Campfire Tales II: Fear Is A Man's Best Friend

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SESSION

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Just fuckin’ look at it.

Like a goddang caterpillar crawlin’ ‘cross his upper lip. Perched. Twitchin’ ‘round every time he starts flappin’ his gums. A real fuckin’ tragedy.

“Daytona…?”

There comes a time in every man’s life when he’s gotta reckon with who he is. Some men grow beards, some shave clean... but then you have this. This… middle ground. This half-measure. Like a man looked in the mirror and said ‘I’m gonna do it’, then lost his nerve halfway through. Most folks see the pity in their wife’s eyes and shave that fuckin’ thing off by noon.

The ones that don’t…?

Well, hell.

They ain’t wired right.

“Daytona.”

See, folks always treat it like it’s indecision, but that ain’t right. A half-measure ain’t hesitation; it’s commitment without conviction. It’s plantin’ your flag in the ground then lookin’ ‘round to see who’s watchin’. It’s sayin’ who you are, but leavin’ enough wiggle room to pretend it ain’t if things go south.

And that’s worse. Way worse.

‘Cause a man who don’t know who he is’ll admit it, if’n you push him hard enough. But a man like that? With a mustache twerkin’ ‘round on his upper lip?

He’s already decided.

And he’s dead fuckin’ wrong.

“Daytona,” he said. “We’ve been sitting here for fifteen minutes and you’ve barely said a word. I need you to talk if this is going to be a productive session.”

“Alright,” I said. “Whaddya wanna talk ‘bout?”

I shifted in the chair. Didn’t like the way it felt. Didn’t like the way nothin’ felt. Room was too beige, bookshelves fulla titles on how to fix someone who didn’t ask for it. Blinds half-drawn, sunlight cuttin’ through in thin strips.

And then there was him. The therapist. Sittin’ ‘cross from me with a notepad in his lap. Shirt pressed. Hair neat. Everything in its right place.

Except that fuckin’ mustache.

“Well, that’s up to you,” he said. “Something brought you here. What was it?”

“Well, shitfire,” I muttered. “I was hopin’ you’d write me a prescription to fix the shitnado swirlin’ ‘round my brain, y’know?”

“That’s not how this works,” he said.

“‘Course it ain’t,” I said. “Ain’t never that easy...”

I sighed, elbows on my knees, hands hangin’ there like they was waitin’ on orders that weren’t comin’. Somewhere in the back of my head, I heard a little voice sayin’ ‘to hell with it’ and I stood up, ready to walk out, but I didn't.  Got halfway there when somethin’ caught me. Weren’t him; he didn’t say a word, none of that soft, coaxin’ nonsense I’d been expectin’. Just stayed right there where he was, pen still, like he’d seen this part before and knew better than to interrupt it.

What caught me was that feelin’. That same feelin’ that’d been followin’ me ‘round for weeks now, sittin’ in the back of my skull like a splinter I couldn’t dig out. That sense that if I walked out that door, I wasn’t leavin’ nothin’ behind; I was just takin’ it with me. Same as always.

I stood there for a second longer, fingers flexin’ at the doorknob, ‘til I  turned ‘round and walked right back over to that chair.

“Fine,” I said. “Alright. Y’wanna know what brought me in here? Everything. It’s all of it. All at once.”

Words were crackin’ themselves at the back of my throat.

“Company I was workin’ with, this big Chinese outfit? Gone,” I said. “See these muscles? They did that. Pumped me fulla steroids, turned me into a goddang freak, and went belly up. Ela–... my handler? Gone with ‘em. Back to fuckin’ China!”

My fingers tightened, diggin’ into my jeans, nails tryna work their way through the denim.

“Woman I was with? Left with my handler. Thought maybe, maybe, there was somethin’ there worth salvagin', like I could get one thing right for once, but shitfire! Joke’s on me, huh?! Didn’t even say goodbye! Took our fuckin’ kid and disappeared!”

I threw up my hands like that was gonna fix anything.

“Stopped drinkin', stopped snortin'! All at once! Been livin’ in a goddamn Winnebago out in the desert and losin’ my shit on a daily basis! Seein’ shit that ain’t there! Hearin’ things at night! I’m barely even sleepin’!”

Whole time, this sonuvabitch just sat there, starin’ at me, with that fuckin’ mustache.

“And now, cherry on top, right after I lost a wrasslin’ match ‘gainst one of my best friends for a title I didn’t even fuckin’ want, right after I’d decided ‘Welp, that’s it, you reached your peak and you can settle into the midcard where you belong’, y’know what they go and do? Give me a number one contender match for the biggest belt in the business! Like it’s some kinda redemption story! Like I’m ‘sposed to flip a switch, walk in there, and suddenly be the guy I used to be!”

I leaned back and let out a big ol' sigh.

“Problem is," I said. "There ain't no switch to flip."

Silence. Like every word that came outta my mouth was still hangin’ in the air, pressin’ down on the room, waitin’ on somebody to do somethin’ with it.

“That sounds like a lot to carry,” he said. “When everything feels unstable, people fixate. They look for something small they can focus on. I think you’re comparing yourself to something you feel certain about, but finding yourself lacking.”

I looked down at the ground, bitin' at my lower lip.

“And that’s because you are lacking,” he said. “That’s why Hayes Hanlon is going to beat you.”

“...huh?”

I snapped my gaze right back up to that motherfucker, back to his face, back to his mustache twitchin’ and twistin’ and twirlin’ ‘neath his nose.

“The fuck’d you say?!” I shouted, pushin’ up outta the chair.

“I’m sorry…?” he said, lookin’ all surprised as I leered over him. “I said it’s understandable to be worried abo–”

“Nuh-uh!” I shouted. “That ain’t what you said! You said that motherfucker was gonna beat me!”

“Daytona, I didn–”

“Nope! Fuck you, peckerwood!” I shouted, stormin’ back towards the door. “If I wanted to get shit on, I can do that by myself! Sure as hell ain’t payin’ you to do it!”

“Please jus–”

Too late. I yanked the door open and slammed it shut behind me; seein’ red, lips snarlin’, nearly foamin’ from the mouth as I walked away, that goddang therapist still callin’ after me from behind.

“Fuck you!” I shouted back. “And fuck your mustache too!”

And I thought that was that.

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CRASH

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The sun was sinkin' by the time I got back on the road. Big red bastard hangin’ low, bleedin’ out ‘cross the horizon like God Himself got his throat slit somewhere west of Nevada. I drove with one hand on the Winnebago’s wheel. Still pissed. Still hearin’ it. That’s why Hayes Hanlon is going to beat you.

Bull-fuckin’-shit.

I reached over and cranked the radio louder, static explodin’ through the speakers ‘fore an old country station managed to claw its way through.

–waste your time a-talkin’ to the people who don’t listen to the things that you’re sayin’, who do you think’s gonna hear?--

I nodded my head and settled in while ol' Kristofferson sang. Just as I was gettin' in a groove, shakin' myself free of all the brambles that therapist caught me in, the radio signal started to warp and crackle.

..ERGENCY ALERRR…bzzt…RRT SYS…ksssssh…TEM…

“Aw, c’mon now!” I shouted, slammin' my fist on the dashboard.

…KSSSHH…infected individu…KSSSH…

…may appearrrr…zzt….norrrrrmal……facial hair…ksssssh…mustaches…bzztbzzt…

...DO NOT APPROACH…

“...aw, bullshit.”

I wrapped my fingers ‘round the volume knob, ready to shut the whole thing off when the speakers suddenly let out this shriekin’ metallic squeal that damn near split my skull in half.

KRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRZZZZZZZZZZZZTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT

I jerked back in my seat, ‘bout jumpin’ outta my skin, and then… nothin’. No static. No music. Tires hummin’ ‘gainst asphalt. Wind pushin’ ‘gainst the side of the Winnebago. I sat there breathin’ heavy, starin’ at the radio for a second too long… and when I looked back up, there was someone standin’ in the middle of the road, still as a scarecrow, sunset behind him turnin’ him into a black silhouette.

Then the headlights hit his face.

And there it was.

A mustache.

“Jesus CHRIST!” I shouted, yankin’ the wheel hard left.

The Winnebago fishtailed, tires screamin’ loud enough to drown out my own shoutin’ ‘fore it skidded off the shoulder and came crashin’ through the dirt and brush, rattlin’ every bolt in its frame. Steering wheel kicked sideways in my hands and the pale desert dust swallowed the windshield whole. I sat there for a minute, tryna catch my breath, head thunkin’ back ‘gainst the seat. Dust drifted slow through the headlights outside, turnin’ the whole world orange and hazy like I’d driven clean off the face of the Earth.

I swallowed hard and looked back toward the road.

“...okay,” I whispered to myself, noddin’ fast. “Okay. Alright. We’re good.”

Outside, the desert howled. Wind slid over the Winnebago in long, dry breaths... then I heard it. THUNK. Somethin’ hittin’ the side of the RV. I froze, every muscle in my body lockin'  up all at once, eyes slowly driftin' toward the rear-view window. Nothin’ there at first but dust and rollin' tumbleweeds, but when the dust shifted, somebody stepped through. Tall sonuvabitch. Coveralls hangin’ loose, one arm danglin’ at his side like it’d been half-pulled outta the socket.

And even from twenty feet away, I could see it.

That mustache.

Big. Bushy. Curled at the ends.

The man stood there starin’ at the RV with glassy eyes ‘til another shape moved behind him. Then another. My stomach dropped clean through the floorboards.

One of ‘em stepped into the light. Mustache like a Pringles can.

Another one. Pencil thin, slicked down ‘neath his nostrils.

Another. Big walrus-lookin’ sumbitch with hair spillin’ over his lip like roadkill stapled on his face.

All of ‘em starin’.

All of ‘em still.

And then, every single one of those sonsabitches started walkin’ towards me.

I don’t ‘member gettin’ out. All I remember is runnin’; boots slammin’ through dirt hard enough to rattle my teeth while dusty air ripped through my lungs like sandpaper. Behind me, I heard slow footsteps. That was the worst part. They weren’t sprintin’; just moseyin’.

“NOPE!” I shouted. “NOPENOPENOPENOPENOPE!"

The desert stretched out black and endless, the last bits of sunlight makin’ way for a crooked moon. Way off in the distance, I saw a gas station; an ugly little square of light out there in the middle of nowhere, an old roadside joint with two pumps out front and a buzzin’ sign overhead.

“There we go,” I panted. “There we fuckin’ go!”

Behind me, one of them things let out an awful noise like somebody clearin’ a throat fulla gravel.

“Daaaayyyytoooooonnnnaaaaaaa…”

I looked back and saw silhouettes movin’ over the ridge; five, maybe six of ‘em now, staggerin’ down through the dark with mustaches bobbin’ like hairy little animals. One of ‘em tipped its head back too far and I saw teeth. Another one smiled.

The bell over the gas station door jingled so hard when I slammed through it that I thought the whole damn thing was gonna snap off its hinges. For half a second, everything was normal; smelt like burnt coffee and old grease. Empty aisles, chips, beef jerky, cheap sunglasses hangin’ off a rack that spun crooked. Sweat was pourin’ down my face while my hands fumbled over the deadbolt. Outside, shapes moved beyond the glass… and then I heard somebody whimperin’ behind the counter.

I snapped ‘round and saw a kid who couldn’tve been older’n nineteen. Scrawny little bastard laid crumpled on the floor with blood runnin’ from his nose and one eye swollen purple, nametag on his shirt said ‘BUCKY’.

“Oh thank Christ,” he gasped. “I thought you were one of them!”

“The hell’s happenin’?!” I shouted, stormin’ over.

“I-I dunno!” he stammered. “They started showing up an hour ago! One of them came in asking for cigarettes and he had this weird smile and this huge mustache and–”

THUNK

Both of us jumped. I turned my head toward the windows. One of ‘em was pressed up ‘gainst the glass, face mashed flat while those dead fisheyes stared straight at me, a thick handlebar mustache framin’ an open mouth fulla teeth. Then more shapes drifted up beside it. Bucky made this hiccupin’ sound in the back of his throat and scooted backwards ‘cross the floor ‘til he bumped up ‘gainst the cigarette rack.

“Oh no,” he whispered. “No, no, no…”

Outside, one of ‘em lifted a hand real slow and tapped its fingers ‘gainst the glass.

tick. 

The rest of 'em joined in.

tick. 

tick. 

tickticktickticktick.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “You got any weapons, kid?! Gotta gun back there or somethin’?!”

“W-What?!”

“A gun!” I shouted, another heavy THUD shakin' the glass. “Y’know! Bang bang! America shit!”

“N-No! Ronnie took it!”

“Who the fuck is Ronnie?!”

“My manager!”

THUNK

Another crack spread through the front windows. More of ‘em were driftin’ outta the dark now, mustaches of every style, eyes rollin’ ‘round their sockets like loose marbles. One of ‘em dragged its tongue ‘cross the windows. Another one scratched at the door with yellow fingernails. Swear to Jesus, I thought I saw Hayes Hanlon’s face crowded in there with all the others.

“He went outside when they first showed up,” Bucky whimpered. “Said they looked sick! And then one of them bit him!”

I froze.

“...bit him?!"

Outside, one of the mustache-things suddenly jerked its head sideways so hard somethin’ popped in its neck.

“Daaaaaytonnnnnnaaaaaaa…”

That voice. Wet. Rotten. My stomach churned.

“Nope,” I said. “We ain’t doin’ this bullshit tonight! C’mon boy! We’re hunkerin’ down!”

The kid started cryin’. Poor bastard couldn’t stop starin’ at the windows. Every time one of them things tapped the glass, he flinched like he’d been shot.

“MOVE!” I barked, grabbin’ him under the arm and yankin’ him off the floor.

Them mustache-things kept crowdin’ closer. One of ‘em had blood all down the front of its shirt. Another one’s jaw hung crooked like the hinge’d come loose. A skinny one with a greasy little shitsmear of a ‘stache kept twitchin’ his head side to side. All of ‘em were starin’ right at me. Not Bucky. Me.

“Daaaaaaaaytoooooonnnnaaaaaaaa…”

“Why are they saying your name…?” Bucky whispered.

“Shit if I know!”

But I did. Way down deep, ‘neath the panic and the adrenaline, I knew. This was all about me. About that therapist. About Hayes Hanlon and that goddang taint tickler livin’ on his upper lip. It was ‘bout chickens comin’ home to roost, reapin’ what I’d sown, karma bein’ a bitch. Par for the course.

The front windows were startin' to bow in.

“Backroom,” I said. “Now.”

We barreled through the employee door behind the counter into a cramped storage room, shelves stacked with beer cans, cigarettes, and candy bars. I slammed the door shut behind us as the gas station erupted with the sound of shatterin’ glass out front.

And out there, underneath the crashin’, I heard ‘em all laughin’.

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HORSESHOE

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That night was a slow roll through hell.

I paced that storage room like a caged animal. Bucky was a pile of nerves in the corner, but I couldn’t look at him. I could only look at that little wired-glass window in the door.

THUD.

The metal frame groaned. They weren’t tryna break in; not yet. They was just checkin’ the structural integrity of the man inside. They was standin' in a semi-circle 'round the door. I even recognized one of ‘em. That therapist, neat as a pin, ‘cept for the grayin’ his skin and that goddang mustache still twitchin’ on his lip.

“You’re doing it again, Daytona,” the therapist-thing said. “Running. Finding a dark room to hide in when the lights get too bright.”

“I ain’t hidin’!” I shouted, grabbin’ a metal foldin’ chair leant up ‘gainst the wall. “I’m waitin’!"

“Waiting? For what? For Bambi to come back? Another drop of liquor, another snort of coke?” The thing leaned his face ‘gainst the glass. “You've got a title match coming up and you’re terrified. Not because you might lose… but because you’re a half-measure man and you know the world is finally gonna see it.”

“Shut up."

“Hayes Hanlon has a future,” the thing whispered. “He’s got a path. You? You’re just a ghost in a Winnebago, haunts and hollers and steroids. A footnote. A tragic ending.”

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

I heaved the chair. It hit the door with a screech of metal, but the laughin’ outside only got louder. It was all of ‘em; a chorus of hairy-lipped bastards chantin’ my name like a funeral dirge.

“Daaaaaaaayytoooooonnnnnnaaaaaaaaaa….”

Somethin’ in me snapped clean. I snatched the crowbar outta Bucky’s hands ‘fore the poor kid could even react.

“You wanna show?!” I shouted, spit flickin’ from my lips. “I’ll give you a fuckin’ show!”

WHAM

I dented the metal door and the wired glass shattered, showerin’ the floor with glitterin’ shards. I leaned into the hole, lookin’ that therapist-zombie dead in his glassy eyes.

“Y’think he’s gonna beat me?!” I roared. “Let’em try! I’ll eat his fuckin’ heart!”

The thing didn’t flinch. It just smiled; a wide, yellow-toothed grin that split the mustache in two.

“You still really don’t get it, do you?” he asked, softer now. “Daytona, look at yourself. You’re a hypocrite. You’re a fool. You have a mustache.”

Everything stopped. My hand crept up slow. I didn’t wanna do it, but my fingers brushed my upper lip, feelin’ the horseshoe of hair framin’ my mouth,

“Nuh-uh,” I said, voice crackin’. “I don’t… It’s a part of the look! That don’t count!”

The therapist-zombie sighed. “It’s a half-measure. You couldn’t even commit to a full beard. You’re just like that mustache, Daytona. Stuck in the middle. Not enough to be something, but too much to be nothing.”

“No!” I shouted. “It’s… more like a goatee!”

“Daytona,” he said softly. “That is absolutely a mustache.”

I looked at Bucky, seethin’ and panickin’ and foamin’ at the mouth. “Tell him, kid!” I shouted. “Tell him it’s a goatee!”

Bucky just stared at me, eyes wide and pityin’. “Nah, man. Pretty sure that counts as a mustache.”

The room started spinnin’ and outside the whole crowd of zombies started agreein’.

“Yep, that counts,” one said.

“Definitely counts,” another agreed.

“Big ol’ mustache,” another confirmed.

The fluorescent lights buzzed louder and louder ‘til they sounded like a chainsaw rippin’ through my brain. I fell to my knees, hands clawin’ at my face, tryna rip the hair out by the roots.

“IT DON’T COUNT!” I screamed into the dark.

But they was right. It counted. It’d always counted.

And then the world went black.

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RAZOR

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I woke up to  a boot nudgin’ my ribs.

“Hey! HEY!”

I bolted upright, crazy-eyed and gaspin’. The storage room was a disaster; beer cans exploded, shelves overturned, and the door lookin’ like it’d been hit by a wreckin’ ball, but it was quiet. No chantin’. No mustache-monsters. Just an old man in a grease-stained shirt lookin’ at me like I’d crawled outta a hole in the ground.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” he shouted. “I come in for the opening shift and find you nappin’ on a pile of my inventory?! I’m calling the cops!”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. I just looked at the shattered glass on the floor and my jagged reflection starin’ back. At my red-rimmed eyes and sweat-stained skin. At that horseshoe mustache still ‘round my lips. It wasn’t a monster; it was just hair. But sittin’ there in the wreckage of a store I’d destroyed while fightin’ my own skin, I finally understood the real tragedy of it all.

I was thirty-somethin’ years old, chasin’ a belt I didn’t think I deserved, carryin’ a family that wasn’t there, and wearin’ a face that didn’t know what it wanted to be.

“Y’hear me?!” the old man shouted again. “Get the hell outta here!”

I stood up and shoved past the old timer, out into the store proper and then out into the desert air. Weren’t no signs of a mustache-zombie apocalypse. Weren’t no bloodshed or sirens howlin’ or nothin’ out of the ordinary. The Winnebago was right where I’d left it up the road, parked in the dirt. I walked on over, climbed inside, and went right back to the little bathroom tucked ‘gainst the bedroom.

There was a razor sittin’ next to the sink.

The match was comin’. Hayes Hanlon was comin’. The world was gonna watch ol’ Daytona try to flip a switch that might not’ve even been there.

I picked up the razor and put some shavin’ cream in my hand. If I was gonna walk into that ring, I wasn’t doin’ it as a middle-ground man.

I was done with half-measures.