Doppelgänger by Johnny Ostentatious

Matthew Savin lied on his bed in his room. He turned on his side. The sight of Rin Tin Tin on his hand-me-down sheets did not lighten his mood.

Outside his parents’ row home in Northeast Philadelphia, the 13-year-old Matt heard the bustle of kids playing in the street and adults arriving home from work. Since almost everyone on the street were transplants from the region of the world formerly known as the Eastern Bloc, the voices drifting through Matt’s screened window had Slavic accents. Half of the voices spoke in English, the other half in Russian.

Blocking out the sounds of the street, Matt reflected on today, his first in junior high. It ranked as the worst eight hours of his life. All day long, a 17-year-old—who had been left back several times—hurled verbal and physical assaults at Matt. The bully kept calling Matt a “Commie Cunt” and every time they passed in the hall, he body-checked Matt into the lockers.

Matt sat up, the bed groaning. He was about to leave his bedroom, when he heard a scratching sound. Where was it coming from? More importantly, what was causing it? Couldn’t be a cat because the Savins didn’t own any animals. Not unless one snuck in the house. . . .

Scratch, scratch.

Apprehensively, Matt tiptoed around his bedroom. He stepped over his L.L. Bean schoolbag to investigate the corner his computer occupied. No, the scratching wasn’t coming from there. In fact, it was getting softer.

Matt did a slow 180 and inched towards his closet, where he kept most of his books. His senses were so heightened that even though his back was to the window, he knew storm clouds were shielding the sun. Hardly any natural light filtered into the room, just enough to give him a faint shadow.

Matt stepped closer towards the closet. His faint shadow stretched to the wall to the right of it. The shadow covered his Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire poster (the best book in the series he thought).

Finally reaching the closet, Matt pressed his ear against the varnished brown door.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Yes, the scratching was definitely coming from inside the closet.

Matt took a step back. He massaged his jaw and felt two trickles of perspiration—one from each armpit—race down his ribs. Matt unbuttoned his J. Crew dress shirt and untucked it from his Dockers pants. The perspiring did not abate.

Matt started shaking. He dumped both hands into his front hip pockets, shoving them down as far as they would go, until his middle fingers were practically putting holes in the pocket seams. His elbows began knocking against his ribs. A gust of hot air entered the room from outside. It sent shivers up and down his skin. He formed fists, keeping them submerged in his pockets.

The sound of scratching continued inside the closet. Every once in a while, it would become faint (as it did a moment ago when Matt perspired and stuck his hands in his pockets) then it would start up again. Like now.

Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.

There could be rat in the closet. Matt wondered if he should go get his mother. Wait, was his mom even here? Besides the scratching, the house was eerily quiet. Matt didn’t smell his mother cooking dinner or hear her watching the E! cable channel. Maybe she was taking one of her infamous afternoon naps, the ones where she hated to be wakened or even stirred.

Matt stepped away from the closet to stand in his bedroom doorway. He placed one clammy palm on the white woodwork—felt chilly—and said towards the stairs, “Mom.” But he said it so low, it came out in a whisper, coupled with a film of saliva that filled his open mouth, which quickly left his lips, forming a bubble.

Matt was about to say his mother’s name again, louder this time, when a vacuum cleaner blared to life. Matt jumped so high, he almost bumped his head on the top of the doorway. He landed inside his room, his left elbow hitting the light switch and his right hand almost slapping the closet’s black doorknob. He jumped back, as if the knob was hotter than the core of the sun.

Downstairs, the vacuum cleaner continued to roar. His mother must be cleaning the living room. Jeez, you’d think she give a little warning or something.

Standing in front of the closet door, which seemed taller than the black monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Matt was nibbling on a hangnail. His jaw went limp.

A shadow extended across the floor, originating from inside the closet. The shadow moved back and forth, its owner obviously pacing.

Matt took a step back. His stride was so long, his ankle touched his bed frame and he fell on the mattress. He quickly leapt up to his previous place: halfway between the bed and the closet door (a.k.a. two feet from the closet).

The closet doorknob began to turn. First to the left, then to the right.

Ain’t no rat in there, thought Matt.

The black doorknob continued to shift slowly between ten and two o’clock, the overhead light reflecting off the top of it. Suddenly, the knob stopped turning. Whoever was inside let go of the knob at the ten o’clock position. The knob rattled to twelve o’clock.

Matt heard heavy breathing. It was his own. He hugged himself and clasped a hand over his nose and mouth. He was soon shaking again.

From inside the closet, a whisper: “Hey, kid, let me out.”

Matt took the hand that was covering his nose and mouth and moved it up so two fingers touched his left eyebrow. Closing his right eye, his left eye peeked through the two fingers.

Another whisper from the closet: “Let me out.”

It was the most unusual whisper Matt had ever heard. Each word ran into the next, and underneath it all was a lisp. Matt couldn’t believe he heard it over his mother’s vacuum cleaning.

The voice from inside the closet ceased. That was no small comfort. The whispering was replaced by banging. Whatever stood inside the closet hit the door so hard, the top corner—above the doorknob—bent with each bang.

Matt darted out of the room.

* * *

Matt ran down the stairs three at a time. Just before reaching the landing, his feet tripped over one another, but with the aid of the paint-blistering handrail, he righted himself before smacking down on the living room carpet.

His mother’s back was to him. She turned off the Hoover and didn’t catch sight of him until halfway through wrapping up the cord.

“Hi, Matty,” she said in Russian.

“Hi,” Matt said, face ashen. He was surprised his mother didn’t say anything about his appearance. She was usually super-observant. Maybe she had something on her mind.

Matt’s mom was 31 years old. She had a naturally pale cherub face and blond hair styled as a bob cut. Today, she wore white tennis sneakers and an ankle-length spring dress decorated with dandelions.

Recently, Matt noticed that when he was out shopping with his mother, many men flirted with her, the more aggressive ones asking her out. He wondered if his mom’s appearance had always elicited that type of behavior in men. Was he only picking up on it now because he was going through puberty? Whatever the reason, the attention his mother attracted perplexed him. She was a bit chubby, about 10 pounds short of being labeled overweight. Weren’t American men supposed to salivate after women who were petite, with big breasts and flat stomachs?

The front door swung open and slammed shut. In stamped Matt’s father, reeking of diesel fuel. He was a brawny man with pockmarked cheeks, and his white-blond, sun-bleached hair was fashioned in a crew cut. He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans littered with holes, and tan Timberland working boots—all were speckled with pieces of grass, leaves, twigs and trees; evidence of his occupation. Landscaper.

Matt’s mother said in Russian to her husband, “I thought I told you to change before coming in the house. There’s a pile of clean clothes right on the porch.”

Matt’s father growled. “Piss off.” He stood in the middle of the living room and met Matt’s eyes. “What are you looking at?”

Sitting on the staircase’s bottom step, Matt dropped his head. “Nothing.” His glasses began to slip down his nose. He pushed them back up.

Matt’s dad cracked his knuckles. “You ashamed of your father, is that it? Ashamed to bring your friends over ’cause your father has to rake leaves for a living?”

Matt’s mother interjected, “Oh, for crying out loud! Quit being so melodramatic.”

“Shut up, woman. I wasn’t talking to you.” He returned his acidic gaze back to Matt. “Tell me, boy, what’s on your mind?”

Matt looked up. He wondered if tonight he was going to get pushed around by his father. Most likely. He was already being verbally abused. One usually followed the other.

“I was looking at your tattoo,” Matt said.

“What!” said Matt’s mother. “Where?”

The tattoo was on his dad’s left bicep. It wasn’t there when he left for work a week ago. (The company Matt’s dad worked for often received contracts in other states, where employees could be away for weeks at a time.) The tattoo was of a hammer and sickle smashing and slicing through a dollar sign. The tattoo was fresh; it still bled.

Matt’s mother grabbed her husband’s arm. She inspected the tattoo before he yanked free of her grasp.

“You bastard!” said Matt’s mother, fists forming, highlighting blue veins in her hands and forearms. “I’m out there every night cleaning offices, and you’re God knows where, getting a juvenile tattoo!”

“It’s not juvenile, it’s important,” said Matt’s father, almost sulking. “It’s a subtle way of telling these capitalist oppressors that we may live here and work for them, but we don’t have to like it.”

“It was your idea to come here,” Matt’s mom screamed in her husband’s face.

This was true. In the early nineties, while Matt was still an infant, his father wanted to move to America because he thought he could secure a better living than in chaotic Russia. But when they arrived in the good ol’ U.S. of A, the only jobs his dad could land were menial labor ones. It was a bit of an ego blow. In Volgograd, Matt’s father had his picking of foreman positions, and his mom stayed at home. Here in America, both his parents had to work 100-hour weeks, each of them sleeping no more than four hours a night.

Matt’s parents continued to fight. They swapped slurs and slaps like seasoned pros.

Matt trudged upstairs. No dinner tonight.

* * *

Head hung low, Matt entered his bedroom, closed the door behind him and without thinking opened his closet door for a book to read. He jumped back, leaping on his bed.

Out from the closet paraded a German shepherd, but it wasn’t one you’d find in any K-9 unit.

The creature stood on its hind legs. Its forelegs hung from the side of its torso, like human arms. On its head was a snout, no eyes or mouth. It appeared those two organs were never there. In their place was fur—nothing stitched up.

“’Bout time you opened dat fucking door,” the creature said in a lispy gruff voice that seemed like a cross between a Nazi and a furious Frenchman (s’s pronounced as z’s and his w’s pronounced as v’s).

Matt placed one foot on top of his bed’s wooden headboard and pressed his back into the corner. His head grazed the ceiling.

The four-foot-high creature spoke again. “Hey, Peter Parker, get thee fuck down here, zo vee can talk.”

Matt couldn’t believe it. The creature’s mouth ran vertically from its sternum to a couple inches above its family jewels. The mouth wasn’t like anything you’d find on a dog. There were at least three rows of teeth, and they all appeared to be incisors, each row running crookedly into the next. The countless teeth were held in place by the pinkest gums Matt had ever seen. And to make things even more unsettling, when the creature spoke, its lips didn’t move like a human’s; rather, their movement was similar to a computer visualizing sound waves.

The creature stepped away from the closet. Matt saw the creature had translucent wings. The wings were half-open. At the top of each wing was a knot of bone, like a knee joint; on each bone was an eyeball. The two eyeballs had purple skin as eyelids. Matt felt anxiety building in his diaphragm and working its way up to his heart and head. The creature’s eyes were the most hateful things he had ever seen. The lids were closed so tight, Matt couldn’t see the color of the creature’s eyes through the slits.

“You going to come down here, jerky,” said the creature, “or am I going to have to fly up dare and drag your azz down?”

Matt stopped stepping on the headboard. He stood on the middle of the bed.

“Dat’z better,” the creature said. “Now, vhy don’t you quit being zuch a puzzyhole and join me down here on thee floor like a man.”

“That’s okay,” Matt said, voice quavering, knees knocking together.

“Lizten. . . .” said the creature in a soothing tone, then leapt towards Matt. It happened so fast, Matt didn’t have a chance to come up with a defense maneuver. Before he knew it, the creature’s perspiring paws were on his shoulders and its furry legs were wrapped around his calves. A nanosecond later, Matt was lying faceup on the floor, the creature pinning him down. Matt felt his groin go numb with fear. The creature held him down by resting its forelegs on his arms and its hind legs on his thighs. The creature’s fur felt bristly, like cactus thorns or porcupine needles. Matt couldn’t tell if the fur immobilized him, or if the creature just scared him senseless. Never mind the fact that the creature smelled like a cross between cat piss and a slaughterhouse smokestack.

“Zee vhat you made me do, motherfucker?” the creature said.

Matt tried to shrink back but that proved futile. All it resulted in was him pressing his back against the wooden floor. Not a pretty scenario, especially since his shoulder blade was digging into the head of a nail.

“Ready to have a civilized converzation, Matthew?”

“How—how do you know my name?”

The creature smiled (a gruesome sight). “You’d be zurprized vhat I know about you. And vhy not? Ve’re cut from thee zame cloth.”

Drool dripped from the creature’s mouth. A drop landed on Matt’s neck. He jerked. The spit was cold and stung on contact. He jerked so hard, he glanced up. The creature’s hateful eyes on the wings were studying him.

“Let go of me!” Matt said.

“Give me one good reazon.”

Another drop of cold, stinging spit landed on Matt. This time on his shirt. It seeped through.

“’Cause if you don’t,” Matt said, “I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll scream real loud.”

“Oh, vill you?” The creature quit pinning Matt’s arms down. It stood on Matt’s legs, just above his knees. Saliva dribbled down the creature’s vertical mouth, collecting in its pubic fur.

“You’ll zcream, eh? Oh, I’m zo zcared.”

The creature flew off Matt, the sound of its wings flapping filling the room. The creature landed nimbly on Matt’s desk and said, “Zo, tell me, Zcreaming Zavin, vhen you ztart zcreaming, do you think your fucking parentz vill come running up here to zave you?”

Matt hesitated, then nodded.

The creature pointed a paw at Matt. “Bullzhit! They’re too buzy downstairs fighting to give a flying fuck about you. In fact, they don’t love you, they don’t even like you.”

“Shut up!”

“Ah, I zee you know it’z true, no?”

Matt had trouble thinking. His parents arguing in the living room—which had been going on ever since he came up here—was at its peak. Their shouting match was so loud, it seemed as if his bedroom door was wide open.

His parents’ argument stopped for a second. A nonsequitur question popped in Matt’s head.

“Are you from Germany?”

“Vhere I am from iz not important,” said the creature. “All you need to know iz my name iz Vilhelm, and I am here to help you.”

Matt gawked at the creature named Wilhelm. “Help me, how?” Matt touched his neck where Wilhelm’s saliva had landed. It had dried but left a little welt.

Wilhelm flapped his wings. He hovered in the air for a moment before descending to sit on the edge of Matt’s desk. In doing so, he kicked the desk chair. It rolled across the wood floor towards Matt. Matt sat on it, noticing Wilhelm’s hind paws didn’t own so much nails as talons.

“I am here to zhow you how to live. Up to now, you have been going around like a puzzy. I am here to zhow you how to be a man.”

“What?”

“Zilence! Lizten.”

* * *

The next day at school, Matt was at his locker, hanging up his jacket and removing books from his backpack for the first half of his morning classes. The homeroom bell hadn’t rung yet so the hall was still bustling with activity. Popular girls gossiped and giggled in groups of at least five. Jocks joked with buddies about yesterday’s practice. And school misfits—geeks, nerds, musicians and artists—huddled in pairs, some resentful, others relishing in their image as outsiders.

Matt was putting a new Bic pen in his pants pocket when the 17-year-old bully from yesterday swaggered out of the boys bathroom. Like yesterday, the bully wore a Budweiser baseball cap, a NASCAR T-shirt and blue jeans with patches of the local pro football team, the Eagles. The bully’s face was littered with freckles, and he had a pug nose, slits for eyelids, as well as a chin that jutted out into almost a triangular shape, with moles and zits galore, reminding Matt—as it did yesterday—of a witch.

Today, the bully had two goons trailing him. None of them carried any books.

“Well,” said the bully, “look who it is, the Commie Cunt.”

Matt ignored the remark but couldn’t block out the two goons snickering and repeating what their leader had said.

The bully slammed his hand on the locker next to Matt’s. The action had the desired effect. Matt flinched.

“I said, looks like the Commie Cunt’s come back.”

“Leave me alone,” Matt said, staring into his locker.

“Hmm,” said the bully, “let me think about that.” He stared at the ceiling and scratched his zit-infested chin. “How about: NO!” Spittles landed on Matt’s cheek. He felt his face go hot.

“Why do you keep bothering me?” Matt asked in a diplomatic voice.

“Why?” The bully scowled. “What kinda dumb-ass question is that? You’re a fucking Commie Cunt, that’s all the reason I need.”

“Yeah,” chorused the goons. One said, “Go back to Russia.”

Matt glanced around. Classmates were either stopping or slowing down to watch the scene. They seemed comfortable in their roles as spectators.

Behind the crowd lay Wilhelm on top of the row of lockers across from Matt. Wilhelm’s arm was bent, elbow resting on an open transom; his head leaned against that arm’s paw.

Wilhelm nodded. Matt nodded back.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” said the bully. He glanced at where Wilhelm reclined. “There ain’t nuttin’ there.”

Matt reached into his locker and pulled out his metal Batman lunchbox. He swung it with every ounce of strength his biceps had. The lunchbox smashed into the side of the bully’s head.

Caught off-guard, the bully stumbled into the crowd. They parted like pre-Civil War America, giving the bully plenty of room to crash into the row of lockers that Wilhelm lounged on.

Striding towards the hunched-over bully, Matt held firmly onto his lunchbox’s black, plastic handle. Arm straight, he brought the lunchbox over his head, looking like Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams winding up for a pitch.

Matt thrashed down the lunchbox. A corner of the box walloped the bully’s ear. Blood splattered everywhere. On lockers, on the lunchbox, on the crowd, on the bully, but mostly on Matt. He didn’t care. It only energized him.

The bully, now lying on the hallway’s speckled marble floor, touched his ear to examine the damage. Matt, kneeling on one knee beside the bully, rose the lunchbox again. The bully looked off to the side. Matt glanced there as well. Ten feet away stood the bully’s two goons, gaping. They were retreating, eyes on their fallen leader.

Matt brought the lunchbox down. The bully rose his hands to deflect the blow. It was a useless gesture. All that did was draw more blood because Matt slammed the lunchbox down repeatedly.

Eventually, Matt planned to bring the lunchbox down on last time.

WHAM!

Matt missed the bully. The box landed to the side of the now unconscious bully. Upon hitting the floor, the box popped open. Out burst its contents. Fist-sized granite rocks.

“What’s going on here?”

A teacher broke through the crowd. Matt stared up in defiance at the balding, pot-bellied bureaucrat in a coffee-stained white-collar shirt.

“Young man. . . .” the teacher said but seemed at a loss for words when he caught sight of the bloody bully.

Overhead, on top of the lockers, Wilhelm said, “Zay it, zay it!”

“Fuck him,” Matt said to the teacher, “and fuck you.”

* * *

Five years later, Matt was out at dinner with his girlfriend Pietra, his mother and her friend. (Matt’s father had died three years previously of liver cirrhosis.) Matt found it amusing that whoever his mom dated, she referred to him as a friend, not a boyfriend or a fuck buddy—just a friend.

The four of them were dining at Kelly’s Seafood restaurant, not far from the house where Matt grew up. The celebration was for Matt’s graduation from reform school. After putting the bully in a six-month coma, Matt’s parents struck a deal with juvenile court to place their son in Charon Academy, instead of Matt going to JV hall.

Matt graduated from reform school with honors. It wasn’t easy. At Charon Academy, he was surrounded by students very much like the bully he pulverized, but he was on his best behavior. He ignored verbal taunts and only got into fights when cornered, usually in the bathroom or in the stairwell late at night, far away from tattle-taling eyes and mouths of the hall monitors.

Since the waitress was taking her sweet time with the check, Matt excused himself from the table. He entered the bathroom, which barely had enough room for its toilet and sink. The white walls were graffitied with faint penknife carvings of gangsta braggadocio (the restaurant painted the bathroom walls at least once a month).

The bathroom door slammed behind Matt. He thought nothing of it, until he stepped up to the toilet. With at least a minute to kill while his bladder emptied itself, he peeked over his shoulder. The latch was in the locked position. But he didn’t lock it. Odd.

Matt turned his head back around. “Fuck!” He staggered back, urine spattering on the chipped tile floor.

There on the toilet tank stood Wilhelm.

“Greetingz, Matthew.”

The creature looked the same as it did five years ago.

“Wha—what do you want?” Matt asked.

“Juzt to vizh you congratulationz on your graduation.”

Matt zipped up, grateful he didn’t wet his pants. He grabbed a handful of paper towels.

“Vhat are you doing?”

“Cleaning up where I pissed on the floor,” Matt answered.

“Vhy bother? They have houzekeeping for dat.”

“That ain’t right.”

“You’re paying good money to dine here, you can do vhatever you dezire.”

“So tell me, Wilhelm, were you born ignorant, or did you have to work at it?”

“Ztickz and ztonez may break my bonez, but vordz vill only invigorate me.”

“Fuck off,” Matt said, storming out of the bathroom.

* * *

After dinner, Matt drove Pietra home. She lived in Winchester Park, an upper-middle class section of Northeast Philadelphia.

Matt had been dating Pietra for nine months. He suspected the main reason she dated him was because she perceived him as a bad boy. Like him, she was 18. He was pretty sure in the fall their relationship would deteriorate quicker than a castle of ash. She would be whisked away to a private college. He would start trade school. The lines of class distinction would be clearly drawn.

Parked outside of Pietra’s house, Matt kissed his girlfriend. She kissed back. Soon it escalated into a major make-out session. Abruptly, she broke away.

“What,” Matt asked, “what is it?”

Pietra sucked on her lower lip. “My parents are away.”

Matt glanced at the five-bedroom house. All the lights were out. “Oh yeah?” He grinned.

Pietra placed her hand on Matt’s thigh. “You can come in, if you want.”

Matt grinned wider, if that was possible. “That sounds great.” The grin vanished. “Wait, I don’t have anything.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do.” Pietra patted his erection.

“No, what I mean is I don’t have any rubbers.”

“There’s a drug store right around the corner,” said Pietra. She clutched his suit coat, a little too hard, Matt thought.

“I’ll be right back,” Matt said.

“Hurry.”

Pietra glided out of the car and skipped up the path to her house. Matt sped down the street.

* * *

Quicker than you could say free HBO, Matt was in the drug store’s parking lot. He cut the engine.

“Forget zomething?”

Matt jumped. Wilhelm sat in the passenger seat.

“What are you doing here?” Matt said.

“Juzt thought I vould be thee one to inform you dat your vallet dropped out of your pocket at thee reztaurant.”

“What?” Matt’s hand dove for his right-front pants pocket. His wallet was missing. “You stole it!”

“I vill not zit here and be accuzed of zuch a flagrant accuzation.”

“How come you didn’t say anything in the bathroom?”

“After thee dizrespectful vay you treated me, I hardly think you dezerve cordial behavior. Bezidez, you lozt it after leaving thee bathroom.”

“Fuck!” Matt slammed his hand on the steering wheel. What was he going to do? He couldn’t go back to Pietra’s and hope she was cool with unprotected sex. She wasn’t.

“I have a zolution.”

“Oh yeah,” Matt mumbled into his left shoulder, “what’s that?”

“Zteal thee condomz.”

Matt whipped his head in Wilhelm’s direction. “Shoplift?”

“Exactly.”

“But I could get arrested.”

“You von’t.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Didn’t I look out for you thee lazt time? Didn’t you practically get off zcott-free?”

“That had nothing to do with you. That was all my parents and my lawyer.”

“Vaz it?”

“Are you saying. . . .”

“Zhoplifting iz only a crime if you get caught.”

Matt stared in the 24-hour drug store, Doppler’s. It was bright in there. The pharmacist in the back was a 20-something who wore headphones and played air guitar. The cashier in the front twirled a finger in her hair while flipping through a tome of a magazine.

“Do I have your word?” Matt asked.

“Have I ever let you down before?” said Wilhelm.

“Not exactly.”

“Beating up dat bully vaz thee zmartezt thing you have ever done. If you did not, you vould ztill be getting beat up by thoze vho miztake your kindnezz for veaknezz.”

“I don’t know. I really don’t want to go to prison.”

“You von’t. Now, lizten.”

* * *

Matt walked into Doppler’s. The drug store smelled of nutmeg and plastic baby diapers. Matt squinted. The store was brighter inside than from outside.

Following Wilhelm’s directions, Matt strode past the cashier without making eye contact. She didn’t seem to notice. She was clacking on a wad of bubble gum.

Matt marched down the center aisle. Halfway down was a cross section. He paused and saw there were convex mirrors at each corner of the store, as well as one at each end of this cross section. No security cameras, though—just like Wilhelm had said.

Continuing down the aisle, Matt kept his head low. From the ceiling emitted the sounds of Doppler’s corporate radio station. A soft-jazz version of the Beatles’ “Help!” faded out so the announcer could promote the chain’s latest line of antidepressants.

Finally, Matt reached the back of the store, where the pharmacy resided. The condoms were on the shelf between boxes of Band-Aids and bottles of vitamin supplements. Matt arbitrarily picked a pack, then purposely headed up the aisle two over from the one he had walked down. Just before reaching the cross section, he stopped and pretended to browse. Products in this part of the aisle were seasonal items like Igloo coolers, lawn chairs and patio tables. Blending in with the merchandise, Matt stood between a rack of romance novels and a five-foot-high rectangular bin of inflated beach balls. In front of him was an open picnic table umbrella, its tip touching the ceiling. The umbrella shadowed Matt.

Completely concealed, Matt got to work. He opened the box of condoms, his thumb grazing the imprint of the expiration date. Inside the box were two dozen rubbers in red packets. He tore off three. From his perspective, the action made a loud, echoing, reverbing sound. He peeped around guiltily. Neither the cashier nor the pharmacist seemed to notice.

Inserting the condoms down his pants, Matt tossed the box and other 21 rubbers down a stack of bright-green, white-striped garden hoses. The movement didn’t make a sound.

Matt strode up the aisle. He was a step away from the Electronic Article Surveillance system when a hand grasped his elbow. He tried not to jump.

Turning around with a blank expression, Matt saw an old woman with osteoporosis. She wore a knit hat and a cotton shawl, even though it was warm in here. And she had so much makeup on, she looked like a garish transsexual.

“Yes?” Matt said in his most patient, pleasant voice.

The woman held a clipboard. “Sir, would you be so kind as to grant me a few minutes of your time to participate in a survey for L’Oreal?”

“Sorry, I’m kind of in a rush,” Matt said. “Maybe next time.”

Matt exited the store. The security alarm didn’t go off.

* * *

Ten years later, Matt was in the basement of the house he owned with his wife, Pietra. They moved in five years ago, after their wedding.

Matt was rummaging around for the box of Christmas decorations. He thought it was here, in the corner next to his workbench. He leaned over the lawn mower. The corner smelled of mildew and mold. To the right was a shelf holding cans of paint; a spider web hung between two of the cans.

“There we go,” Matt mumbled.

The decorations were behind a crate of family photo albums. Matt, grunting, reached for it. He carried the dusty box upstairs.

In the living room, Pietra was positioning the undecorated tree. Matt dropped the box in the middle of the room. Dust rose off the box.

Pietra turned and tsked. “I wish you would’ve dusted that off before bringing it up. Now I’m going to have to vacuum again.”

“What’s the matter? Afraid a little manual labor is beneath you, college girl?”

Pietra frowned and shook her head. She returned her attention to the tree, adjusting the artificial branches. Suddenly, she started sobbing.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked in a kind voice without moving closer towards her.

Pietra sniffed into her hand. “What happened to you? When I first met you, you were nice and intent on living a good life. But ever since you graduated from reform school, you’ve done everything but. You drop out of Lincoln Tech after one class, you run with a rough crowd, you’ve been on probation more times than I can count. . . . Why, Matt?”

Matt shrugged. There was a simple reason for his immoral behavior.

As if on cue, Wilhelm materialized in the living room. Matt hadn’t seen him for a few weeks, not since he was down at the Sports Complex and had gotten into a fistfight with an old man over a parking spot.

“Vhat a vhining little puzzy,” Wilhelm said about Pietra.

“Quit whining,” Matt said apathetically.

“You’re so cold,” said Pietra.

“Yeah, well, you made that way.” Matt knew that wasn’t true. The only reason he said it was because hate surged through his cerebellum, like every other time Wilhelm made an appearance.

Pietra wept. She turned away, hugging herself.

“Dat’z it!” Wilhelm said, dancing on top of the couch’s back cushions. “Now finizh her off! You don’t need dat cunt.”

Matt sneered. Wilhelm was right. All he needed was himself. What did he need her for? Sex? Yeah, right. If he wanted to cum, all he had to do was jerk off. And if he wanted the warm, slippery sensation of pussy, all he had to do was go down Frankford Ave. for a K&A whore.

“Matt,” Pietra said, turning around, “let’s not fight, not on Christmas Ev—”

Pietra didn’t finish her plea. With an open hand, Matt leapt forward and went to slap her. His tattooed forearm clocked her on the side of the head, her tiny diamond earring leaving an imprint on his elbow.

Pietra flew into the tree, both she and it falling over. The tree snapped in half. She rolled around in the corner, neither crying nor cursing. Matt wondered if he hit her too hard.

“Yez, yez, yez!” Wilhelm said. “You zhowed her vho iz bozz. Now finizh her off!”

Matt gave Wilhelm a querulous look. Next thing Matt knew, he was on the floor, curled in a ball. Pietra stood over him, holding the top half of the tree, which she had used to hit him in the gut.

Winded, Matt stared up at his wife. She sported a savage expression, most of her face obscured by her blond hair. “Bastard,” she said and spit on him.

Matt rolled around, trying to gain his strength. He heard Pietra run upstairs and cause a ruckus in the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she returned to the living room, suitcase in tow.

Breathing normally again, Matt propped himself up on his knees. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“My sister’s.” Pietra stood by the porch door. Her voice softened. “What happened to you, Matt?”

“You ain’t going nowhere.” Matt stood up, swaying.

“Dat’z right!” Wilhelm said, pirouetting on Matt’s shoulder. “Tell here you’re thee man of thee house, and vhat you zay goez. Tell her a woman’z place iz in thee kitchen. Tell her to ztart cleaning up thiz mezz.”

Matt repeated what Wilhelm said.

Pietra gawked at Matt, as if he were an employer terminating positions for the thrill of it. “Are you high?”

“No, I ain’t high. Now get in the kitchen and make me something to eat.”

“What!”

“You heard me.”

Matt was only halfway through that comment when Pietra swung the suitcase with the determination of a Louisville Slugger.

“Look out!” Wilhelm said, diving off Matt’s shoulder.

But the creature’s warning was unnecessary. The suitcase was too heavy to reach what Matt assumed was Pietra’s target: his head. The suitcase tapped his elbow. He grabbed it from her hands.

“Nice one.” Matt snickered. “You throw like you give a blowjob. Shitty.”

Matt lifted the suitcase over his head. (Weighed 50 pounds, at least.) Pietra stepped back, blinking rapidly. Matt swiveled on his heel and threw the suitcase towards the dining room. He hurled it with suck He-Man force, its handle hit the archway, snaring the garland and blinking lights. With that string of Christmas cheer along for the ride, the suitcase bounced off the dining room table. Garland and lights tore out of the archway, thumbtacks descending on the wooden floor like jacks. TAP, TAP, TAP, TAP. As an encore, the suitcase crashed into the china closet. Fragile family heirlooms smashed into pieces. The suitcase, popping open, dropped to the floor.

Proud of himself, Matt turned around, hands on hips.

“Fucking creep,” Pietra said, charging Matt. She held a shadeless lamp over her head.

Matt rose his arms. It looked like Pietra was aiming for the left side of his head, so he moved his arms in that direction. But at the last moment, she shifted to the right.

The lamp’s light bulb struck Matt’s right temple and shattered on impact. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt something hot hop across his scalp. A filament? No time to ponder. Warmness sluiced into Matt’s ear canal. He touched it. Blood.

Wilhelm guffawed. “Oh zhit, dat’z medieval!”

Matt staggered. The room was spinning. He heard carnival music, a generic tune you might hear when riding a carousal.

Matt dropped on one knee—hard. Despite being nauseous, he felt the drop vibrate his entire body.

The carousal tune was fading like a forgettable melody. Slowly, Matt sensed clear-headedness returning. He bent over in an effort to collect some strength to stand, however, he was distracted by a figure that blurred past him. Belatedly, he realized that blur was Pietra. She was dashing behind him.

“Oh zhit!” Wilhelm said.

Pietra wrapped the lamp cord around Matt’s neck. He growled, spittles spraying his face, and attempted to reach for her. For her hair, face, breasts, vagina. Any sensitive body part that would force her to loosen her grip. However, she was out of reach. How was that possible? He cocked his head and saw how. She had wrapped the cord, starting with the plug, around his neck three times. That gave her two feet of cord to hold onto, pulled taut. With one hand, she held onto the cord; with her other hand and arm, she hugged the lamp.

Maybe if I drop my chest to the floor, I can throw her off me, Matt thought. But he didn’t get the chance to try out the idea. Pietra stamped her foot on his back, between his shoulder blades.

“Ooof!” Matt lost his balance. He timbered.

Hands pinned under his chest, Matt craned his neck, even though the movement increased the tension of the lamp cord. Pietra stood over him like a cattle rancher. She continued to tug the cord tight, her foot still pressing down on his back.

In a raspy tone, Matt said, “You’re fuckin’ dead.”

Off in the corner, Wilhelm raised one of his forepaws. “Dat’z right! Tell dat cunt who’z in charge. Zet her ztraight!”

“The only killing around here tonight is going to be done by me,” said Pietra. She yanked the lamp cord. Matt’s head only rose a centimeter, nonetheless, it hurt more than a hot poker stamping a scrotum.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Matt said, as if one word. “I’m-gonna-kill-you-I’m-gonna-kill-you-I’m-gonna-kill-you-I’m-gonna-kill-you.”

Pietra eased the tension of the lamp cord. Matt’s ear thumped to the floor. He inhaled, his lungs burning. With more oxygen making its way to his brain, a notion struck him. He flayed his legs. They failed to make contact with anything. Not Pietra, not furniture, nothing.

Fuck this, Matt thought. I can’t do this alone.

“Wilhelm,” Matt exclaimed. “Help!”

Yawning, Wilhelm picked puss from one of his wings’ eyeballs. “No can do, Matty. I’m here for you, but not in dat vay.”

“But . . . but . . .”

“Zorry, kid. Them’z thee rulez.”

Pietra asked Matt, “Who are you talking to?”

“Wilhelm!”

“Who?”

“Don’t you see him?” Matt was on the verge of tears. “He’s right over there!”

“Oh, Matt,” said Pietra, sympathy in her voice.

“How can you not see him? He’s right there!” Matt muttered, “Fuckin’ cum dumpster.”

“Bastard,” said Pietra through clenched teeth.

Matt noticed the lamp cord had slackened. He turned over to unwrap it from around his neck but froze upon seeing vengeance filling Pietra’s eyes.

“Go to hell,” said Pietra hoarsely.

She raised the lamp over her shoulder. The cord still around Matt’s neck, he was dragged up. He fumbled for footing.

Pietra threw the lamp down quicker than the Hulk throwing Kingpin into the Grand Canyon.

The side of the lamp surged towards Matt. The wavy brown-and-beige ceramic pattern filled his vision. Closing his eyes, he felt the lamp squash his nose and press against his face, as if his face was conforming to the oblong shape of the lamp.

Unconsciousness crept in. Before passing out, Matt heard Wilhelm’s commentary.

“Damn!”

* * *

December 26th. Celebrators of Christmas go back to work or school. For those lucky enough to have the day off, the morning and afternoon are filled with sleeping off the Christmas-dinner hangover or playing with the toys Santa shot down the chimney not 24 hours before.

Matt Savin was aware of none of that. He was waking up for the first time in 36 hours.

Matt lied on the living room floor, the debris of the marital argument surrounding him—the room smelling stale. Matt moved minimally, his body aching everywhere. Groaning, he sat up. Fifteen minutes later, he was standing. Ten minutes after that, he attempted to walk. A wave of dizziness hit him so hard, he tottered backwards. He didn’t fall because he bumped into the TV. Leaning his elbow on it, he squinted in concentration.

What was I going to do, again?

He remembered.

Matt crawled upstairs and an hour later reached his destination: the computer in the back bedroom. He logged onto the Internet, clicked to Google and memorized information from the first hit his search returned. Afterwards, he shut down the computer, made a quick phone call, then limped into his bedroom to watch TV.

* * *

That night, Matt slid into his Dodge Dakota. The engine was almost warmed up when Wilhelm appeared in the passenger seat.

“Vhere are vee going? To hunt down and beat up dat cunt-zwab of vife, I hope.”

Matt shook his head. “Fuck her. I got bigger fish to fry. I need money. She cleared me out.”

“Vhat’z thee plan? Burglary?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Oh, boy,” Wilhelm said, rubbing his forepaws together and kicking his hind paws in glee.

* * *

A half-hour later, Matt pulled up in front of a Lutheran church. It was on the corner where a residential side street intersected with a busy four-lane avenue. The church had a helm roof with a giant white cross on top. On the front lawn was a Plexiglas sign advertising the church’s day-care services.

“A church?” Wilhelm said, snarling. “You’re going to burgalize a fucking church?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. There’s a ton of valuable shit in there.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “For starters, they got gold chalices.”

“Vhat are vee vaiting for? Let’z go!”

Matt removed his keys from the ignition and hopped out of the Dakota.

* * *

On the side of the church was a wood door, white paint peeling. Matt touched the door handle without pressing down on the lever.

“I think you should go in first.”

“Vhy?” asked Wilhelm.

“’Cause you got better eyes than me. It’s probably dark in there. I’ll let you lead.”

“Okay.”

Matt opened the door. Wilhelm crossed the threshold.

“OH, ZHIT!”

Wilhelm tried to spin around and dash out, but Matt punted him into the room. Wilhelm crashed into a row of metal folding chairs.

A bald, beefy man with a red goatee and a checkered green/back flannel shirt stepped in front of Matt. “Hurry, before he dematerializes!” He handed Matt a paddle.

Wilhelm was getting to his feet, talons clicking on the cement floor. His back was to Matt. Matt slid on his knees and whacked Wilhelm with the paddle. Matt couldn’t have asked for better timing. Just as the paddle made contact with Wilhelm’s posterior, the creature began flapping its wings. Wilhelm took flight, the push of the paddle influencing his trajectory.

Wilhelm flew towards a cage on the other side of the room, in an alcove to the left of a staircase. Flannel Man, the one who had handed Matt the paddle, darted across the room. He opened the door to the spacious cage. Wilhelm flew in. Flannel Man slammed the door down with an iron clang.

Wilhelm pressed against the cage door. “I’ll get you for thiz, you Zlavic motherfucker!”

Matt mocked his demon. “Zticks and bonez may break my bonez, but threatz vill only invigorate me.”

Wilhelm turned away from Matt. “Quit fucking puzhing me!” he said to the empty cage. Matt knew the cage wasn’t really empty. Other demons were packed in there. Matt couldn’t see them because they weren’t his personal demons.

Flannel Man strutted away from the cage to the front of the room. He positioned himself behind a lectern to face a group of men and women sitting on folding chairs. The room smelled of coffee and cigarette smoke.

“Care to introduce yourself?” asked Flannel Man.

Matt knew what he was supposed to say. “My name is Matt, and my life has become unmanageable because of my demon.”

“Welcome, Matt,” the room chorused. “Keep coming back.”

Matt nodded and took a seat.

Flannel Man read from a worn binder in front of him. “Welcome to the Northeast Philadelphia chapter of Demons Anonymous. Here, we help you manage your personal demon so you can live a happy, productive life. Who would like to go first? Matt?”

[[END]]
 

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