Brittney the Loud by Matt Wall

Brittney the Loud

By Matt Wall

I played there, or should I say that I performed there, every night it seemed. Of course that isn’t exactly true, I played there, or performed there a couple night a week. Thursday and Saturday. Every week. I was there without fail. If one of the weekly acts got sick or couldn’t make it, I would show up, guitar in hand and ready to belt out my songs at the top of my lungs. I was, without fail, the thing that kept that little shit-hole going.

I would have been happy with my arrangement with the bar for the rest of my life. I really would have. The problem that faced me was this one woman. She was there every night I performed. She would sit dead center in the room, just a few feet away from the low rise stage. As soon as I would start playing, she would begin to talk in a loud voice, practically shouting. Those shouts would turn into laughter. Her laughter was just despicable. I always scared the room when this would happen and I never saw any other people laughing with her or even speaking to her. She would turn her head and start talking, hoping to make eye contact with someone. If she did, she would shout-speak at them until her hideous lighter took over. I was sure everyone eel was just as annoyed with her.

It turns out that she was homeless and after the bar would begin to close, she would make her move on whatever sap was still there, too drunk to function and talk him into letting her stay with him at his that night. From what I could tell, she would never fuck any of them. They were so far gone, I doubt that any of them would be able to get it up. I’m sure there was some tatty-sucking and maybe some hands and fingers, but apparently that worth the price of admission.

Many times she would come to me afterwards and tell me how much she enjoyed my set. I wanted to yell and scream at her but never did. I always wished I had. How could this bitch even hear my songs over her cackle? Did she like me more when her back was turned to me? While she tried to make conversation with anyone who would give her the time of day? It was a bunch of bullshit. I’m sure she came to me when there were no other people who give her a bed to sleep in.

After months and months of this, The owner of the bar asked if I would be interested in hosting an open mic night. They would pay me $50 bucks a week and then my weekly schedule would be Wednesday, Thursday and Saturday. It seemed like a good deal. I agreed to do it and the following Wednesday, everything was ready to go. I made flyers and put them up around town. I emailed my mailing list and hoped that there would be at least 100 people there ready to perform for each other. I got there early and set up the sound system, the way I liked it, by the way, not the way that Georgie set it up which was absolutely god awful. I brought in my own lighting set up and was very proud with how the stage looked, even though the stage was only about six inches off the ground.

I saw the clipboard that I had left on a table by the door. On this clipboard it had time slots for the whole night. I was surprised to find that the first spot was already taken. I didn’t recognize the name. It was a beautiful name. Brittney. The penmanship was exquisite. I was genuinely excited to see this beautiful creature. Then my dreams shattered like glass when I heard the voice that amplified through the room like fingers on the chalkboard as small puppies were being burned alive. It was her. The loud mouth. The one of many laughs. Her name is Brittney.

I sighed and threw up in my mouth a little. I swallowed it down and it burned down my esophagus.

I Had enough venom on my tongue to kill a small town and said, “So, Brittney, what is it that you will be performing?”

She smiled, showing so many damn teeth it was like looking into the gullet of a great white shark. “I will be reciting a poem I wrote in high school, that is a protest to the war and fast food society in America.”

“Is that all?” I could feel my face tightening.

“Well,”she laughed ungodly, “it is accompanied by interpretive dance.”

Jesus fucking Christ! I screamed inside my skull. I forced a smile and said, “You only have ten minutes up there so make it count.”

There weren’t many people there yet, but the show had to go on. I told Brittney that it was time. She laughed at me. I told her again. She laughed harder. “There is no one here yet.”

“You picked the opening slot. You must do what the opening act does.”

“I don’t like the way that sounds.”

“I don’t care.”

“Can I change it?”

“You cannot.”

“Why are you being such a dick?” Her tone obviously changed at this point in the exchange.

“I am just trying to push the show forward. We have other people who have signed up for slots now, there is nowhere for you to go.” I had an idea. “You could always forfeit your slot. Maybe come back next week?”

Her eyes were captured by my evils grin. That had to have not sat well with her. “No, you’re right. The show must go on. If I’m opening the open mic show, then I am the opening act. The only problem that I can see is that all of you losers are going to have to try to outdo me. Good fucking luck with that!”

Brittney took her wide bottom and after slight trouble getting both of her hoofs up on the stage, she began. At first, the poetry wasn’t really that bad. Her voice however made it sound like cats in a blender. Suddenly, she began to jump up and spin and jump and bounce. The stage creaked and cracked. I wanted to stop her, but I also wanted to witness the train wreck first hand. Finally she jumped up as high as he had and kicked her legs out, not being able to get them back beneath her by the time gravity intervened, she crashed down hard on the stage and not even that broke her fall. She fell right through it, onto the floor, leaving a Brittany shaped hole where the stage once was.

I laughed out loud. I pointed. I looked around to make sure others were laughing, it was mixed. But then, the unthinkable happened. She stood up and threw her arms in the air as if she were a gymnast who had just stuck their landing. She laughed louder than me. The crowd applauded her and the bitch had the audacity to even fucking bow! Who the fuck did she think she was?

The rest of the night was a disaster. No one could use the stage. All the lights that I brought now just accented the hole in the stage and back lit everyone performing until they were just silhouettes. It was absolute shit.

The owner wasn’t very happy about the stage, but he asked me if it was something that I could fix. I told him that it was and asked him if he cared if I made it a little higher. He seemed fine with the idea.

“Just keep the recipes and I’ll reimburse you when I get back.”

“Back? Back from where?”

“My sister was in a car accident out in California. She’s in the hospital. I am flying out tonight to see her. So the bar will be closed for a couple days. Do you think you could have it done by then?”

I nodded. “I think so.”

Then, SHE butted in. “Hey guys, it’s my fault it broke. I would love to stick around and help if that’s okay.”

The owner smiled and said that he would appreciate it. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned me away from her. “Make sure she stays away from the booze. Other than that, it’s fine.”

I wanted to protest. I wanted to scream. But, nothing happened.

The next day, I showed up early and unlocked the door with the key the owner gave me. I turned on all the lights and was shocked to see how bright this bar could be. It had never been this bright in all the years that I had been coming here. It was like a different place. The first thing I did was go through the stage, taking it apart and seeing if there were any pieces that could be salvaged. To my surprise there was quite a bit. My eventual trip to the hardware store was to be a lot less expense than I thought it would be.

I was way under budget. I began to unload the wood, nails and even found some carpet that wasn’t too mangled that I would but on the stage, at least where the drum set goes so it wouldn’t get away from the drummer. As I was hauling the stuff in, a big toothy smile greeted me. It was Brittney.

“Let me help you with that.” She grabbed a single piece of wood and followed me in. “Sorry I’m late, I…”

“I don’t give a shit. Keep your excuses to yourself.”

She dropped the wood. “What the fuck is your problem with me? You are always so mean.”

“Because you are a rude, selfish bitch that I can barely tolerate.”

She smiled and bit her lip playfully. “I know what this is.”

“You do?”

“I do. This has happened to me before.”

“Okay Sherlock, what is this?”

“You like me.”

“I what?”

“You want to be with me.”

“I certainly do not!”

She nodded. “You do. It’s okay.” She slowly inched closer to me and slid her hand behind my neck and pulled me in for a soft and tender kiss.

My heart raced like never before. Could she be right? Has all of this animosity been just because I was secretly in love with her and couldn’t even be truthful to myself?

“How about we have some fun before we get to work?” she said.

She lifted up under her skirt and slipped off her panties. Then, came to me again and kissed me with much more passion that before. She ran her hands down the front of me and undid my belt, unbuttoned my pants and slowly slide the zipper down. Her warm hand moved slowly into my underwear and grabbed hold firmly to my penis. I gasped. She kneaded it like dough. Her technique was surprising to say the least. We kissed some more and then it happened.

She jumped back laughing, burying her face into her hands, then realized where her hand had been and pulled it aways from her face, laughing louder and louder. “I’m sorry I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t. I don’t find you attractive and after feeling that silly putty in your pants you call a cock, I just can’t do it…”

She stopped abruptly there. Her laughter stopped abruptly there. Everything stopped abruptly there.

Her bullshit that flooded the air was replaced with the sound of my hammer crashing down on the side of her head. Blood sprayed out of her temple, ear, nose and mouth. The force of the impact spun her head around so much so that I heard her neck crack in an ungodly sound. I didn’t know if her neck was broken. I hoped it wasn’t.

I went out to my car, opened my trunk and lifted up the compartment that is supposed to hold the spare tire and was finally able to pull out the kit that I had collected so long ago.

When she came to, thank God for that one, She wasn’t very coherent. She was tied to a chair. I’m sure that was a shock to her. I’m sure she would’ve said something, or laughed hysterically, but I had placed a ball gag in her mouth. I couldn’t handle another voice coming from her. She didn’t look sad enough so I washed my hands in the sink behind the bar and with wet dripping hands, I rubbed her eyes and pulled my fingers down her face to make it look like she was crying, smearing her eyeliner. There. That was a much better look for Brittney the Loud.

I could tell that she wanted to ask me what the hell I was doing. I felt obliged to answer.

I showed her the pliers. I showed her the hand shears. I showed her the blowtorch. I showed her the metal bucket. There were muffled screams that came from her but I could tell she had no idea what the hell was going on.

I knelt down to the ground and she screamed. The sound of the hand shears snapping made her scream even louder. Muffled of course. I lifted up her pinky toe and showed it to her. Now the tears were coming. Then I lit the torch and burned the wound until the blood stopped. I then dropped the toe into the metal bucket. A sizzling sound filled the air.

“That is what is happening to you. I am going to cut every fucking joint in your body and coterie the wound, so I could go to the next joint. Your days of laughing at me are over. I will be the one who laughs now.

After about two days and nights of working non-stop, I finally finished the stage. It was beautiful, higher than before. A good five feet. This was the perfect height for the room. I even covered the front with lacquered wood. On the sides, I made cabinet doors so that equipment could be stored underneath when not in use. The owner loved it. When he came back and saw it, he gave me a bonus for doing such a nice job. I haven’t even told you about the best part yet.

What I did was take a bunch of broken bottles, all different colors: blue, brown, green, etc. I smashed all the pieces down and made somewhat of a mosaic that covered the entire stage. All of it except where the frontman would stand. The same place where I stand when I perform there. Under my feet when I’m up on stage is a different mosaic. This one is made of bone. Small pieces of bone. The bigger pieces, I broke into smaller pieces. Then dead center is the crowning jewel. It is the profile of a woman with her lips sewn shut. I put enough lacquer on it and stretched it enough to where most people would never know that it is Brittney’s face.

Now, until I stop performing at this shithole dive bar, I will stand on her face with great pleasure and that once loud cunt will never be able to laugh at me again.

This story was originally printed in Issue #3. You can purchase the whole print issue here: https://www.etsy.com/listing/631267104/the-rock-n-roll-horror-zine-3

You can see more of Matt Wall's work here: http://mattwallwrites.com/