Playground Demons
by L.J. Blount

“Pussy!”

    Bret stopped, seething in his tracks. The word seemed to hover over him in the damp air like the gray fog that chilled his bones. Pussy, he thought to himself, he called me a pussy. How he hated the word, how he hated being messed with.

    Bill Fine, schoolyard bully watched in amazement as one of his bullied had stopped in mid-flight. No running, no screaming for mom he just stood with his back to him. “That’s right, I called you a pussy. Pussy!” What the hell is he doing? He wondered with growing concern.

    Now he taunts me? Bret thought, it wasn’t bad enough to call me a pussy, now you have to taunt me with the
word?

    “Pussy. Pussy. Pussy. You’re a pussy.” The words fumbled across Bill Fine’s lips. What’s he doing? Why isn’t he running? Bill Fine rubbed his palms over his sweatshirt; beads of concern clung there making his palms damp and uncomfortable.

    A song? He’s making a song out of it? The pussy song? Bret curled his upper lip, narrowed his eyes and spun on his heels. This is where I draw the line, he thought, this is where I make my stand. The pussy song!

    Bill Fine took a step back, instinct told him to. Why is he coming this way? Why aren’t you running Bret, you always run. He chuckled uncomfortably, looking over at his friends who watched in amazement at Bret who bullishly approached.    

    “You stand there and call me a pussy?” Bret said as he quickly approached the chain link fence, the same
chain link fence he had just scaled to escape with his life.

    “Yeah. I called you a pussy.” Bill Fine said, proudly pounding his chest.

    Bret stared through the chain link at Bill, his eyes scrolled across to his friends, three of them. The four looked like creatures penned from the mind of Todd McFarlane. In a moment, it hit him. Am I nuts? “You wanna throw down?” Yes, I’m nuts.

    Behind a bright, long smile, Bill Fine held his breath before letting go a spittle-producing chuckle.

“You? The pussy want to fight me?” Bret watched, as if in slow motion as Bill Fine repeated the question. He used his hands to point first to Bret then himself. How Bret hated that, hated people who repeated him, or had to talk with
their hands as if he were too ignorant to get it. Bret hated alot of things, and presently Brett hated Bill Fine.

    Bret clenched his fist at his side, scraped his teeth against one another producing a creak that rattled inside his cranium. He twitched his head slightly, mouthing the word “o-u-c-h.”

    Bill Fine looked surprised for a moment, then caught his composure. What the hell is wrong with him? Is he nuts or what?

    Bret scaled the fence without another word, swung his leg over like a rodeo cowboy, and climbed half way down then leaped to the asphalt.

    Bill Fine smiled as a roar of laughter arose from his cronies. “Let’s kick his ass Bill. Let’s kick the pussy right in his pussy.” They said, then laughed some more.

    “No!” Bret shouted above the laughter. The boys quieted. “You,” he said, pointing at Bill Fine. “I want you and only you. If I’m a pussy then fight me one on one. Pussy.” There I said it. God that was tasteless, Bret thought as he made another face.

    What’s he doing? Bill fine thought as he swung his head around, looking at his friends who stood with wild grins on their faces.

    “What you’re not scared Bill are you?” One of them asked.

    Do I look scared? “No!” He protested loudly, his voice crackled then faded. “You’re on,” he said pointing back at Bret.

    Bret raised his fist, clenching them tightly. His nails dug into his skin causing him to open his fist as if they were spring loaded. Jesus, I’m doing this, he thought behind a brief smile.

    Oh, man, Bill Fine thought as he closed his eyes and swung his fist in front of him as hard as he could. He felt a sting and then a huge roar of curse words and jeers from his friends. When he opened his eyes he saw Bret laying flat on his face. His friends were patting him on the back.

    Bret lay face down on the hard asphalt. His nose bled from Bill Fine’s fist and his lip bled from the asphalt. He had no idea how he wound up like this. He didn’t remember being hit. He saw nothing coming except the rush of the asphalt towards his face. This hurts, he thought. I’m not crying I hope you see that Bill Fine.

    Bill Fine looked down at Bret with concern in his thoughts. I hope he’s okay. He lamented to himself, I didn’t mean to.

    A shower of “pussies” rained down on Bret. There they go again, he thought, calling me a pussy. He struggled to lift his head, to watch the monsters as the pranced away. Bill Fine, he’s not calling me a pussy; Bret called out in his mind, called out with a sensation of victory.

    Bill Fine looked at Bret as he walked off being serenaded as a great fighter by his comrades. He was waiting for them to put him on their shoulders and parade him around town as the next Great White Hope. He watched Bret raise his head as he was being led off. He’s smiling, he thought, what is he smiling about?

    Bret lay on the cool asphalt, the mist from the fog blanketed him, comforted him. Beneath him the blood that ran from his nose and lip pooled on the asphalt, then disappeared. It did this all the time he lay there, blood would pool then as if it thirst the asphalt absorbed it.

    Bret thought nothing of it because he was unaware. But when he tried to push himself off the asphalt he couldn’t. The asphalt pulled back, his hands sank into the black tar as if it were still unsettled. That was of course impossible, he was just standing on it. They all were.

    But it was happening and he was right in the middle of it. Bret tried to arch his body up to separate himself from the asphalt, but it was futile. There was no struggle; there was no time. Down he sank until his body disappeared into the blackness.

    Bret awoke sometime later. He lay in pile of ash, his breath choked harshly from his lungs, he could feel the heat creeping up on him

    “Bret,” a dark voice called to him.

    Bret stood uncertainly, brushing the soot from his clothing. He looked about as he did, not responding to the calling of his name. His bones ached, literally. He was over come by an ill feeling, nausea. Where the hell am I? He thought.

    “Exactly, hell.”

    “Ah, shit, shit, shit. No. Get away from me!” Bret screamed wildly, tears began to pour freely down his cheeks as every muscle in his body tightened around his chattering bones.

    From the ash rose a creature from the tomes of Dante. Bret looked on; showering the Nether Regions with cries that could raise the heads of the damned in pity for the poor soul being tormented so.

    Bret stuttered and cried as he watched the creature move closure to him.

    “Do not fear me Bret. I am here to help you. My name is Azirnt; I am a lesser demon, a working demon. I have yet to earn my place among my father’s graces.” Bret watched the creature that called himself Azirnt through fishbowl eyes.

    Oh, God, Bret wept. Get the creature away from me.

    “God is not here nor can he help you.” Azirnt protested.

    “I am not a creature either. I am a demon as I have stated. Azirnt.” Bret watched the creature, demon bow before him.

    “Someone with blood as sweet as yours can do wonders for me and my attempts at earning a place with my father.” The demon continued.

    How can I help a demon? Bret thought as he wiped the tears from his rosy cheeks with a quivering hand.

    “You can help me by bringing me souls. By killing in the name of Azirnt, thus turning their souls over to me. When I have enough I will be revered and you will be free.”

    Bret watched the demon as his devilish smile grew on his thin lips. Bret shook his head, thinking to himself, kill?

    “You think far to much. Allow me to explain. I will grant you the power to do to mortals as you please. No more will you be bullied, made fun of, or teased.”

    Bret raised a brow.

    “No man, no mortal man will have the strength, power, agility, or desire to taste blood as you. With me as your ally, there is nothing you won’t be able to accomplish. You simply have to spill blood, start by spilling the blood of those who have spilled yours.”

    Bret felt himself being drawn in. The idea of pounding Bill Fine’s face in was appealing, but to kill him? “What if I refuse,” Bret piped up wanting to ask the question before it was answered.

    “Then you will be my minion in hell for eternity. And you will watch those you love wallow in torment until the day they die.”

    Bret continued too shake, a frail leaf in a winter’s storm. I cannot kill, he thought. He felt a rush of panic strike him.

    “You cannot kill alone but with me it will come easily. You have no choice Bret, either kill in my name or rot beneath me.”

    Bret’s mouth opened, his bottom lip shook wildly. Azirnt raised his long, crooked hand, “Please, do as I ask it is your only chance at life.”

    Bret swallowed hard; drug the toe of his sneaker through the ash filled ground and nodded.

    Bill Fine stood at his locker, ferociously yanking at the handle, stuck. “Damn,” he pounded his fist on the hollow box that held his book report. Second bell had all ready rang, he was late, frustrated, and growing more flustered by the second.

    He turned and plopped his back up against the locker. “Never fails,” he pouted. He pushed himself off the locker with his back, turned and gave it a swift kick.

    “What’s the problem?”

    Bill Fine turned around quickly, startled by the kids’ voice that rose out of no where. Bret? Great, like I need this now.

    “Need what now?”

    “What? Look I need to go to the Super’s office to get my locker open.” Bill Fine said in a nervous voice.

    “What’s the problem?”

    Bill Fine twitched then stuttered, “My locker, I can’t get it open.”

    “Slam.” Bill Fine covered his ears and shied away. The force of the blast from a size eight Nike released the locker door, swinging it wide until it came to rest feeble on its neighbor.

    “Thanks,” Bill Fine said. What the hell is wrong with him? He wondered as he removed his book and folder that contained his book report.

    “Nothing’s wrong with me Bill Fine.”

    “What? How did you…” Bill Fine backed away from his locker, not bothering to shut it. Something was up, something was wrong, horribly wrong.

    “It’s time Bill Fine.”

    “Ouch! Time for what?” Bill Fine tried to pull away but it was no use. He felt the pain rocket though him from the brace like grip that wrapped around his wrist.

    “Time to contribute.”

    “Hey, stop. Help!” Bill Fine screamed before his face was smothered in a large hand, too large to belong to a kid. But it did, and the kid stood before him lifted him off the ground as if he was a toddler.

    Bill Fine cringed, then gasped for air as he was being pushed into the small confines of the locker. He struggled wildly, kicking, trying to open his mouth enough to bite down on the hand that smothered him.

    Bill Fine stopped abruptly. Blood poured down his face. His head lodged into the hanger pegs that hung down from the top of the locker. His arms and legs broken, twisted in every direction.

    Bret stepped back to admire his accomplishment. He grabbed a pencil and piece of loose-leaf paper from Bill Fine’s locker, wrote a brief message on it, jabbed the pencil through the paper, and hung it from one of Bill Fine’s eyes.

    Between periods the halls were filled with shrieks and calls for teachers, God anyone. The blood-covered floor beneath Bill Fine’s locker gave hint that something horrible had happened, something unspeakable.

    Tom Lester, Bill Fine’s best friend and fellow playground bully summoned up the courage to swing the locker door open. He could see twisted finger just outside the locker door. He grabbed the door and slowly swung it open as he took a quick step back.

    Screams filled the air; Tom Lester looked into the locker his eyes shadowed his terror. His mouth was utterly still. He read the bloodied message that hung from Bill Fine, “Your turn to contribute, Tom Lester.”

©2000 L.J. Blount

April 2000 HofP