Black Treacle Magazine (Issue 4) (5 page)

Hesitating,
Delaroy glanced over his shoulder, as if inspecting his house.

"Just a few
questions, Mr. McClemens."

"Alright. Well
come on in, then... I's about to get me some coffee. Would you like
some?"

"That'd be
nice, thank you."

The two men
passed through the front room, and Lawrence noted a few details: a
crotchety old woman to his right, wrapped in a blanket—Mama
McClemens he guessed— with her eyes fixed two-feet from the
television; and a raggedy clad redhead standing on the staircase to
his left, eyes fixed on him. The young woman straddled Lawrence's
attention like a saddle on a horse, with her wild hair, and perky,
bra-less tits, and flimsy tank top cut high above the navel.

"Put some
clothes on, Sissy!" barked Delaroy. "Can't you see we got us some
company?"

Lawrence
almost mentioned that he didn't mind, but quickly thought
otherwise. He bit his tongue and followed Delaroy into the
kitchen.

"Some
questions, eh?" said Delaroy, motioning to a table. "Go ahead and
take a seat then."

Lawrence
pulled a chair and sat, then rifled through the pages of his
clipboard. "Says here that you've got six children, Mr.
McClemens."

"Delaroy,"
replied the old man, setting two cups on the table. "Call me
Delaroy." He filled the cups with coffee then sat across from
Lawrence.

"Sure thing,
Delaroy. As I was saying, I've got some questions about, well, just
one of your kids, actually." Lawrence glanced at the clipboard.
"Arlow McClemens?"

Delaroy's eyes
narrowed with suspicion as he slowly lifted his cup to his
lips.

"That wouldn't
be the young woman out there, now would it?" continued
Lawrence.

"Ah, hell
no."

"Hmm," replied
Lawrence, flipping a page. "Oh, yes, I see. You've got a daughter
named Dacey McClemens."

"That's Sissy.
And Arlow McClemens is my youngest boy. Although we just call him
Baby."

"Baby?"

"Yep.
Baby."

Lawrence
shifted in his seat. "Well, you see here, Mr Mc—ah,
Delaroy—according to my records, Baby should be about twenty-four
years old now."

Delaroy
flicked a crumb off the table.

"Does that
sound about right to you? That Baby is around twenty-four, or
so?"

"Yeah, that
sounds about right. I s'pose. What'd you say you do again,
mister?"

Dacey
McClemens slinked into the kitchen just then, her long naked legs
waltzing across the room, ass peeking out from denim shorts, firm
as a Georgia peach. She made her way to the fridge, then the
stove.

Lawrence bit
his lip this time then adjusted his crotch from under the table. "I
investigate Fraud for the state, Delaroy. And if Baby McClemens is
twenty-four years old, then we've got us an issue."

Delaroy
cackled like a hyena. "Fraud? Baby? Shit, mister, that boy can't
wipe his own ass without getting into a terrible fix. How the
hell's he gonna steal anything?"

"Well,
actually, apparently he already has. Or somebody representing him,
for that matter. He does live here, doesn't he?"

Presently,
Dacey was shucking corn at the sink, but then she paused and turned
a shoulder. "You saying that somebody stole from Baby?"

"Hush, Sissy!"
cried Delaroy. "And didn't I say to put some clothes on?"

Dacey turned
back to the sink. "Should I fix a little extra?"

"No thanks,
mam," replied Lawrence, raising a hand. "Don't trouble yourself on
my account."

"Oh, it ain't
no trouble," said Dacey. "All's we're having is corn, and we've got
plenty of it, as you can see."

Lawrence made
a face—corn for dinner?—then coughed. "Ah...that's okay. I don't
think I'll be staying long."

"Suit
yourself," shrugged Dacey.

Lawrence
turned his attention back to Delaroy. "Now, getting back to your
son; it seems that he's been collecting general relief from the
state for, well, his whole life."

Delaroy
blinked. "General relief? What's that?"

"Welfare,
Delaroy. Your son's been collecting welfare from the state. And
that's why I'm here." Lawrence paused then leaned forward. "Look,
Mr. McClemens; the state policy—with the economy being as it is and
all—allows for recipients to receive general relief for a maximum
of three years." He sat back, sipping coffee. "Unless of course,
there's good reason otherwise—disabled, or what have you. According
to our records, your son has been claiming such disability. But
there's no proof, and there never has been—and that's what I call a
crack in the system." Lawrence smiled then stole a glance at the
crack between Dacey's legs.

Suddenly,
three loud thumps rattled down the walls, coming from somewhere
upstairs.

Lawrence
looked around, curious. "What was that?"

Dacey peeked
over her shoulder.

"Best get that
cornbread cooking, Sissy," Delaroy muttered gravely.

Dacey sighed.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."

"So, let me
get this straight, Mr. Shoemaker," the old man continued. "You're
telling me that Baby now needs a reason for getting his checks in
the mail?"

His checks,
Lawrence sneered silently. "I'm saying, that unless your son is
incapacitated in some way, unless he is unable to work a job like
the rest of us folks, then no, he ain't gonna be getting any more
of his checks."

"I see,"
replied Delaroy, rolling his fingers on the table.

Now, the
entire house jolted three times, as if a giant were pounding on the
roof with an oak tree.

Lawrence sat
up with a start. "What the hell is that?"

Delaroy leaned
back into his chair. "Mister...that's Baby. And yes, he does live
here. And he'll be madder than a rattled hornet if he don't get his
dinner soon—so get a moving, Sissy!"

Lawrence
chuckled nervously. "Beg your pardon?"

"Oh, yeah,
Baby's got him a fierce appetite." Delaroy stared proudly at the
ceiling. "And that boy takes to corn like his own ma's teats.
Cornbread, corn stew. Fritters and grits. Corn pies with goat
cheese. Or just plain ol' corn, right off the stalk—boy loves his
corn." The old man's eyes narrowed once more, predator-like, much
to Lawrence's unease. "But then again, if we add a little
gravy...Baby'll eat damn near anything."

Lawrence
coughed into his elbow. "Okay, then. Well, ah, back to this
business of your son and his checks."

"Mister
Shoemaker," Delaroy interrupted. "I think maybe you just need to
meet Baby."

Dacey dropped
an iron skillet on the floor. "Sorry! Jumped right out of my hands,
it did." She bent over, giving Lawrence a bird's eye view down her
shirt.

"Yeah, let's
ah," replied Lawrence, eyes fixed on Dacey's nipples. "Let's meet
your son, shall we?"

With a glare,
the old man stood. "Well, come on then."

Delaroy lead
Lawrence back through the front room, and up the stairs. There was
a sour odour lingering on the third floor, thick and rank as bad
cheese, and Lawrence was noticeably bothered, as he covered his
nose with his hand. A dark hallway stretched further into the
gullet of the house, where light oozed through the cracks of closed
doors. Lawrence rubbed knuckles into his watering eyes, trailing
behind the old man. At the end of the hall, they stopped in front
of a door, and Delaroy snickered quietly.

"What was that
fancy word you said? Incapacitated?" Delaroy pushed the door open
and stepped to the side.

Lawrence's
first thought was of a beached whale. He dropped his lower jaw and
leaned forward, staring. Baby McClemens sat in the middle of the
room, encompassing the entirety of it, with his six-foot girth, and
eight-foot height. He was naked, save for a yellow bed linen used
as a diaper, long since needing to be changed. The corpulent mass
of his belly and flanks were strafed with vertical stretch marks,
crisscrossing the countless rolls of blubber circling his body.
Rounds of fat at his ankles looked like hundred-dollar cheese
wheels. Rivulets of slobber trailed down Baby's chin, chest, and
belly, ending in pooled globules on the floor. Topping it all was a
hairless head the size of a watermelon, bearing a baby-face if
there ever was one.

"Bagabba-goo,"
cooed Baby, slapping his heavy foot on the floor, rattling the
walls. He gave a stretch and a belch and Lawrence spotted gummy
smegma seated between the tot's layered skin. Then a raspy spray of
spittle exuded from Baby's banana-sized lips, preceding a sudden
expulsion of corn-chunked bile, splashing out and onto the
monstrosity's great belly.

Lawrence's
second thought, as he took a step back, was how many beers it would
take to cleanse his palate; the odiferous air being so bad, he
could taste it. "Sweet mother of Jesus..." he muttered, swallowing
the lump in his throat.

"BOOGABBA!"
Baby suddenly roared.

And Lawrence's
third thought—his final thought—as he went limp on his way straight
to the floor, was Goddammit, I just might miss Happy Hour this
evening.

***

"Think I kilt
him, Pa?" Dacey hovered over Lawrence's still body, iron skillet in
hand. "I's about sick and tired of him staring at me like he
was—sick ol' pervert."

The old man
rubbed his chin. "Maybe so," he said, pushing a boot into
Lawrence's side. "Makes no difference, though." He looked at Baby
then: a quivering mass of blubber staring back with anxious eyes.
"And you go on and hush, now! We'll get you you're supper,
already."

Down the hall
and at the top of the stairs, Delaroy leaned over the rail. "Get in
the kitchen, Ma!" he shouted, glancing over his shoulder at the
body of Lawrence Shoemaker. "Looks like Baby's gonna need some
gravy!"

END

With over fifty story acceptances in less than two years, as
well as a recent Honorable Mention at L. Ron Hubbard's Writers of
the Future Contest,
Christian Riley
sees no end to his writing addiction. His stories
have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies,
including
Underground
Voices
,
Cover of
Darkness
,
Bete
Noire
,
The Absent
Willow Review
,
Residential Aliens
,
and
Bards and Sages
Quarterly
. You can reach him at
[email protected]
, or
at his blog;
frombehindthebluedoor.wordpress.com
.
 
.

BLACK TREACLE
MAGAZINE

Black Treacle
is a free magazine of Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative
fiction. Published on a bimonthly schedule, each issue includes 4-5
pieces of original short fiction.

We exist
primarily to provide a forum for new writers to share their works
and give preference to Canadian writers.

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Issues

February 2013 –
Issue #1

March/April 201
3 - Issue
#2

June 2013 – Issue
#3

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