Before the Mask

Chapter 1

Bentley Grimes stood by the highway and watched the cars go by. It wouldn’t be long before he found the one he wanted; the one that he needed. Until then, it was a fine day to be outside.

The Idiot would be in position soon, Bentley knew. He had sent The Idiot ahead because Bentley knew approximately where he wanted to end up.

California had long been the destination for those of his kind, but Bentley had a reason aside from the sheer number of people and the easy hiding spots.

He cast his mind back to the time before. Back then he had been known by his real name, Charles, but in the rare occasions that he thought about his past he always thought of himself as Bentley.

It was better that way, safer that way. Things might go wrong at some point and advanced planning had always been a specialty of Bentley’s.

The thought of California started with her. He remembered the first time he saw her.

Chapter 2

Bentley sat in his homeroom, American government. If there was any profession that Bentley thought he would thrive in it would have been government.

From an early age, Bentley knew there was something about him that wasn’t like the others. They were mindless drones, content to live lives without meaning, populating the world with other sheep like them and then dying having left no mark.

That would not be his fate. Bentley understood that he was destined for greater things. His mind (cool and logical) was not held back by the pointless emotion that clouded everyone else’s judgment.

Mrs. Bowers droned on about the importance of John Marshall as first justice of the Supreme Court.

Marshall was someone that Bentley could admit grudging respect for. He had been put in charge of the highest court in the land and given almost no power save for trying cases against states.

Did Marshall take this lying down? No, of course not, he simply took the power that he craved. He placed it upon himself to review all the laws the other branches had made. He had appointed himself the final arbiter of the law.

Bentley respected that kind of thievery. Marshall knew he was important and so he made himself important.

The door opened and Principal Jeffries walked in. There was a student with him. A female of the inferior species of humans.

She had dyed black hair that hung in front of her eyes and a plain black T-shirt. Her jeans were tight and showed muscular legs.

Bentley imagined what it would be like to take a scalpel to those legs, separating muscle from bone. It was a thought he had about everyone he saw.

Good morning, class, Jefferies said. His smile looked plastic, the kind of thing you might see on a crudely made Halloween mask.

The class responded in kind, and the principal bent towards Mrs. Bowers and whispered something to her. She nodded and held out her hand towards the new girl. The girl looked at the hand for a second and then just raised her own in a wave.

Mrs. Bowers looked momentarily flustered and then raised her own hand in a lame wave.

This is Monica Reynolds, Mrs. Bowers said, turning towards the class. She’s a new transfer student.

It’s old to me, the girl said.

What’s that? Mrs. Bowers asked.

Nothing.

Alright, back to learning, Jeffries said. He strode out of the classroom in his tight little strides as if he was trying to hold an egg in his ass.

Mrs. Bowers pointed in Bentley’s direction. There’s a seat open near the back. Why don’t you sit down and we can continue our lesson.

Monica walked over towards Bentley and took the seat behind him. He could feel her breath coming out in little puffs and his mind turned towards the harsh rasps that would emanate from her if he kept her alive for several minutes while he performed the operation on her legs.

The rest of class washed over Bentley. Mrs. Bowers was not a teacher that asked many questions of her student so there was no need to pay attention to her. Bentley had already read the textbook cover to cover (not to mention several volumes on government and history that weren’t forced upon him by the school) and he knew the material better than even Mrs. Bowers.

Just before the bell rang, Mrs. Bowers looked up and towards Bentley’s direction. Monica, do you know where your next class is?

I just stepped into this school thirty minutes ago and the principal led me right here, how would I know where my next class is?

A few of the students snickered. There was a nervous quality to it, because they realized that Monica was upsetting the normal order of things. Bentley didn’t laugh, but he didn’t feel nervous either. Instead, he felt the same kind of grudging respect that he was forced to give John Marshall.

Mrs. Bowers blushed and uttered a barking kind of laugh. Yes, I suppose you are correct. She turned her eyes on Bentley. Bentley, why don’t you show Monica to her next class?

Because I don’t want to, Bentley replied.

There was more nervous laughter from the students.

Mrs. Bowers’s face flushed red. Well do it anyway.

The bell rang and everyone rose at once. Their lives were controlled by the braying of a bell. Sit down, stand up, come, leave. Bentley was sure that none of them thought about it—thought about how easily they were controlled. It was pathetic.

Bentley made his way to the door and had just exited to the hallway when a hand touched his shoulder. He turned and saw Monica standing there with a thin smile on her face.

You’re supposed to show me to my next class.

I thought I made it clear that I didn’t want to, Bentley said.

Come on, don’t be an asshole. I really don’t know how to get there.

Bentley slitted his eyes towards her. Instead of drawing back like most people (including his own mother) did when he showed them this expression, Monica stepped a little closer and put a hand on his arm.

Just do me this one favor. I’ll owe you.

Fine, Bentley said. Let me see your schedule.

Monica produced a piece of white paper from her pocket. Bentley scanned it for a second and then handed it back.

You have chemistry with Mr. Rice next, Bentley said. Same class as me. Be quick because I walk fast.

He strode down the hall and could hear more heavy breathing from Monica. She was keeping up with him and Bentley’s respect grew a little more.

The chemistry room consisted of the teacher’s desk at the front of the room and then row after row of long black tables. There were stools for the students to sit on and Bunsen burners and glass flasks for the students to play with.

Mr. Rice was sitting behind his desk when they walked in. They were the first two students to enter.

Rice was a short man who always wore a sweater, even in the spring. His skin was so tan that it was almost orange. Many of the students called him oompa loompa behind his back. He had the same round belly. Bentley suspected that was the reason for the sweaters, because it hid a bit of the girth.

Mr. Rice jumped up as soon as they walked in and darted around the desk towards them. There was a smile on his face and his hand found Monica’s before she was able to pull it back. He clutched it and pumped it up and down several times before letting her have her hand back. Bentley could see the disgust on her face while Mr. Rice was touching her.

A new student, Mr. Rice said. I’m Lenard Rice, but you can call me Mr. Rice. He brayed laughter as more students began to file in.

I’m Monica. Her lips were tight and she let her bangs fall in front of her eyes shadowing them from view.

Well I’d ask your last name, but I guess that’s none of my Bismuth, Mr. Rice said and spit more laughter. He put up his hands as if trying to stop himself. I’m sorry, I would tell a better chemistry joke but all the good ones Argon.

Bentley walked away from the scene and to his lab table at the back of the class. Pete, his lab partner, was already there and pulling out their jar of liquid from the cubby hole underneath their table.

Mr. Rice took his spot behind the desk and Monica walked towards Bentley and Pete.

Who’s the babe? Pete whispered as he kept his eyes on Monica.

A pain in my ass, Bentley said.

I’d like to do something with her ass, Pete said.

Monica stopped in front of Bentley and made a shooing gesture with her hand.

What do you think you’re doing? Bentley asked.

Mr. Rice told me that everyone already had a partner, so I could pick my own pair to be a part of.

So you’re saying you want to make a threesome with me and Bentley here? Pete asked.

Har, har, Monica said. Move over.

Bentley and Peter moved down stools and Monica sat down next to them.

I’m Pete and this is Mr. Personality, Bentley Grimes.

I’m Monica.

That’s a nice name.

You don’t have a shot in hell, Monica said.

Okay, Mr. Rice said. Jessica and Julie are first up on the centrifuge. Everyone else continue testing and come see me if you have any questions.

Rice opened a book and the class began their work.

What are we doing? Monica asked.

Bentley pointed to the baby food jar of clear liquid. That’s a chemical composition made up of different elements. Our job is to test our sample until we can figure out what it’s made up of.

That sounds pretty easy, Monica said.

It would be, Pete replied. If it weren’t for the fact that we got a sample with fucking Antimony in it.

What’s wrong with that? Monica asked.

Every time we try and do any test on it the liquid just turns this cloudy orange. Watch.

Pete poured a little of the liquid into a flask and put a dropper of Bromine in. The liquid immediately bloomed a bright orange. Almost as if orange clouds had invaded the flask.

It’s beautiful, Monica said.

Beautiful but useless, Pete said.

We have to filter out all the Antimony, Bentley said. Which means we need the centrifuge. It really sets our time back.

Well you’ve got me now, Monica said. I’ll do all the filtering, Pete you write down all the results and Bentley you get the samples and testing supplies ready.

A take charge woman, Pete said. I love it.

Bentley watched as Monica walked towards the centrifuge and tapped Jessica on the shoulder. She was smiling as she spoke and Jessica smiled back at her, but was shaking her head.

Monica leaned in closer and whispered something in Jessica’s ear. Bentley leaned forward on his stool as he saw Jessica’s smile first falter and then melt off her face. Her skin seemed to lose some color and she stepped away from the centrifuge. Monica loaded their sample in and turned the machine on.

When she was done, she walked back to the desk and Bentley saw many of the girls staring at her as she carried the sample to them.

What did you say? Bentley asked.

Monica smiled. I asked if I could use the centrifuge first because of the Anti-money stuff and she said no. So then I told her that if she didn’t let me use the centrifuge that I would use my nails to claw her cheeks. I told her that no one would elect her prom queen if she had scars all down her face.

A smartass and a badass, Pete said. I think I’m in love.

Keep your cock in your pants, Monica said. I’m here to learn.

Chapter 3

Bentley and Monica didn’t have any other classes together and he didn’t see her for the rest of the day, but he couldn’t help thinking about her.

He sat in his room and looked out the window at the street below and thought about her.

There was a bluntness to her character that Bentley hadn’t encountered before. He had understood from an early age that life was merely a game. There were those who played it well and they became doctors and lawyers and politicians and movie stars. They reaped the benefits of the planet because they had an instinct for how to win.

Then there were those who played it poorly, like Mr. Jacobs.

Bentley watched as Mr. Jacobs hauled two metal garbage cans, one in each hand, towards the curb. He was a short, bald man with a flat stomach and beady, brown eyes.

He stopped for a second to wipe some sweat from his forehead and when he reached behind him to resume dragging his garbage can his hand slipped and the can crashed down on the side walk spilling its contents of pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers.

Mr. Jacobs stooped on the pavement and began scooping up the trash and shoving it back in. He looked to his left and his right trying to see if there was anyone witnessing his failure as a person.

Bentley watched it all from above with a smile on his face.

It wasn’t amusing because Mr. Jacobs deserved to suffer—they all deserved to suffer, successful or not—it was amusing because Mr. Jacobs would never realize why life constantly shit on him. It wasn’t bad luck, although Bentley was sure that’s what he would tell himself, it was simply that Mr. Jacobs didn’t know how to play the game.

Bentley rarely indulged in the gossip of the neighborhood, but his mother loved it and he heard her talking on the phone about Mr. Jacobs more than once.

Apparently, his wife had cheated on him with some young stud and decided that she no longer wanted to live with such a poor excuse for a human being. So she had decided to pack up one day while Mr. Jacobs was at work and she had run out.

Now all Mr. Jacobs did was eat take-out food and sit in front of his television. From his room, Bentley had a good view of Mr. Jacobs’s living room and he often used his binoculars to spy on the man. Watching his misery was thrilling. It was how they all felt inside, Bentley was sure, it was just that the people who had nothing left to live for were the only ones to show it.

Still, Mr. Jacobs was really no better or worse than the rest of them. Failures or successes, it didn’t matter. All the humans were playing a game. A stupid, meaningless game.

Monica was different. It hadn’t taken long for Bentley to see that. It seemed she had very little interest in games.

Just like me, Bentley whispered.

He pulled himself away from his vigil at the window and looked at his closed door. His mother wouldn’t be home until late tonight, this was her bingo night, but it was better to have all bases covered just the same.

On the surface, Bentley’s room was like any normal teenager’s room. His bed was neatly made, there was a small desk against one wall with some school papers on it, his clothes hamper sat in the corner. The walls were painted a soft shade of blue and there were two posters on the wall. One was the cover of Nirvana’s Neverminding album and the other showed Barry Sanders in mid-stride with a determined look on his face.

Bentley only had a passing interest in music and no interest at all in sports, but it was important to maintain the appearance of a normal person. He had received both posters for his birthday after requesting them from his mother. She had seemed pleased by this and that was important as well.

Bentley walked to his closet and opened the doors. There were shirts and jeans hanging up, but it wasn’t the clothes that Bentley was interested in.

He knelt down and felt at the back of his closet. He knew the loose section of wall so well that he located it immediately even though it was difficult to see in the fading light of the day.

He pushed it in and then out and revealed the little cubby underneath. First, he pulled out his instruments: the lighter, the scalpel and a rounded piece of metal that he had fashioned from a soda can. Then he pulled out the small cage and held it up to his face.

The rat limped around the center, thrown off balance by the motion of its home. It only had three legs, but it was somehow able to remain upright.

Where the back leg had been was a charred mess. The tissue had healed in a humped manner. It almost gave the appearance of a stump, though there was no limb left.

How are you today, Maurice? Bentley asked.

The rat crawled towards his face and pawed at the glass, as if asking for some mercy. Of course there would be no mercy. Not that the rat had the brain power to remember that it was Bentley who had amputated his leg, let alone enough to understand that it would keep happening.

Bentley placed the cage on the floor and reached back into the cubby and came out with a thick pair of leather gloves. Bentley put them on and they reached halfway up his forearm.

He lifted the lid off of the cage and reached down and grabbed the rat. It struggled a bit in his hands, but Bentley knew how to hold the beast. Firm grip, but not so suffocating as to cause the animal alarm.

He placed the rat on the carpet and held it down. With his other hand he grabbed the piece of metal and then placed it over Maurice’s head. It was curved on the bottom to the perfect proportions. It encased the thing’s snout and teeth, but left it enough room to breath.

Bentley let go of the rat’s lower half and he watched it struggle to escape, but without being able to move its head, it couldn’t go anywhere. He picked up the scalpel and touched the good leg with it. Just a gentle little whisper of a touch, but the rat thrashed harder than ever.

Easy now, Bentley said. Be easy and this will all be over in a few minutes.

Bentley made a small incision in the leg, just below the rat’s belly.

It began to shriek and buck. Its strange, rat chirps almost sounded like human screaming.

Bentley felt the electric thrill crawl up his body. He sat poised and waited for the rat to be in position again. He brought the scalpel down again and made it halfway through the thing before it wiggled its lower half from his grasp again.

Blood poured down and Bentley cursed himself for forgetting to put something down to catch it. Not that it would matter. It wasn’t as if the police would come searching his room for a missing rat and test the carpet for blood. Still, it was a good lesson to learn.

He brought the scalpel down a final time and made it through the leg. It parted from the body and more blood poured out.

Bentley threw the scalpel down and picked up the lighter. He flicked the flame on and held it to the rat’s gushing wound.

Maurice shrieked even louder and wriggled away from him. Bentley followed the wound with the flame and watched as the skin charred and then scabbed over. Soon the blood had stopped and Bentley let the flame go out.

He turned the cage on its side and removed the metal trap. Maurice turned to bite at him and Bentley threw him into the cage. Then he righted it and put the lid back over the top.

Maurice dragged himself along with its two front legs, the bottom half scrapping against the bottom of the cage. It was as if the thing were trying to get away.

Stupid animal, Bentley said. You don’t even realize that you’re trapped.

The rat didn’t turn towards him, just dragged itself to a corner of the cage, looking for a way to get out.

How many limbs? Bentley asked. How many limbs until you just give up and die?

Bentley put the cage and all his tools back into his secret hole and covered it back up with the piece of wood he had cut out.

He sat down on his bed and thought about the rat. It was possible that he could cut off and cauterize all of the thing’s limbs and it would still try to carry on living.

It that happens, Bentley thought, I will move on to its ears and then its tail.

After that he would have to start on the really vital areas of the body. Places that he couldn’t perform surgery on without risking the thing’s life. Of course, if it came down to that it would be what he would do.

How alike the rats and the humans are, Bentley thought. They both cling to life so desperately and neither of them deserves it. They’re all just running around in a cage. And I can control them all.

Thinking about this, Bentley drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 4

The next day, Bentley sat in his seat in government and thought about Maurice. It was almost time to get him some more food. He would have to stop at the pet store after school. He would have to wait a couple of days before trying another surgery. Bentley understood that doing too much too soon could cause the animal to die from shock and that would be no good.

His thoughts were cut off when he saw Monica walk through the door. She wore another black