Heart of Goldstein

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
The death of the monster known as Mr. Goldstein, the death of centuries...

Submitted: October 27, 2010

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Submitted: October 27, 2010



"I draw a snake upon your back, which finger did In last...one potato, two potato, three potato, four...five potato, six potato, seven potato, eight potato, more...it, bit, dog shit, you are not it! One potato, two potato, three potato, four..."1

"Y'know, killin' fer me,......is like breathin' fer other people", Goldstein mused silently to himself as he drove down 64th and Main. It was a slow night, no traffic anywhere it seemed and yet Ol' Goldstein felt alive. Memory lane does that to you, 'specially on nights like this one. "Should be tumbleweeds on this goddamn.....", the old Ford Gremlin screeched and veered forever until slamming into the sidewalk and subsequently the window display ahead of it. "Sears is giving 20% on lingerie and linens!"2

It wasn't even slippery from the downpour that preceded the events of that fateful night of August 6, 1985. Goldy had bagged himself a family of four, 'African-Americans', or just a bunch'a'uppity coon-spade niggers, or eggplants, as he would have called them. Goldstein never kept track, he just did his duty, and that was killin'. Only thing he was good at, if memory served him correctly Started with his 'parents', foster and biological, out in Podunk or Dogpatch or the Ozarks, as he could barely recall it. The town of Desolation, pop. 4300, would be proud to boast of their native son, one Victor Charles Goldstein, the most sadistic, twisted, acutely psychotic bastard this side of the Pacos, if they knew for sure, that was.3

V.C. would shed an imaginary tear (though they were sometimes real, as of late), when he thought back to some of his 'accomplishments' over the past six years. He ate pieces of his last 'thrill-kill', a mother daughter team out in Barrie some two years back., 'Women and children first, as ol' grandpappy used to say', couldn't fault the old 'Golden' one for a lack of manners and/or grace. Southern hospitality! Who was it that said that chivalry was dead? They clearly did not know the old Goldstein standard, that was for certain.4

This wasn' no time for musin' tho, he thought to himself as he wiped off glass and plastic off of his person. He was cut up pretty bad, but he figured that while that was all par for the course. He stumbled out of his vehicle, fell to the pavement, and picked himself up, still a little bit shaken, but not stirred. 5

As V.C. looked around, he couldn't help but notice a stillness, a deadness that was in the air that night. A dull, mundane lifelessness, humid yet suggestive of something a little electric. Coppery was the air he breathed on this street in 'anytown' U.S.A., and its aftertaste was one he did not much care for.6

There was no sign of anything, far less jaywalking little brats or the banality of traffic or yokel pedestrians, with their usual prattle. It was as though, on that street, at that moment, the world stopped spinning and singled out Mr. Goldstein for///a message. It was at this point that he took notice of his breath in that dead air, and the fact that he could see it. It was suddenly freezing! It always gets cold and a little bleak this time of year, but this was something else. It was as though...as though there was...7

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHHHHHHHH!!!", the shriek, this banshee's wail, dry yet shrill, made Goldstein almost jump out of his skin at the sound and at the sight that was in the middle of the road before him. The two little mulatto, blond-haired girls were about twenty feet from his personage, yet they seemed like they were directly in front of him. They had balloons, some blue, some green, some red, some yellow and they were wearing frocks with ribbons tied in bows, interwoven in their flaxen, little, muddy blond lochs, their braids so tightly wound...8

"Are you my Daddy?", one of them pleaded. 9

"Wh...wh...what the...", that was when old V.C. realized something that struck him as a little too peculiar. They were glowing! Like fluorescent markers in a darkroom, glowing, like fireflies at dusk bleeding into night...glowing!. There was also a chill now, a chill to the air that shook Mr. Goldstein like a small child. He shuddered violently, as though someone had just walked over his grave and right through his corpse, dragging their feet through his decaying, rancid torso, as rain would then sputter from above...sputter down on him as he...10

"What's wrong, Daddy?", the second one spoke from a choir of demons in her throat, low, distorted...HUNGRY...the inhuman expressions of a circle of Hell as yet, unknown. She looked a little different now too, a little thinner, taller, and disfigured somehow. Just as Goldy noticed this, something very strange happened. Something truly bizarre before his very eyes. 11

She contorted wildly, spasmodically, her joints and limbs, twisting, snapping, bristling...seemingly breaking and bending against their natural alignment. The girl/thing broke into conceivably hundreds of different shadow contortions before re-forming itself and settling for one treelike aberration, replete with limbs/branches that shot out from every imaginable, and unimaginable angle. She now appeared to be a grotesque insect/tree/forest hybrid that just didn't stop moving...or twitching....or growing! It dwarfed Goldstein as well as the street now, as he just stood and watched in awe, like that of a small child, mouth agape, his arms hanging limply at his sides as this lunatic, surreal time-lapse nature segment from Hell unfolded before his now volleyball-sized eyes. His eyes that in their size, consumed and comprised his entire face!12

V.C. dropped to his knees and got his own version of the shakes, his bottom lip quivering and curling in, unable to contain the saliva that now ran down his chin. His pants were wet at this point too, but from another bodily fluid, one of a warm, acidic kind...13

"We're Daddy now", it bellowed, echoed...reverberated, "and you're goin' to the woodshed, boy,...now you're goin' to the woodshed....foreverrrrr!!!!", the 'er' dragged on with that infamous Southern drawl, that was, while caricature, also very, very direct.

Goldstein's shakes quieted...abated. They halted to the point where he was now prostate. Prostate with fear and rigor mortis as the stroke/embolism/aneurysm seized full control of his kneeling, whimpering, sniveling self. His eyes imploded and he toppled over to the ground. As he keeled over to his side on the hard asphalt beneath him, his bones, which were now brittle, porcelain in density, shattered inside of him, like a stack of China plates dropped from a distance onto a terrazzo floor. His flesh suit remained intact, bleeding out whatever was left inside of it on the sidewalk below as the now, group of little girls on the other side of the street, continued with their 'selection process',"I draw a snake upon your back, which finger did In last...one potato, two potato, three potato, four...five potato, six potato, seven potato, eight potato, more...it, bit, dog shit, you are not it! One potato, two potato, three potato, four..."

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