Note: This short fiction piece was originally published in Behemoth Magazine. No AI was used in the writing of this short story.

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Monday, 10:04 AM
Bob rearranged the foil candy wrappers into a neat stack on his desk for the second time. On his computer monitor, an AI chatbot wrote an email response that Bob would copy and paste into a draft saved in his inbox. When the script finished, Bob quickly scanned the text for any glaring errors, then pasted it into an email draft with the subject line: Please upload this to CMS. When Bob clicked send, the email fired off halfway around the world to an ever-expanding part-time office in the Philippines. 

After confirming that the email was sent, Bob pulled out his smartphone and scrolled social media. A sweating man with a bulging vein ranted about a kids movie at the top of his feed. Beneath that, Bob’s aunt posted an awkward photo of her standing in front of a mirror at the gym. This was followed by an inflammatory article about the potential risks tortilla chips pose for dental health. Bob opened his camera, switched to selfie mode, and rooted around in his mouth with an unwashed index finger. His yellow, coffee-stained teeth looked the same as they did six months ago, and his gums also appeared unchanged since he last rubbed a grimy finger over them. 

Satisfied, Bob opened the drawer on his office desk and rummaged through a sea of empty chip bags. His hand returned empty. Looking to the left, then the right, Bob stood up from his worn office chair. The smell of ass sweat wafted from the seat, and Bob carefully slid his legs out in order to air out. On the TV across the room, a ticker tape ran below the newsfeed that read: Both candidates call for cooler political rhetoric and national unity. 

Bob stretched his arms over his head, gave his bulbous-eyed, blonde colleague with the gopher teeth a nod, and then followed the sewer brown carpet toward the front of the office. Most of the cubes stood empty, faded memories of coworkers whose jobs had been shipped overseas. A crinkled agenda lingered here. A pink motivational post-it note still stood firmly there. 

“I want a donut,” Bob announced to no one in particular. 

Monday, 10:07 AM
A furious purpose welled up inside as he slid his phone back into the pocket of the Sam’s Club jeans his mother had bought for him. Ned was strong, educated, and empowered, and people (his mom) were always saying that he had a terrific memory. Ned’s mind zipped off from the contents of his phone to a memory from third-grade recess as he thought of a clever retort he should have said to a bully who made fun of him. Ned thought of how the girls would have looked at him differently then, of how it would have propelled the momentum of his life in a completely different direction had he only opened his clever little mouth. A tremor jolted down his arm, and closed Ned’s hand into a fist as he walked down the street. His mind zipped elsewhere—to his father and the stench of Red Dog Beer on his breath. To the red fingermarks Dad left on his neck and arms. To the—

The Imperial March rang out from his pocket, and Ned pulled out his phone. It was just a push notification from Candace Cower, a vlogger vehemently unafraid to speak her mind. She recanted the calls for unity from the other side as nothing more than political posturing. Ned scrolled the inflammatory headline, then tucked his phone away. He needed to get to work, but first, Ned needed a cup of coffee. 

A few blocks down, he spotted a cafe. The wind tickled the tangled heap of facial hair that ran from the base of his neck up to his cheeks. Ned scratched his cheeks as he walked, his mind still zipping through time, thinking about all of the ways that he, as a fully functioning man, wished he could transport back through time and more affirmatively stand up for himself.

Outside the cafe, something repugnant slapped Ned in the face. He blinked his beady little black eyes, removed his glasses, and wiped them on the bottom of his neon green hoodie. A storm roiled within him. The oppression of his childhood, of his classmates, of the subjugation of the white man in this modern American 21st century flooded up his esophagus. Ned wanted to scream, but he exercised restraint. He graciously swallowed the acidic bile he so wanted to unleash. 

“Drag brunch?” 

Ned feverishly whipped out his phone and snapped a few photos of an ad in the front window of the Cookie-Cutter Cafe. He immediately sent the photos to a group chat labeled “Wolfpack.” 

Monday, 10:13 AM
That fresh city air assaulted Bob with wafting sewer shit smell. Undeterred, Bob clenched his teeth and waded through it. He readjusted his wrinkled collared shirt as he passed a homeless man with a plastic cup. Behind the bum, a mom with wind-washed hair pushed a stroller with a screaming child. Its cries thronged in Bob’s ears, and he reached out a right hand to the walls of the concrete jungle, mashing his fingers into fresh bird droppings by happenstance. 

Bob recoiled in a slurry of anguish, frustration, and fear. He rubbed his hands along the right pant leg of his khakis, mixing green and white with tan. He wanted to fill the air with obscenities, but he thought of the child, of the dozens of eyes zeroing in on him as faceless strangers walked past this now wildly flailing man. 

“Deep breaths, Bob.” It was the voice of his therapist, Frida. He could see her pillowy lips as clear as day in his mind’s eye. “Count to ten.”

Bob was six again, sitting uncomfortably at the strip mall counseling center again, closing his eyes and letting his feelings ride with each breath out. Then he was in first grade, listening to his parents explain why they were divorcing and why it wasn’t his fault. Bob breathed, shutting out the pain, and focused on the donut. When he opened his eyes again, there it was — Cookie-Cutter Cafe. Surely, they had a place to wash his hands. 

Monday, 10:17 AM
A man with bird droppings on his khakis walks out of Cookie-Cutter Cafe with an old-fashioned donut in his hand, his childlike glee aloof to the danger permeating the air. Several photos are taken of him, then sent to a group chat named “Wolfpack.” 

Monday, 5:21 PM
Bob was making record time today. He careened his beater out of the parking lot of Unidit Inc. before that gum chewing guy with the dirty Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap could block the turn lane and sit there, indecisively, for an eternity before pulling out. Then he zipped past the high school a few blocks over without being stopped by red lights or oafish teens. Even better, the expressway was relatively empty for a Monday afternoon, which made for smooth sailing all the way back to his sleepy little suburb. 

A few quick turns after exiting the expressway, and Bob was almost home. Satisfaction—nay, PRIDE—beat through his heart as his dumpy little Nissan Versa zeroed in on home. Bob reminisced about the good times, about the donut he ate earlier and how it canceled out the birdshit. When he got home, he was going to actually cook tonight instead of heating up a pre-made meal in the microwave. Everything was aces.

Bob’s foot moved from the gas pedal to the brake. The Versa slowed to a crawl as it rounded the corner, giving him a glimpse of the small patch of land where his home should have been. Gone was Bob’s favorite pine tree. Gone was the ranch house that was otherwise noticeable for its faded paint and missing segments of siding. Instead, the front of Bob’s sleepy, suburban home was overrun with vehicles and dozens of people. Some of them looked like farm folk. Others looked like the kind of older ladies who wore Tweety Bird shirts and always queued up Bon Jovi at the dive bar. There were a couple of greasy kids, too—pipsqueaks who let their baby faces run amok with Grizzly Adams hair. At least two people were holding signs that read: OK GROOMER.

“What the…,” Bob was too bewildered to complete his thought. 

But then it clicked. At the front of the mob was a man who oozed furious purpose. He wore an orange sweatshirt with the hood up. Scraggly hair hung down past his shoulders, and an unkempt beard lined the bottom of his jaw. This man locked eyes with Bob from across the retention pond of people. He withdrew an arm from his sweatshirt and pointed at Bob. 

Fight or flight kicked in, and Bob’s foot moved from the brake pedal to the gas. 

Monday 5:27 PM
“Get him!” Ned shrieked. “That’s the groomer!” 

The wolfpack mobilized, and unhealthy bodies in baggy clothes stumbled toward their vehicles. A fleet of cars and trucks with American flag bumper stickers and edgy, conspiratorial slogans barreled down the street, heading toward where the Nissan Versa was last spotted. 

Ned smiled. It took several decades to get here, but this was the first time in his life anyone ever listened to anything he had to say. To say it felt good was an understatement. It felt invigorating. 

Monday 5:29 PM
Bob’s mind flipped through the past six months of events as he California-rolled his way through stop sign after stop sign. He thought about the social media posts he’s made, about the posts he “liked” but maybe shouldn’t have, about how there could be a chance that he accidentally smiled at the wrong person one day. Fear and paranoia took the wheel as Bob, in disbelief, struggled with his own ineptitude and stupidity. How could he have been so careless? He probably said a liberal word, like “woke,” to Colin, his balding coworker who always wore “proud American” t-shirts on team calls. 

A red stoplight ended Bob’s flight. He sat, first in line, fingers drumming frantically on the top of his steering wheel. To his right, a red pickup truck with dueling eagles emblazoned on the rear windshield pulled up. Behind him, a rust bucket driven by an angry mom nearly tapped his bumper. Bob felt eyes on him. The eyes from the right burned the most. 

When the light finally turned green, Bob floored it. At first, it felt like he was going to make it. He zipped around the slow car a few beats ahead of him, and just as he was about to zoom back to the left lane, a shockwave ruptured through Bob’s Nissan Versa. The little car spiraled out of control, careening into a ditch on the right.

????
Before the light has a chance to hit his eyes, the first thing Bob notices is the pain. His arms, chest, and legs ache, and there’s a throbbing in the back of his skull. When he finally opens his eyes, two spotlights obscure everything but the metal chair legs and scratched-up wooden floor by his feet. He tries to move his limbs to no avail. A rope razors into his wrists. 

“Where… where am I?” Bob barely coughs out. No one responds, but he hears the shuffling of legs from behind the spotlights.

“Doesn’t matter, uh, Bob, is it?” The voice emanates from a person who wants to be taken seriously, but his confidence isn’t quite there yet. A few shakes in his voice give the game away. 

“What do you want from me?” Bob raises his head and tries to look around, but it’s no use. He can make out a couple of pairs of shoes across the room, and if he cranes his neck far enough, he can see plain wooden walls alongside him. 

“You like drag brunches, Bob?” A few other voices laugh after this comment.

“What are you talking about?” It hurts to talk. Every word out of Bob’s throat scratches across a desiccated landscape.

“You tell me, Bob.” The voice gains a bit of bravado now. “You ordered a donut from Cookie-Cutter Cafe today, didn’t you?” 

“Yeah?”

A new light shines from out of the darkness. It’s small and looks like it’s from a mobile phone. 

“You know that Cookie-Cutter Cafe supports child abuse, don’t you, Bob?”

The throbbing in Bob’s head won’t stop, and it keeps him from fully grasping the gravity of the situation. All he can hear is a nasally voice admonishing him, followed by a chorus of chiding. 

A serpent tongue gleams in the darkness, then lashes forward to Bob’s left, wriggling down his tethered hand. At first, Bob feels nothing but warmth. The ooze of the blood blankets him from the damp, cold air. As he looks at his fresh wound, it feels as though his hand is pressed against a hot frying pan. 

When the weakest of cries crawls out of him, the owners of the shuffling feet in the darkness chortle. 

“I won’t lie to you, Bob. We kill child abusers in these parts. We kill supporters of child abuse, too.”

It burns so bad, Bob pulls and tugs at his bindings. He squirms in his chair, combating the searing venom slithering up his arm. The ropes around his wrists saw into him. Bob bites down, stifling the scream that wants to come out, his teeth grinding against the pressure and pain.

“Please,” Bob squeaks out. “Please… just let me go.”

“What was that, Bob?”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” Bob coughs out. The pressure in his head gets worse, and it feels as if two balloons behind his eyes are ready to burst. Blood dribbles down his lower lips after he coughs once more, and the burning in his hand intensifies. 

“We don’t want you to do anything, Bob.” There’s a taunt hidden behind the calm of that voice. That little light from a phone shines on Bob’s face as the voice continues. “We want you to sit there and think about what you’ve done, Bob. Of how many kids you’ve hurt. We want you to sit there, think about it, and repent.” 

Bob begins to plead again, but the voice shushes him. 

“Sit. Think. We’re not the ones judging you here, Bob. God is judging you. Take it up with him.” 

The little light from the phone moves closer. It could be adrenaline or fear, but something primal claws its way up from within Bob. He uses the only tool left at his disposal, and he spits. That bright white light turns around, and the pack of beasts hiding in the darkness behind it howl. Bob then sways from left to right, toppling the chair over. 

Across the room, that taunting voice loses its cool.

“What do we do now, Ned?” Another voice chimes in, this one sounds like someone’s grandmother. 

“I say we gut him like the scum he is,” Someone else adds. The speaker gurgles with constipation and rage, each consonant following with a grunt of some kind. 

On the floor, the knots loosen, and Bob is able to wriggle his feet free first, then his hands. 

Across the room, a higher power makes its existence known. It could be an angel, Fate, a demon, or God ready to deliver judgment. A bath of light illuminates the room; a doorway is opened. Bob rolls over onto his hands and knees and scampers towards it on all fours before he finally hears some kind of movement from his assailants. 

“Get him, you idiots!” It was the original voice, Ned, screaming at his congregation. Feet shuffle, but it’s too late. Bob is upright now, his feet taking him through the open doorway just as a figure enters. 

Bob pushes the man to the side, breaching the barrier from darkness to light. He finds himself in the living room of a quaint cabin. There’s a crochet square blanket draped across an old rocking chair. A tube TV sits in a corner beneath a shelf that serves as a perch for a stuffed raccoon. On a wooden side table near the chair, a three-pronged hand cultivator rests atop a stack of hunting magazines. Bob lunges for the garden tool, then bolts for the front door several steps beyond it.

Footsteps thunder behind him, and he’s almost through the doorway when a meaty paw grasps his shoulder. Bob tightens his grip around the cultivator, then turns around and brings that miniature trident up as fast as he can. One of the prongs hooks an eyeball, and Bob’s hairy assailant shrieks. Those fingers let go of Bob’s shirt as the beast rocks backward, clutching his bloodied face. 

All emotion drains from Bob’s face. His mind’s as empty and expressionless as his eyes. It’s as if the last shred of a soul disappeared several breaths ago. Something primal says to run, and though he stumbles at first, Bob gains speed, hoofing it to the woods that surround the cabin. Several parked vehicles breeze by, but he has neither the comprehension nor the focus to think through how they may be helpful right now. 

All Bob can do is run, and he runs until his legs can’t take it any longer. He runs until the fat and muscle in his legs liquify. He runs until they give out, and he falls face-first in the dirt. Lost, alone, and in the cold. 

Behind him, bellows of rage and cries of war are distant, but they’re growing louder. Bob pushes his chest off the ground and pushes himself up on his knees. A tremor shoots through his legs, and he falls down again. Bob tries once more, then resigns himself to his fate as those threats of death and violence near.

 

Monday 8:36 PM
Jermaine gave each of his biceps a sweet little kiss before putting his tight, all-black fire skull t-shirt back on. He looked down at his phone, clicked send on the photo of him shirtless, and waited a moment or two for a response. Though it still hadn’t been seen, Jermaine’s sky blue eyes wandered back toward the bathroom mirror, where he snuck another glimpse of himself. He could see his abs through the fabric of his shirt. He could see the imprint of the cross pushing against his collar, letting everyone know that though he was a real-life Adonis, Jermaine was a devout follower of the one, true religion. 

A loud crash reverberated down the halls, followed by screams and the thudding of heavy feet. He slid his iPhone back into his pocket and opened the door of the bathroom. It wasn’t long before Ned called for him. 

“Jermaine? Jermaine! Bring out the kerosene. We’re going to need to purify this trash!”

A sense of purpose crept across Jermaine’s chiseled face in the form of a smile. He walked out of the bathroom, scooped up the can of kerosene, and marched proudly toward where all the feet were dashing. Just as he was about to hoist the glorious scourge of fire above his head, he—

Monday 8:38 PM
Ned rooted around in his pockets for a lighter to accompany his fresh pack of Virginia Slims. With his other hand, he brought the pack up to his mouth, pulled out a cigarette with his lips, and took one long, deep breath. The wolves were unleashed, and if he was going to do this right, he was going to need a cool head to keep everyone in check. Ned snickered as his eyes caught the surgeon general’s warning. First Bob and this drag brunch shit, next the damn surgeon general, he thought to himself. 

The first puff was always the best, and Ned let that drag linger for just a moment. All his worries, anger, and frustration went up in smoke. All the pain and unresolved trauma—poof! A moment later, Ned realized he was still standing in the living room of his uncle’s cabin, and as a courtesy, made his way toward the front door. 

Outside, the wolves were howling, and behind Ned, he could hear the thundering of that lunkhead Jermaine’s blocky feet. A side table clattered across the room, whipping Ned in the back. As he turned to brace himself, a storm of kerosene covered him head to toe. The cigarette fell from his mouth. 

Monday 8:41 PM
A blaze of light cut through the darkness, and a plume of smoke wisped above the trees. As Bob lay there, now on his back, he watched thick clouds of smoke blot out the stars, one by one. 

Monday 10:02 PM
A ticker tape ran across the nightly news. It read: BBQ ENDS IN TRAGEDY. COMMUNITY MEMBERS MOURN LOSS OF DEVOUT FRIENDS WHO BROUGHT JOY TO FAMILY AND NEIGHBORS.