Free Twisted Endings: 5 Disturbing Stories by Timothy D. McLendon

The Teacup Lady
     
    SWEAT TRICKLED from the crack of my ass all the down to my feet. My toes swam in sweat-soaked socks. Even the thermometer atop the concession stand behind me sweated tiny beads of scalding mercury. I stood there with my daughter in a line that never got any shorter.
    “Daddy, when’s the Teacup Lady gonna get here?” Crystal asked, oblivious to the ridiculous torture. That's the nickname she created for the woman who operated the ride — the Teacup Lady.
    “It could be a while.” The Teacup Lady had headed for the restrooms more than five minutes earlier. “We can come back later. Wouldn’t you rather ride the merry-go-round or bumper cars?" My finger and hopes all pointed at the bumper cars. We had to do something, anything, to expedite the foggy horror of that Middle America nightmare.
    “No thanks, Daddy,” was the dreaded reply. “I can wait.”
    Great. How could I turn down those innocent blues eyes? I patted her sticky blonde hair. We only got to see each other on the weekends. I wasn't about to disappoint my beautiful five-year-old angel.
    “The Teacup Lady looks like Mommy,” Crystal said, pointing at the woman when she started to walk back toward us.
    Ah yes, my dear, dear ex-wife – no hard feelings there. Fat, short, stringy brown hair and an uncaring attitude. The only thing she ever exercised was her right to vote. I’m pretty sure she voted for the Communist party.
    She had found the need to go outside of our marriage with a pot-bellied truck driver. “You don’t love me the way you used to,” she would say.
    I didn’t disagree with her. How could I?
    After Crystal was born, she changed into someone I didn’t know at all. She drank all of the time. She only ate candy, cupcakes, and Cheerios. She forgot who I was half of the time. She forgot who Crystal was. She didn’t care to dress when fetching the newspaper in the morning. The neighbors complained until I couldn’t take it anymore.
    The house? Gone. The Monte Carlo? Gone. The law had caught up with me a few times in the past. I had a slight problem with, shall we say, herbal remedies? Kerry was all too happy to point that out. The judge didn’t like it too much.
    I only fought for one thing in that damn divorce: Crystal. She belonged with someone who could love her and care for her: Me, her protector. The fool of a judge believed my ex-wife could take better care of her with the promise of therapy. I begged him not to do it. It didn’t work.
    And there stood the Teacup Lady, a disgusting reminder of the biggest mistake of my life. Controlling the time I had with my daughter. She had the eyes of a vulture, sent straight from hell to watch us die in the desert heat. Standing in the shade with a stupid grin plastered to her face. If she had been within range, I would’ve unplastered that grin on her pumpkin head. I knew it would be another five minutes before she could walk back over here. Waddle over here. Whatever.
    Even more disgusting is that I never saw her without that brown bag in her hands. She had one of those small paper contraptions that cockroaches love to lick the glue off of, or so I read in one of those respected tabloid magazines. I could picture their tiny mouths salivating as she reached her fat fingers in to retrieve whatever she was after: candy, cupcakes, Cheerios — who cares? I'm sure it all tasted like chicken to her!
    My temperature rose with each labored step she took. Sweat poured from my eyebrows. There are two places a woman like that shouldn't work: a fast-paced environment and a fast-food environment. I knew why she was here. Food. Free food. Well, candy anyway.
    “Sorry that took so long,” was all she could muster as she tried to catch her breath.
    “Don't worry about it.” Worry about me , I thought, worry about me .
    She set her bag down in a drawer next to the control booth. She closed the drawer and looked around like a guilty thief. Then it happened. She opened the gate to