Quark

Kyle always combed yard sales.

On Fridays he’d cruise the streets, eyes peeled for hand-lettered signs; one couldn’t count on the Internet alone. Some people just eschewed technology, saying the old ways are the best ways. Most ticked the box of the over-seventy age group on their Census forms. Silver-headed wonders, painstakingly writing checks at the grocery store, completely oblivious to how goddam inconvenient they were being. Those were the same folks that staked out a sign advertising weekend yard sales.

People typically had no clue of the true worth of their merchandise. Most were offloading outdated shit that meant nothing to them. The toy their kids just had to have, only played with once and thus, in excellent condition. Failed gifts to the wife—golf clubs, new household appliances (his father had once purchased his mother a new vacuum for her birthday when she asked for diamond earrings and he still remembered the tongue lashing).

Except… Kyle made it his business to know things. Pointless information to some, but he knew all about the Rocket Firing Boba Fett action figure that went for $185,000 and just last week, he’d found one atop a dented card table with a price tag of $10.

And he’d haggled them down to $8.

He made most of his money reselling old records. Luckily, hipsters made turntables cool again and those avocado-toast-loving-freaks were desperate for retro records. Boomers—folks obsessed with technology with minimal understanding of it—had their entire music library on iPhones and were quick to unload records gathering dust in the basement. Stacks upon stacks of vinyl rose from tables like cursed monoliths from a dying age, labeled with signs reading: $5 for $20, OBO. Damn, he still remembered finding The Beatles: Yesterday and Today. He’d seized it from its pile and held it close to his chest like a treasured lover.

That gem fetched over $100,000.

He’d cased Saturday’s yard sale, taking place at 190 Mallard Way, driving by an hour early.

Scoping out the adversaries, getting the lay of the land.

Preparing.

Mallard Way was smack-dab in a frou-frou community known for artisanal bakeries (whatever that was, Kyle had no clue) and a hefty membership fee to the coveted country club.

Would they be stodgy and refuse to engage in the time-honored haggle?

Were they wearing a Star Trek t-shirt or—even worse—a hoodie bearing Japanese symbols and characters from an obscure anime? Those fucking nerds had already listed any good shit on eBay to fund their crippling Adderall vice or their hentai addiction.

190 Mallard Way, though… he’d lucked out on this one. Driving by earlier, he’d seen both the man and the woman of the house and their children: a lanky boy and a pigtailed girl.

The All-American family.

All resembled model Aryans, as according to Hitler: fair blond hair just a shade brighter than white, ice-blue eyes, and porcelain skin with the barest hint of rosy cheeks. In the backyard, a fuzzy dog—a something-poo, if Kyle had to guess based on the fluffy coat—ran around a meticulously manicured lawn, barking its brains out. Besides the Stepford family, the house fit a certain mold; traditional on the outside, recently remodeled on the inside. Staked in the front lawn was a sign proclaiming: I’m Proud of My Lady Tiger! This signified money—the Lady Tigers hailed from a very pricy and very exclusive private school. And kids with money? They always had the latest and greatest.

Those sorts of people were always competing with The Joneses and they shilled their old shit for cold hard cash, which they later used to tip the valet or the maid.

Kyle pulled up in his old Camaro, shifted into park, and killed the engine. The car wasn’t really that old—a 1990 which seemed like a mere infant compared to his dream car: a 1969 Corvette Stingray. He’d sprung for a new paint job since the old coat had been hopelessly flaky. Now she was cherry red and boy, did she gleam when the sun hit her just right! A pair of white fuzzy dice dangled from the rearview mirror.

She was bitchin’.

He caressed the dashboard before getting out.

Scuffed high-topped black Converses adorned his feet. Days ago, he’d stepped in gum, and as he navigated across Mallard Way—twice juking to avoid colliding with children on Razor scooters—his left foot caught on the pavement, the chewed-up wad still terrifically sticky. Freshly mowed grass filled his nose, the scent triggering nostalgia for grilled hot dogs slathered with mustard and playing with the neighborhood kids until the streetlights came on.

The yard sale sprawled across a decent amount of real estate; the long expanse of polished asphalt ended in a three-car garage. And the driveway itself was fairly long, maybe half a football field. The house was set back from the road some, partially obscured by Japanese maples whose leaves at this time of year, glowed a brilliant crimson.

Card tables were lined up like dutiful soldiers, evenly spaced, with like items being paired together. Most sales were hard to navigate—stuff strewn everywhere—but unlike others he’d been to, this one was orderly. The wife’s work. When he’d driven by earlier, he caught her amid setting up. An immaculate green polka-dotted dress fell to just above her knees, showing off an impressive figure with a fantastic ass, but her face appeared pinched, as if she were horribly constipated.

Lining the left of the sale were rows of clothes divided into men/boys and women/children. Propped against the garage was a black snowboard plastered with stickers and nearby, hung a bright pink snowsuit—a lift pass from 1999 fluttered from the zipper.

To the right?

A well-organized Hodge-Podge.

Video game cartridges covered one table—SNES and N64, mostly. Gold glittered within the sea of gray, and his heart leapt into his throat. The Gold Collector’s Edition of Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time! Unlike most of his buys, this one wasn’t worth much, $60, but he’d always envied his friend Josh’s copy. He planned on keeping this for his private collection. Might even pop it in later and save Hyrule from that dickhead Ganon.

And the price tag of $15 wasn’t shabby.

The next table over was comics—nothing of interest to him. At first glance, it seemed comprised mostly of Archie shit.

In the distance he spied a lime green lava lamp, currently inert, and—

What.

The.

Fuck.

Was.

That?

Clutching his game, he weaved through the orderly tables towards a table tucked in the corner. Mouth agape, he assessed the figure that caught his eye.

The… thing.

The… it?

Whatever it was… it was taxidermized but minimal skill. Unlike the creatures that fell prey to his uncle’s shotgun, which he displayed proudly in his living room: bighorn sheep, moose, deer, you name it; it was in there—someone with a dismal understanding of animals created this. And based on the bizarre conglomeration in front of him, that someone suffered from unmedicated schizophrenia and had an affinity for hallucinogens.

The body was round and covered in a fine yellow down, like a baby chick several days after hatching. Orange feet held up the plump body—the webbed feet of a duck. Feathered wings extended outwards, positioned almost as if the thing were about to land in a pond.

And the head?

No matter how many times Kyle examined it, the answer evaded him. Perhaps a prairie dog, although it seemed larger than that, so… some sort of weasel? A similar coat covered the head as the torso but took on brown hues.

Its facial features were few, but very stark.

Wide, startled eyes peered outwards; their expression was one of supreme idiocy. Someone had glued the eyes on and, after closer scrutiny, appeared to be the googly eyes people pasted on inanimate objects as a joke. Its mouth was a protuberant bill—duck, if Kyle had to guess.

And to complete the abomination?

A small set of antlers plugged into the fuzzy head.

It was absolutely ridiculous.

Kyle had to have it.

Striving for a casual air, he bent and studied the white price tag clinging to the rock the thing perched on.

$10.

Maybe a little steep for something this stupid, but… it was in good condition. In fact, it appeared unnervingly lifelike, as if at any moment, it’d march off of its rock and quack… or roar. Kyle couldn’t quite decide what noise the thing might make. Whatever it uttered; it was probably dumb as hell. He leaned in, taking in shiny feathers that appeared as if it had preened them yesterday. The soft downy coat of its belly revealed no balding patches—no need for Rogaine.

“You like it?”

Kyle jumped, and a hot flush filled him. A brief pang of embarrassment gave way to a thin anger at having been surprised. He’d been so absorbed in that… thing that he hadn’t heard anything else. Hoping that his cheeks hadn’t reddened in his surprise, he turned towards the voice’s owner.

He’d glimpsed him earlier, lugging around card tables but close up, he was impressive if Kyle ignored the hint of paunch straining against his white polo shirt. Decent muscles layered his frame. Once, they’d probably been bulging and massive, courtesy of high school football practices and many hours logged in the weight room. He’d tucked the white polo into khaki shorts, just short enough to reveal a sliver-thin scar on the right knee that hinted at an ACL repair—a career-ending injury for some. Inquisitive pale eyes observed Kyle, peeking out underneath the bill of a Duke Blue Devils baseball cap.

Kyle’s former annoyance ebbed away, and he acted nonchalant, looking away from the $10 monstrosity. With exaggerated movements, he made it a point to check his watch. As if he cared about the time. He had nowhere else to be, not that Mr. Aryan needed to know that. Kyle didn’t have a job per se, unless selling other people’s shit online counted as a vocation, but he earned a tidy living. He took a gusty inhale before answering the man’s question. “Well… like might be too strong a word for what I think about that. It’s definitely interesting. Uh… what exactly… is it?”

The man let out a rueful chuckle and wrinkles crinkled around his eyes. “Good question. I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. My wife’s cousin made his living with taxidermy. The real money comes from hunters and anglers but sometimes he made other stuff, just for fun. Of course—” He trailed off, glancing behind him. On the other side of the yard sale, his severe-faced wife dickered with a blue-haired grandma over some Tupperware. From here, Kyle spotted spaghetti sauce ghosts staining the plastic sides of the container the old woman clutched. The man nodded, as if satisfied no one would eavesdrop. He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially towards Kyle. “—you probably heard about her cousin; it was in all the papers. The guy who stuffed a woman and played house with her?” He closed his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his hands. “Well… that’s my wife’s cousin, not that she wants people knowing. Now that he’s in the pen, we gotta get rid of all his shit. Most of the good stuff already sold, and this thing is all we have left. We even sold a jackalope to some lady from New Mexico. She thought it was a real laugh riot.”

“Whoa,” Kyle murmured. The piece’s value just increased exponentially with this new nugget of information. People went wacko over psychopaths these days. Why, they shelled out astronomical sums for a John Wayne Gacy weird clown painting and plenty of folks were hunting for Charles Manson memorabilia! This weird ass thing might be worth a lot of money one day… especially once Netflix made a docuseries about this creep-o.

“Yeah… she told me not to tell any prospective buyers, but I figure you ought to know, seeing as you’re purchasing it. Some people might consider it bad juju… buying stuff from a guy that killed a woman and stuffed her, you know?” He shrugged, his big shoulders rippling, and thrust his hands in his pockets.

Kyle looked past the man, gazing at a table covered with baseball cards and random Pokémon cards—he might need to swing by those. He’d been looking out for a shiny Charizard. Just beyond the rows of cards, the elderly lady’s arms had her arms filled with Tupperware. Her thin lips twitched into a sly smile. The wife bore a grim expression and a sharp line furrowed her brow. She probably couldn’t squeeze the old bitty for as much cash as she’d hoped.

He directed his attention back to the duck thing again. “You know… it is pretty cool.” Striving for a calm he didn’t feel, he paused, counting to five before saying, “I’ll take it.” He didn’t want to seem desperate and give away his power as a prospective buyer. “How does $8 sound?”

“Make it $9 and you have yourself a deal,” the man replied. Right hand reappeared from his pocket and on the fourth finger, a massive high school class ring with a blue jewel winked in the sunlight. There was no question about it: this was a man whose best days occurred on a football field and after a few beers, he’d regale anyone within earshot about the one time he made a game winning pass—during the playoffs, no less!

“Deal,” Kyle replied, grasping the man’s offered hand and shaking on it. Just then, he remembered the game he’d found earlier, still held in his left hand. “Oh, and this game.” The man took the game from him, glancing at the $15 sticker.

“Tell you what, the video game and the bird thing for $20.” He flashed Kyle blindingly white teeth—perfectly straight. “Then I don’t have to get change from my wife. She was in a mood this morning.” His hand flapped up in a dismissive motion that said: you understand… women. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without them.

Kyle handed the man a twenty-spot.

“They’re all yours!” The man called out, his voice receding as he walked over to a bald man with a greasy comb-over picking through the comics. Probably some pervert who jerked off to Betty and Veronica and their high school antics.

Kyle picked up the duck thing, momentarily surprised at its weight. He’d figured it’d be stuffed with feather light sawdust, but after lifting it, guessed that it weighed over ten pounds. The thing had the heft of a full-grown house cat! As he held it, the soft down of the belly tickled his fingertips. Instead of feeling cold and inert, it had an odd vitality, as if he’d picked up a creature that was alive and was merely sleeping or well-sedated. Kyle grinned when he caught sight of the face again. The bewildered eyes and half-witted expression… that by itself was worth $9! He thought of that old cartoon Ren and Stimpy… the thick-headed cat had the same eyes—resembling someone who’d huffed one too many cans of air duster and had fried their last neuron.

Rather than combing through the rest of the discarded treasures, he hustled to his Camaro and lovingly placed the duck thing in the passenger seat, securing the seatbelt around its body. He’d hate to slam on the brakes—a real possibility based on all the kids on bikes who darted into the street without looking for incoming cars—and send the thing rocketing through the windshield. The video game went into his pocket. With a rumbling stomach, his mind turned to the subject of dinner—pizza—and where he should display his new treasure.

***

After Papa John’s dropped off a cheesy pepperoni pizza, plus wings, all of which he polished off in one sitting—Kyle turned his attention to his new purchase and scrutinized his living room.

Well… living room was maybe not the right word for it, since there was an actual living room upstairs. Next to a dining room where his family ate Thanksgiving and Christmas meals, and catty-corner to a dim den Kyle’s dad retreated to when watching “the game”. “The game” could refer to many sports: football, basketball, baseball. Once Kyle even caught him watching curling, of all things. Anything that enabled him to tune out the rest of the family, drinking can after can of Miller Light.

He wasn’t ashamed of it—although he never mentioned it on his dating profiles online—but he lived in his parents’ basement. Really… it made good financial sense. Housing prices these days were through the roof and while he could have easily afforded an apartment, he didn’t see the point of essentially lighting money on fire with nothing to show for it. Renting. What a joke. The truth was, he’d grown comfortable living with his folks. Home-cooked meals—not from a can, freshly laundered clothing, and… no bills. Excluding all his gaming subscriptions, of course. And food.

Long ago, they’d remodeled the basement. Previously, it had been a dark hovel with one overhead light with a pull string. Naturally, the string was just out of reach and anyone who wished to illuminate their surroundings had to stand on their tippy toes and hope they didn’t fall down the steps to their death. They’d replaced the dank space with a bedroom, bathroom, and a large living space. For resale value, they said, although his parents were in their 60s and statistically, their next abode was likely to be a retirement home that faintly stunk of urine and Pine-Sol. But like houses, nursing homes were pricy as hell these days, especially if you wanted one that changed your Depends at least once a day.

The bathroom and bedroom opened into a large space, which he used as a living room. A threadbare couch acted as the focal point—plaid with frayed arms, appearing as if the fabric had once been a kitty’s arch nemesis. He’d mounted a 70-inch flat screen TV to the wall and below that was a sprawling entertainment center. Video game consoles adorned the entertainment center, like warts on a toad. He had an NES, a SNES, an N64, a GameCube, and a Nintendo Switch, as well as every PlayStation console ever made. After his last big sale, he’d also sprung for the latest Xbox. His gaming station was on the opposite wall: a state-of-the-art gaming computer complete with a black keyboard that blazed bright with a rainbow of back lights, and a chair that cost far more than he liked to admit. But he had a bad back and couldn’t afford to hunch over for hours while streaming his weekly World of Warcraft dungeon raids.

He made room between the SNES and the N64 and, using a discarded shirt he’d left strewn on the floor; he polished the entertainment center.

A flurry of dust swirled in the air, leaving behind a mostly black space sprinkled with fine gray grime.

Damn, would it kill his mother to come dust in here once in a while?

Already he had the telltale itch in his sinuses… ugh, dammit. He made a mental note to take some of that bitchin’ cold medicine that made his dreams weirdly vivid. In high school, he’d heard some kids purposefully overdosing on cold medicine, or at least, one of its components—Dextromethorphan. It was supposed to induce out-of-body experiences accompanied by crazy hallucinations. While he didn’t abuse the stuff, he rather enjoyed its dream enhancing effects.

Turning to the couch, he grabbed the duck thing, again marveling at how lifelike the fur felt. Running his fingers through the coat felt like stroking his parents’ fat Persian cat, Garold, who visited the groomers biweekly. The pelt felt well maintained—not dead and brittle, like the coat belonging to the antelope mounted in his uncle’s house.

His eyes traveled to the horns.

They didn’t belong to a twelve-point buck—no way. Only two points per horn. Vainly, he tried to recall what the antelope’s horns had looked like, but his mind stuck on the nasty, coarse fur. Frowning to himself, he ran his index finger along one horn. The horns felt polished, as if someone armed with Lemon Pledge and elbow grease went to work on them. Pearly ridges dipped and swirled, and he ran his finger along the up-sloping ivory—so glossy and without imperfection. Although not exactly the same, it reminded him of how scissors sometimes weightlessly glided when cutting wrapping paper, as if guided by an unseen angel’s hand.

“Ow! FUCK!” The stuffed thing clattered to the floor, landing heavily with a thud. On instinct, Kyle stuck his injured finger in his mouth, bathing the wound in innumerable viruses. He tasted iron, and the pain flared and then lessened. Bending over with his finger still snugly in his mouth, he eyed the horns.

What got him?

There!

On the underside—a sharp edge. He’d take a file to that later.

Damn, when was his last tetanus shot?

Unbidden, photographs from his science book played through his mind: patients with faces contorted into rictus grins, tension clear within every muscle of their body, so much so that bones snapped in half, pointed ends tearing through intact skin.

Oh no, that could not happen to him.

He didn’t have health insurance!

Kyle thought of all the pathogens that might live on the horn’s surface. The man who crafted this piece of shit stuffed a woman and posed her like a little girl playing with her Barbies. Who knows what other mischief he got up to? A montage of bodily fluids raced through Kyle’s mind: snot, spit, piss, shit, jizz, puke, blood.

He gagged and raced to the toilet.

The bathroom door slammed.

The stuffed creature fell to its side, and a horn rattled against the floor before coming to rest, wide eyes forward.

***

Each time the water cascaded across his cut, he gritted his teeth and hissed. Soap adding a sharp burning component to the pain, but he lathered up and disinfected the wound with gusto. Besides tetanus, he worried about botulism spores. A new subdivision on the other side of town was undergoing construction and a month ago, a few of the construction workers turned up to the local hospital choking on their secretions, unable to even hold their heads up. Luckily some egghead doctor recognized the issue: botulism spores. It horrified Kyle to find out that such spores were ubiquitous in the soil and the equipment stirred them out of their slumber. It certainly wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that the duck thing’s horn might harbor such pestilence.

He scoured his skin with a soap-packed loofah until every inch of him prickled and took on a pinkish hue. Before getting out, he had considered jerking off, but a succession of sneezes put the kibosh on that idea. He was already expelling far too many bodily fluids. The front of his face throbbed on both sides of his nose and above each eye. Inhalations through his nostrils encountered a roadblock—the normally six-lane highway of his nasal passages were whittled down to one lone lane. Exhalations came out as a thin whistle.

Goddamn dust was murder on his allergies!

He knew without looking in the mirror that his eyes were bloodshot, and he fought the urge to rub them until stars bloomed in his vision.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and riffled through the medicine cabinet. Behind a box of condoms that he’d purchased years ago—only two were missing and one he’d used in a sort of “test run” by himself, making sure he knew how to put it on correctly when the time came—he located a box of NyQuil.

No Dayquil.

Glancing at his watch—7:36—he considered: stay up until a more reasonable “bedtime” hour, snuffling back snot and sneezing his balls off or take the NyQuil and retire to bed early? A sneezing fit decided him—the fourth sneeze nearly making him piss himself. He popped two gels from their foil packaging, hesitated, then added two more, chasing them with sink water cupped in his hands. Without conscious thought, he went through his bedtime routine, and by the time he’d knotted his pajama pants, his thinking had gone fuzzy at the edges.

Feeling pleasantly tired, he went into his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

***

Kyle bolted upright, his chest heaving and heart pounding. The pillow behind him was soaked through with sweat.

What was that?

His bedroom was dark. Moonlight streaming through the lone window served as nature’s nightlight, but since it was the new moon, its offerings were meager.

Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the murk.

Feeling like a kid irrationally fearful of imagined monsters lurking beneath his bed, he scanned the room, keeping all his limbs snugly under the covers. His rational adult mind knew there was no such thing as monsters, but in the dark of night, the lizard brain frightened easily of such fanciful delusions.

So… he’d keep his hands and feet under the covers, thanks.

Nothing moved.

He’d shut the bedroom door earlier, and it was still snugly closed.

A hush blanketed the room and only from far off, he heard crickets chirping in the field behind the house.

Nothing.

He brushed sticky hair off his forehead and turned his pillow over to the cool side. Dimly, he tried to recall his dreams, wondering if something within his REM cycle spooked him, but his mind remained blank, his nighttime escapades already vanished into the ether.

With heavy eyelids, he’d nearly drifted off when he heard it again.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Keeping his eyes closed, he strained his ears, hoping that removing one sense would enhance the others—like Daredevil.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Visions of ravens tapping on windows and driving people mad filled his mind. He imagined tearing his room apart, pillows flying, leaking stuffing, searching for the damned sound.

No, it wasn’t coming from the window. The tapping had a different timbre, not the sound of something clicking against glass. It was heavier, more solid.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He sighed and sat upright. Changing position sent his head swimming. The room teetered then steadied. Damn, that cold medicine didn’t mess around.

Well… he had taken a double dose.

He sniffed. At least he could breathe again.

TAP.

TAP.

TAP.

The sound became louder, more forceful. Almost like someone knocking—

At the door.

The tension twisting his meager shoulders ebbed away and he let out a chuckle.

He was being absolutely ridiculous!

Why, he’d probably left the basement door ajar and his parents’ cat, Garold, a consummate fat-ass, followed the scent trail of cheese and pepperoni down the stairs. He had no more pizza to offer the feline, but if Garold’s mood was good, he wasn’t averse to snuggling.

Kyle swung his legs from under the covers and steadied himself, fighting against vertigo. His thinking felt soft around the edges, as if someone had drugged him… which wasn’t far from the truth. Medicines were drugs, after all, some more legal than others. Once he’d gained his bearings, he padded to the bedroom door with bare feet, grasped the cool handle, and opened it.

His eyes widened.

Not Garold.

***

A soft giggle escaped him.

Damn… he definitely overdosed himself and had vaulted into the realm of robotripping where the goal was off the chain hallucinations.

Completely nonsensical shit.

Oh yeah, he was definitely robotripping.

In his bedroom doorway sat the duck thing.

Not moving.

No tapping.

And even when viewed through night shadows which often cast ordinary objects in a threatening light—it was still absolutely fucking ridiculous.

His giggle became a full-fledged laugh, and he doubled over, the muscles between his ribs burning with each chortle.

How stupid he’d been!

Here he’d been worried about monsters tapping out secret messages from under the bed! Kid stuff. His dad fancied himself a practical joker, hiding whoopie cushions on chairs, paper snakes in cans of peanuts, dumb shit like that. He’d found the duck thing and placed it outside Kyle’s door and tappity-tap-tapped, hoping to give his son a good scare.

“You almost got me, old man,” he murmured, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

The duck thing stared; its googly eyes appeared trained on Kyle’s face. If he didn’t know better, it looked like it had inclined its head upwards—all the better to see you with, my dear.

“Silly fucking thing. Let’s put you back where you belong,” Kyle said, reaching out. Mr. Duck thing lived on the entertainment center, not in his doorway.

Something flashed, like lightning streaking across the sky except the sky outside was clear, without clouds, and the duck thing’s expression changed. Its googly eyes narrowed, taking on a menacing cast. If it possessed eyebrows, they would have steepled sharply, expressing a sense of displeasure.

“What—” Kyle started, dumbly. His mind lurched to a stop, struggling to compute what was happening in front of him.

The cold medicine, man. You took too much.

No doubt about it, he was having full-blown hallucinations.

“Too fucking weird.”

He grasped the bird thing around its midsection.

And underneath his fingers, it came alive.

An ambient body heat radiated through the whirls and loops of his fingertips—it was hot even. He picked up a faint vibration, a soft, regular fluttering within its torso. Even in the dim light, Kyle saw the thing’s chest expand, then deflate.

Breathing.

It ruffled its wings, and Kyle watched two brown feathers dislodge and float to the ground.

Not that all of this bothered him too much; he’d finally accepted that he was experiencing the effects of Dextromethorphan and an over-active imagination. It reminded him of the time he’d dropped LSD during a concert. Seeing shit that wasn’t there, shit that could really make you go cuckoo bananas if your mind unhinged and ran off half-cocked. Ending the night at a local ER while some pretty nurse shot him full of sedatives. At the concert, he’d convinced himself that the girl capering in front of him was an agent of the devil, as evidenced by her sloping horns and forked tongue. Hours later, when coming down, he realized the show had a masquerade theme and nearly everyone had donned a costume.

Still clutching the bird thing, he walked over to the entertainment center.

The duck thing stared up at him—unblinking—and let out a noise.

“Quark”.

Its voice—if it could be called that—reminded him of tires driving over gravel or broken glass grittily rubbing against itself.

“Quark?” he repeated, the words feeling oddly harsh in his mouth. It was the ‘q’ and ‘r’ within the same word. It was the same noise he made when hocking up a loogie.

Curious, he brought the duck thing up to his face, gazing at it in wonder. It smelled of wood shavings, similar to the ones they’d lined the class hamster’s cage with during elementary school. But under that smell was another: a reek.

Spoiled meat.

Carrion.

Something unpleasant.

Its eyes glittered, taking on a sickening vibrancy that spoke of apex predators: cunning, smug, secure.

Unblinking.

Calculating.

It lowered its head and for a moment, Kyle saw the twin points of the antlers and caught a hint of lemon household cleaner lingering in the air, confirming his previous suspicions… Lemon Pledge.

Then… the hallucination ceased.

And the nightmare began.

***

Kyle was still staring at the thing’s head, marveling over its antlers in a detached manner. Then, like a bighorn sheep competing for a mate—horns colliding with another buck with a powerful crack—the duck thing slammed its antlers into Kyle.

Or rather… into Kyle’s face.

The pain was tremendous.

The right antler gouged his cheek, glancing off the zygomatic arch and puncturing his left earlobe like a hungover college student employed at Claire’s piercing an unsuspecting kid’s ear. The left—well… the left—punched into Kyle’s right eye. A lancing pain ricocheted through his head, spreading like an out-of-control brushfire, setting every pain receptor ablaze. There was a faint POP as the duck thing withdrew its antlers—and something viscous and wet splattered against his cheek, running languidly into his mouth.

It tasted… salty.

The texture was that of snot—of nasty green mucus, thick as cottage cheese curds. He gagged, retched, then vomited, bringing up half-digested pizza and hot wings that tore through his esophagus on their second appearance. As his diaphragm hitched and spasmed, emptying his guts, the increased pressure of his straining rose to a fever pitch within his skull. With his last heave—producing only yellow bile—his deflated eyeball plopped out of his socket and landed wetly within his vomit. Had Kyle been able to see, he might have thought it looked like a kid’s toy liberated from a cereal box, poured accidentally into a sea of brown flakes.

“QUARK!” the duck thing cried. Kyle heard the flapping of wings and felt warm air washing over his face.

The damn thing was flying!

Fuck!

Keeping his good eye scrunched shut, ignoring the waves of agony spreading from his face downward, Kyle waved his arms around, pinwheeling them frantically—desperately hoping he’d catch the fucker with a fist and kill it.

Or at least injure it.

His fists whooshed through the air, encountering diddly squat.

A dull pressure clamped around his hand.

It wasn’t painful… at least not yet.

He opened his eye.

The duck thing had its orange beak wrapped around his wrist. Pain wasn’t the right word, more, so it exerted an unnerving, steady pressure. As if picking the thought out of his mind—not painful—its eyes sharpened and even though it was impossible, its beak drew up in a grin, uncannily resembling those tetanus patients he’d worried over hours before.

Its expression was sick, spoiled. A wave of revulsion filled him and without realizing it, Kyle let out a low moan.

Its mouth widened and became a cavernous maw. Pointed teeth, needle thin and fiendishly sharp, sprouted from just inside the beak.

“QUARK!” it cried and bit down, piercing his delicate flesh. Barbs tore through his tissues, far worse than the bite of an errant kitchen knife. Without thinking, he ripped his arm away.

Well… tried to.

A thick sound, wet papier mâché tearing filled the room, followed by a heavy dripping. Not a mere leaking faucet, a waterfall of liquid. A metallic scent filled the air, fresh and off-putting—reminding him of the scent hanging around the meat case at the grocery store.

Kyle had enough time to wonder, what happened?

Then the pain.

The pain!

All-consuming—it made the assault on his face feel like a sandpapery kitten kiss. The only thing he’d experienced that even came close to this pain was the split second of pure agony after being kicked in the nuts. That pain multiplied, magnified, grew teeth… and was never ending. And instead of petering out into a dull ache like a well-placed scrotum shot, the suffering grew exponentially.

His mouth hung open and vomit clung to his chin.

Kyle stared at his wrist.

At… his—

Stump.

Blood pumped from his severed arteries, painting the walls, carpet, and ceiling a garish red. A cool breeze from the air conditioning unit whispered across his frayed tissues and injured nerve endings like salt poured copiously within a fresh wound. A bone—radius or ulna, he couldn’t remember—protruded from the ruined meat. Not that he knew, but the curved, severed edge of bone bore deep indentations from the duck thing’s powerful bite.

A darkness washed over Kyle, cocooning his addled brain like a mother wrapping a child frightened by thunderstorms in a cherished blanket. Most of this was due to blood loss—he’d emptied nearly half of his blood volume already—but another part of his brain, the survival portion, had assessed the situation and realized it was punching its timecard for the last time.

His end was nigh.

As he lost consciousness—for the very last time—and pitched forward, he heard it again. Like a taunt issued to a felled opponent in the boxing ring.

“Quark.”

Author's Note: This story came to be after I stumbled upon a weird... thing on one of my Facebook groups detailing secondhand finds. It looked something like the quark I drew above. I would totally be the person that bought the quark just because I found it hilarious and naturally, I would be murdered in my sleep for my shitty sense of humor. Thus... the story was born. And the quark drawing above was rendered with charcoal and colored pencils.