A Self Made Monster by Steven Vivian Read Free Book Online Page B

the fine ambiance of an abandoned maintenance shack.”
    “But he was a maintenance man, so I think we should check it out.” Don headed toward the shack. Jimmy stayed behind for a moment, swearing, then caught up.
    Alex grinned. Despite his poor memory, he often remembered people whom he disliked, and he instantly recognized the supervisor’s voice.
    “We’re wasting our time!”
    “Just shut up for a minute.”
    Alex waited until the footsteps were close: he heard the crunching of frost under the snoops’ steps. The snoops were about to turn the corner. Alex ate the spent cigarette’s butt and pulled the cap over his face.
    “This is way off the path,” Jimmy asserted. “It doesn’t make sense that—” Jimmy collided with a thin man in a ski mask. Jimmy yelped like a frightened puppy.
    The thin man stood impassively, hands in jacket pockets.
    “Watch it, buddy.” Jimmy said.
    The man nodded an apology and stuck a fresh cigarette into his mouth. “Light?” The request was muffled through the mask’s mouth hole, and the eyes narrowed behind the eye holes. His request was a command.
    Eager to obey, Don fumbled with the matches he had found on the trail. “Pretty cold for a walk tonight, eh?”
    Alex extended a gloved hand. “The matches,” he queried in a low Southern accent. “I wonder if I might see them?”
    “Sure. I found them just now, on the ground.”
    Alex accepted the matches, looked at the cover. “The Blue Flamingo,” he read tonelessly, though he wanted to laugh. His luck tonight was a blessed marvel.
    “It’s a bar downtown,” Don said. “A dive, really.”
    Jimmy studied the thin man. Must a have a long nose, Jimmy thought. His nose is stretching that mask like a hard on. “You’re welcome. For the matches.”
    Unfortunately, the ski masked man had quit talking, and Jimmy did not know how to react to his silence. The silence made the confrontation absurd. If the man carried a gun, it might fire a colorful flag that proclaimed “Pow!” Or it might fire dumdums.
    Jimmy wanted to shout. Or punch. Or faint. He finally stepped back. He tried to study the contours of the man’s features behind the ski mask, but the light was poor. “Well, you’re sure talkative!” Jimmy blurted.
    Alex nodded, and Don told Jimmy that they should get back.
    “Why?” Jimmy snapped at Don. “We’re not done yet.” But Don was already twenty feet away, eager to get home for more beer and his warm room.
    Feeling mischievous, Alex stepped forward and drew his gloved hands from his jacket pockets. Then, as Jimmy’s eyes bugged, Alex theatrically ran a forefinger across his own throat. Jimmy sprinted across the frozen ground and crunchy, brittle leaves. He imagined that the man chased him in an erratic, demented gate while fanning the air with a knife. His strides felt slow and weak, as if he were running through water. At one point, he stumbled and fell, sliding ten feet on his face.
    “You fuck!” he shrieked at Don. “Wait for me!”
    Don turned. When he saw that Jimmy’s face was covered with muddy snow, he laughed.
    Back in the frat house, Jimmy berated Don for abandoning him with the killer. Don laughed, told Jimmy to stop fantasizing. “That guy’s just some townie. Some bum.”
    “He’s said I’m next!” Jimmy insisted.
    Don was reduced to helpless laughter, and Jimmy stomped angrily from the room. When Don called for Jimmy to come back, Jimmy threw an empty beer can at him.

Chapter Nine: “I’m the next victim!”

    The headaches had first come in waves, but not like waves that lap the shore. The waves were heavy and their impact was painful. Every thirty seconds, it seemed that a refrigerator dropped on him.
    Now, by Wednesday, the waves had subsided to a dull, seamless ache. His right eye no longer watered, and his forehead was no longer knotted in wrinkles.
    Alex muddled through his first three classes, often stopping to gather his thoughts. Walking into Modern British