Free Bad Juju: A Novel of Raw Terror by Randy Chandler

oath. You know that.”
    “What’s wrong with you, man? You’re
actually threatening me? Your blood brother?”
    “That’s the rule.”
    “Bullshit. That’s no fucking rule.
You just made that up.”
    “Guess we need fresh blood.” Joe
Rob reached across the table and seized Skeeter’s wrist and pinned his hand to
the table. He pulled a pocketknife from his jeans and flicked the blade open
with one hand, then swiped the cutting edge across Skeeter’s wrist. Blood
filled the gash.
    With a yelp of surprise, Skeeter
yanked his hand free.
    Joe Rob made a similar cut in his
own wrist, then laid his hand palm-up on the card table. “Come on, do it. Touch
cuts.”
    “Jeez, you are fucking
nuts.”
    “Do it, Goddammit! I’m not
playing.” Joe Rob pointed the tip of his knife at Skeeter.
    “Fuck you, Joe Rob. Go ahead. Gut
me with that fucking pig sticker. I don’t give a shit. Go ahead, you fucking
psycho. Do it. That’ll solve everything, won’t it?”
    Joe Rob came out of his chair,
upended the card table and tossed it aside, then poked the knife against
Skeeter’s belly.
    Skeeter didn’t back down. Nose to
nose, they glared at each other for an interminable moment of frozen time.
    Then Joe Rob stepped back, almost
casually, folded the blade and jammed the knife back in his jeans pocket. “I
should’ve known you’d wimp out on me,” he sneered. “Fucking pussy. I’ll handle
this shit by myself.”
    Joe Rob walked out and slammed the
door.
    The slam reverberated with terrible
finality in the echo chamber that was Skeeter’s skull. He knew for the first
time in his life what it meant to be truly alone.
    And it terrified him.
     
    ***
     
    He woke with a start, his heart
racing as if to flee some imminent threat. He sat up in his bunk and looked
around. Moonlight at the curtained window seeped in around the edges and gave
the darkened room a faint illumination of cold, silvery light.
    Skeeter listened closely to the
night, hearing nothing but the humming rattle of the air-conditioner that
washed him with frigid air and the background murmuring of insects. The hair at
the nape of his neck was drenched in sweat.
    Must’ve been dreaming. Dreamed I
heard something and woke myself up.
    He glanced at the red numerals of
the digital clock on top of the old filing cabinet that served as his bedside table.
    1:15 AM.
    Shit.
    Gotta sleep.
    A knot of fear twisted tighter in
his abdomen. A dull pressure behind his eyes signaled an oncoming headache.
    He flopped back onto his damp
pillow and kicked off the bed sheet.
    Relax.
    Sleep.
    But don’t dream.
    His attempt at self-hypnotic
relaxation failed to induce sleep. His mind churning with unbidden images of
violence and blood, he fell into a moonlit limbo somewhere between wakefulness
and sleep—a netherworld with shadowy figures skulking at its edges, the
skulkers armed with knives and guns.
    Gotta piss.
    He drags himself from bed and
stumbles into the tiny bathroom. Takes his semi-erect penis in hand and aims it
at the thighs of the dead girl...
    Dreaming...
    ...that I got up to piss.
    He came fully awake, dragged
himself out of bed and made his way to the tiny bathroom where he did begin to empty his bladder. He shivered as the stream of urine splashed into
the bowl’s water and he sighed with relief as the aching pressure of his full
bladder dissipated. “Ahhh...”
    The piss seemed to go on forever,
as did the accompanying pleasure of release.
    Pissing like a race horse. “Uhnnn...”
    Then the stream became a trickle,
the trickle became a dribble, and Skeeter shook the last few drops from the tip
of his penis, slipped it back into the folds of his boxer shorts and headed
back to bed.
    As soon as he came out of the
bathroom, a shifting shadow seized him. A hand covered his mouth, muffling his
startled cry, and something sharp and cool pricked the soft flesh of his
throat.
    “Make a sound and I’ll make you
bleed,” whispered a rasping voice.
    Joe