Father Joe was rotting, the stiffness falling from his flesh like motes of dust. His head had lolled to one side so it looked as if he were staring at the mousetrap beneath the table. Only the dead man couldn’t stare because The Watcher had taped a garbage sack over his head, bound it up with an entire roll of masking tape.
The wet butt of a smoked out Cuban cigar sat in the ashtray next to the last of his 50 cent coins. The television was dancing to the colours and images of some pay per view porn flick. He couldn’t concentrate on all that flesh with a dead man in the chair beside him. The Watcher coughed another tubercular cough and spat out a wad of yellowed phlegm.
“I’m sick,” he said to Father Joe. “Cancer’s inside me and its eating me up, chewing its way out.” He stared at the garbage bag head, hawked and spat again. “Like you give a fuck, right? Dead as a fucking doornail. Picked the wrong man to whinge to, didn’t I padre? Guess you think it’s funny, don’tcha? Me worrying about cancer when there’s a fuckin’ Jesus Demon hunting me like I was some wild fuckin’ rabbit. Yeah, I thought so. But the thing is, it’s just a fuckin’ race, right? See which death gets to me first, his or mine. I don’t wanna die, padre. That’s what bites. I really don’t wanna die. Don’t suppose you did either, did you?”
He grabbed a beer off the counter and turned back to the television. “This is fuckin’ sick, don’tcha think, padre. Me watchin’ a fuckflick with a dead guy? I never thought I’d end up like this, I sure as Hell bet Ma never saw this in the tea leaves. I was gonna be the Lone Ranger, the masked man who saved the fuckin’ day. Some Super Hero, huh?” The Watcher popped the tab on the beer and chugged it down in one, foam and beer streaming out of both sides of his mouth as he opened his throat and swallowed. Down onto his shirt. Gasping, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and slammed the can down. “I needed that. Man, don’t know about you, padre, but I’ve seen all the ass-fucking and ball sucking I can stomach. What say we kill the TV?”
He walked across the small room and pulled the plug on the box.
“Well, now what do we do for entertainment, padre? Not much of a talker are you? I guess we could listen to some music. What sort do you like? Jazz? Easy listening? Not that crap the kids are listening too? That’s one hundred percent fucking attitude, zero percent music. Okay, let's see what we can find on the radio shall we?”
He’d found a no-brand transistor radio in the cupboard a couple of days ago. A cheap orange plastic thing. He fumbled with the dial until the sound of a WQIV talk-in jingle came through the tinny speaker, loud enough to fill the motel room with its mind-numbing melody. “I guess this’ll have to do,” The Watcher said, slumping down against the wall, by a small stack of empty cans.
The Shock-Jock’s voice dopplered down, some kind of clever radio effect meant to make it sound scary. The effect was eerie and undeniably effective for all of its cheapness.
— First song of the night, The Monster Mash. Let’s kick the show off the old fashioned way. This is WQIV broadcasting into the heart of NYC. You’re tuned in to the Nite Owls. Tonight we’re going to be talking about ghoulies and ghosties and things that come bumping straight out of Wes Craven movies. For the next two and a half hours we’re going to be taking an off the wall look at all things supernatural. Vampires, werewolves and zombies. The denizens of the night. The switchboards are open, the lights are flashing already. Had a true life encounter with the paranormal? Feel like sharing it with us? Don’t be shy, we’re all friends here. Our number is 555 2314. This is going to be a good show, I can feel it. Okay, let's do the Monster Mash...
As the music cut over him, The Watcher reached for the phone, punched out the numbers and waited his turn. He smiled at Father Joe as the jingle cut in again and he heard:
— Hello caller, you’re through to the Nite Owls. Through the phone five seconds before he heard it coming through the radio.
“Hi, erm, look... I don’t usually listen to your show. Don’t much listen to the radio these days.”
— No problem. We can forgive you right? You’re here now. Okay. So, first up, what’s your name and what do you want to talk about?
“Right, I’d rather not say my name... You never know who could be listening, right?”
A laugh, then — Okay, play it your way. We need something to call you though, pal. Told you this was gonna be a good night.
“You can call me The Watcher. It’s what I do. I watch.”
— Whatever keeps the old cucumber hard, my friend. Talk away, we’re listening.
“I want to talk about The Trinity Killer.”
— Think you got the wrong radio station, fella. This is the Monster Mash as in Bram Stoker and Anne Rice. Ain’t no room for sickos on these here airwaves. Good clean family entertainment.
“Just shut the fuck up and listen to me. You might actually learn something.”