“Alright dude, how about some horror without humor, and without bitches, just men—with your twisted mind as the villain. Short, please, flash fiction.”
-A text received from Steevo at 4:34 a.m., 6/12/15
Story begun 5:40 a.m. same day, completed at 6:34 a.m., 978 words
Martin had a sinking feeling in his stomach about joining The Tribe. For one it was against the law to express tribal affiliation of any kind, and a felony to be a gang member, as tribalists were classified. The scariest part, however, was that his friends had been obsessed with this path to the point where he did not think he could dissuade them—was certain of this fact.
That certainty lodged forever in his mind when—having passed through each coded checkpoint in this deserted building lost somewhere in the crumbling ruins of this once vile city—that a steel door swung shut and latched behind them!
“Oh no!” he groaned.
Ed’s clear voice was dismissive. “Don’t get your panties in a knot Martin. According to the literature we have entered Stage One—look, the Fist of Power!
“Hell, yes!” shouted Tyrone, this is the shit—we’re in!”
Martin was, to say the least, suspicious of his would be tribalist friends’ judgment. “Are you serious dudes? We are in the utility room of a parking garage looking at a girl’s doll house, which some psycho has used as an altar to mount a giant fist. Oh yes, and there are two power chairs for old fat people to get from the deserted parking spaces to the nonexistent local attractions.”
“Tell ‘im, Yo, tell ‘im the origin lore!” Tyrone hissed in a loud whisper to Ed.
Ed, like Tyrone, much larger than Martin, who was their third wheel, turned to him, and spread his hands like he used to when describing the violation of some school taboo.
“Martin, this is the Altar of Remasculation, sacred to Tribe LaFond. The Tribe was founded by a virulent social misfit who first tried boxing, then worked menial jobs, then sold his soul to corporate, and then rebelled and wrote a bunch of books no one read.”
“And,” Martin interjected, “this loser is somehow a person to what, worship at this sick fucking shrine where King Kong just fisted Barbie?”
“Listen up, Yo!” shouted Tyrone
Chastened, Martin zipped his mouth shut and threw away the key as Ed droned on about some ancient loser’s legacy.
“So, this dude was from some place called Baltimore, before everything was amalgamated, and he led a pilgrimage of malcontents to this place, which was called Detroit, where they stole this big fucking negro fist and used it to knock down inhabited dwellings in a frenzy to usher the natural order back in, so that men could be men again. And here we are at the altar of The Tribe! All we have to do is read the blood script on the wall, go through the rituals, and we’re real men like back in the old ass-kicking days before bitches and homos ran everything.
They were then all drawn to the letters written in blood over the door, before which were parked the seats for mobility challenged people.
Tyrone, unable to read, was pointing at the letters in ecstasy, motioning with his eyes for Martin—the only one of them to have read a book—to read the sacred script.
With a deeper sinking feeling in his stomach Martin read out loud to his illiterate friends, “If three you be, agony for one and redemption for two await through this sacred portal. He who would join The Tribe shall rest his legs and approach with your sacrificial soul.”
“Okay guys, this is really disturbing, I—”
Ed and Tyrone were already seated in the carts and the door was opening. They each grabbed one of Martin’s skinny arms and zipped through the sliding metal door and down a ramp into the dimly lit bowels of this terrible place.
“Guys, guys?” he pleaded as he was dragged down the corridor between them toward a lurid red light, “What the hell?”
Tyrone snickered as Ed chortled, “The Tribe requires a literate human sacrifice, Bro—sorry!”
“So, I was never going to become part of The Tribe?”
“You were our ticket,” snorted Ed as a broad red-lit room opened before them, occupied by two well-muscled brutes in black masks, holding swords and looming above them.
One of the menacing men tossed a hood to Ed, which he quickly pulled over Martin’s face, as Tyrone held him tightly. His two erstwhile friends walked him forward and forced him down on his knees with the chant of, “To Tribe LaFond I offer—”
Martin was overcome with nausea as the words of his betrayers turned to a gurgling hiss of liquid air and he was soaked with something warm and hot. It was all too much, a nightmare, and he lost consciousness…
“There you go LaFond—all is right with the world.”
He heard a thunderous voice above him as the two figures, unmasked now, considered him with appraising eyes.
The bigger one then squeaked with a small voice, “The betrayed usually don’t handle themselves with such aplomb and must be released. But you, kid, you made it in, welcome to Tribe LaFond.”
The two brutes then hauled him to his feet between the headless bodies of his two unfaithful friends. The smaller, deep-voiced man then handed him a quill and a bucket full of blood and patted him on the back as the larger man walked Martin back up the ramp. The deep voice seemed sinister as it rumbled up the tunnel behind him, “We needs us some more lits like you. Your job is to keep the sacred script fresh writ, ‘till we get us another—then you get a clan name. Until then, you’re just LaFond—and are so honored!”
The big man with the squeaky voice was somewhat less frightening as he guided the nameless LaFond formerly known as “Smart” Martin, up into the gray half-light, “Welcome aboard, Brother. Name’s Joe—named me after the fist, they did.”
