Early Hour Parables: The Parable Collection, #3

By Christopher Besonen

Welcome to Early Hour Parables! The uncertainty continues with this collection of fifteen short tales, each one unique to the next. The third book in The Parable Collection.

 

Violence reigns and a dumpster overflows with the dead, a mysterious booth provides unique meals, a blind guy unravels discomforting truths, a simple bus ride turns gory, a tattooist and his cult of artworks, a story about macabre painting, a family flees West to find gold but the journey is treacherous, a game show that targets the obese, a girl goes looking for ancient oddities, a summer stay becomes a pottery nightmare, a neighborhood with strict rules about plants, a child predator is given multiple sentences, music plays a major role in a man's fight to protect his family, a woman is stalked by an unsettling being, an author learns the reality behind his works of fiction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Besonen Horror
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201952808

Christopher Besonen

Horror with a purpose.

Book preview

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, businesses, places, events or incidents are written in a fictitious manner, or an output of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

All text contained within this book, rather digital or physical, is protected by copyright law. ©2021-2022. All rights reserved unto Christopher Daniel Besonen, the author, courtesy of the Besonen Horror trademark. No unlicensed reproductions of this book may be used, without written consent by Mr. Besonen.

The Great Corpse Overflow

The blue minivan sped away from the garbage dumpster, that sits in the alley way of 1122 Sycamore Drive. An alley, that sits outside of the abandoned, falling apart apartment building, whose name, and fallen off sign, have long been forgotten.

The owner of the apartment, Stu Revish, was a clean cut, gelled hair type. He kept to himself, other than the ‘patients’ that would come to see him once a week, none of them repeats. Suspicion snuck in surrounding Stu, but when you’re living in a city, that is the city that you go to if you want the murder capital of the millennium, things tend to get neglected. With every other citizen a serial killer, homicide workers had endless piles of leads. Equal in height, were the piled up papers of dead ends.

The blue van, had left five of what was normally disposed of inside the dumpster of Stu’s apartment building. The victims.

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Stu may have looked like your average joe, but he was compulsive when it came to self gratification. A despicable man in need of Jesus, but refused to believe in the existence of Christ. Or any other power greater than self. Aside from his chafing compulsion, he had a problem with the building’s plumbing. Owning, and now living, in all of the abandoned sections, meant the only handy man for the constant issues, was Stu.

Even though the dumpster in the alley was a hot spot for corpse dumping, Police were far from its trail. That, or they simply didn’t care. There was talk of a man who often wheelbarrows bodies by law enforcement on his way to the alley, but is ignored on all accounts. The dumpster has a false bottom, leading to the basement of the apartment building. If Stu knew about the rotting flesh in his basement, he never bothered to do anything about it either. As the pile in the building’s basement continued to grow, so did Stu’s abhorrent compulsions.

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The city’s biggest source of dead bodies, was the violent organized crime mob known as, ‘The Boccazio Clan.’ Ran by the ruthless leader, simply known as, ‘Urn.’ Urn gained his name because he burnt the evidence that he personally had a hand in himself, while his members often frequented Stu’s trash can as their evidence disposal.

The Boccazio Clan had a rival gang known as, ‘Basherz,’ because of their fondness of using blunt force trauma as a method of liquidation.

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Stu smiled, as he answered the door.

Welcome, I’m Dr. Revish, he lied, claiming his usual false profession.

The pouty lipped, brown eyed, blonde put the hand not against her lower back out, for Stu to shake.

You’re positive you can stop the pain, doc?

Oh, quite positive, Stu assured her, moving to the side so the woman could enter.

I pulled a muscle last week, there’s a bulge in my lower disc. I must admit, I was a little leery to come here, given the rundown nature of the outside. You come highly recommended though, so let’s see what you got.

Stu got a small chuckle out of his reviews, all of which were written by him, posing as his victims.

If you’ll just follow me, I’ll have the pain gone ended in no time.

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The peddler cowered in the corner of the alley beside the Revish apartments.

You ripped off the wrong people, one of the Basherz spat.

Please, I can get you the money, the peddler guaranteed without being heard.

Deadline was yesterday, buster, a second Basher chimed in, swinging a Medieval flail.

Time’s up, the third Basher agreed.

The fourth member of the Basherz kept silent, then swiftly attacked the cowering peddler with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire.

As the Basherz caved in the peddler's skull, screaming could be heard from the apartment where Stu led his blonde visitor.

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Urn snarled, taking a long hit from his cigar, before speaking.

The Basherz are cutting in on our turf. Taking out some of our clients. There’s four of them, but twelve of you. I expect them handled.

The twelve Boccazios checked their pistols, making sure they were loaded to the max.

We’re on it, the head gangster established, to the dismissal of the crime family by Urn.

Oh, and boys?

They each turned around, to a sheepish grin across Urn's face.

Non completion equals cremation.

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Stu used a potato peeler, and an old rusty, sharpened pair of scissors, to cut even strips of the dead woman's skin from the muscle. A blender was used to grind her meat in to a red slushy, that he then flushed down the hole where the toilet used to be. Each apartment had the same bathroom setup. Intended, for this exact purpose. Like he did to all the previous tenants, Stu dismembered, defleshed, then flushed his evidence down the pipes. The skin strips included.

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The blue van pulled up to the party spot for the Basherz. Six of the twelve got out of it, then banged on the door to the not so secret hideout.

Appears nobody’s home, one of them snarled.

Well, then we bust our way inside and send a message, the leader stated, then used his uzi to blast away the door lock.

The gangsters shot up the place, killed the cousin inside who was sleeping, then left. Leaving their business card in the screen door.

Let’s find us some ladies, the leader suggested, to eleven whoops and cheers.

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Once the woman was flushed, Stu took the bones and threw them into the dumpster in the alley. He went back inside and relieved his compulsion. He thought of the smell of her fresh blood, as he finished up his sickening habit.

Dr. Revish, you’ve done it again, he laughed, licking his reflection in the mirror.

You should fix the plumbing, it is becoming a real issue, another Stu, in the mirror, suggested.

Oh, give it a rest, a different mirrored Stu snapped.

I’ll work on the pipe problem, after a sandwich, the original Stu, outside the reflection, told the others, who then began arguing with themselves.

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The leader felt as if he might vomit, as he watched Urn storm up to the Boccazios, while the other members scattered.

I give you an order and am answered by this, Urn scolded, tossing the scantily dressed lady aside.

We s-s-sent ‘em a strong message, b-b-boss, the leader stammered.

Did I say to send them a message?

Urn removed the cigar from his snarl, poured the tequila onto the leader, then burned the man alive. His screams went ignored from the bar staff, who knew better than to meddle in Urn's affairs.

You might want to clean up the trash, Urn snickered to the bartender, as he was heading out the door.

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Stu crunched into the double stacked sandwich he had put together.

Next time, the patient makes me my food, he thought aloud, to himself.

When the sandwich was eaten, Stu excused himself from the table.

I think the day’s session calls for a five star review, he spoke to nobody.

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They’re dead meat, the lead Basher yelled, slamming his flail into the wall.

How do you want to take care of it? Head on? From the shadows, maybe?

They wanted us to get the message. So I declare that we are going to send our own!

They’re more of them though, the third Basher apprehensively said.

The leader looked offended, then grabbed the third member by his collar.

If you lack the courage to be a Basher, then say so! Otherwise, I’m going to let our quietest member do what he born to, get it?

The third member nodded, they say it is the most silent ones that you have to worry about, the Basherz were no exception.

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So, which of you fellas are gonna speak up, and obey the boss, when a leader goes astray?

Each of the eleven remaining Boccazios ensured they would, repeatedly.

Come pay your dues, Urn demanded.

One by one, the eleven walked up to their boss, got their jaws broken by the implanted brass knuckles that Urn sported in each hand, then took their places back in line.

That’s my boys. I’d hate for any of you to end up unlucky, like number thirteen.

They all