Brides Of The Impaler Read Online Free PDF Page B

novels. Novelties comprised the rest: toys, action figures and figurines, T-shirts, etc. Cristina checked the shelves and found no trace of Cadaverettes there, either.
    Bastards!
    A long line congregated at the checkout. One man in a pricey suit waited to buy an armload of some comic called Hell Tramp , while an obese girl with multiple facial piercings sputtered as she held a copy of something called Mr . Torso Part VII . A man with spiked blond hair and a leather vest hypertensively manned the register. He looked like Billy Idol’s grandfather.
    “Excuse me, sir,” Cristina peeped over the line. “I have a question if it’s not too much inconvenience…”
    The blond man sneered at her. “I’m a little busy here, if ya couldn’t tell. Got no time for chitchat.”
    Cristina felt stultified. “Well…I’ve noticed that you carry Living Dead Dolls and Gurl-Goyles but no Cadaverettes. Do you not like Cadaverettes?”
    The man shook his head as he frantically rang the next customer. “I like ’em fine, honey!” he snapped. “Reason weain’t got ’em is ’cos they sell out faster than I can put ’em on the shelves! Now gimme a break! I’m busy!”
    Cristina stood wavering. What should I do? “Well…excuse me again, sorry, but would it be possible, do you think, if you could maybe reorder them?”
    His glare struck her like an arrow in the face. “I’m busy! Have some fuckin’ courtesy! Come back later, will ya?”
    Cristina shivered but managed to mutter, “This isn’t a very nice store,” and then hurried away.
    “Hey, bonehead,” the suited man addressed the spiked clerk. “That was Cristina Nichols. She created Cadaverettes.”
    Alarm. “Hey—uh, I mean, Ms. Nichols?” the cashier pleaded after her. “Sorry! Don’t leave! Can I book you for a signing?”
    Cristina slipped back onto the street. Why can’t people just be nice? Everyone seemed so manic here, so type A. But ultimately she left satisfied. They hadn’t neglected her line at all; they’d simply sold it out, which was terrific. It means I’m still selling .
    An alley tangented the corner of 67 th and Dessorio Avenue. “Never cut through alleys, Cristina,” Paul had emphasized the first day. “Never. This is New York , not Petticoat Junction. You can never be too careful.” Cristina was touched by the tenor of his concern, but she saw no harm. The alley was only fifty or so yards long, and she could see it was clear save for a few garbage cans.
    Which was why she jumped, when a scratchy voice drifted toward her from one side.
    “Hey, lady?”
    Cristina had only proceeded fifty feet. A homeless girl in pink sweatpants, a men’s white T-shirt, and mismatched flip-flops stood right behind her.
    Where did she come from? Cristina thought.
    Scrubby tendrils of hair hung over her face like blackspaghetti. Some ghost of youth struggled beneath wasted features. These homeless people always look so much older than they really are . But at least Cristina didn’t feel threatened now.
    “Can I have, like, two dollars so I can buy a hot dog from the guy you didn’t buy one from?”
    Cristina couldn’t calculate how the girl could’ve witnessed her encounter with the vendor. “I think so…” She reached in her pocket.
    The girl sniffled and rubbed her nose. “And like maybe another one or two dollars so I can buy a soda?”
    “Sure.” Cristina gave the girl a twenty-dollar bill. “You can use the rest to go to the shelter on Henry Street. I read they added a lot of beds.”
    “Oh, I ain’t homeless.”
    “That’s good. Where do you live?”
    “Here.” The girl twitched. “We even have a TV. It doesn’t work but we watch it anyway.”
    Cristina could think of nothing to say.
    “And-and, like, I saw on the TV today that you were cutting your throat but then you blinked and it wasn’t your own throat you were cutting, it was the man’s.”
    She’s probably delusional from drugs , Cristina realized. And that’s what