Bad Games

17



“I think this one might be my favorite,” Arty said, getting up from his chair and pushing a tape into the VCR. The image on the TV screen went from black to fuzzy to a woman tied to a chair, facing front. Her surroundings were a small white room as bare as a padded cell. In the far left corner, a solitary lamp sat on the floor providing the only source of light save for the modest one pointing directly at her from atop the video camera recording the incident.

“Is this the snake one?” Jim asked.

Arty nodded without taking his eyes off the screen.

“That f*cker was heavy,” Jim added.

The girl on camera wept softly through her gag. The sound of a door opened off camera. A few labored grunts. The girl’s eyes grew impossibly wide as she screeched through her gag like a wild bird. A circle of urine grew on the front of her blue jeans.

Jim appeared on camera now, straining and breathing heavily, his perverse grin never fading despite the weight of the enormous python he carried. A few more grunts and the python was eventually draped over the girl’s shoulder and neck, pitching her head forward.

Arty and Jim watched the film with a delight few knew. At times they became hysterical with laughter; other times they fell mute and gaped wide-eyed with a paradoxical awe at the pleasure and torment they had created.

When the girl on screen had finally passed out, and when Jim brought her back around by squirting an old-fashioned seltzer bottle into her face in true Three Stooges fashion, the two brothers nearly fell out of their chairs.

“I’d forgotten all about that!” Arty cried.

Jim jumped out of his chair, turned to his brother, and wiped alternating hands down his shaved head while spewing “nyuck” after “nyuck” from the side of his mouth—a spot-on impersonation of the late Jerome ‘Curly’ Howard that would have been worthy of a standing ovation amongst devoted fans world-wide, all things considered.

Arty had full-fledged tears dripping from his eyes. He wiped them away, straightened his posture, and donned a playful frown. “Spread out, you knucklehead,” he said in his best Moe voice.

Jim dropped to the floor, rolled on his side, and began using his legs to spin himself around and around like hands on a clock: a classic Curly Shuffle, complete with “Woo!” after “Woo!” after “Woo!”

Arty wiped away the last of his tears, bent forward and grabbed a second video from the base of the TV. He tossed the cassette to his brother.

“Which one’s this?” Jim asked, catching the tape before getting to his feet.

Arty hit eject, pulled the snake tape out and set it aside. “That’s the one with the yuppie at the bar who wouldn’t shut up about his golf game. The one with the nail gun and the…ahem…new handicap we gave him.”

Jim smirked before turning his nose up and speaking in a haughty manner. “I’m sorry, Arthur, but that was an absolutely atrocious pun. However, that particular gem of a video is easily in my top three, so I’m willing to let it pass.”

“Thank you, James,” Arty replied, his tone equally pretentious. “Now toss it back so I can pop it in. In fact, if the mood should strike you, I’ve even got a few more treasures we can peruse after this to truly set a fitting tone for the evening’s festivities that await us.”

“Bravo, Arthur. Bravo.”