By Gail Fulkerson
It had been a trying millennium for Frank. He’d lost and regrown his arms a few times, been doused in holy water so often that he considered adding it to his ‘beauty regimen’, and, the largest insult to injury he would ever encounter was having to drive around town in a meal delivery van. Being a delivery driver was the only job that didn’t ask questions about appearance or cleanliness.
He became adept at holding back his belches and daily vomiting on the floorboards until he became ‘nose blind’ to the putrid odours of cooked meat, potatoes, and veggies, along with the sickeningly sweet odour of cake or other equally ghastly dessert that made up the meals-on-the-go. Once that was under control, Frank could begin his route, making 10 to 12 stops each day. As if the putrid smells wafting in the van weren’t bad enough, the ‘old people smell’ that assaulted his nostrils the minute one of them opened their front door made Frank want to vomit all over again. Every oldster had the distinctive aroma of old coffee and Bengay; the worst were the little old ladies with purple hair, poorly done makeup, and clad in a sweater set they’d purchased new in the 1950s. Most of them also wore cologne that smelled of lavender, to which Frank was allergic. He’d have a sneezing fit and have to leave the meal on the doorstep, mostly because the old ladies would gasp in horror at the sight of him, as they clutched their ever-present strand of pearls. Some were so terrified at the sight of Frank at their door that they’d drop dead right in front of him. He took this as a kindness as he stuffed their body into a black garbage bag.
Frank hated the job, but the perks were nice. He’d been at it long enough to know the clients he delivered to would be dead shortly after they ate the meals he dropped off; all he had to do then was retrace his route and collect the bodies, before they could be discovered by a member of the family or a nosy neighbour. Frank learned from a television program that poisoning the mashed potatoes with a healthy dose of toilet bowl crystals easily killed off each diner within an hour of ingestion.
He made a stop to retrieve one of the old ladies near the end of his route and interrupted a neighbour who was looking through the woman’s windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the old bat who’d lived next door to her for years. The nosy neighbour was about to unlock the front door when Frank walked up the sidewalk and onto the porch.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The neighbour whirled around and looked directly into Frank’s daemonic face, horror-stricken. As she gasped at the sight of him, she instinctively grabbed for her nonexistent pearls and let out a loud squeal. “What do you want with Edna?” the woman gibbered.
“The same thing I want from you — your body and your soul,” Frank growled. With that, he grabbed the tiny woman by the throat, lifted her off her feet, and throttled the life out of her.
“Hey, I just scored a two-fer!” Frank was so proud of himself that he sang the song of his people, a high-pitched, off-key cacophony. He bagged then tossed the nosy neighbour’s body into the back of the van, and headed back up the sidewalk to retrieve Edna. This time, he remembered to place a clothes pin on his nose to block out the scent of lavender and calmly entered the house.
Expecting to find the place neat and tidy, Frank was pleasantly taken aback by all the clutter and cobwebs, along with a distinctive odour of rotting flesh. He grinned at the happy discovery and felt instantly at home.
There was a dense pile of newspapers and clothing blocking the entry to the kitchen. It resembled the pile of rubble in his childhood home that he used to play in, diving in head first — a dangerous game that could result in either decapitation or dismemberment, but Frank liked to push the envelope. He lost an arm twice; once in the rubble pile of his childhood, when he dove in and caught his arm in the paper shredder hidden in the middle of the huge pile, and once when his dad had bitten it off in a rage. His arms eventually grew back, but it took a while.
Putting dead Edna in the back of the vehicle beside her neighbour, Frank jumped behind the wheel, put the van in gear and backed out of the driveway. He hightailed it to his apartment, where he unloaded the bodies into his freezer.
He became adept at holding back his belches and daily vomiting on the floorboards until he became ‘nose blind’ to the putrid odours of cooked meat, potatoes, and veggies, along with the sickeningly sweet odour of cake or other equally ghastly dessert that made up the meals-on-the-go. Once that was under control, Frank could begin his route, making 10 to 12 stops each day. As if the putrid smells wafting in the van weren’t bad enough, the ‘old people smell’ that assaulted his nostrils the minute one of them opened their front door made Frank want to vomit all over again. Every oldster had the distinctive aroma of old coffee and Bengay; the worst were the little old ladies with purple hair, poorly done makeup, and clad in a sweater set they’d purchased new in the 1950s. Most of them also wore cologne that smelled of lavender, to which Frank was allergic. He’d have a sneezing fit and have to leave the meal on the doorstep, mostly because the old ladies would gasp in horror at the sight of him, as they clutched their ever-present strand of pearls. Some were so terrified at the sight of Frank at their door that they’d drop dead right in front of him. He took this as a kindness as he stuffed their body into a black garbage bag.
Frank hated the job, but the perks were nice. He’d been at it long enough to know the clients he delivered to would be dead shortly after they ate the meals he dropped off; all he had to do then was retrace his route and collect the bodies, before they could be discovered by a member of the family or a nosy neighbour. Frank learned from a television program that poisoning the mashed potatoes with a healthy dose of toilet bowl crystals easily killed off each diner within an hour of ingestion.
He made a stop to retrieve one of the old ladies near the end of his route and interrupted a neighbour who was looking through the woman’s windows, trying to catch a glimpse of the old bat who’d lived next door to her for years. The nosy neighbour was about to unlock the front door when Frank walked up the sidewalk and onto the porch.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
The neighbour whirled around and looked directly into Frank’s daemonic face, horror-stricken. As she gasped at the sight of him, she instinctively grabbed for her nonexistent pearls and let out a loud squeal. “What do you want with Edna?” the woman gibbered.
“The same thing I want from you — your body and your soul,” Frank growled. With that, he grabbed the tiny woman by the throat, lifted her off her feet, and throttled the life out of her.
“Hey, I just scored a two-fer!” Frank was so proud of himself that he sang the song of his people, a high-pitched, off-key cacophony. He bagged then tossed the nosy neighbour’s body into the back of the van, and headed back up the sidewalk to retrieve Edna. This time, he remembered to place a clothes pin on his nose to block out the scent of lavender and calmly entered the house.
Expecting to find the place neat and tidy, Frank was pleasantly taken aback by all the clutter and cobwebs, along with a distinctive odour of rotting flesh. He grinned at the happy discovery and felt instantly at home.
There was a dense pile of newspapers and clothing blocking the entry to the kitchen. It resembled the pile of rubble in his childhood home that he used to play in, diving in head first — a dangerous game that could result in either decapitation or dismemberment, but Frank liked to push the envelope. He lost an arm twice; once in the rubble pile of his childhood, when he dove in and caught his arm in the paper shredder hidden in the middle of the huge pile, and once when his dad had bitten it off in a rage. His arms eventually grew back, but it took a while.
Putting dead Edna in the back of the vehicle beside her neighbour, Frank jumped behind the wheel, put the van in gear and backed out of the driveway. He hightailed it to his apartment, where he unloaded the bodies into his freezer.
**********
Frank’s favourite treat was a frozen old person dipped in a bath of used motor oil and rolled in finely crushed gravel and pineapple chunks, a confection he would eat like a popsicle as he watched tv. Thawing blood and bodily fluids would sometimes stain his couch as they dripped down his arm, but Frank couldn’t care less. The spongier his settee, the happier he was. It was like being in his familial living room, stench and all.
Feeling unsatisfied with one ‘popsicle’, Frank went back to his freezer and dug out the oldest corpse lying at the bottom for a couple years. The meat was severely freezer burned and the bag was filled with ice. It was perfect for making people jerky, Frank’s second favourite meat. He took a few bites of the desiccated old woman’s leg, then laid out the body on a tarp on the basement floor, where it would thaw overnight, ready for Frank to slice and dice the next day. Any liquid would be sopped up with paper towels and thrown in the soup pot. He reminded himself to dig out the meat slicer and the dehydrator before he went to bed so they would be ready for use in the morning.
Frank was up with the crows, eager to begin his day. He brewed a pot of daemon-style coffee — battery acid poured over used coffee grounds — and drank his first ‘cup’ as he sliced and diced the corpse he’d left on the basement floor the night before. The old biddy’s body was limp, and she went through the slicer with little effort. Frank had all the meat in the dehydrator before he’d taken his last mouthful of coffee. (Daemons drink coffee by the gallon; measly cups of java were for puny humans.)
He left the house and headed to the car wash down the street, a stop he made on the way to work every so often so he could ‘shower’. His body was covered in bristles, and any attempt by him to use a shower brush was fruitless; partway through its first application, the brush’s bristles would fall out and get stuck when they intermingled with the steely ones on Frank’s grey skin. Pulling them off was a chore, so he chose to walk through the car wash — no wax — to unseat the recalcitrant bristles and get as clean as he would allow. Daemons are prone to accumulating layers of stink and crud, and Frank didn’t want to jeopardize his carefully curated layers of filth more often than was necessary: He had his odious appearance to maintain, after all.
************
Every so often, especially in the summer months, Frank would unplug the freezer, prop open the door, and let the corpses inside thaw out. This refreshed the eye-watering stench of rotting flesh throughout the apartment, a daemon’s most coveted scent.
It was hard to come by — it wasn’t sold in stores — daemons who wanted that overpowering smell of death permeating their abodes had to improvise. Many a daemon would get either raw meat or roadkill, place it in a conspicuous spot in the living room, and allow it to fester and decompose, wafting its perfume throughout the house. Some daemons went to funeral homes, if there was one nearby, and stole a leg or three from the newly deceased. It had to be done after the body was already in a coffin but before interment. The bottom half of the coffin would hide their theft. It was easier than digging them up after they were buried. Mind you, some daemons who enjoy adipocere, a greyish, waxy substance formed by the decomposition of soft tissue in dead bodies subjected to moisture, a delicacy best perfected after the corpse has been in the damp for around six months. An acquired taste, adipocere spreads like oily jelly on toast and tastes positively hellish.
************
Frank lived under the basement of the newer Catholic church in northeast Saskatoon, just off Attridge Drive, when he had given up small town living after many of the towns’ populations dwindled after he showed up. He knew it was time to move on when the townspeople started crossing the street to avoid him and openly gossiping about his strange activities. When he did leave, he made sure to leave the freezer door open, so all the humans had to do was follow the smell to Frank’s vacated digs, where they’d find their loved ones wrapped in freezer paper and stinking to high heaven. Sometimes, he would become invisible and watch the horror spread across human faces when they discovered what was wrapped in the butcher paper. Then he’d snicker, scaring the humans even more.
************
Mere hours remained of the weekend, which meant that Frank would have to steel himself to get back into the unpleasantness of the van and deliver meals the next morning. Gritting his many teeth, he considered running over a gopher and hanging it from the rearview mirror to provide ‘air-freshening’ inside the vehicle, hopefully making his day a bit better.
Glancing at his delivery sheet, he was heartened to see a name he recognized — Stella Artwah — as the first drop-off of the day. He’d been after reaping her corpse for many years.
“Today is my lucky day!” Frank screamed, cracking the windshield with the sound, and off he went to begin his deliveries.
Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in the supernatural. She lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another story involving Frank the daemon.
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