SHARKEY AND THE JABBERWOCK – Chapter 15 – “Nightmare Bill Has a Bite” by Richard F. Yates

[You probably don’t remember this, as it’s been too long since we last returned to Broken Ankle Point, but back in Chapter 11 of Sharkey and the Jabberwock, Motorbike Bill found himself in the company of strange figure with long, spidery fingers, who injected Bill with some kind of venomous, yet euphoric, substance. (If none of this sounds familiar, you might want to read the whole story HERE!) Now, still standing outside the sleazy bar, The Rat Hole, a new creature is born from what was once the body of poor, stupid Motorbike Bill… (Are you ready to proceed? Are you SURE??? Okay then… —RFY]


Nightmare Bill was still standing outside The Rat Hole. He had no idea how long his death and resurrection had taken. His new father, after flashing and strobing in neon for several seconds, faded back into the shadows, which hissed and popped as they received him, as if they were boiling.

Bill flexed his fingers, which became knives then claws then snakes; his teeth grew and pierced his lips, then shrank again, and he shook his head, spraying glowing red drops of blood onto the ground and walls outside the tavern.

“Hey, bud—you okay,” came a gruff voice from behind Bill. His head swiveled 180 degrees, back towards the door to The Rat Hole, where he saw two women and a large, bearded biker staring at him. One of the women screamed.

“Jeezus, shit!” the biker said.

“Oh, I’m just peachy,” Nightmare Bill said, as his body twisting under his stationary head until his whole figure was facing the quickly growing crowd coming out of the bar. “Although, I’m suddenly feeling very hungry.”

The biker was on the ground, his throat torn to shreds and Bill’s face covered in blood, before most of the crowd realized that they should be screaming or trying to run away. One woman, Fanny Conrad, survived Bill’s attack by running up the street, although she fled into traffic and was splattered by a bus full of high school football players returning home from a “slaughter.” (They’d lost, 48-0.)

The other patrons and staff of The Rat Hole, 23 of them in total, were found—the bits of them that were left after Bill’s feast—by Matty Tillbrook, the owner of the establishment, when he arrived about 15 minutes after the incident to collect the night deposit. As he approached the bar and spotted the first few bodies on the ground, he assumed that the place had been the target of a gang hit. He wasn’t sure which of his “customers” he’d pissed off, but he’d been cheating almost everyone for years, so the sight wasn’t completely unexpected. His opinion of the scene changed as he entered the building—and realized how unhinged the hit squad must have been. Stephie, the bartender he’d had a short affair with, no longer had a face. He only recognized her from her long green and white (and red, now) hair—the clumps of it that were still attached to her faceless skull, anyway.

Matty surveyed the scene for a few seconds, then calmly (to anyone who might have been watching, although “numbly” might have been a better word) went to all the drug-stash spots in the joint, gathered everything he could find and flushed it, then poured himself a glass of the hardest whiskey he had in the bar, although with his hands shaking so badly only about a third of the liquid made it into the glass. After that, he called the police. He wondered, as he waited for the shit-storm of uniforms and unanswerable questions to start, which Caribbean island he would take his drug money and retire to when he left—after burning the place to the ground, of course. He had a day or two to decide before he threw the match—and he was suddenly glad that he had always been a lazy bastard. If he hadn’t gotten Tommy to come in and watch the place for the night, (Tommy was the biker whose throat-less corpse he’d had to step over to get through the front door into the building,) there wouldn’t be anyone to burn this shithole to the ground.

He heard the first sirens screaming down the street as he poured himself a second shot of whiskey.


[And there we go. The party has officially started! Join us next week for more STUFF!!! The Nightmares are gathering—but hopefully, Sharkey, Alice, and The Knights can save the day! Until we meet again, stay safe! —RFY]

—Richard F. Yates
(Primitive Thoughtician and Supreme Bunny Lord of The P.E.W.)

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About richardfyates

Compulsive creator of the bizarre and absurd. (Artist, writer, poet, provocateur...)
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