, and its face was blue. Mark checked for a pulse but felt nothing. "Fuck!"
Quickly he grabbed it and ran to the backyard. He laid it on the brown grass and stripped it. He cranked the spigot attached to the side of the house and reeled the hose to the backyard. A gush of cold water burst from the nozzle and blasted the baby. Mark stood right over it and pelted its face and skull, stomach and limbs.
He crouched and flipped it on its face, repeated the process to the back of the body.
It was wet in a puddle by the time he got done.
He scooped it up and ran inside, taking it to the bathroom. With his own bath towel he swaddled it and rubbed it dry, then he rushed it into the kitchen and put it on the grubby island counter.
First he scored the meat with a sharp knife. Blood and gristle oozed from the flesh. Then he injected nearly two cups of bone broth into the diamond patterns with a syringe. Using mustard as a binder, he lathered every inch of the infant with yellow paste, massaging it into its orifices with his thumbs. He doused it in a black dry rub he purchased from the grocery store, a barbeque blend that went heavy on the pepper.
Mark gave the belly a slap when he finished seasoning it and left it to sit.
One of his prized possessions, if not the only one, was a chemical drum he whisked out from a landfill and converted into a smoker.
He went out to the backyard and dumped lumps of coal and tufts of dead grass into the drum, then stoked it with a propane torch.
After about ten minutes he added hickory wood chips to the mix. Smoke percolated instantly, clouding the drum. On the lid he had installed a makeshift rod. He placed the lid on, and smoke streamed from the holes he drilled into the drum.
Mark went into the kitchen and drove the sharp ends of two steel hooks right beneath the bones of the infant's shoulders and brought it outside. He attached the hooks to the lid and hung the baby inside the drum.
The rest of the morning and afternoon he occasionally spritzed the body with apple cider vinegar to keep it moist, drinking beer and watching television while he waited.
After eight hours he stuck a thermometer in its belly and the meat temped just fine. The skin had formed a nice, blackened char. He brought it inside and plopped it on the dirty counter, grabbed a plate from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer, then stabbed into it and started sawing, admiring the juices leaking from the pink meat.
Mark took a bite, and it tasted damn good.
Andy lives in Chicago with his fiance, along with their dog and cat. His short stories have been featured in Exquisite Death and Flash Fiction Magazine. His debut novel, 206, is looking for a home. You can reach him at [email protected].
By
Andy Horvath
It was still dark out when Mark turned into the mall. Cars and trucks jam-packed the parking lot. He looped around several times looking for a spot, and eventually found one all the way in the back. He shut off the car and hopped out, locking it behind him as he jogged towards the building. Somebody laid down on their horn right in his ear and it made him jump. He hadn't even seen the minivan that nearly T-boned him. The incensed driver in the windshield was foaming at the mouth, pumping his fist while the female in the passenger seat stuck her head out the window and started hurling profanities. Mark waved awkwardly, embarrassed, then ran a little faster through the parking lot.
The mall's entrance was barricaded by a sea of restless patrons, at least a hundred people jostling for position. He had thought that if he arrived right at opening there wouldn't be much of a crowd, but that was foolish of him.
Peering over the heads and shoulders of those in front of him, he noticed some commotion near the front doors.
Two women had gotten into a screaming match. It was impossible to determine what was being said or what they were arguing about, too much noise going on, but they were right in each other's faces. Mark noticed that nobody was trying to break them up. The men and women edging them seemed to be egging them on, screaming and pointing and cussing.
One of the women spit in the other woman's eye. The victim grabbed her assailant by the hair and started pummeling her fist into her face. The people crowding them backed up several steps, providing the women with a larger circle to keep fighting.
Then the front doors opened. Cheers and cries emitted from the crowd as they rushed the doors. Mark was elbowed and shoved on his way in. The two women that had been fighting were being stampeded, and Mark could've sworn he saw a crushed eyeball on the ground near one of their bloody heads.
The department store smelled like perfume and cologne and was flooded with scurrying bodies, but nobody stuck around. He found himself sprinting alongside the rest of the patrons, through the aisles and past glass display cases, onto the concourse. An elderly man shuffling ahead of him tripped and fell, and Mark kicked him in the head as he tried to get up.
A security guard stood at the gate of The Infant Store. He smiled slyly with a cup of coffee in his hand. "Hello, sir."
Mark ignored him and went inside, where the stench of baby powder and urine invaded his senses. The sounds of crying, wailing infants filled the stale air. Lining the inside of the store were rows of radiant warmers with babies sprawled over the beds, many of them being scooped into the arms of greedy shoppers. Along the wall a man and a woman were yelling at each other, similar to the spectacle Mark had witnessed outside.
They both had their clutches on the same baby. "I was here first!" the man shouted.
"I saw it first!" the woman yelled. "You pushed me out of the way and got your dirty paws all over it!"
The baby was sobbing and screaming.
"This is my baby!" He ripped it out of her hands and tucked the infant in the crook of his arm, using his free hand to fend off her pinwheeling blows. The security guard Mark had seen on the way in burst through the store and tackled the irate woman, mounting her and pinning her wrists in an effort to subdue her. She howled and squirmed and kicked. The man who she had attacked was standing over them, grinning, then ran towards the checkout.
It was getting more and more crowded, more and more hectic. If Mark didn't snatch something soon, they might run out of stock in a matter of minutes.
In his eye he picked out an infant in the far corner of the store, could see its tiny, chubby hands clutching the air. Next to it was a happy-looking couple fawning over a newborn that they had picked out. He made his way over to the quiet baby, tucked in a blanket with a knitted hat covering its hairless head. Its eyes were squinted shut, its face scrunched, and it looked as if it was about to start crying at any moment.
When Mark took it out from under the blanket and held the baby in front of him by its flanks, it did start crying. Dressed in a zip-up onesie that covered its feet, he placed it back on the bed and pulled the zipper down.
It was a boy.
Satisfied, he tucked it under his arm and waited in line to check out, ignoring its writhing and fussing.
By the time he made it to the cashier the arm of his jacket was soaked with tears and drool. A thin woman with short-cropped hair asked, "Find everything okay?"
Mark nodded and tapped his credit card on the payment terminal. The woman plucked a receipt and stashed it in a thick shopping bag. She stretched the handles apart over the counter and he dropped the crying infant into the bag. "Thank you," she said.
The line was backed up nearly to the entrance as Mark ambled out of the store. Most of the radiant warmers were now vacant and the few stragglers were being aggressively sought out.
The concourse was swarmed with bustling people, many of them swinging shopping bag. "Hey!" somebody called out.
It was a man he'd never seen before. Mark's heart rate spiked as he loped towards him. There were bags under his eyes and a desperate angst about him. "Hey man, can I buy that off you?"
"No way man. Get your own."
"They're sold out. Come on man. How much?" He removed his wallet from his pocket and folded it open with trembling hands. "Everyone's got a price."
Mark turned and hastened for the department store.
A bony hand gripped his shoulder. Mark whipped around and swung the bag, and it clunked against the man's skull. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, then Mark started running.
He was winded by the time he sped through the department store and made it outside. It was still dark out, and he could see his breath in the crisp weather. His purchase had gone silent ever since he wielded it as a weapon.
When he got to his car he opened the trunk and inspected the infant. It was still breathing, but its neck was crooked, so he kept it out of the bag and laid it over some musty clothes, then slammed the trunk and drove home.
Mark's home was shoddy at best, a stucco bungalow with rusted gutters, cracked walls, and a roof bandaged with patches of tarp. His jalopy croaked and squealed when he pulled into the detached garage. He got out and rushed to the trunk, opened it.
The baby hadn't moved, it wasn't breathing, and its face was blue. Mark checked for a pulse but felt nothing. "Fuck!"
Quickly he grabbed it and ran to the backyard. He laid it on the brown grass and stripped it. He cranked the spigot attached to the side of the house and reeled the hose to the backyard. A gush of cold water burst from the nozzle and blasted the baby. Mark stood right over it and pelted its face and skull, stomach and limbs.
He crouched and flipped it on its face, repeated the process to the back of the body.
It was wet in a puddle by the time he got done.
He scooped it up and ran inside, taking it to the bathroom. With his own bath towel he swaddled it and rubbed it dry, then he rushed it into the kitchen and put it on the grubby island counter.
First he scored the meat with a sharp knife. Blood and gristle oozed from the flesh. Then he injected nearly two cups of bone broth into the diamond patterns with a syringe. Using mustard as a binder, he lathered every inch of the infant with yellow paste, massaging it into its orifices with his thumbs. He doused it in a black dry rub he purchased from the grocery store, a barbeque blend that went heavy on the pepper.
Mark gave the belly a slap when he finished seasoning it and left it to sit.
One of his prized possessions, if not the only one, was a chemical drum he whisked out from a landfill and converted into a smoker.
He went out to the backyard and dumped lumps of coal and tufts of dead grass into the drum, then stoked it with a propane torch.
After about ten minutes he added hickory wood chips to the mix. Smoke percolated instantly, clouding the drum. On the lid he had installed a makeshift rod. He placed the lid on, and smoke streamed from the holes he drilled into the drum.
Mark went into the kitchen and drove the sharp ends of two steel hooks right beneath the bones of the infant's shoulders and brought it outside. He attached the hooks to the lid and hung the baby inside the drum.
The rest of the morning and afternoon he occasionally spritzed the body with apple cider vinegar to keep it moist, drinking beer and watching television while he waited.
After eight hours he stuck a thermometer in its belly and the meat temped just fine. The skin had formed a nice, blackened char. He brought it inside and plopped it on the dirty counter, grabbed a plate from the cupboard and silverware from the drawer, then stabbed into it and started sawing, admiring the juices leaking from the pink meat.
Mark took a bite, and it tasted damn good.
Andy lives in Chicago with his fiance, along with their dog and cat. His short stories have been featured in Exquisite Death and Flash Fiction Magazine. His debut novel, 206, is looking for a home. You can reach him at [email protected].
