The Monthly Macabre (Volume One): The Monthly Macabre, #1

By J.R. Torrez

     In the silence of the night, in the middle of a desert, lies a grungy little gas station.  Though surrounded by a barren wasteland, this two-pump petrol plot is the perfect little pit stop for vacationers en route to the snowcapped mountains of Mammoth.

     Inside this gas station sits a lowly attendant, gazing into the nothing and basking in his solitude.  He waits for no one and nothing, only counts the minutes to the end of his shift.  But on this special evening he'll be paid a visit by an upper class, quarreling couple; A college girl, fit for a magazine centerfold, and her better half, a wealthy, modern male misogynist.  The upscale couple wouldn't be caught dead frequenting such a rundown establishment.  Tonight, however, they'll make an exception. 

     These three nobodies, with nothing in common, suddenly sojourn into the darkest realms of a horrific unknown, and this pit stop will be their gateway to the sick, sultry, psychotic realm often referred to as the macabre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indie Works
• Release date: Dec 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201391072

J.R. Torrez

     J.R. Torrez began telling stories at a very early age. He considered himself academically inept, yet he still gained praise for his narrative essays. By the time he got to college, he had developed a solid confidence in his writing. Though he majored in film, with a focus on directing, many of his peers turned to him for his screenwriting skills. After college he spent many years pursuing a filmmaking career, gaining hands-on experience in all stages of film production. It was those years of film industry exposure that led him to realize where storytelling truly stems. From then on, he turned his focus towards the printed word, absorbing the works of Hawthorne, Poe, Lovecraft, Attwood, Percy, etc. Regularly referred to as a 'chameleon writer,' J.R. can orchestrate various genres, most prominently horror, mystery, and thriller.  These days, J.R. writes out of Nashville where he hopes to establish a career as a renowned author. 

Book preview

- PIT STOP-

This story takes place in the cold, nighttime blackness of the Palmdale desert.  Gusty winds laced with faint howls and eerie shrills warred with sporadic songs sung by locust-sized crickets.   

Visible in the void was the only filling station for miles.  Standing alone on a patch of Earth next to an off-ramp, it projected a soul-sucking white neon over rough topography.  It acted like a beacon to the vape-toting travelers bound for the ski slopes of Mammoth. 

The gas station was a relic of the 60s and yet it had failed to stand the test of time.  Its awning showered creamy white fluorescence onto two rusty gas pumps.  Every light fixture was layered with crusty cobwebs and deserted eyries.  At the perimeter stood a sign, towering high and wreathed in tile lettering.  The sign’s dirt-powdered panels, which were warped and hanging on by a thread, still managed to display the word, ‘fuel’.       

The station saw many customers during the day.  Only occasionally - when a driver was so bold - would one show up at night.  It’s why Gustavo - ‘Gus’ to the boss - always opted for the night shift.

Gustavo worked the 10PM to 6AM graveyard rotation.  He did it Wednesday to Sunday, for nearly a year.  It afforded him the freedom to attend Sunday Mass and limited his interaction with the customers and the ever-looming La Migra.  Every night he’d clock in to relieve the boss, Michael Sedacky, and then he’d park his Humpty Dumpty hide on a stool behind the aging, bumper sticker collaged counter.  There, he’d sit happily until the dawn with his face buried in porno mags.   

The front counter was high enough for Gustavo to jerk it inconspicuously.  He could do it without ever having to leave his post.  Not that anyone driving by at sixty-five would ever notice, but, on occasion, Jefe Sedacky would pop in for a surprise visit.  The last thing Gustavo needed was to be fired from another job for masturbating while on the job. 

Being a newbie to the Americas, Gustavo had yet to acquire a smartphone for all his pornography needs.  So, each night, at around 2:30AM, Gustavo retrieved a magazine off the rack, and by about 2:35 he’d be targeting his female – or females – of choice.  They’d typically be ones with giant, torpedo-shaped tits and saucer-sized areolas. 

Two minutes was all it took for him to reach climax.  There was a brief intermission before he’d go again, and again, and again, until the rag he used was soiled, corner to corner.  Those jerk sessions would be Gustavo’s cardio for the day. 

He was the kind of man that was round all around, oval from stem to sternum – just like an egg – with thinning hair full of grease, and skin like a light brown leather belt.  But for those two glorious minutes of masturbation, he was Neptune.  Tall, manly, and muscular, endlessly thronged by waves of fertile females.  Those jerk sessions meant everything to him.  Which is why his life went to shit once the station’s interior got its massive overhaul. 

The renovation came replete