Exceptional Horror with cheesy introduction - PLEASE SEE NOTES Stick Change by Fleedleflump

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains strong language. "Well, hello, children. Death D Fying here - Doctor Death D Fying, but my friends call me DeeDee. You were probably expecting my naughty brother Terry. He's been ... called away. "Are you sitting comfortably? I hope not. If you're comfortable, it's because you don't know about the spiders waiting inside your pillow. You know that slithering susurrus of sound when silence should reign? That's them stretching their mandibles, twitching their legs so they don't get cramps while they wait, still as death, for you to fall asleep. Run along now, children. Crawl into your beds. Sweet dreams, hahaha. "Well, mums and dads, I trust I have you all to myself now. Tonight, you'll learn about the ancient sin of ambition. Oh, we have such a tale for you -- a tale of evil and violence. A tale of desperation and invasion -- invasion so dirty, it fills your veins with muck and oil. The moral of the tale? Oh, there is no moral, my dears. There is no hope, salvation or happy ending. This is the darkest of fictions ... or is it? Are you ready to continue? "As my dear sister Petra says -- when I let her out -- be careful what you wish for, hahaha. "Enjoy the show." ----- The engine purred like Hell's Cat Menagerie, sending vibrations into my balls through the hard-sprung seat. Rain sliced into my helmet in pulsing sheets -- a shifting, grey blanket across my vision. Gaudy colours flickered in blurry groups through the murk -- adverts on competing cars. From beyond, I caught the occasional flicker of movement as spectators mingled. It was a sparse crowd tonight, but that was no reason not to compete. A growl sounded from beside my car as some rival sought to intimidate the opposition. I pulsed my foot in response, sending rhythmic roars into the field. A bikini-clad 'banger-babe' tiptoed across the start line, holding a sign declaring the first race of the evening in shivering hands. If there was one way to sum up the expression she was wearing, it would be 'I'm firing my agent.' The PA system garbled some words that may or may not have been English. I flexed the fingers of my right hand and curled them around the wheel, taking a deep breath to quell the fairies dancing in my stomach. My other hand rested, palm-forward, on the rubberised ball atop the gear stick while I curled the toes of my clutch foot to avoid cramp. I flared my ears, imagining them like horns sticking from my head, wondering if I could catch a hint of the starting gun before it went off. A pop echoed through the air and a thousand metal riffs shook the atmosphere with cacophonous fury. I threw my beast forward, laughing at the power roaring through me, and hurled myself into the muddy, terrifying intensity of another banger race. ----- I shook the sweat from my hair, hooking my helmet on one arm. My mechanic Ross looked ready to cry as he surveyed the remains of our car, sitting limply in our field garage like a sheet of tinfoil after a shredder attack. "She looks like she did twelve rounds with a wrecking ball," he shouted, glaring right through me. I grinned sheepishly. "Sorry mate. I wanted to win." Deciding to escape his wrath, I headed across to my victorious opponent. The rain was more like a drizzle now, floating across floodlight beams in the race arena like mosquitos fresh from the shower. Number Six drove an all-black car with numbers as red as fresh blood. His jumpsuit transposed those colours -- all blazing red with a helmet, shoes and number as black as the pit. He was circling his spotless car, one hand running lovingly along its curved lines. The helmet, darkened visor closed, imparted no expression. Who does he think he is -- the Stig? I extended a hand as I approached. "Congratulations, mate -- great racing." He moved to shake, then swept his hand away just before we touched, flipping up his visor to reveal cold, grey eyes. "Fuck you, Nigs." "Whoa, dude," I held my hands up in mock submission, grinning to defuse the situation. "The race is over, you know?" "You lost. I don't shake hands with losers." I let the jovial expression fall from my face. "Hey, I just wanted to say well done, and maybe ask what your secret is." "Like I said, Nigs. Fuck you." I tried to match his stare but he was unwavering. He looked like the kind of guy who'd cave in my face with a tire wrench at the first angry word. After a few more moments, I backed down and glanced away -- no sense in getting physical. Not when I was unprepared, anyway. He jerked his head to indicate I should go forth and replicate -- preferably with a cactus. Through the open aperture of his window and the roll-cage within, I caught a glimpse of bright ball shapes in a pattern. It looked like one of those strange beaded seat covers sado-masochists install in their cars. Not something you saw every day on the banger circuit. "You can't win every race," I muttered, and headed away. ----- "Come on, Jim. You know everything around here. What's his secret?" I stared into the eyes of Jimmy Buffet -- owner of the race track and the least trustworthy money in England. We were in his office -- a crummy portacabin overlooking the huge bowl of his empire, relic of its days as a quarry. The hardboard walls were held together with mastic sealant and wishful thinking, but Jim didn't seem to care. "He's just better than you, kid. And that old Ford Capri he races in -- it's built like a brick shithouse and pulled by a six litre Shelby engine. You got no hope." I blinked. "Come on, man. Nobody risks gear like that in a banger race. One bad pile-up and you're out thousands." "He's a great driver." "Nobody's that great." I leaned forward, trying to see through the cracks in his stoic expression. "When I've fucked up or misjudged a corner, then yeah -- fair enough, I get beat. But tonight, I raced my fucking arse off. I took some of those corners like I was on rails, straight through the best fit, and he just coasted on ahead, missing collisions that should've crushed him. That's not luck. That's not instinct. It's angels wanking over your fate." He leaned back, belching out a laugh. "You crack me up, kid. In all seriousness, though, if he crosses that finish line with anything clinging to his rubber, it sure ain't angel's cum." "What do you mean?" He plucked a card from his jacket. It was all black with a matt, brushed finish that felt almost furry. Embossed in shiny black Arial was an address. "If you really want to know, visit this place. I'm telling you, though." He held on to the card while I tried to take it, pulling me so our noses almost touched. I caught a whiff of stale mustard and cheap ale on his breath but his eyes were mesmerising. Light ghosts danced across his irises. "Take it from me. Don't go." ----- The retail outlet looked like a tribute to corrugated iron. Squashed between a Subway and a particularly dingy Quality Seconds, it was so narrow the door barely fitted and as dark as Satan's undercarriage inside. I pushed the door open hesitantly, not quite believing the 'Open' sign. Rather than a bell, opening the door caused a gong sound that shook the air. I let the door swing shut behind me and a dark, creepy creak emanated from somewhere, but too far behind the motion of the door. Someone in the sound effects department was off their game. The inside consisted of timber frames wrapped in shadow. Everything was painted black like one of those pubs that lets young indie bands play on their stage. I was facing a counter with a curtained opening behind it. Some shop. "Well, hullo!" The man who burst through the curtain couldn't have been more at odds with his setting. Chubby and gaudily attired, he looked like a beach ball with a grin. "A customer -- how fabulous! Are you a race driver? You look like one of those gruff, oily types." "Er ..." He gestured an arm. "Oh, how very rude of me. Do come back here and ... peruse the merchandise." I gave him a wary look to let him know I thought he was weird but it didn't put a dent in his supercilious smile. He lifted the black velvet curtain and I ducked through into a brightly lit warehouse-size room. A concrete floor extended so far I wasn't sure I could see the end. Lifting from it in long, orderly lines were acres of shelves holding regular-shape boxes. It was like a retail jungle, or a sterile version of Ikea. In front of it all was a glass display cabinet with a car seat inside. And on the car seat ... "I hate those things! I can't sit on that -- I'll get piles." I looked at the beaded cover, the way it curved down the back and swept forward to cover the seat. Like a carpet of pebbles held together with wire, in all the worst colour combinations one could imagine. "You want to win?" whispered my host, his voice a husky whisper on the air. "Yes." "You want to be the best?" "Yes." "You want to crush your competition?" "Yes!" His hand slithered onto my shoulder, sending a shudder down through my spine. "What is a little discomfort against the sensation of victory? The seats of power have always been uncomfortable. It reminds those who sit on them that true power must be fought for, must be borne, must be endured. But when you have it, none may touch you." I felt his breath on my ear. "Such is the path to your greatness." I thought about cheering crowds, about swimming in a pool full of cash, about sleeping in a bed with five supple, eager banger babes. Before I knew it, I was holding out my credit card for him to take. "Do you want to know the cost?" he asked. Sex ... money ... power. "No." ----- Ross grimaced as he screwed the cover into place. "You really gonna sit on this thing? You'll get piles!" I chuckled, remembering the promises of victory. "I've decided it's gonna be my lucky charm." He snorted derisively. "Whatever, dude. Let me give the engine a last once-over and you're good to go. And please, PLEASE try to keep her in one piece this time? I'm running out of spare body parts to graft on." I closed my eyes for a moment and took in the sensations of my world. Outside our garage, the hubbub of assembling crowds drifted on the air -- complaining about hotdog prices, making jokes and wondering how many wrecks they'd see. Inside, I heard the metallic clacking of Ross' spanner and the throaty rumble of my idling engine. The aromas of oil, hot metal and sweat filled my lungs. This was the life! "Okay," Ross said, banging his fist on the bonnet, "you're good to go." ----- A bumper whirled from the collision ahead, whipping through the dusty air straight towards my windscreen. I wrenched on the wheel but only succeeded in power-sliding. My engine roared as the wheels span, spiralling mud to either side of my metal beast like Catherine Wheels gone mad. The bumper, jagged and sharp, cut through a light beam from a floodlight, spearing towards my face. I'm dead. Dead on the first lap! So much for this damned seat cover. I felt a tingle across my buttocks, squashed against the rounded beads. The sweat in my gear-stick hand felt like it was burning my palm. Was this the adrenalin of near-death? I took a deep breath and it tingled its way down my windpipe to my lungs. Then, from nowhere, something magic happened. An opponent's car swerved from one side, cutting through dust clouds and danger to hurl itself in front of my vehicle. What possessed him to do it, I could only guess, but the car had no chance. It slammed into the trackside wall with a crunch, bonnet folding and windscreen turning to a thousand cobwebs. The bumper I'd been watching crashed through its rear side window and stuck there like a spear impaling its victim. The driver's grin flashed in my blurry vision like it was all a great joke. I wrenched on the wheel, determined to get past him if I could. The tingle swept across my arse again and up my spine, followed by a sharp pain in my rectum. Working on instinct, my clutch leg slammed down, right leg braking, gear stick down-left-down, clutch up, throttle to the floor. My car performed better than ever, roaring lustily, as I fish-tailed right then left, sliding wide enough to clear the suicidal opponent in front of me. "Ha!" I yelled, feeling the exhilaration spear into my lungs, but something else speared into my palm. I tried to lift my hand from the gear stick, to see what caused the pain, but the rounded ball felt glued to my grasp. Before I got the chance to react, a hundred syringes pierced my spine. I felt my body trying to arch, to pull itself away from the pain, but I was held in place. Through dimming vision, I steered the next corner, my left leg jerking like a metal guitarist was plucking its nerves. The pain in my spine abated slightly and I took in a breath like a swarm of wasps. That was when something hot and rubbery pushed its way up my arsehole. "Fuck me!" I shouted, then realised it wasn't the best choice of expression. The invader thrust its way inside me, slippery and fat, climbing my intestines like a mad animal. My ring-piece burned, rubbed raw by the huge column. I felt thorny barbs attaching themselves to my innards as the tendril grabbed hold and heaved itself deeper in rhythmic pulses. Simultaneously, rough cords were threading their way through the veins in my wrist, slithering up my forearm and through my elbow. The anal probe burst into my stomach from below, branching out like a burning tree, and the gear stick cords plunged through my shoulder, sliding towards my neck. As the former gripped my heart with a swarming mass of wormy fingers, the latter lanced into my brain. I could feel smaller probes the length of my back, inserted into the gaps between vertebrae, latching like leeches to my central nervous system. "Hi," said a voice in my brain. It sounded like the sea talking, if the sea was made of snakes instead of water. "What position are you in?" "F ... fff," I coughed and it whooped in my throat. I felt like I'd been chained over a bean stalk and it grew into me, filling my body with organic invasion. "Fifth." A sense of utter derision filled me. "You've barely begun the foreplay. Let's fuck this cunt." My foot slammed down on the throttle, hurling my car headfirst into the maelstrom of dirt and danger. As a corner approached -- way too fast -- I felt my steering arm testing the wheel's bite point. At the last moment, my left foot relinquished its clutch position and pinched the brakes, my right never leaving the throttle. My arm yanked the wheel one way, then turned impossibly quickly, throwing the tyres into a reverse lock. We sailed through the best fit point of the corner, barely dipping our speed, and burst into the straight with the engine screaming a near-orgasmic note. As we exited, our front clipped the rear wing of fourth place, spinning him out of control into a barrier. The tingle sparkled again, but this time it penetrated to my very core, exploding like fireworks in my heart and brain. I felt my body flopping around in response, but my limbs never wavered from their task. My opponent was a broiling cloud of dust and metal as I took fourth. "Hahaha. And so the weak fall." So it went for third and second places. The tendrils driving into my body hurt like hell but the sensation of speed and power was indescribable. Thrills pulsed from crown to toe, exciting my stomach and driving my cock to full erection. I could feel my mouth grimacing, lips peeled back and spittle flecking my cheeks and chin. Snot dribbled across my teeth each time I snorted. None of it mattered. As the final lap was called, we crashed through a corner and there he was -- number six, my hated foe -- his black Capri belching fire from its exhaust and hatred from its heart. This was it -- the reason I'd gone through all this pain and risk. He was right there, mocking me, beating me, and I knew I needed to take him down. "Crush him." We gained with each corner, pulling up so our bumpers almost touched. I could see him bouncing around furiously in his seat, driving as animatedly as I'd ever seen, but it wasn't enough. As he power-slid into the next corner, I drove straight into his rear, and that was all it took. The Capri span out, planing sideways on the slick dust of the track. As we pulled onto the final straight, there was the car that saved me near the start of the race, now abandoned. The jagged bumper still impaled its side, and all at once I knew what was about to happen. We sped past, taking victory, and the Capri crunched into the empty car with a sound like a million windows breaking. The ragged bumper pierced straight through the black car as they span, locked together, into the centre of the track. I slammed on the brakes as soon as I crossed the line, grinding to a halt in a screeching mass of dirt. Looking back at my crashed opponent, I saw the inevitable happen. Third place belted onto the final straight, engine roaring triumphantly, and ploughed straight into the crashed vehicles. The paired cars slid and span, sailing across the line, coming to rest right next to me, back to front, driver to driver. His face was pressed against the steel mesh of his roll-cage like a child pulling a face against a window. His eyes were as wide as cue-balls, his mouth pulsing like a sucker fish. My momentary confusion as to why he was acting like this was answered when I caught sight of the jagged bumper from the other car. It'd speared through the mesh on his passenger side, punctured the breadth of his car, and burst into the back of his head as he turned from it. Now, it pinioned his face against the cage, clumps of hair and brain matter sliding down its length. A dribble of blood leaked from one eye and tracked its way into his mouth, splashing onto his lolling tongue. "Gaa ..." he said, coughing a sticky flob of crimson phlegm. I could feel the tendrils slipping from my body, retracting through my veins and withdrawing from my anal orifice. It might have hurt but I felt numb with shock. All I could do was stare into those doomed eyes. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "So fucking sorry." "H ... H..." He shifted slightly, freeing part of a lip. "Hank oo. Oo reed ee. Hank oo." With that, his whole body slumped, and life fled from his features. ----- My guilt lasted exactly one more race. When I won that, the first girl approached me, all wide eyes and loose legs. My life became a morass of speed, victory, crunching metal and sex. There was money involved somewhere but that was steadily less important. We were untouchable, the car and me, sliding through gaps like they were made for us and escaping impossible situations. Even the repeated penetration of the seat cover seemed less invasive as time passed. Wearing a nappy felt like a small price to pay for the endless bliss of victory. The deep voice didn't speak to me again. After that initial introduction, it seemed to assume I knew what was what. That worked for me -- I was in control, I was the power. After ten races unscathed, I stopped paying Ross -- there didn't seem any point. After twenty, I stopped going home, living instead at the track. I spent my down-time painting black gloss and red highlights on body panels -- not original, but totally appropriate. I took to keeping the helmet on -- it seemed disrespectful to remove it. The visor slit sufficed for conversation, when I couldn't avoid it. The car was my only true friend. We were one, man and machine, joined in heart and spirit by -- of all things -- a beaded seat cover that redefined discomfort. A synergy of flesh and metal, we dominated, and life was sweet. It was months since I bought the cover when a driver approached me in the wake of another victory. I was walking the circuit of my mechanical beast, checking for blemishes and scuffs, running my hand across each metallic curve. When he cleared his throat, I looked into hungry eyes. Did I look like that once? "Great win." He ran a hand through sweaty hair. "I mean, really awesome. I never seen driving like that. But how, man -- what's your secret?" The answer was terrible, but obvious. As I spoke, it didn't feel like me speaking -- if, indeed, there was such a thing as 'me' to relate to. I felt my lips moving, the vibrations of my words buzzing in my windpipe, and the subtle breeze of speech in my throat. "Fuck you, Nigs." ----- Jimmy Buffet lacked his usual cheesy grin as he reclined behind his crummy desk, ankles crossed on its surface. His gaze watched me enter, simultaneously shrewd and wary, like a hungry cat. He called for me, caused me to leave the car's side where I was polishing the alloys. Most drivers in the banger game didn't bother with aesthetics -- not much point when a car's life expectancy rarely exceeded a full day's meet. I was different -- we were different. I met his eyes and kept the sneer from my face with a conscious effort. "What you want, Jim?" "How does it feel to keep winning?" He leaned back, looking down at a pen he braced between hands. I thought about the beaded seat cover, of the rubbery probe it crammed up my crack every time I raced. "It's a pain in the arse." I grinned. "But I love it." He sighed. "I'm gonna be honest with you. I been getting complaints. There's more to this business than winning every race and running avoidance in the demolition derbies. We ain't in America, man -- this ain't Nascar. People come here to see shit get fucked up, not to see some dude who acts like the evil Stig avoid collisions and win by half a lap." I felt myself blink. "I ain't gonna lose on purpose." "Then at least make it look like you're trying to win. I like you, so I'm giving you this heads-up. I know what's going down, okay? I gave you that card, remember. Just remember this as well -- be more human or you'll be replaced." "Fuck you, Nigs." The anger spoke directly through my mouth, followed instantly by the most debilitating sense of shame. But I'd never let him see it. My guts churning like a washing machine on spin, I shrank back and allowed the lurking shadows to creep over me. "You don't understand," pleaded Jim. "It's the seat cover. It's like the Highlander -- there can be only one!" I gave him the middle finger and turned on my heel. "I have a car to work on." ----- The rain sliced down in great sheets, cutting across the floodlights and soaking the track in rhythmic waves. I watched the mini storm playing out on my bonnet, the individual droplets dancing as they collided with solid metal. Each one bounced, dancing upward in a dissolving spray like a firework exploding. All this, I acknowledged while I thought about the banger babes I'd fuck later and the depraved things I'd make them do. Perhaps, with enough stimulation, enough pain, enough blood ... I might actually feel something. Vibrations growled into my bollocks from the seat beneath. They cracked together like a pair of snooker balls in a sock. It might've hurt -- if I gave a fuck. The conversation with Jimmy still played on my mind. We hadn't spoken since and it'd been several days. Fucking idiot. A tiny part of me wondered if that thought was aimed at him or me, but most of me just wanted to punch him. An opponent drew level beside me, revving his engine in thunderous pulses. I drowned him out with a response, my beast purring like only a predator can. I sniffed in a great breath of hot oil, fumes and mud, filling my mind with the senses of the moment. The hand flexing on the girth of the wheel, the palm snug against the ball of the gear stick, the feet poised on pedals -- these were the instruments of my triumph. As I immersed myself in the upcoming race, the tingles started and I smiled. The probe punched through my man-nappy, snaking through my rectum. It was a momentary discomfort. Even the worms sliding into my veins through my gear palm and the succession of spinal taps didn't upset me. They were necessary. They were part of me. The red light winked at me through the waterfall on my windscreen, and I felt a savage grin twist my mouth into a rictus of hate. Then the lights changed, my foot hit the floor, and we were off! We took the lead easily, avoiding collisions that could've ended our race, causing a couple more to give us the front. My limbs moved on automatic pilot, controlled by what I used to call instinct and now thought of as influence. I'd got so used to this sensation, I spent most races sitting back and observing the race from behind my eyeballs. We were half way through when my leg went dead as we approached a corner, easing off on the accelerator. It was preceded by a numbness in my spine where I expected tingling. My hands turned the wheel at the appropriate time but I couldn't reapply the throttle to gain traction. Skidding sideways, I ploughed into the tyre bank on the outside of the corner and plunged to a halt in a cloud of muck. With a supreme effort, I forced instructions through to my limp leg, lifting it and clamping down on the pedal. We tore away again, my arms doing their job and the clutch leg constricting and retracting as necessary. I focused all my concentration on that right leg, applying and relaxing, controlling my part through a single limb. What the fuck is going on? A lap later, my gear arm followed suit. For two corners, I tried to keep my gear shifts synchronised with my automated clutch foot. As I pulled back on the stick, yanking it into second for a corner, my palm lifted away for a moment and I realised the cords no longer connecting it to my arm. A cold sweat blossomed like ice flowers across my forehead. This was not good. How could anyone expect to control a car like this? On the next corner, my back went numb and my steering arm flopped like a dying fish. This time, I was partially prepared and retook my grip just in time to avoid disaster. A warmth in my arse warned me what was coming next. The probe was retracting, I was leaking, and my other leg dropped back into my direct control. For a lap I held it together, panicking, wrenching the wheel and pumping the pedals as hazards came and went. I could feel my car wobbling all over the track, lurching between directions like a fleeing gazelle. Frustration tore at my throat. "How the fuck does anyone control a car like this?" Then it hit me -- figuratively and actually. I realised how reliant I'd become on the seat cover and its ability to augment my actions, to the point I'd relinquished all control. Simultaneously, something crunched into my back bumper, sending me veering across the track. In my mirror, an implacable opponent stalked me. A battered old Sierra, barely recognisable through the dents, had my scent. We took two more corners with him stuck to my arse like a limpet. The sweat was covering my face now, sending shivers to my core. It was raining inside the car as much as out. And those two lights stared, unwavering, from the mirror. Without backup, without confidence, without real control, I knew what was about to happen. As we entered the final corner, his engine roared like a beast in orgasm. He lunged at me, clipping my back wing, and I span into an aquaplane, whirling in a great fountain of mud and rain and hopelessness. I exited the corner backwards, still spinning, and there it was -- my fate. A dead car, despatched by me several laps previously, sat in the centre of the road like a derelict building. I felt my throat screaming, my anus hot and wet, my vision darkening as if in preparation, and then I slammed into the crashed vehicle with a terrible crunch of finality. ----- "You just weren't strong enough." Jimmy's voice floated to me, threading its way between beeps and background shuffling. The smell of illness filled my nostrils. "You couldn't even keep hold of a shred of yourself. I even tried to warn you -- there can be only one -- one rider of the night stick, one surfer of the beads. That's the joke of it, you see? You're only on top so long as people accept that you're on top." I tried to open my eyes but they didn't seem to work. I tried to talk but there was something filling my mouth. "No point trying to speak," said Jimmy, "and you can't see 'cause you got no eyeballs -- they burst in the crash. See, they think you're in a medically induced coma. It's the kindest way, when someone's dying. But I knew He wouldn't let that happen." He put on a strange voice. "You gots ta suffer, Nigs. You gots ta feel the hate." I managed to shrug my shoulders through the fog in my brain. What the fuck are you on about? Jimmy chuckled. "The youngster you were rude to -- the one who wanted your secret? He came to me, just like you did. I gave him the card, just like you. He got himself a seat cover from that lovely emporium you visited. See, you didn't read the fine print. Well, to be honest there ain't no fine print, but it's a waste of paper 'cause nobody reads that shit anyway." I heard him moving and felt his breath warm on my forehead, smelt the booze suffusing his every pore. With an effort, I shrugged again, but the world was getting foggy. "Yeah, we all got our part to play, even me. I keep the cards, see. I make sure there's always some hungry fuckwit thinks winnin' and fuckin' is all he cares about. And trust me -- it ain't hard. I tried with you, man. I tried to halt the inevitable flow. But in the end, you just as retarded as all the others." I felt something tapping against my head -- something thin and small and almost furry in texture. "We all predictable as mornin' shit." The darkness closed in fast and it was all I could do to catch Jimmy's last words. "Yep. We all got deals to make." ----- "So that's my story, peeps. Do you think he deserved his fate? Shut up, Petra -- shut up! It's feeding time soon. Ahem, sorry my dears -- the toils of being domestic do so interfere with one's ... preferred presentation, at times. "My sister does make a point, though. How does one come to be Doctor Death D Fying, purveyor of peril and putridity? How, indeed. But ponder this as you cuddle up to your loved one in bed this evening, as you follow your daily commute tomorrow morning, as you watch yourself acting out the trials and tribulations of life. Ponder this, my malleable subjects. Hahaha. "We ALL have deals to make!" Recognized Author Notes . . Many thanks to Dean Kuch, who sponsored this contest to write a horror story introduced by a cheesy host in the style of Tales From the Crypt and similar shows. I know it's a longy but it's a contest entry so I can't split it. I've promoted as high as possible to make it worth your while :-). I hope you enjoyed the read. . .

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