Beer Fish.
Flickering eyes adjusted to the dim candlelight, thin shadows cutting the room into interlocking sections. One frail leg bounced, supporting the weight of a feathered mass of chicken. Its beige existence fluttered in the breeze from a rusty vent, billowing on the floor through its iron bared fangs. Clawed fingers timidly stroked warm soil, leaving three defined trails.
“Sarah,” the creature growled.
The arm increased in momentum, low moans accompanying a forlorn yet forward trajectory. Martin watched all this unfold, the dirt that encased his body cracking like a butterfly breaking from its cocoon.
CLANG-
Martin looked up to see cantaloupe and teal pigments of a perplexed tin, merging into each other through frantic spinning. Rolling down a path of metallic laddered chutes, it dutifully followed the route before landing in front of the contorted beast.
“Sarah!” The voice bellowed once again.
Two hooked hands slapped onto the can, before casting its wispy, hairy face upon it. Teeth pulled the lid until it pinged open, chapped lips engulfing the loaded cylinder before sounds of eager suckling echoed across dead space. Once the can had been drained, the life form shot a look at Martin, scarlet eyes piercing through the heavy black.
“Want yours?” it hissed.
Martin shook his head and rose to his feet, taking steady steps towards his squat companion. Pangs of hunger weighed Martin’s stomach and disrupted his vision. Martin knew he’d been there for several days, slumped in his mud casing. How he got there, and why, remained a mystery. A teal fish leapt from a sunken tank, desperately gasping before plummeting into watery shadows.
“Do beers roll down this tube every day?” Martin asked.
“Aye,” the creature responded.
“Do you always drink them?” Martin inquired.
“I didn’t at the start, but now I do,” it moaned.
“Why?” Martin questioned.
“They help to see,” It said.
“See what?” Martin asked.
The creature burst into manic laughter, before crumpling the can on its pale face and launching it at Martin. After taping Martin’s abdominal muscles, the beer can limply hit the floor.
“You,” It replied.
“What’s your name?” Martin jibed.
“Name? What are names? Did I ever need a name? Let me forget, Hu-Man,” it snapped.
“Well, it’s your identity. Identities are important,” Martin reasoned.
“Yes, yes, Hu-Man is correct! Identity is the thing we prize the most, cried the underground man. The thing we need least, Siddhartha moaned. Tell me, Martin. Why are you here?” it snarled while adjusting its lengthy limbs.
Martin’s body began to quake, clammy hands clenching and unclenching with the ferocity of a broken lightbulb filament.
“I-I,” Martin stammered.
The creature let out a knowing chuckle.
“So you don’t know? Well, here’s my second question. Do you like fish?” It gasped.
“Fish?” Martin inquired.
The creature hissed aggressively before scuttling towards the fish tank and submerging its sore face, proceeding its whole, crusty body which wiggled into the depths of the container. The turbid water was disturbed, forming into sordid waves.
He seemed nice, Martin joked to himself.
A stagnated machine lurched before sliding into a roar, causing gears and cogs to rotate. Jet fabric began to move clockwise, strange tools, placed periodically apart embarked on a planned journey. The only utensil recognisable to Martin was a hacksaw, which proceeded a pine wood base supporting a gleaming glass vessel. A floating head swivelled inside.
What on earth, Martin thought while rubbing his grumbling belly.
The deteriorating head turned, suspended, and submerged in turquoise aqua.
“Oi!” the head barked.
Martin stared at the spinning head, paralysed in fear. Snakes slithered over one another, raining from a domed ceiling, and landing across the track.
“Those teeth won’t be white for long, sonny. Not unless you get out,” the head informed.
Martin looked up at the cascading snakes, witnessing two gleaming crimson eyes peering through an overhead shutter. It closed loudly, causing Martin to look back at the flaky head, bits of its skin forming a sadistic snow globe.
“There is a way out of here? It didn’t seem to work out for you,” Martin reasoned.
“Ha! That shutter closed right on my neck. If I had a body, I’d show you what for,” the head complained.
“Wait, that shutter with the eyes staring out of it? You can get there?” Martin asked.
“Perhaps. But you must figure it out yourself. Tell me, why are you here?” The head inquired.
“I don’t know. I think you know that already,” Martin responded irritably.
“Then perhaps you should ask the right questions,” The head bellowed.
“What’s your name?” Martin asked.
“Sisyphus. And you?” Sisyphus asked.
“I’m Martin,” Martin explained.
“Ah. Martin. Well, Martin. I’ll tell you one thing. It’s too late for your friend. He’ll be a fish soon, you mark my words,” the head scoffed.
“We’re not friends. Fish?” Martin probed.
“All who drink together are friends. You should watch that,” Sisyphus advised.
The conveyor belt lurched forwards.
“Wait! I have questions! What about the fish!” Martin cried.
“Ask better questions! The hacksaw is on the floor,” Sisyphus instructed.
The head disappeared through a fabric flap embedded into ruby bricks.
Thud
Another beer ricocheted down the gleaming chrome path. The twisted creature, seaweed clinging to its dark and tattered jacket, heaved its fleshy mass out of the fish tank. A couple of its yellow teeth dropped onto the floor, though it didn’t seem to notice. Snatching the chicken, it rammed it into its pulsating mouth. The chicken squawked and wiggled until warm blood dropped onto the ground.
That floating head wants this creature’s body, Martin thought while looking at the hacksaw.
The blunt hacksaw trembled in Martin’s hand as he surveyed a pale, elongated neck.
Just like what it did to the chicken, Martin thought.
As the subhuman homunculus feasted on its fresh can, Martin tiptoed behind it, his heart slamming against his sore ribcage. The monster turned and let out a terrible shriek.
“Martin! No, Hu-Man! No!” it squealed.
Martin leapt upon the feral beast, desperately trying to pin down its flailing arms. It let out a screech as Martin headbutted it, knocking it unconscious. Placing the hacksaw by its thin neck, Martin began to earnestly saw, blood spurting in all directions. Pausing to wipe the scarlet from his eyes, Martin began sawing at a quicker pace, sweat dripping from his inflamed skin. Sinew and pulpy tissue all that remained, Martin gave a mighty pull, the head ripping from the creature’s shoulders. Martin froze in horror as he noticed a rectangular name badge pinned on its moist jacket. It read:
Martin
Martin brought the saw down, cracking it into its skull, firmly lodged. Something shot into Martin’s chest, winding him. A crimson can of beer sat in a growing pool of blood and frogspawn. The conveyor belt burst back into life.
“Haha, haha! Yes! Yes!” Sisyphus bellowed.
“I don’t feel good about it,” Martin whimpered.
“You did what needed to be done. Now quickly, get me off this darn thing and put me next to his body,” Sisyphus commanded.
Trembling, Martin fetched Sisyphus from the conveyor belt and placed it next to the lifeless husk. Twisting the glass container until it unscrewed from the base, Martin lifted the head and put it by the frayed neck. Tentacles, gnarled like tree roots yet moist like a freshly snatched squid, sprung from Sisyphus’s neck. They embedded themselves in the mushy corpse until Sisyphus rose, complete once more.
“Come, the ladder is this way,” Sisyphus ordered.
Sisyphus leapt over the conveyor belt and lifted a large, maple ladder. Placing the base of the ladder by the foot of the tank, Sisyphus began climbing the slippery rungs, making his way to the open shutter.
I wonder where the scarlet eyes went, Martin thought as he followed Sisyphus’s trajectory.
“Yes! We’ve done it, Martin! We’ve done it!” Sisyphus screeched, putting his head through the shutter.
Suddenly, the shutter closed, decapitating Sisyphus. Sisyphus’s body fell limp, smashing into a thousand bloody pieces as Martin collapsed into the tank. In a forgotten corner, a man covered in mud flickered his eyelids, before falling back into a deep slumber.
